My lungs felt painfully tight and my head buzzed fit to burst, so desperate was I for breath. I kicked again and broke surface, treading water with the weight of the child pulling me down. Before I had got my breath I yelled ‘HELP’ at the top of my voice, and we immediately sank again, as my lungs emptied of air.
I kicked hard to regain the surface, and felt around in the gloom for some hole or projection to hold on to. If there were none, I would surely drown. I held on to the child with one hand as the other searched the walls. There was nothing. My legs were tired and I was beginning to panic. Just then, the child began to splutter and cough, spewing out a lungful of water and gasping in air.
‘Hold tight, little bundle,’ I said quickly. ‘We’ll be out of here in no time.’
I felt the weight of the child lessen in the water, as he filled his lungs. For the moment at least the task of keeping him afloat became easier. But the water was very cold and I knew I could not keep this up much longer.
What on earth was that bloody lieutenant doing, I thought.
I shouted again and much to my relief a face poked over the edge of the bright circle of light at the top of the well. ‘You hold on, young man,’ said a woman, ‘and I’ll run to get a rope and bucket.’
A minute later, someone threw down the bucket on a rope. It landed with a huge splash just as I pulled myself and the boy towards the side of the well to avoid it.
I bit my tongue, wanting to curse whoever had thrown it so carelessly. ‘Put the child in the bucket,’ shouted down a male voice. I raised Joshua up with my failing strength and told him to hold tight.
It took an age to raise Joshua up to the surface, and when they did I could hear a great wailing – part horror part relief. That must be his mother. Then I heard her scold the child, and several other voices joined in, agreeing with her or telling her to be thankful the child had been rescued.
I lost patience. ‘Hey, what about me?’ I yelled up. By now the cold was piercing me to the bone, and my elbow was throbbing sharply.
This time a rope snaked down through the darkness, and landed hard on my head.
‘Hang on while we tie this to a tree,’ someone shouted down. Then, a minute later: ‘Come on then, let’s have you up.’
They pulled the rope. I hung on for dear life with my frozen fingers, pushing up with my legs whenever I could.
I emerged from the well, blinking into sharp sunlight to be confronted with a large crowd. They cheered and several ran to help me to my feet. Of Lizzie and the officer there was no sign. The dripping, sodden child was being cradled by its mother who in turn was being fussed over by a tall, kindly-looking man wearing a clerical collar.
He came over and shook my hand. ‘My name is the Reverend Graham. Thank you for saving the life of my child. Can we take you home to dry your clothes and offer you some dinner?’ He had a round face, made even rounder as he was almost completely bald. He seemed like a nice man, so I accepted his offer.
Dinner with the Grahams was an unexpected pleasure. I hadn’t eaten a more delicious joint of pork since I lived at home. Reverend Graham let it be known that he was a personal friend of the Governor. ‘If I can do you any favour in return,’ he told me, ‘I can assure you I have His Excellency’s ear.’
I smiled to myself. I knew enough about the ways of the world to realise I had just made a very useful friend.
Two days later I was walking home from work with Richard when we saw Lizzie Borrow close to the quayside. She was out walking with her maid, a pretty dark-haired girl a couple of years younger. The light from the sun formed a halo around Lizzie’s mane of hair, making her look luminously beautiful.
She greeted us with a smile. ‘You’re the boy who rescued the child! And –’ she looked puzzled as if trying to place us both. ‘And in fact, you’re the boys from the boat! And from the play! Let me see, it’s … Richard? And Samuel?’ She seemed quite excited to see us. I was pleased she had taken the trouble to discover our names. Looking around she lowered her voice and said to me, ‘I’m glad there was someone at the well who didn’t mind getting his clothes wet.’
There was a telling pause in the conversation. Then Lizzie said, ‘So boys, how are you faring?’
We tumbled over each other to tell her how well we were doing. We had a fine house down by the Rocks, we were highly regarded down at the Navy office, everything was absolutely marvellous and we had every hope of an early pardon.
‘And how are you Miss Borrow?’ I said. ‘Is Sydney to your liking?’
‘Terribly hot,’ she said. ‘So enervating. And very little in the way of entertaining company.’
Richard spoke boldly. ‘Well Miss, we’d be delighted to accompany you on a stroll around the bay.’
I admired his pluck.
Lizzie’s maid giggled. She had a lovely smile. Lizzie made a sorry face.
‘I’d love to boys, but my fiancé would probably have something to say about it.’
Richard bowed gracefully. ‘And who is the lucky fellow?’ he asked.
‘Lieutenant John Gray,’ she said briskly. ‘New South Wales Corps. Well, I suppose we ought to be off.’
Out of earshot I laughed. ‘You didn’t really think she’d come for a walk with us did you?’ I said. ‘Daughter of a high official talking with a couple of convicts. That’s enough to get tongues wagging already.’
‘You English,’ said Richard. ‘You’re such stick-in-the-muds. “Fortune favours the bold,” that’s what my old dad always says.’
Richard and I enjoyed our free time and I came to think of the Sailor’s Arms as my second home. The pub did a fine trade in hearty dinners. We would spend a couple of hours in blistering January sunshine drinking ale and munching our way through a mutton pie and mulberry and quince tart, usually in the company of James and Orlagh. Many of the pubs in Sydney were run by women and the Sailor’s Arms was no exception. The landlady was known as Mad Bet. She was small and wiry, with skin as nut-brown and weather-beaten as any tar. Clay pipe clenched between blackened teeth, she had the sharpest tongue in Sydney and would have made a fine bosun’s mate.
When we’d drunk our wages and filled our stomachs we would wander back to the hut and sleep the rest of the afternoon. After our tightly regulated life of the Navy, and our confinement on the hulk and convict transport, having this much freedom was heady stuff.
We didn’t often visit the pub in the evening, partly because we couldn’t afford to, but also because it was a violent place at night. Instead we would sit in front of our hut sipping black tea or peach cider, talking with Doctor Dan and the neighbours. They were a mixed bunch, but usually good company. Most of them couldn’t read so Dan or I would read out books to our fellows. I rarely felt happier in Sydney than when we were sitting around in a group on a warm night, smoking pipes, sipping our drinks and reading by candlelight.
One late afternoon, Dan came back from the hospital to find Richard and me still asleep after our visit to the pub. As he busied himself frying some fish he said, ‘You know, you two could make something of yourselves in Sydney. I’m not going to be here to look after you for ever. If you didn’t drink your wages, you could work afternoons and make even more money. Think about it.’
As a shot across the bow, it could not have been gentler, but we got the message loud and clear. When work finished we still went to the Sailor’s Arms to eat, but we’d only have a single drink and by two o’clock we’d be out earning money. There was plenty of work to be had on nearby farms clearing timber, planting corn and the like. But it was back-breaking and we soon started thinking up schemes that were less exhausting. One of our neighbours had taught us how to repair the clay walls of our house with soil, cow dung and grass. ‘Whitewash that with lime, apple tree ash and sour milk,’ he said, ‘and it’s as good as new.’ We went from door to door with our stinking mixture, offering to patch up holes in walls. It was hard work. Sometimes we would walk for miles and find very few customers.
One eve
ning Richard had a brilliant idea. ‘Fishing! Let’s go fishing. There’s plenty of fish in the bay. We could sell them door to door.’
That very afternoon we went to a general store in the middle of the town and bought ourselves fish hooks and line. We made a pair of rods from some useful-looking branches, whittling them into shape that very evening. Our first afternoon fishing off the northern tip of the Rocks was not a success.
‘You need a boat, friend,’ said a passing stranger. ‘And I know just the man to rent you one.’
‘Who’s that?’ I said.
‘Me.’
His name was Henry Coates and he offered us a good deal. Three shillings an afternoon, or half our catch. We settled for half the catch. ‘If we don’t catch much, then we haven’t lost much either,’ reasoned Richard.
Next day we ventured out in the small rowing boat into the choppy waters and sat for a long afternoon in the middle of the bay. We caught mullet, mackerel and rock cod by the bucketful. It was barely any work at all. That evening we sold our share of the fish all around the Rocks and made the best part of five shillings.
The scheme worked well for a week, but there was a catch, and it turned out we were it.
One Friday afternoon in early February we set off into the bay. By four o’clock that afternoon we were landing fish after fish, filling our wooden bucket very nicely.
I was just fixing a bloody bit of bait from our tray of chopped up fish pieces when Richard got up to pee over the side of the boat. Whenever one of us did this the other would move to the other side to balance the vessel. ‘Another hour and that bucket will be full, I reckon,’ he said.
Just then something nudged the keel, making the boat wobble violently. Richard lost his balance and pitched into the sea. I fell off my seat, setting the bait tin into the water. I looked over to see a bloody cloud of cut up pieces slowly sinking from view.
At that instant, in that same spot, a huge demonic face loomed from the depths and lurched out of the water. Its pointy snout almost touched my nose. Jagged white teeth bared in lethal rows, a cold black eye looking straight through me. I thought I could taste its foul fishy breath but that may have been my own terror. Without thinking I brought a clenched fist down on the tip of its nose. A fierce pain shot through my flesh. The shark’s hide was so rough it was like smashing my hand down on a barnacle-covered rock.
The blow enraged the beast and it lurched up even higher. This time it reached over the side of the strakes. I could see its eye covered by a white flap of skin. Its top jaw seemed to have swung forward in its mouth, making it look even more ugly and vicious.
‘Quick! Help!’ shouted Richard, who was by now hanging onto the side of the boat. ‘It’s a bloody great shark,’ I yelled, rather unnecessarily.
I stumbled over to heave him in, and had just grabbed his soaking shirtsleeve when I saw the shark coming back straight for him, its triangular fin skimming through the water at speed.
The boat rocked dangerously, taking in water, and he scrabbled to get his legs in as I heaved him over the strakes. The shark made a lunge for him, and just at that moment one of his shoes fell off and into the creature’s jaws.
‘Back to shore, quick as we can,’ I said. ‘Take an oar and row like hell.’
‘Batter the bastard with them if he comes back,’ said Richard.
‘Better not,’ I said. ‘What if the thing eats one. Then we’ll be really lost.’
We rowed together, side by side, heading for the shallows a quarter of a mile away.
There was one other weapon aboard – a wooden boat hook with a metal tip that lay under our feet.
‘If he comes back, I’ll row and you hit him with that,’ said Richard, ‘but don’t drop your oar.’ Despite my fear, I felt quite calm. We had not escaped the noose to end up as shark supper.
The boat lurched in the water. We kept rowing. This monster was circling us again.
‘Look, he’s over there on the larboard side,’ shouted Richard, ‘coming back for another go.’
We could see a long, dark shape, maybe seven foot in length, slipping through the water. Then it disappeared.
After a while our fear began to subside – enough for me to notice the hot afternoon sun on the back of my neck. ‘I need a stiff drink,’ said Richard.
‘D’you think he’s gone?’ I said. I began to feel sick with the thought of what had just happened, and my bleeding hand was throbbing with pain.
We carried on rowing as fast as our trembling hands would let us, and the shore grew nearer. I heaved a sigh of relief, closed my eyes and made a silent prayer of thanks.
At once I was conscious of the bow of the boat rising in the water. I opened my eyes to see the shark halfway out of the sea, its fins resting on the stern which was now level with the surface and taking in water. Its thrashing upper body seemed to be wriggling its way towards us, teeth chomping furiously at our feet.
We both screamed in terror. This was more horrifying than any battle I had been in. My hands reached for the boat hook and my oar fell into the water.
I brought the hook down on the shark’s pointy head with all my strength, splitting the wood in two. The monster flipped its body up over the stern and disappeared again.
Richard was furious. ‘You idiot,’ he screamed at me. ‘We’re dead men now.’
I started to sob. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling utterly wretched, and buried my head in my hands.
Seeing me so upset calmed him. ‘I’m sorry Sam.’ He reached over and put an arm around me. ‘Come on, let’s try to get that oar.’
It had drifted twenty or so yards away from us, further out to sea.
‘We can always put a rowlock on the stern and row with just one,’ I said.
‘Not likely,’ said Richard. ‘Not after seeing how that thing came up on the stern. If we lose the other oar, we wouldn’t stand a chance. Here, I’ll try to edge us over while you bail.’
We had taken in a lot of water after the last attack, and our ankles were now awash.
After ten minutes of patient sculling, we edged nearer our oar. But to my dismay, we had drifted further out to sea.
There was the oar. I began to dread plunging my bleeding hand into the water, fearing this would be the moment our shark would hurl itself out and snap my arm off. Richard read my mind. ‘Take my oar, I’ll get it.’
Before I could protest he reached over the side to grab the oar.
Nothing happened.
We sat there another minute, getting our nerve and our strength back.
We rowed again in silence. After twenty minutes we both began to tire. ‘Nearly there,’ I said.
Then a fin drifted past the starboard side of the boat.
‘Oh Jesus,’ said Richard. ‘He’s back.’
An idea flashed into my head. I passed my oar over to Richard. ‘You row.’
I moved carefully to the stern and scanned the surface. The shark was there ten yards off, biding its time. I picked up a snapper from the catch of fish in our bucket and heaved it over. The cruel mouth cut through the water and devoured the fish in an instant.
‘Keep going.’
Whenever he drew dangerously near I threw in another fish.
We both found the whole thing almost funny. ‘Not so much as a thank you,’ said Richard. ‘What an ill-mannered shark.’
By the time we reached the quay there were only three fish left. I threw them all out, to give us enough time to clamber out of the boat.
We sat down on dry land and both began to laugh hysterically. The good fortune we felt at our escape was marred only by Henry Coates who insisted on charging us for his broken boat hook.
‘That’ll be a pound,’ he said.
‘Come off it, Henry,’ said Richard. ‘You can buy them for ten shillings in the store down town.’
‘Mine was a pound,’ he said.
We paid up. He knew, and we knew, that we would not be going fishing again.
Chapter 11
Folly and Ruination
As we sat sipping beer with James and Orlagh in the Sailor’s Arms one Sunday afternoon, our thoughts turned to Lewis Tuck. ‘He’s working in the prison, I’ve heard,’ Richard told me. ‘One week in three he works overnight. I think we ought to pay his house a visit. See if we can play a little prank on him.’
‘You know where he lives?’ I asked.
‘Just on the edge of town. He’s bought himself a nice little cottage near the timber yard.’
We told our friends about what a bullying thug he’d been. Orlagh, in particular, was greatly amused by the idea of us carrying out some sort of revenge on the man. ‘I like to see a bully get a dose of his own medicine.’
We had another tankard of ale then all four of us walked over to the western side of Sydney to take a look. From a safe distance behind a high hedge we could see a pretty cottage surrounded by tall gum trees. Tuck had chosen his spot well. There was little else around the house other than lush meadows and a freshwater stream.
‘Are you sure it’s his?’ I said.
‘Yeah. I think so anyway. Rylett at the Navy office told me,’ replied Richard.
A wicked plan came to me in a flash of diabolical inspiration. ‘If we find out when he’s working the night watch we could sneak out here and see if we can cut one of those trees to fall right down on the roof!’ I thought it would impress Orlagh, and sure enough, in our drunken state, the idea seemed so wonderful we all laughed until our stomachs ached.
Prison Ship Page 11