Morgan's Run

by Colleen McCullough

  That they understood; with Ike Rogers unobtrusively supporting the half-conscious Whiting, the twelve men edged, hanging on to their goods, down a flight of slimy steps to the waiting lighter.

  Stretches of a low, swampy shore and misty profiles of a few ships came and went through the ghostly grey rain; collars turned up, hats oriented to cascade water onto their shoulders rather than down their necks, they sat amid their boxes, sacks and bundles. A silent crew of twelve oarsmen, six to a side, pushed the lighter off, turned it, and stroked toward the middle of the great wide river with a long, easy motion that hardly disturbed the sliding water.

  There were four ships sitting one behind the other like a line of cows about three hundred yards off this south or Kentish shore. Each was moored more thoroughly than Richard had ever seen a vessel moored, even in the Kingroad of the Severn Estuary. To fix them, he thought, too firmly to allow them to swing at anchor, of which each had many on chains rather than the normal rope cables. The smallest ship was farthest upriver in London’s direction and the largest brought up the rear, with perhaps a hundred yards separating each from its neighbors in the line.

  “Hospital ship Guardian—then Censor, Justitia and Ceres,” said a guard, pointing.

  The lighter struck for Censor, opposite the dock, then turned to run downriver with an ebbing tide to make life easier for the oarsmen. Thus they had the chance to look at each of the three prison hulks. Travesties of ships only, mizzens long gone, mainmasts broken off forty feet aloft in cracks and splinters, foremasts more or less intact but stripped of shrouds, clothing hanging limp and wet from lines strung between each fore and main, as well as on the stays connecting the fore with a stub of bowsprit. The decks sported a shambles of wooden huts and jutting penthouses with a forest of iron chimneys kinked at all angles; more of these stood atop quarterdecks, forecastles and roundhouses. Censor and Justitia looked old enough to have gone to sea with Good Queen Bess’s fleet against the Spanish Armada—no scrap of paint left, no copper nail ungreened, no strake unchipped.

  By comparison Ceres looked a mere century old; its naval black-and-yellow paint still showed in places and it had the remnant of a figurehead beneath its bowsprit, some sort of wheaty bare-breasted female a wag had finished off with bright red nipples. The gun ports of Censor and Justitia were closed fast, but those of Ceres had been removed entirely and replaced by grilles of thick iron bars which led the Bristolians, experienced in such matters, to conclude that it had two decks below the upper or surface deck—a lower deck and an orlop deck. Once a second-rate ship of the line with 90 guns, then. No cargo vessel or slaver ever owned so many ports along her sides.

  How, Richard wondered, are we going to manage to get ourselves and our belongings up a rope ladder? Our chains will be our undoing. However, the ebullient Mr. Duncan Campbell had fitted his pride and joy with a flight of wooden steps attached to a bobbing landing. Box in his arms, two sacks of additionals slung over his shoulders, Richard found himself first over the side of the lighter behind a bludgeon-bearing guard, and mounted the steps to an opening in the rail sixteen feet above. Ceres had been a big second-rater.

  “Gigger dubber!” roared the overseeing guard.

  An important-looking but slovenly fellow emerged from between two wooden shacks picking his teeth; in the background Richard saw an occasional flick of a skirt, heard women’s voices, and realized that most of the guards must live in these ramshackle quarters.

  “Ah?” asked the important-looking individual.

  “Twelve convicts from Gloucester Gaol, Mr. ’Anks. Ain’t flash so don’t know the lingo. Mr. Campbell says they are the two new teams for the new dredges. No hum durdgeons among ’em, Doc says.”

  “More ’icks!” said Mr. Hanks in disgust. “Nigh ’alf aboard are ’icks now, Mr. Sykes.” He turned to the prisoners. “Me name is ’Erbert ’Anks an I am the gigger dubber—gaol keeper to youse. Into the orlop wiv ’em, Mr. Sykes. An ’ere ye ain’t prisoners, ye’re convicts. Got it?”

  They nodded wordlessly, trying to sort out an English wherein the th’s were pronounced as v’s and the f’s as th’s. Sort of.

  “Prisoners,” Mr. Hanks went on conversationally, “ ’ave a chance to get theirselves unsnabbled. Convicts is convicts, in for the ’ole duration. ’Ere are the rules, so put yer lugs to listening ’cos they will not be said again. Visitors allowed on Sundees after the autem bawler’s service—autem is compulsory—that’s church to youse—an ain’t no autem quavers nor dippers nor cacklers of any Dissenting sort allowed. Just the King’s autem ’ere. All visitors will be searched, ’ave to lodge their blunt wiv me, an any grub they got will be confiscated. Why? ’Cos flash coves smuggle files aboard in their cakes an puddens.”

  He paused to eye his auditors with a curious mixture of glee and severity; he was enjoying this. “When ye’re aboard, the orlop is ’ome. I am the only one can dub the gigger—open the door—an that don’t ’appen hoften. Up to work, down to sleep, Mondees to Sattidees. Weather permitting, youse work, an I mean youse work. Today, frinstance, is not a day for work ’cos the rain is too fucken ’ard. Youse eat what ye’re fed an drink what I decide. Blue tape—gin—comes very dear, an I am the only purveyor of such delights. ’Alf a borde—sixpence—a ’alf-pint.”

  Another pause ensued, this time to allow Mr. Hanks to hawk and spit at their feet. “Youse mess in sixes an get yer grub from the purser. Sundees, Mondees, Wensdees, Thursdees an Sattidees the following rations are issued to each six men—one ox cheek or ox shin, three pints of pease, three pounds of vegubbles, six pounds of bread an six quarts of small beer. On Tuesdees an Fridees it is burgoo—as much aqua Thames as ye want, three pints of oatmeal wiv simples, three pounds of cheese an six pounds of bread. That is all ye get. If ye eat it all up at supper, ye go ’ungry an thirsty of a morning, got it? Mr. Campbell says youse ’ave to wash every day an shave every Sundee before the autem bawler comes aboard. When youse come up for work or autem, ye’ll bring yer night buckets wiv youse an empty ’em over the side. One bucket each mess. Ye are locked in, me dimber cullies, so what youse do inside I do not care hany more than Mr. Campbell do.”

  His pleasure increased. “But first,” he said, squatting down while Mr. Sykes and his minions remained standing behind him, “I ’ave to cast me ogles over them boxes an bags, so dub ’em—now!”

  This lecture having informed them that to dub was to open, the convicts unlocked their boxes, spread open their additionals.

  Mr. Herbert Hanks was very thorough. By chance he commenced with the belongings of Ike Rogers and his team, whose boxes were smaller, not uniform, and in the case of the two Wiltshire lads, nonexistent. Rags he discarded, clothing he discarded, but each and every rag and item of clothing was nonetheless passed up to Mr. Sykes, who ran them between his hands and squeezed at every tiny swelling. This yielded nothing. Nor did any of the other articles appeal, evidently.

  “Where’s yer money?” he demanded.

  Ike looked respectfully surprised. “Sir, we have none. We have been in Gloucester Gaol for a year. The blunt got spent.”

  “Huh.” Mr. Hanks turned to Richard’s team, eyes glistening. “Rum coves, eh? A lot of loot.” Out of Richard’s box and sacks came the clothing, the bottles and jars, the framed dripstone and several spares, the rags used as packing, the books, the ream of paper, the pens—very curious objects!—and two spare pairs of shoes. He held the shoes up and studied them in disappointment, shrugged at the equally disappointed Mr. Sykes. “Ain’t for nothing ye’re called clodhoppers. No one here got feet that size, cully, even Long Joyce. What is this, then?” he asked, displaying a bottle.

  “Oil of tar, Mr. Hanks.”

  “An what is this contraption?”

  “A dripstone, sir. I use it to filter my drinking water.”

  “Water is already filtered in ’ere. Got a big strainer under every pump. What’s yer name, big feet?”

  “Richard Morgan.”

  He snatched a list from
one of Mr. Sykes’s offsiders and cast his ogles over it; read he could, but painfully. “Not any more it ain’t. From now on, Morgan, ye’re convict number two ’unnerd an three.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A booky cove, I note.” Mr. Hanks riffled through the pages of a few in search of salacious etchings or erotic prose, then laid each one down with a frustrated slap. “An what’s this?”

  “A tonic, sir, to cure boils.”

  “An this?”

  “A salve, sir, for cuts and ulcers.”

  “Shite, ye’re an apothecary’s shop! Why’d ye bring all this clutter?” He removed the cork from the bottle of tonic and sniffed suspiciously. “Aaaaaagh!” He slammed it down on the deck and let its cork roll away. “Smells bad enough to come from the river.”

  Expression unconcerned, Richard stood while the head gaoler picked up the empty box, shook it to hear if it rattled, rapped all four sides, top and bottom. After which he felt every seam of the sacks. Nothing. He appropriated Richard’s better razor, the strop and whetstone, and Richard’s best pair of stockings. Then he moved on to Will Connelly’s box and bag. Very quietly and unobtrusively Richard knelt to retrieve his tonic, cork it and put it to one side. A glance at Mr. Sykes told him that he was probably expected to repack his things at this juncture, so he nodded to the immobile Rogers and began his task. Rogers and the youngsters followed suit.

  Finished with the twelve of them, Mr. Hanks exuded pleasure. “Right, now where’s yer coach wheels? Where’s yer blunt, cullies?”

  “Sir, we have none,” said Neddy Perrott. “We have been in gaol for a year and there were women. . . .” He trailed off apologetically.

  “Pockets inside out!”

  Every coat pocket was empty save Richard’s, Bill’s, Neddy’s and Will’s, stuffed full of books.

  “Dowse yer toges—take ’em off!” snapped Mr. Hanks.

  Off came greatcoats and suit coats; Mr. Sykes felt over every inch of every one. “Nowt,” he said, grinning.

  “Frisk ’em, Mr. Sykes.”

  This they interpreted as an order to search their persons; Mr. Sykes proceeded to feel their bodies, with obvious enjoyment when he groped around genitals and buttocks. “Nowt,” he said, exchanging a look of keen anticipation with Mr. Hanks.

  “Dowse yer kicks an bend over,” said Mr. Hanks in a resigned but quivering voice. “Though I am warning youse! If Mr. Sykes ’ere finds any coach wheels up yer arses, ye’ll wash ’em in yer blood.”

  Mr. Sykes was brutally, lingeringly efficient. The four young men and Joey Long wept in pain and humiliation, the others endured it without exclamation or evident discomfort. “Nowt,” said Mr. Sykes. “Fucken nowt—not nuffink, Mr. ’Anks.”

  “We are from Gloucestershire,” said Richard as he pulled up his underdrawers and breeches. “It is a poor part of England.”

  And I have got your measure. Shame and money. God rot you.

  “Take ’em below, Mr. Sykes,” said the gigger dubber, and went off into the warren of shacks a disappointed man.

  As of this January 28, 1786, Ceres held 213 convicts; the twelve from Gloucester were admitted as numbers 201 to 213, Richard at 203. The only gaoler, however, who used their numbers was Mr. Herbert Hanks of Plumstead Road, near the Warren, Woolwich.

  Someone in his wisdom—probably to placate the felons of the London Newgate, who loathed associating with hicks—had separated the London Newgaters from the hicks by putting them on different decks. The London Newgaters occupied the lower deck and the hicks occupied the orlop deck. Or perhaps this wisdom stemmed from the perpetual war which went on between the London felons and all the non-Londoners on Censor and Justitia, wherein everybody was so hopelessly intermingled that not even Mr. Duncan Campbell could unravel the tangle. With Dunkirk in Plymouth he was to go further than with Ceres, segmenting the ship to create seven convict compartments according to a system of classification he had concocted himself.

  The divisions between Englishmen were very deep. Those who used the London Newgate flash lingo spoke what sounded like an alien tongue, though many could—if pushed to it, and in a bizarre accent—speak a more general kind of English. The problem was that by far the greater number of them refused to as a matter of principle, preferring their flash exclusivity. Those from the lands of the north as far south as Yorkshire and Lancashire could more or less comprehend each other’s speech, but, no matter how literate, could not make head or tail of anyone who hailed from farther south. Complicated by the fact that Liverpudlians spoke something known as Scouse, another foreign language. The Midlanders could communicate fairly well with those from the West Country and both these groups could understand convicts from Sussex, the Channel parts of Kent, Surrey and Hampshire. But those from the Thames part of Kent spoke something akin to flash lingo, and the same had to be said of those from the parts of Essex closest to London. As for those from north Essex, Cambridgeshire, Suffolk, Norfolk and Lincoln—quite different again. So polyglot was this assemblage of Englishmen, indeed, that Censor owned two convicts from Birmingham who could not understand each other; one had lived in the village of Smethwick, the other in the village of Four Oaks, and neither had been a mile from home until caught in the judicial net.

  The result was that people clumped. If one group of six could understand another group of six, they mingled to some degree. When dialects or accents became insuperable, the twain never met. The Gloucester men therefore entered a divided camp, united only in a universal hatred of the London Newgaters one deck up, who were said to get the lion’s share of everything from grub to cheaper gin because they and the gaolers could understand each other and were allied in depriving the non-Londoners of their rightful share.

  This last assumption might well have been true of the gin, as the London Newgaters were in their own bailiwick and likely to have more sources of money, but it certainly was not true of the grub.

  That jolly little prancing person Mr. Duncan Campbell became exceedingly thrifty about things he had to pay for out of the £26 per convict per year he obtained from His Majesty’s Government, and grub was an item he had to pay for. Ten shillings per week per man: on the Thames hulks that January his gross income was £360 per week, and there were things a canny contractor could do to keep the gross and the net figures closer together. Such as growing his own vegetables and brewing his own small beer. The more obvious ploys of falsifying his convict numbers or letting scurvy run riot were, alas, out of the question. Too many nosy officials. He bought his bread and his beef from the garrison at the Tower of London—ox heads and shins only, hard bread only—and at first he had not been fussy about their condition. Then along came Mr. John Howard; bread and beef had to improve somewhat. Notwithstanding these irksome constrictions and a staff of 100 assorted persons, Mr. Campbell managed to make a profit of £150 a week from his Thames hulks. He also had a hulk in Plymouth—Dunkirk—and two in Portsmouth—Fortunee and The Firm. His total profit from all his enterprises was around £300 a week; he was also engaged in some delicate dickering for the tender to supply the bruited expedition to Botany Bay.

  The ’tween decks on the Ceres orlop were six feet, which meant that Richard cleared the ceiling of moldering planks by half an inch and Ike Rogers could not fully straighten. The beams which ran from side to side were a foot lower than this, however, and were spaced six feet apart. Thus turning the act of walking into a parody of a monkish parade, heads bent in a reverence every double pace.

  For a Bristol man the smell was bearable, as the wind moaned around the iron grilles and swept through the chilly, red-painted chamber extending from a bulkhead athwart the foremast to the entrance bulkhead in the stern. All told, it was about 40 feet wide and 100 feet in length. Along either outer wall—the hull—were wooden platforms at about the height of a table, and such they seemed to be, for men were sitting at them on benches. The conundrum was that they also seemed to function as beds, for in some places men were lying on them, apparently resting or else gr
ipped by fever. The platform width of six feet also suggested that they were beds. Another table-like platform six feet wide ran down the middle. Perhaps 80 men inhabited this garish crimson chamber, and upon the entry of twelve new inmates all conversation stilled and most heads turned to look.

  “Where from?” asked a man sitting at the middle table near the entrance.

  “Gloucester Gaol, all twelve of us,” said Will Connelly.

  The man rose to his feet, revealing himself as short enough to pass beneath the beams, though he had more the physique of a jockey than a midget, and had the face of a man who had spent most of his life around horses—creased, leathery, faintly equine. He might have been any age between forty and sixty.

  “How de do,” he said more than asked, advancing to meet them and holding out a diminutive paw. “William Stanley from Seend. That is near Devizes in Somerset, but I was convicted in Wiltshire.”

  “We most of us know of Seend,” said Connelly with a grin, then performed introductions. He put his box down with a sigh. “And what happens now, William Stanley from Seend?”

  “Ye move in. That would be Sykes did the bum fuck. A real Miss Molly. ’Tis his way of getting to know the convicts from the inside, ye might say. No money, eh? Or did he find it?”

  “We have no money,” said Connelly, sitting on the bench. He winced. “After Mr. Sykes, this is hard. What does happen now?”

  “This end is Midlands, West Country, Channel, Wolds and Wealds,” said Stanley, producing an unlit pipe and sucking on it when he was not using it to point in some direction. “Center is the boys from Derby, Cheshire, Stafford, Lincoln and Salop. Far end—bows—is Durham, Yorkshire, Northumbria and Lancashire. Liverpudlians have that end of this middle table. They have a few Irish, all but one Liverpudlian. Got four blackamoors, but they are upstairs with the Londoners. Sorry, Taffy, no Welsh.” He eyed their boxes and bags. “If ye’ve valuables, ye’ll lose ’em. Unless,” he added, tone loaded with meaning, “we can plain deal.”