Do You Dare? Fighting Bones

by Sofie Laguna

  ‘No!’ Col called back. ‘You go! Keep swimming!’

  ‘Col!’ Declan shouted again. If Col didn’t get in the water now he’d be caught. ‘Hurry!’

  But still Col stayed where he was. ‘You keep going!’ he called out to Declan. Declan looked up the slope and saw the lights swinging through the trees, closer every second.

  ‘Stay where you are, Danny! Seamus, don’t lose each other,’ Declan yelled as he paddled back towards the shore. ‘Col, get in the water!’ But Col was still clinging to the rocks.

  ‘No, Dec, I told you, no. You go.’

  ‘It’s not the bleedin’ sharks, is it?’

  ‘It’s not the sharks, Dec.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I can’t swim, that’s why!’ Col spat the words.

  ‘But – you said . . .’

  ‘I know what I said. I lied. I couldn’t have stayed in prison, Dec. It doesn’t matter what it cost. You go. Swim for your life!’

  Just then, Declan saw a guard crashing through the bushes, his lantern swinging, his rifle over his shoulder. A dog strained on the end of a lead, barking and snarling, teeth bared.

  ‘Here they are!’ the guard called. ‘Down by the rocks!’

  Declan saw two more guards break through the trees. ‘Stop!’ they shouted. ‘Stop or we’ll shoot!’

  Everything was happening so fast, Declan could hardly think. He swam towards Col, pulling him from the rocks, ‘Hold onto me, Col, we’ll swim together.’ Col half fell, half jumped into the water against him.

  Then Declan turned and saw Seamus, his pale arm lifted high, and Danny’s face just beyond.

  Col struggled in his arms. ‘No, Dec, I can’t.’

  Declan held Col tighter. A gunshot rang out, the sound smashing through the bush.

  ‘Declan!’ Declan heard his name being called. ‘Declan! Declan!’

  Who was calling him?

  ‘Declan, surrender!’

  Is it Seamus? Declan wondered. Col kept struggling as Declan tried as hard as he could to hold him up. Then there was a second gunshot, so loud it felt as though it was splitting Declan’s head in two.

  He felt Col go limp and heavy in his arms – too heavy. Declan felt as if he were sinking. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs filled with water. It took all his strength to keep his friend’s head above the surface, but he knew he couldn’t let go.

  Next thing he was under and everything turned to black.

  ‘Little devils . . .’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four of them to start with . . .’

  ‘And three surrendered?’

  ‘Came crawling out of the water like drowned rats.’

  ‘What about the fourth?’

  The men’s voices were unclear to Declan. Where was he? His throat burned and his chest ached. He blinked slowly. What was this room? His wrists and his ankles felt heavy and cold. When he could open his eyes properly, he saw Danny and Seamus sitting beside him, both of them in chains. He looked at his arms and legs – he, too, was chained.

  ‘You’re back,’ said Seamus, passing Declan a mug of water, his shackles clinking heavily against each other.

  Declan saw two soldiers leave the room.

  Suddenly he wanted to cry with relief. Danny! His gang! His gang was here with him! When he opened his mouth to answer Seamus, no sound came out. He took a long drink of the water then looked up at his brother. ‘Danny,’ he croaked, smiling weakly.

  Danny’s eyes were red, his mouth drawn. Declan looked around for Col to cheer Danny up. Even if they’d been caught and the escape had failed, he’d still see the funny side. ‘Where’s Col?’ he asked.

  Seamus shook his head. Declan saw tears in his eyes. Declan had never seen Seamus cry. Even thirty-six lashes couldn’t make him cry – what was going on?

  A guard, older than most of them, came into the room holding a tray. He placed it on a small table before tossing the boys some blankets. ‘Back with the living,’ he said, looking down at Declan. Declan felt even more confused.

  ‘Where are we?’ he croaked.

  ‘Officers’ quarters at Eaglehawk. It was too late to go marching you back to the Point. You’ll return in the morning,’ the guard said, passing Declan, Danny and Seamus bowls of soup. ‘You’re lucky I’m in charge or the three of you would have spent the night chained up with the dogs. But I won’t go home to my wife and say I was responsible for the deaths of three freezing boys.’

  Declan began to take in his surroundings: a small, furnished room lit by a single lamp that burned on a table by the wall. He noticed a fire crackling in the hearth. ‘What about Col?’ he asked the soldier.

  ‘Declan,’ Danny tried to answer for the guard. ‘Don’t you know what happened? Col . . .’ Danny looked down at the ground, his sentence unfinished.

  ‘Col what?’ demanded Declan. Were they keeping Col somewhere else? Surely there was room for him here in the officers’ quarters.

  ‘Col was shot,’ said the guard.

  ‘Shot? Is he in the hospital?’

  ‘No, Dec,’ said Danny. ‘Col’s dead.’

  Declan closed his eyes. For a second he felt empty behind the darkness of his closed lids. Then suddenly everything came flooding back to him: the cold ocean, Col clinging to the rocks, both of them in the water, the sounds of the shotgun, Col’s body heavy in his arms.

  ‘I told them there was no need to shoot,’ Declan heard the guard say. ‘Nobody had to die.’

  He felt dizzy. Col dead? He looked at the others. Seamus nodded slowly.

  ‘What . . . what did they do with his body?’ Declan asked.

  ‘I wish I could tell you,’ the guard answered. ‘Could be a sea burial . . .’

  Declan had seen many sea burials from the decks of the Lady Kennaway. No ceremony, no headstone, nothing. Just a body wrapped in sacking dumped over the side to rot on the ocean floor. Declan thought he was going to throw up.

  ‘What difference does it make where they bury him, Dec? He’ll always be with us,’ said Seamus, putting his fist to his heart.

  ‘He’ll always be a part of our gang,’ said Danny.

  Declan saw tears in Danny’s eyes. He thought he might black out.

  ‘Eat the soup. It will help with the shock and give you the strength you need for tomorrow,’ the guard said to Declan, passing him bread.

  Declan did as he was told, and ate, though he couldn’t taste a thing.

  ‘Wake up, you lot. Time to get you back where you belong.’ A soldier stood over Declan, knocking against his chains with his rifle butt. The guard from the night before was gone and new soldiers had taken his place. As they left the officers’ quarters, Declan knew he wouldn’t forget the older guard’s kindness. Without the food and warmth that he had given them, Declan didn’t know if they would have had the strength to manage the long march back to Point Puer.

  Seven soldiers escorted the gang along the road to Port Arthur. Declan could barely feel the chains digging into the flesh on his wrists and ankles, or the cold or his prison clothes, stiff with salt from the sea, chafing his skin. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.

  ‘We’ll send a signal you’re coming home,’ said one of the guards jeeringly when they passed the semaphore tower. ‘You thought it was bad at Point Puer before? It’ll be a new kind of hell for you lot now. They’re going to make you pay.’

  ‘God help us,’ said Seamus. Declan heard the dread and fear in his voice.

  ‘Maybe you’ll play by the rules now,’ said another of the guards, pushing Danny in the back so that he almost fell.

  They’ve got us all wrong, thought Declan, steadying Danny. I’ll never play by their rules, it doesn’t matter what they do to us.

  As they trudged across the demarcation line and entered prison grounds, Declan heard cheering and shouting. Boys ran out of the barracks and work sheds and called out to them. ‘Fighting bones! Fighting bones!’ they shouted. Even some of the overseers tried
to hide smiles as they passed.

  ‘Silence!’ roared the accompanying guards. ‘Or you’ll be flogged to death alongside ’em!’

  The cheering didn’t make Declan feel proud or victorious; he knew he didn’t deserve it.

  Col wasn’t there.

  Declan, Seamus and Danny were each sentenced to twenty-four lashes on the breech and eight days in solitary confinement. Declan barely felt the sting of the birch nor did he notice the rest of the prisoners shouting their support. The loss of Col had left him numb. It doesn’t matter what they do to me now, he thought.

  As they were being led to their separate cells Danny grabbed Declan by the arm. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Dec. If I can swim away from those damn sharks I can do anything.’ When Declan looked at Danny he seemed older – stronger.

  ‘Be nice to have a wee break from you boys,’ Seamus winked, waving his hand before his nose. ‘Ever since we went swimming, we been smelling like musty dogs.’

  Declan held his fist high. ‘For Col!’ he called to his brothers before being shoved inside the dark cell.

  To his surprise, Declan found three extra blankets there. After a short time he heard the hatch being pulled open and a tray of food pushed inside. He tasted thick beef stew, carrots and baked potatoes. Declan was used to a diet of bread and water when he was in solitary. On the tray beside his plate of food was a jar of salve for his broken, burning skin. Is this what they give you before they hang you? Declan wondered.

  ‘Think you might need that for your efforts,’ a gruff voice said through the hatch. After he had eaten, Declan fell into a deep and exhausted sleep. It was a relief to know that while they were in the cells, Striker couldn’t get at Danny.

  Each day followed the same pattern. Declan was fed regularly on the best rations, and the extra blankets kept him warm and comfortable. Each day he rubbed the salve into as much of his skin as he could reach. Heavy sleep took from him the ability to think or feel or remember, and Declan was grateful.

  When eight days had passed it was Henry who released him, hauling him out of the cell into the winter sun. ‘Hope you enjoyed your stay, Sheehan,’ he said. ‘Because it’s back to business as usual, starting with a head shave.’

  ‘Aren’t they going to hang us?’ asked Declan.

  ‘No such luck,’ answered Henry. ‘Like I said, it’s business as usual.’

  But Henry was wrong; it wasn’t business as usual. As soon as Declan’s head had been shaved, and he had been examined by the surgeon to make sure he was fit enough to return to his duties, Mr Badley approached him.

  ‘Declan, Captain Booth has decided you are to be kept apart from your brother as much as possible,’ he told him. ‘Today you are to begin working in my garden. It needs a great deal of attention. Please follow me.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Declan, though privately he cursed to himself. He was desperate to find out about Striker. The trial must have finished by now but Declan would have to wait until he returned to the barracks that afternoon to find out what happened. If they’d had the trial without Danny to testify, Striker would have got off for sure. And if they weren’t going to hang they’d be in trouble. He’d be back and he’d be waiting for them . . .

  If I have to kill Striker with my own bare hands, I will, thought Declan as he knelt in the dirt that bordered Mr Badley’s garden. He pulled angrily at the weeds that threatened to choke the flowers, jabbing his fork violently into the earth. His anger had returned, familiar as the prison grounds.

  As he dug away stones and turned over the soil, pulling off the snails that made holes in the leaves and pouring water onto the new plants, the same thoughts ran through his mind over and over: it was his fault that Col had died. They should never have tried to escape. Surely it wasn’t really ‘worth every minute’, like Col had said . . . Why Col and not him?

  Declan didn’t stop working. And after a while, the thoughts and questions slowed down and he grew warm from his efforts. He noticed the tiny white rose buds that grew from the rose stems, just above the thorns. He looked closely at the tightly furled flowers, wrapped in their little coats of green, and felt still. Then he went back to his digging. When he next looked up, two men were coming down the road in a horse and cart.

  ‘Whoa there, lass,’ the driver of the cart called, pulling the horse up a short distance from Mr Badley’s house. The passenger, a tall, broad-shouldered man, climbed down from the cart and walked towards the front gate. When he saw Declan, he stopped and stood before him, watching as he worked on Mr Badley’s rose bed.

  Who the hell are you? Declan wanted to ask him, but just then Mr Badley walked out of the house. ‘Ah, Mr Fitzpatrick, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.

  ‘The journey took a little longer than I anticipated,’ the newcomer replied in a thick Irish accent as he shook Mr Badley’s hand. ‘Though Sean drove the horse hard. You know my neighbour, Sean Doherty?’ He waved towards the driver of the cart, who raised a hand in greeting then went back to smoking a pipe. ‘I have already been at the Port attending to business. This is my last stop before heading back.’ Mr Fitzpatrick’s Irish accent reminded Declan of home.

  ‘I heard about your requirements,’ said Mr Badley, gesturing for Mr Fitzpatrick to follow him up the path to the house. ‘And I must say I was a little surprised that you wouldn’t prefer one of the men from Port Arthur. It is highly unusual for any of the settlers to choose a boy for assignment. That was one of the reasons we needed the prison in the first place. No one wanted the younger ones – they can’t work as hard.’

  ‘I don’t feel comfortable leaving a man with my children and servants when I am away,’ Mr Fitzpatrick answered, staying where he was and glancing down at Declan as he spoke.

  Why is he looking at me? Declan wondered.

  ‘Ah yes, yes, of course,’ Mr Badley nodded. ‘Well, you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve selected a good worker for you. His name is Browning – a hard-working lad of fifteen from London. I am sure you will be pleased with him. I will have him called from workshop immediately.’

  Declan felt Mr Fitzpatrick’s eyes resting on him. ‘What about this young lad?’

  What about me? thought Declan. Mr Fitzpatrick was starting to make him feel uneasy.

  Mr Badley frowned. ‘Declan Sheehan? I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Declan Sheehan – that’s an Irish name, isn’t it?’ Mr Fitzpatrick asked Declan, looking straight at him.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Declan.

  ‘Which part?’ asked Mr Fitzpatrick.

  ‘Naas,’ answered Declan. ‘Just outside.’

  ‘Naas! I know it well,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick. ‘I used to go with my mother and my sister to see the church there – Saint David’s. I’m from Kilcullen.’

  Declan knew Kilcullen; he’d walked there with his brothers when they were looking for farm work. Declan was beginning to wonder if the past was a dream, but hearing Mr Fitzpatrick use the names of home brought it back to him, and made him long for it.

  ‘Declan was one of the four who tried to escape – the ringleader, in fact,’ the Superintendent broke in. ‘I’m sure you heard about them.’

  ‘How far did you get?’ Mr Fitzpatrick asked Declan.

  ‘The Neck,’ answered Declan.

  Fitzpatrick looked surprised. ‘That must have taken some spirit, lad,’ he said.

  ‘What it took was stupidity and disobedience,’ interrupted Mr Badley. ‘This boy cannot be trusted. He has some bad habits we would like to see broken before he leaves.’

  ‘Mr Badley,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick, not seeming to hear him. ‘I would like to take this boy back to Kilcullen Park, my property near Sorell. I’ll need to leave as soon as possible. Can we sign the papers immediately?’

  Declan almost smiled at the ridiculous suggestion. Mr Fitzpatrick didn’t know what he was up against. There was no way Captain Booth would be letting Declan out any time soon.

  ‘But sir, as I have told you, Sheehan has caused a good deal of trouble .
. .’ Mr Badley frowned.

  And I’m going to cause a good deal more once I’m through with Striker, thought Declan.

  ‘I caused my fair share of trouble when I was a young lad, too, as I am sure you did, Badley. I watched Declan at work earlier and I liked what I saw. Your garden has never looked better.’

  Declan couldn’t help but feel proud, but he knew Mr Badley and Captain Booth would never let him leave.

  ‘Well, sir . . .’ Mr Badley looked uncertain. ‘If you insist then I suppose . . . please follow me inside . . .’

  Declan watched incredulously as the two men walked inside the house.

  ‘Looks like you might be on your way,’ the overseer on duty winked at him.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ said Declan. No matter what they said, there was no way he was leaving Danny, especially not now.

  Moments later Mr Fitzpatrick strode purposefully back down Mr Badley’s path. ‘You’ll be coming back to my property with me, Declan,’ he said. ‘Since Mr Badley tells me you have no possessions to collect, we shall leave immediately.’ He gestured for Declan to go to the cart where the driver waited.

  ‘But, sir, I can’t. I –’

  ‘It’s a two-day journey. Make yourself a spot up behind Sean,’ said Mr Fitzpatrick, sounding as if he was in a hurry. Before Declan knew what was happening, he found himself in the back of the cart. Mr Badley was nowhere to be seen.

  To Declan’s horror, Sean clicked the reins and the horse began to trot down the road towards the demarcation line. ‘Get up there, girl!’

  Declan’s mind was reeling. ‘Sir, I . . . I . . .’

  Mr Fitzpatrick, not listening to Declan, turned to Sean. ‘Glad that’s done. This place unnerves me.’

  Sean grinned. ‘A wee stay here would have done you a world of good, Michael. Turned you into a model citizen.’ He clicked the reins again. ‘Get up there, girl.’

  Declan panicked. He couldn’t abandon Danny! What would it take for this man to see he couldn’t leave? Declan leaned over the side of the cart and looked at the ground fast disappearing beneath the wheels. Should he throw himself from the wagon?