9th October
The food is severely beginning to worsen, more than ever before. Pease-pudding, salt pork one day, salt beef the next, maggot ridden food that even Matthew in his hunger would have rejected back in England. Potatoes once a day, bread 1/2 lb (not enough for one meal) three times a week, just enough sugar and butter and the sea biscuits are supposed to make up the difference if we are hungry - and we are always hungry. Water ration is one quart a day for adults, one pint for children.
During this morning there were heavy blasts of hail, and then snow again fell on the decks, but it soon blew off in the wind - certainly far too soon for the liking of the children on board. Towards night the wind freshened and as we are all expert ship captains now, most of us thought they should take in canvas, but the Captain ordered them to be left alone, though every mast and yard was groaning. There is so little to do that most of us have picked up a rudimentary understanding of the rites and lessons of sailing. Already the names and terminology have become quite familiar to us. We are accustomed to asking the Captain our Latitude and Longitude, but the greatest interest is in the magical number called ‘the day’s run’. This figure is debated incessantly, bets are placed daily and money regularly changes hands. Twice a day the log is streamed and we get an update of our speed, though many are getting very adept at estimating the boat speed just by looking at the wake. From the figures we can guess at the ‘day’s run.”
A pod of Grampians (whales) could be seen at a distance blowing the water up like a fountain; the sight brought many passengers on to the deck.
10th October
A cold biting wind blew all day, with occasional blasts of hail as large as peas. A squall overtook us in the afternoon as we were flying along with everything set, going about 12 knots. Everything had to be let fly to save the masts. The crewmen were hauling and tugging like mad to get the sails clewed up; the ship trembling all over as if it had a fit of the nerves. The hail just pelted down. We lost a spar today, a studding sail boom which broke with an explosive bang and disappeared overboard.
11th October
A pleasant day, but the south wind is very cold as it blows from the land of perpetual snow and ice of Antarctica. The breeze was fresh and the ship sailed splendidly, at an average 11 knots, and we are now at Lat 45'S, Long 85'E.
13th October
In the late morning the wind shifted and drove us off our course; in the afternoon it shifted again and then we were off at a spanking rate in the right direction. Some calculated that we would reach New Zealand in two weeks, but as we are just to the west of Australia, Mr Olsen said privately to me that he thought we would take a little longer.
16th October
I join everyone in the hope of looking forward more and more to good weather. Whenever the day is sunny, I sit in my favourite place, and before too long Mr Olsen will stop to talk to me. I have begun to suspect the other sailors are starting to make jokes about it. Mr Purcell continues to hover in the background like an aggravating gnat, but generally I can avoid him.
Last night a breeze sprung up, and by morning it had increased to a gale, and shifted to the east to be right in our path. How many more of these winds must we suffer? We are all so desperately sick of the strong winds and the howling in the rigging, it really seems to seep into our very souls. As we were not making distance forward in the desired direction, the ship was stripped and lay hove to with only three sails, to lessen us rolling around. Night closed around us, with its gloom and darkness and the sea grew fearful to look at, the great waves towering and rolling broadside on to us; one after another in quick succession. The tremendous swing of the ship, and the howling wind, shrieking and groaning past the strained masts, made us feel we were under the spell of some mad being.
The mood changes of the sea constantly amaze me. It is like some bad tempered, fickl-hearted lover, one minute spurned and scornful, quickly vengeful and even vicious, then the next moment light and cheerful, placid and contented. And may I say it can be all those things in one day - even sometimes in one hour!
Chapter Fourteen
Pig Murphy
They had been nearly ten weeks on board and wearily the days had passed. They lived with such hunger, thirst, vermin big and small and dirt and discomfort of every tribulation; their trials almost defy description. If these trials were harrowing for the passengers, in the crew’s quarters even more serious matters were coming to a head.
Way back in Tilbury Docks, right on the eve of departure, a disreputable looking sailor had sought out the Captain. He offered his last discharge papers and informed the Captain that the Third Mate of ‘Nell Gwynn’ was involved with the brawl ashore and had been severely wounded.
Already short of crew, and with no time to check out the story, the Captain signed him on. This had singularly proved to be a very bad error. The man was a bully and a gutter rat of the worst kind. He ruled the lower deck and mess room with fists and threats and many a tough sailor felt fear under the prick of his knife. Pig Murphy was a dangerous psychopath but, like most of his kind, was too clever to let the marks show, or to confront with a senior officer like Mr Olsen or the Captain.
So though there were mutterings, no one was ever brave enough to make a formal complaint.
But the confinement of a small ship does funny things to people. It shortens tempers and raises the irritability of already feisty personalities and someone the likes of Pig Murphy was a powder keg in waiting. For two months Matthew had kept away from Pig Murphy wherever possible and Murphy seemed to show no interest in him either, nearly to the point of avoiding Matthew. It seemed that neither was going to bring up the killing back on the London docks. Nevertheless, small boys have sometimes disappeared on voyages like this, as Harry had told him and Matthew tried to be in the company of others at all times. The flashpoint finally flared one day and the torch proved to be poor Harry. On that ill-fated afternoon, the air below decks was heavy with the reek of unwashed bodies and tainted food. Some men listlessly played cards, some trying to sleep in their hammocks.
Murphy sat alone as usual; he was not one to be friends with, or to trifle with. He sat scowling, head down, digging his knife repeatedly into the mess table. Inside, something burned; a fire of hate for himself and everything around him. From the corner of his eye, he watched Harry walk painfully by. As he passed the table, Murphy’s leather shoe struck out, hitting Harry in the rear and sending him flying. The sailors, most of whom pitied the poor boy, looked up to see yellow pus run out of Harry’s trousers. He screamed in pain, cut short when his head connected with the low beam and he crumpled unconscious to the ground.
“You filthy, rotten sod,” cried out one burly seaman in disgust, “you’re just a bloody animal,” and he spat across the table. The gob of spit hit Murphy’s face and into one eye.
Murphy roared. Knife in his hand, he rolled across the table. The seaman was a large East End Docker, no stranger to fighting, but Murphy was afraid of no one and he was after blood. He lunged out with a murderous sweep of his arm, but the sailor sucked in his belly just in time and from out of no-where, retaliated with a hardwood belay pin. The teak pin connected with Murphy’s head and he dropped on to the deck. The blow would have probably killed most men, but not Murphy. He was already pushing off the floor when, unexpectedly, a boot from another sailor sent him sprawling down again on his face.
Now more sailors joined in the fray. Murphy slashed with his knife, catching the leg of one sailor, who screamed and fell back. The mess room was small, which made the fight more even than might be expected. The table was shoved aside and six sailors were now able to get around the hated Third Mate. He was a crazed, shouting, slashing, fighting machine and despite being outnumbered was managing to withstand most of the blows. Suddenly, his right arm thrust upwards, burying itself through the throat and into the skull of a sailor. The man gurgled once, his eyes rolled back white and he dropped like a stone on to Murphy.
The fury of the sailor
s was uncompromising. Pinned down by the dead body on top of him, Murphy took fearful blows and kicks till, with a split head and a broken arm and leg, he finally succumbed and fell unconscious. At this time Mr Olsen arrived from the poop deck. He quickly established what had happened.
“Take Murphy to the brig and put him in irons,” he ordered, “the Captain will be charging him with murder.”
The brig was a filthy cell next to the fumes of the paint locker, constantly wet from water over the bow and infested with rats. Into the brig the prone form of Pig Murphy was dragged without ceremony, dumped inside and shackled to a stout beam. The next day, Matthew and Harry were both detailed to carry food to him, after the passengers and crew had been fed. They cautiously approached the brig.
Through the bars the eyes staring back had the crazed, wild-eyed look of a madman. Though his beard had grown during the voyage, the congealed blood now covered his face and clothes. His face was a black mess and red blood still oozed from what was left of the left eye, while most of his teeth were missing or broken. Raw rat bites already showed on his skin. Rough justice had indeed been dealt to the man who had shown no compassion to anyone since he had come on board. He lay on the floor, his leg splayed to an obscene angle and seemingly disconnected from the knee.
When Mate had tried to get into the cell to fix the broken limbs and clean him up, he was driven back with curses and obscenities and eventually had to let him be. Harry at first approached the bars with much trepidation but on seeing what lay on the other side, his fear turned to loathing.
“You are a dirty, filthy, disgusting pig,” he said. “Here - eat like a pig,” and he upended the food dish on the floor outside the bars. Murphy at first just lay there, a furiously angry animal. Savage hate burned up from the man and he spat through his broken mouth, with his good eye intently on the boy,
“You are dead, lad. One day I will be out of here and you won’t live many more days after that.” The statement was flat, cold, and lifeless.
A butcher would talk to a piece of meat with more regard. But Harry laughed, made a rude sign and walked away. Thereafter, he threw the food overboard every second day. Matthew couldn’t bring himself to be so callous, though he probably had more to lose in the well-being of Murphy. However, he took great care not to get too close to the bars, for the man scared him badly. For a week, neither said anything to each other, till one day Murphy suddenly snarled, “I know, you know.”
“What?” said Matthew, startled.
“Don’t be dumb, boy. I know all about the fire and how you killed your kin and then ran off like a coward you are.”
“That is not true,” cried Matthew.
“Yeah, well that’s wot you told Harry and now I’m telling them what will wanna know.”
“But… why would you do that?” asked Matthew.
“Well I might not, particularly if you don’t talk about the African back at Tilbury. If that stays our secret I might just get out of here and I promise you and Harry will never see me again.”
“Yeah, and what about when they find out it was you who killed our proper Third Mate, the one you were drinking with the night of the fight?”
“You slimy little bastard. Don’t you ever think you can blackmail me with that muck. There’s never going to be any proof and if that comes to court you can kiss yer arse goodbye, along with the idea of me being nice to you. Probably say goodbye to your eyes and ears and tongue too,” he cackled insanely.
Matthew ran out. He climbed to the crow’s nest and sat there miserably, alone and uncertain. The fear of being found out about the fire and the killing was like a festering sore. It preyed on his mind and it just never seemed to go away. Matthew was forever at a loss to know what to do and so he kept his pain hidden inside, confiding in no one, not even Miss Jessica.
For the next three days, Matthew was given lookout duty up the mast, for they were on the tracks of other ships. From high aloft he watched Mother Carey’s Chickens, pretty little birds that looked like butterflies, skipping in a gypsy dance over each wave. He mused on how such dainty creatures could keep up their energy and where they found food, as there surely were no insects out on these lonesome waters.
He liked being up there. During the day there were always things of interest going on below, people fishing, sometimes even trying to fly kites, people smoking, reading and talking. Grownups constantly talked about their hopes and expectations of the land ahead, while children just played, as children will do the world over.
At night on watch in the crow’s nest, he lived in a magic world he had never dreamed existed, a swaying kaleidoscope of dark and light, which brought him great joy to observe. There were big bright stars; some even appeared to be yellow, or even red. There was a wash of light across the sky that Mr Olsen said was actually countless billions of stars, but Matthew didn’t believe him; the big man seemed relaxed with him lately and even made jokes like this.
Sometimes, stars would suddenly leave their position and go streaking away across the sky. He guessed they must just have got bored and were moving to a more comfortable spot.
He saw the rays of moonlight, lighting up the white froth that burst at the bow with each wave. When the moon was very round, it washed away most of the stars from the sky.
He especially enjoyed his turn up there when on the dawn watch. The sun gradually painted out the stars and the darkness of the night, replacing it with a swath of colour that kept increasing, in brilliant reds or orange or yellows, till it finally burst joyfully over the rim and signalled a new day.
Alone with his thoughts and the elements, he savoured the joy of being alive and well, at the start of yet another wonderful day. If he dwelled on his past, it was increasing as if he lived in a former life, so different and so much more repugnant that this. Often, it would be with some regret that he would hear Harry ring the bell that marked the end of his watch.
At times he wondered if anyone up in the sky would ever tell him what direction in life he was heading and what would come of him. However, he didn’t ask out loud, for fear of being thought a fool and he didn’t dwell too deeply on the possibilities. Too much of his life had been about survival, day by day, sometimes by the hour or minute even and he was too young anyway to worry about the imponderable consequences of the infinite universe. At other times, he sheltered from the wind behind the mast and thought about breakfast.
One day brought two big events – the ship’s cat had kittens and Pig Murphy, the scourge of the seven seas, died of gangrene. So great was the interest in the cat that the litter was moved to a safe spot in steerage, where the children, especially the young ones, were in raptures. Small homilies such as this helped the passing of the days.
So little was the interest in the passing of Murphy; that Mr Olsen had trouble rousing enough crew to make a burial shroud. The stench in the brig was nearly overpowering and the bloated body, stinking and covered in rat bites, made what was left of him barely recognisable as a human. It was, however, with a great relief to all when the body finally slid overboard. Harry at the last moment had slid the knife inside the shroud, so no one ever need fear it again.
Chapter Fifteen
Jessica’s Diary October 21st
Dear Diary,
21st October, 1839
Rebellion and the demise of Third Mate Mr Murphy seem to have galvanised the ship. For once there has been more to talk about than never ending gales and hardships. Of course the children are all much more excited about the kittens than anything else.
Before daylight this morning the wind changed for the better. We kept under easy sail for the morning, when the foresails were loosened and then we were sailing well, going 12 knots. By evening we seemed to be racing over the ocean; everyone agreed with excitement that the ship had not gone so far or so fast on one wind since first setting sail and if anything the speed was still increasing. I was standing just behind the mast and even I could feel the straining up aloft. Suddenly and without warni
ng, a spar broke with a huge cracking sound and all the sail, timber and rigging collapsed to the deck.
One of the sailors was dropped to the deck, knocked unconscious, by a rope falling on him. If he had been hit by any of the heavier metal or wood parts, he would have been instantly killed. He lay quite still but as I rushed to him, he sat up and just laughed.
“That was close,” he said, rubbed his head and just wandered off. Sailors are very hardy people.
We now sailed with only three sails, the foresail, fore topsail and main topsail and these were all double reefed. Two men were at the wheel and two others were holding on with pulley blocks. The Captain was about to heave her to, but he found the glass was rising so he changed his mind.
Anyone can cook their own food after Mr James the Cook has made the main meals and I had a small piece of smoked ham which was beginning to go off. There were always some people pushing to get to the galley fire, but I managed finally to get it cooked. With great pleasure I invited Mr Olsen to join me and the children in a small feast in our cabin. There was definitely not enough room for us all inside, so he stood outside the cabin door and we all laughed together over the tiny but tasty treat.
24th October
I rose at 6.30 a.m. to take our ration of water and found there was a ship in sight going in the same direction. She was the ‘Arundel’ with emigrants for Wellington. She was out of sight by afternoon.
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