The Highwayman

by F. M. Parker

  “Move it, you lazy bastards,” the Marine corporal ordered. “March.” His rain slicker kept him dry and warm; still he wanted to quickly get out of the rain.

  The prisoners’ pace increased but little at the harsh command. Their leg-irons rang dully as the convicts silently climbed the long slanting side of the hill toward the stone quarry with its thick outcropping of rock.

  The convict gang passed over the lip of the quarry and down onto the broad shelf that had been created over the years by the removal of the layer of stone and its overburden. The Marines unlocked a tool shed near the guard shack and passed out tools to the men, a hammer, chisel and iron pry bar for each. The implements seemed extraordinarily heavy to Patrick. It would be a hellishly long day.

  “Work over there where I can see and count you when I want to,” the corporal said and pointing at a particular section along the rock face.

  He watched the convicts move off and then led his two subordinates into the dry guard shack. They leaned their rifles against the wall and found seats facing the door that was left open so they could see the convicts.

  Patrick examined the dripping wall until he found a fissure indicating a zone of weakness in the rock. He began to hammer the chisel into the crack to enlarge it. The rain made the tools wet and slick and difficult to hold. Still he worked on, his hammer blows feeble.

  “Make your way toward me and let’s talk,” Popjoy spoke just loud enough for all the convicts to hear.

  “What’s up?” Patrick said and glancing in Popjoy’s direction.

  “We had a meeting while you were in the dumb-cell,” Popjoy replied. “Some of us plan to go to Sydney.”

  Patrick lowered his hammer and chisel. A prickle ran up his spine, and it wasn’t caused by the cold rain. Popjoy had taken Patrick’s idea of a Sydney Trip and made it his own. He moved with the other convicts as they worked their way along the rock face until they were clustered around Popjoy. The men stood silently in the rain, swiveling their eyes frequently in the direction of the guard shack.

  The Marines were building a fire in the tin stove of the shack and paying the convicts no mind. One of them laughed and the sound reached the convicts.

  Popjoy stepped away from the rock wall and pivoted to face the other men. “Now, fellows, to business about our Sydney Trip. Some of you agreed to it yesterday while some wanted to think about it over night. Now those who don’t want to be part of it had better go off over there and not look or listen. That way you won’t be held guilty for being part of it.”

  The group remained motionless with their thoughts turned inward. Some men glanced around at the faces of the other convicts as if trying to draw something from them upon which to make a decision. Then a man shook his head and walked away. A second followed, a third, and others until nine men had gone to the far end of the quarry.

  Patrick examined the remaining ten men in their sodden clothing and leg-irons. Their gaunt, wet faces looked like those of corpses, except for the live eyes. In the eyes there was doubt about the Sydney Trip; yet smoldering in their depths was the fire of man’s indomitable desire to be free. Some “lifers” bent to the severe punishment and lived as subservient dogs to the commandant and Marines. But a different path was being chosen by these desperate men. A strange emotion came alive in Patrick, he was proud of the ten.

  A great price was exacted from the men who schemed to go to Sydney. There were no judges stationed at Hobart, the principal city of Van Diemen’s Land. Therefore all murderers had to be transported for trial before the court in Sydney. Also all witnesses to the murder were taken there so that they could testify to what they saw. The price to get to Sydney was for one man to be killed and one to be hanged for killing him.

  Patrick felt his spirits rise. In Sydney there was the possibility for escape from the prisoners’ barracks while waiting for the trial and flee into the “out-back”. A few men had stolen boats and made their way to New Zealand. There was the chance a man could stow away on one of the many foreign ships that docked at Sydney for it was an important trading port for this part of the world. However the Marines searched every outbound ship for stowaways. Most men who tried to flee were caught and brought back. Still enough made good their escape to give all men hope of accomplishing it. Those convicts caught attempting to escape had seven years added to their sentences. To “lifers” the seven years meant nothing and so they were the men who most often tried.

  “Are you with us, Scanlan?” Popjoy asked. He flung a hasty look at the guard shack. “Hurry up and give us an answer.”

  Patrick swept his sight over the questioning faces around him and nodded. “It’s way past time that I went to Sydney. I’m in all the way.”

  “Good,” Popjoy said. “That betters the odds. Now let’s do this fast before the guards catch on.”

  Popjoy pulled several sprigs of grass straw from a shirt pocket and broke eleven of them into uneven lengths. He held them out clutched in his hand in such a manner that only one end of each could be seen.

  “I have a straw in my fist for every man. The long one and the short one will be the mates.” He looked grimly at every man. “There can’t be no backing out once the drawing begins,” he warned.

  “Test your luck,” Popjoy said and extended his hand with the straws out to the men.

  Each pulled a straw as Popjoy’s calloused hand stopped in front of him. Some did it quickly, some slowly and carefully after critically examining the exposed sections as if somehow that would tell them the length of the hidden portion. One man hesitated overly long.

  “Take one, damnit.” Popjoy growled.

  The men gave Popjoy a mean look. But reached and pulled a straw.

  Popjoy’s hand stopped in front of Patrick. “We get the last two. You go first and I’ll take the one left.”

  Without hesitation, Patrick pulled one of the thin reeds that would determine two men’s deaths, and just perhaps escape for the remaining nine.

  Popjoy held up the last straw. “Now let’s see what each man has pulled.”

  CHAPTER 22

  A hush fell over the eleven convicts as each held out his hand to reveal the straw he had drawn. Every man’s eyes held a worried and yet a hopeful gleam as they swept hurriedly around to compare the lengths of the straws held by the other men.

  Popjoy threw back his head and flung a cackling laugh into the rain. He quieted and pointed his straw at Taylor’s. “Luck wasn’t mine. Nor yours, Taylor. It looks like you got the short one and I got the long one. We’re the mates.”

  “Oh! Mother Of God,” exclaimed Taylor, a skinny, lantern jawed man. He staggered and slumped against Knatchbull who stood next to him.

  “Stand on your own feet.” Knatchbull elbowed Taylor away.

  Taylor straightened, his face twitching with shame for his weakness. He looked at Popjoy and spoke hoarsely, “There could never be a better mate than you, Popjoy.”

  “Right good words.” Popjoy said, his voice tight and his dripping face strained. The hand holding the straw trembled.

  He turned to Patrick. “All right, Scanlan, help us see who goes to hell first, me or Taylor. Take my straw and your own and break them again. We’ll draw to see who does the deed to the other.”

  “Right,” said Patrick. Fate had taken a hand in the drawing and kept him safe. What did fate have in store for him the next time there was a choice? He broke the straws and enclosed them in his hand with just the ends showing and held them out to the two men.

  “Which straw shall do the deed, the long or the short?” Popjoy asked Taylor.

  “The long does the short,” Taylor said, his voice barely audible against the whisper of the rain.

  “So be it.” Popjoy reached out and drew a straw from Patrick’s hand and held it up for all to see.

  Taylor looked at the remaining straw and hesitated. Then he hastily snatched it from Patrick’s hand and shoved it out to measure against Popjoy’s.

  “Oh hell, Popjoy,” Taylor said
as he saw that he had drawn the longer one.

  “I’m the one who organized this and now I’m the one to die first. Ain’t that a ram’s ass?” Popjoy’s words came with an effort. He raised his haggard face to the sky, and as the rain fell upon it, mouthed some words that the others couldn’t hear.

  After some seconds of talking to the heavens, he lowered his head and looked around at the men surrounding him. “I don’t want to ruin this for the rest of you blokes. I’ll hurry it along before the guards put a stop to it.”

  He turned to Taylor and spoke forcibly, “Do a clean and first rate job of it.”

  Popjoy picked up his iron pry bar from the ground and handed it to Taylor. “Use mine and swing it hard. Give me no pain and I’ll not hold a grudge against you in hell.”

  He stripped off his hat and jacket and dropped them on the ground. He pivoted and looked into the faces of the men watching him so closely.

  “I hope every one of you make it,” Popjoy said.

  He fell to his hands and knees and extended his neck.

  The rain poured down upon Popjoy’s head. To Patrick, the skull, showing its true size beneath the matted wet hair, seemed small, childlike. He felt sorrow for the man for the awful torment he must be feeling knowing the bar would soon come crashing down, that life was ending for him and a journey into the vast unknown was but seconds away.

  Popjoy’s voice came clearly, a command and a plea intertwined. “Strike, Taylor! Strike with all you might!”

  Taylor raised the long iron bar high. He hesitated at the apex, his arms shaking. Then he swung down. The bar struck with a crunch at the base of Popjoy’s head and drove him face down into the muddy ground.

  “Oh God! Oh God!” moaned Taylor.

  “Hit him again, Taylor!” Patrick ordered harshly.

  Taylor sucked in a sobbing breath and looked pleadingly at Patrick.

  “Do it, Goddamn you,” Patrick shouted and raised his fist to strike the trembling man. “Quick! Be certain for he’s a brave man and we owe him.”

  Taylor hoisted the iron bar, and brought it crashing down on the back of Popjoy’s head. Patrick shuddered at the sound of the skull bones breaking.

  Instantly Taylor flung the bar aside and sank to his knees. Gut wrenching sobs shook him and he covered his face with his hands. “Awful! Awful!” he moaned. “I killed Popjoy.”

  “What in hell is going on out there?” shouted the Marine corporal. He charged out of the guard shack with his rifle. His men snatched up their weapons and came running close behind.

  The corporal’s anxiety soared as he ran toward the two clusters of men where one lay unmoving on the ground. A Sydney Trip had been planned and the killing carried out during his watch. The commandant would crucify him for being so lax as to have let it happen right under his nose.

  He screamed at the convicts. “You goddamned sonsofbitches! You’re crazy, every one of you!”

  The corporal and his men rushed at the convicts around Popjoy and struck them with the butts of their rifles. The convicts backed away and trying to shield themselves from the swinging rifles.

  The corporal went to Popjoy and rolled the loosely jointed body onto its back. He felt for a pulse and put his ear near the slack mouth listening for a breath.

  “Dead as a fish,” he said and his voice grating. He focused on the stricken Taylor. “I saw you throw a pry bar down. Did you kill Popjoy?”

  Taylor straightened to his full height and nodded in the rain. “And I did a right proper job of it too. These fellows all saw me do it.” He gestured around at the other nine convicts.

  The corporal rose to his feet and swung the barrel of his rifle around as if wanting to shoot every one of the convicts. “Lunatics, every last one of you,” he growled in anger and disgust.

  He looked at Patrick. “I knew you’d be part of any trouble that happened, Scanlan. I just wish you had been one or the other of these mates. You think you’ll escape in Sydney. Well you’ll find out the authorities there have taken strict measures to prevent that from happening.”

  Patrick held his tongue, warning himself to be patient and careful. From now until he was in Sydney, he would break no prison rule.

  “Taylor, you and Scanlan carry Popjoy,” the corporal ordered. “We’re going back to the prison compound. March, you poor excuses for men.”

  *

  The winter rain fell in a deluge upon the British ship Moreton, a seventy-six foot sloop tacking back and forth and trying to break free of Storm Bay. The town of Hobart lay twenty miles behind on the east shore of the inner harbor. With the rigging and mast straining and groaning under the press of its load of canvas sails, the ship had fought a strong onshore wind for hours as it tried to gain enough headway to clear the rocky point of Cape Pillar on the southern tip of the Tasman Peninsula. The vessel carried forty tons of lime in her holds for delivery to the bake ovens in Sydney where it would be made into cement for the construction of new buildings in that fast growing city. Pressed low in the water by its heavy cargo, the ship responded sluggishly to the helm.

  Patrick lay with the other convicts on the open deck near the bow of the ship. They were fastened by their leg-irons to a metal cable stretched between to two iron bolts screwed into the ship’s wooden planks. He was hugging his knees with his head pulled down between his shoulder blades so as to create the smallest target possible against the frigid pouring rain.

  Patrick’s ankles were ripped and bleeding from the cut of the leg-irons for each time the ship rolled or pitched, he was thrown sliding across the deck to be brought up short on the cable. One piece of luck had come his way for his heavy irons had been replaced with the lighter sixteen pounders for his trip to Sydney.

  The commandant of Van Diemen’s Land had ordered the captain of the Moreton to transport the convicts chained on the open deck of the ship for the voyage from Hobart to Sydney. They were to be kept there regardless of the weather conditions. Should some of the convicts die of exposure before reaching port, the commandant would think it properly deserved for the trouble they had caused him by the killing of Popjoy.

  At an order from the captain, the Moreton began to swing about to a new tack. The sails lost their wind. The vessel came through the eye of the wind and the sails, refilling abruptly, popped like pistol shots. As the Moreton settled onto her new course, she caught a tall rolling white-capped wave on her beam and brought tons of gray water on board to flood across her main deck.

  Patrick shivered more violently as the water washed over him. He worried about Taylor who lay near him. The man’s face was ashen and his teeth were chattering. He must live long enough to stand trial in Sydney or Popjoy would have died for nothing, and Patrick would not have a chance to gamble on a run for freedom.

  CHAPTER 23

  The roll and pitch of the Moreton grew more extreme as she fought the headwind and drew closer to the entrance to Storm Bay. Another tack and half an hour of struggle and the ship broke free of the bay and gained enough sea room to round Cape Pillar that lay off on the port side. The captain called to the helmsman to set the sloop on a northeasterly course. The brisk wind that had fought to hold them in the bay now filled the sails. The ship grew a white crowned bow wave as it bore away into the Tasman Sea. Van Diemen’s Land fell away behind.

  Patrick looked out across the wave tossed sea. Sydney lay six hundred miles ahead beyond the horizon. With a proper wind like the one now propelling the Moreton onward, the voyage could be made in four to five days. Those days could be a tortuous, even fatally long time for the convicts chained on the open deck.

  “Are you all still alive?” a man shouted out above the noise of the sea and the rain drumming on the deck.

  Patrick looked in the direction of the voice. The captain of the Moreton and the corporal of the Marine guards that were escorting the prisoners stood swaying to the movement of the ship. Water streamed from their oil slickers. The captain held a roll of canvas under his arm.

  “Take this
and use it to cover yourselves and keep off the rain,” the captain said and flung the canvas down within Patrick’s reach. “I have orders to keep you out here on the open deck, but I don’t want dead men on my ship.”

  *

  With its sails full and hard with wind and its mast straining, the Moreton ran northeast through the pouring rain. Late in the evening of the third day, the rain ended when the clouds out-ran the ship. A weak winter sun hung close to the wet horizon in the northwest. In the afternoon of the fourth day, the ship entered the bay at the mouth of the Parramatta River and sailed north up the estuary toward Sydney.

  “We’ve made it, lads,” Patrick said and looking at the other prisoners. The journey had stolen more flesh from their already rail thin bodies and deepened the lines on their haggard faces. Taylor’s appearance was the worst of the lot. The days on the open deck of the ship in the rain together with his worry and fear of his certain death by the hangman’s noose had made him an old man.

  “Taylor, can you carry on for a little while longer?” Patrick asked.

  “I’ll make it, Scanlan,” Taylor said and looked at Patrick. “For my mates, I’ll last long enough to stand before the judge. I hope all of you can find a way to make a run for it.”

  “Spoken like a man,” Knatchbull said. He reached out and patted Taylor on the shoulder.

  “Yes, sir, a true man,” McCoy added.

  A murmur of approval of Taylor’s words rose from the other convicts.

  A weak smile brightened Taylor’s bleak face and he looked around at the other men, many of who nodded encouragement to him. “Thank you all for those words,” he said in a grateful voice.

  The Moreton sailed easily on the smooth waters of the protected bay for half an hour. Then she made a turn to port and sailed south into the short arm of water where Sydney lay on the left shore.

  Patrick’s excitement grew. This was the place from which he would escape, or die, for he meant never to return to Van Diemen’s Land. At the first opportunity to escape, one containing even the slightest chance of success, he would seize it.