The Tin Ticket: The Heroic Journey of Australia's Convict Women

by Deborah J. Swiss

  At six o’clock, the Quaker ladies bid farewell with another scripture reading in the prison chapel. The number of names carved into the pews recorded a high degree of boredom among prisoners. Still skeptical about the do-gooders, the two friends rolled their eyes as the well-dressed women exited. At the very least, the Quakers provided diversion from their caged routine. Once Mrs. Fry and her volunteers were out of sight, it was business as usual. Drinking resumed, hidden card decks magically appeared, and fights ensued until the Quakers returned the next day.

  While their cell mates sized up the petite lasses with thick Scottish brogues, Agnes and Janet were busy figuring out whom they might trust. Their search for allies commenced without delay. The sooner they discovered who was dangerous, the better their chances of leaving Newgate unharmed. Having had some experience in gangs and in gaol, the girls had an easier time adapting than most. They quickly found out who played the roles of “fixer” and “scrounger.” At the top of the convict hierarchy, these were the inmates who knew how to get special treatment and what it might cost. Under Fry’s system, the prisoners elected monitors who essentially managed the ward, distributing food rations and reporting unruly inmates. They, too, extorted favors and payoffs from the women in their charge.

  Entering this motley pack as a team afforded influence, particularly in a fluctuating prison society like Newgate. A duo could cover two places at once. Agnes ran for the food while Janet guarded the spot staked out for bedding. Two sets of eyes were more attentive to scams, schemes, and allegiances, which often incited unpleasant initiations. Bullies and troublemakers targeted the weak. Appearances mattered. In such close confinement, emotions escalated and mutated when the intoxicated or the deranged lashed out with pent-up fury and frustration, pulling hair or indiscriminately attacking with teeth and dirty fingernails. Insanity and the unpredictability of madness proved intimidating to even the most street-hardened. One careless move might provoke a deadly attack from someone possessed with what seemed like superhuman strength.

  Elizabeth Fry spent thirty-five years devoted to prison reform, but even divine prayer and activism couldn’t purify this den of disease and corruption. Newgate seemed beyond God’s reach. Outbreaks of typhus, or “gaol fever,” spread by fleas and lice, killed countless women and children awaiting transport in the filthy, overcrowded cells. Seemingly contrary to common sense, prisoners were allowed to drink as much liquor as they could afford. Two taprooms conveniently adjoined the prison. Gaol keepers earned a hefty bonus keeping their charges drunk, docile, and “quite free from rioting.”8 The guards were often drunk themselves. Like hungry wolves in charge of sheep, some gaolers also turned a profit by smuggling prostitutes into the male ward.

  Mrs. Fry and her association were disgusted to learn that even Newgate’s governor made a habit of selecting female prisoners as domestic servants whom he moved into his home. The high-principled Quakers were particularly taken aback when he handpicked one “young rosy-cheeked girl” to work in his kitchen and then overturned her transport sentence without bothering to consult the judge.9

  A bustling economy, regulated by favors and bribery, thrived where justice lay inert. “Extortion was practised right and left.”10 Word traveled quickly about which guards could be bribed. Shillings or spirits paid for visits with loved ones and for contraband from the outside. Money bought better food and a cleaner cell. Gaolers sold hungry prisoners bread far above cost, collecting two pence halfpenny for a loaf.11 Entrepreneurial prisoners charged cell mates who awaited trial a few shillings to prepare their slipshod version of a legal brief. As a ruse to visit the women’s ward on Sundays and Wednesdays, male inmates claimed to be relatives and fraternized inappropriately.

  Rather fluid contact with the outside world fueled an illicit, albeit tolerated, black market. Sellers of tobacco, playing cards, newspapers, and scandalous books wandered freely about the prison and hawked their wares. There was profit to be made in every part of Newgate, even the chapel. Gaolers charged the public a fee to attend the final sermon delivered to those awaiting execution. Some of the chaplains sold sad tales, confessed by the condemned, to broadsheet publishers, who marketed them to the crowds gathered on execution day.

  Amid the madness and mayhem of Newgate, renegades quickly gained admiration. Prisoners took great joy in taunting their captors, and in defiance, mateship blossomed. Any girl who thumbed her nose at the authorities became a welcome addition to this pack of rabble-rousers and malcontents. Being a ballad singer, Agnes McMillan made the perfect rebel and certainly expanded her repertoire with new tunes from the bawdy company she now kept. To pass the long nights, the women often entertained one another and turned captivity into theater featuring inspired and risqué performances.

  The talented Scottish lass sang fearlessly at the top of her lungs. Well-worn melodies were often parodied with original words belted out in heartfelt disdain toward the guards and the turnkeys. Denied light and air, the rebellious escaped in song and solidarity. Dancing, gambling, palm readings, and dressing in men’s clothing rounded out spirited entertainment that erupted nightly inside the fortress. Like Agnes, Janet, and their cell mates, English poet Richard Lovelace celebrated moments of freedom even inside gaol. In 1642, he wrote from a London prison: “Stone walls do not a prison make / Nor iron bars a cage.”

  Black Carriages

  Between public executions outside Newgate and pandemonium within, “the day” finally arrived in the full heat of summer. After nearly two months in prison, it was Agnes’s turn to depart. The cost for the British government to transport her to Van Diemen’s Land was less than that to keep her in gaol, but the ships typically ran only twice a year.12

  It was early morning on July 3, 1836. Two restless cell mates lay close together in the pitch-black cell. Agnes opened her eyes to the screeching sound of the metal locks in the door. Through the darkness she watched three gaolers enter with lanterns. As she tried to focus, a light flew in her face and blinded her for an instant. With that, a rough hand grabbed her arm, snapped her upright, and walked the sleepy girl on tiptoe toward the cell door. Janet was close behind. The guards shoved them down the narrow hallway to the matron’s desk, and she promptly crossed off two names from the Newgate roster. Reluctantly, they inched toward a smith who stood ready to rivet them into manacles and leg irons for the trip to the Woolwich docks. They all knew this day was coming, but it arrived without warning.

  During Agnes’s time, Mrs. Fry and her volunteers visited the girls and women awaiting transport. Before this, the gaol had been notorious for riots and violence, which erupted when fear of the unknown loomed largest. As women learned of their impending departure, they broke windows and smashed chamber pots in fits of anger, often fueled by drunken rage. These days, although rumors always ran rampant, the actual date of departure was kept secret.

  The compassionate Quaker approached redemption in a manner totally opposite that of most of her contemporaries. Convinced that humiliation and undue punishment snuffed out inherent worth, Fry wrote: “The good principle in the hearts of many abandoned persons may be compared to the few remaining sparks of a nearly extinguished fire. By means of the utmost care and attention united with the most gentle treatment, these may yet be fanned into a flame, but under the operation of a rough or violent hand, they will presently disappear and be lost forever.”13

  Fry sought to soothe the soul and the spirit as she held the girls’ hands, touched their faces, and read the Bible. In meeting nearly half the transported women, she helped many find peace in accepting what they could not control. Elizabeth was not about to give up on girls like Agnes and Janet.

  Properly secured in irons, the two friends stumbled down two flights of stone stairs and out of the gaol. Dawn began to break into full light, and London’s Old Bailey Street came alive with traffic, including a black carriage with boarded windows that stopped at Newgate’s entrance. A guard abruptly hoisted the prisoners into the waiting wagon, slammed the door shut,
and left them in a black vacuum. Janet sat silently, chained beside Agnes, deprived of sight. In the darkness, both sets of ears became acutely aware, straining to listen for clues about what would happen next: the grating of hinges as the guard bolted the carriage closed, the horse snorting and clomping its hooves in readiness, the sound of the springs as the driver mounted the carriage and the guard jumped aboard.

  This same scene occurred in gaols across the British Isles as the roundup of “notorious strumpets” continued for the next six weeks. Their transport ship, the Westmoreland, awaited their arrival with stoic patience along the Woolwich docks. Had Agnes been banished a few years earlier, she’d have made the trip through London in an open wagon. Elizabeth Fry had lobbied Parliament to end the practice of transferring the women in exposed carts, where onlookers stoned and heckled them. Still, everyone knew what the covered hearses carried. To make certain spectators didn’t attack the transport wagons, Mrs. Fry often followed them in her private buggy.

  Agnes’s eyes rolled back in her head as she fought the pitch and toss of the carriage. She struggled against the manacles, trying to ignore her matted hair and fingernails layered in grime. Composing herself long enough to let out a sigh, she thought about Goosedubbs Street. It seemed so long ago, but barely four years had passed since her twelfth birthday, when she last saw her mother, Mary. The grey-eyed girl knew little about geography but was perceptive enough to know that her life was about to change in ways she’d never imagined. At fifteen, she may have grown wise enough to deny herself the luxury of self-pity. Regrets and what-ifs would only distract her from figuring out how to stay safe and alive. Agnes had decided not to give up.

  In the midsummer heat and humidity, most of the journey was spent in dumbfounded silence, baking inside the black carriage. It was a rolling, jostling, hypnotic mix of sound, heat, and darkness. More than one girl lost consciousness as she fell against the prisoner chained beside her. As the horse-drawn cart approached Woolwich, a confusing cacophony exploded in a mix of swearing, catcalls, and stone throwing, which stopped only when Mrs. Fry stepped out of her carriage.

  Nearing the dock, Agnes smelled the river and heard the unmistakable screech of seabirds. Tense with anticipation as the cart shuddered to a halt, Agnes felt weighted down by the heavy irons on her hands and feet. The wagon strained and leaned to the left when the driver stepped off. His whips rattled against the seat. Muttering, grunts, and heavy breathing alerted the girls that a group of men had surrounded the carriage, poised to inspect the latest female freight. The bolted latch creaked open and interrupted the lascivious chatter all around them. A sudden, blinding light illuminated the carriage. In a flash, the bulky guard yanked first Janet and then her chum from their temporary womb. Struggling to regain her focus and balance, Agnes tripped over her leg irons and followed Janet’s clumsy steps toward the small boat waiting to take them to the Westmoreland.

  The boarded carriage had drawn a crowd of hecklers, gossipmongers, and curious passersby. Some looked on the girls with pity, some with scorn, and others with a smirk that sent chills down Agnes’s spine. Once the carriage was emptied, the guard pushed the girls in chains toward a skiff at the edge of the dock. In hobbled steps, they shuffled down the gangway and crawled into the launch. The boat gave way under the weight and rocked in the river as the other women in irons were ushered aboard. Agnes could hardly breathe. The coxswain pushed off from the dock, and it hit her hard. There would be no coming back. Her feet had touched English soil for the last time.

  Puffs of morning fog clung to the river as the oars slipped in and out of the water and propelled the small boat forward. The Westmoreland loomed like a specter in the Thames, mastheads eerily luminous in the early sun. Its overhanging gangplank seemed to poke a warning through the morning mist. Agnes wished she might awaken from this bad dream, but the rhythmic splash of the oars only reinforced the finality of her journey into heaven knew what.

  As the ship strained and shifted in its mooring, a breeze blew the fog away, and morning sunlight transformed the scene from shades of soupy grey into brilliant color. In the clear light of day, Agnes looked up and realized she had an audience. Lining the starboard side, the crew leaned against the rail and ogled the new cargo about to board. She was on display like a prize cow at a farmers’ market, and she didn’t like it one bit. The waiting sailors whistled, licked their lips, and made the rudest of gestures with their tongues. Many of these “Lord Mayor’s men” were themselves conscripted during sweeps in pubs and prisons. Because the Navy charged enlistees for clothing, these men made their own roughly stitched tunics and tied them in place with a rope. The scraggly apprentices dressed in a motley assortment of wide trousers, which could be rolled above the knees for swabbing the deck. In contrast, the British naval officers, charged with navigation and discipline, wore tailored dark-blue uniforms sporting white collars and gold braiding. They were expected to remain above the fray but did little to restrain the crew from “a bit of fun.”

  The oars were raised and the small launch bumped gently against the Westmoreland. The coxswain steadied the boat as his cargo of exiles made their way up the gangplank onto the ship’s main deck. The Officer of the Guard adjusted his brimmed wool hat and directed Agnes and the others on board. Still in manacles, making her way forward to the poop deck, Agnes was plunked down on a short three-legged stool. A shirtless sailor greeted her with a large hammer, puffing up his barrel chest to show off a tattoo. The deckhands, many mere lads themselves, watched in amusement as the sweaty smith leaned against Agnes’s belly, smiling his gap-toothed grin. Harassment of the young girls aboard ship was legendary and, for the most part, ignored by the authorities. So long as the prisoners arrived in one piece, anything the crew did was more or less forgivable. If they arrived pregnant, it was all the better. The Crown’s plan to populate Van Diemen’s Land moved forward ahead of schedule.

  Agnes was young and pretty, and her good looks often made life more difficult. Undoubtedly a target of taunting by crew members, she held her shift tight against her legs as the smith put on a performance for each manacle he unfastened. Given her street scrappiness, the tiny girl faced off against a crowd of staring sailors, grasping the stool with a death grip, determined to shed not a single tear. A loud clang reverberated as her irons fell to the deck, and the raucous winking sailors let out a cheer. With a vulgar chuckle, the smith freed Agnes to go aft for inspection by the ship’s surgeon. Eyes full though not yet overflowing, she stood up straight as a bolt and willed herself not to trip over the heavy rigging, coiled like snakes all over the deck.

  A Boatful of Bonnets

  Surgeon Superintendent James Ellis, the man responsible for delivering Agnes to Van Diemen’s Land, leaned against the wood railing, black logbook in hand. As the first boatful of girls came alongside the Westmoreland , he shot an admonishing glance toward the leering crew. Straightening the brim on his cocked hat and squaring his shoulders under gleaming gold epaulets, the surgeon made his way toward the gangplank. He was dressed in a double-breasted blue uniform with brass buttons and a short silk necktie pinned neatly under his shirt collar.

  Prior to 1814, there was no government supervision monitoring how women were treated during the average four months at sea. Transport companies received twenty to thirty pounds sterling per head and packed women and men in such close confinement that disease killed up to one-third of the human cargo. Payment was collected for the convicts whether or not they arrived alive. That practice changed in 1815 when the Royal Navy appointed a surgeon superintendent to every ship. He allocated food servings, delivered infants, and treated illnesses such as alcohol withdrawal, typhus, and syphilis.

  Surgeon Superintendent Ellis opened his leather-bound ledger to begin the tedious task of recording the names, ages, and physical characteristics of the newly arrived prisoners: Agnes McMillan, age sixteen, fresh complexion, grey eyes, light brown hair, oval visage, no pockmarks or scars.14 Although still only fifteen, she must have w
anted to appear more adult, and without birth records on hand, the surgeon took her word for it. Names and dates were sometimes approximated in the records. Misspellings and inconsistencies were all too common.

  While being measured—five feet, one and one-quarter inches—Agnes tried not to look at Mr. Ellis. Like all prisoners, she didn’t trust the authorities. While she was the one being measured, the grey-eyed girl was most certainly sizing up the opposition, not liking in the least what she saw. The surgeon superintendent was wearing his full Navy regalia, and Agnes had never had good experiences with men in uniform. His white collar was so full of starch that the skin on his neck hung over it like turkey wattle. It screamed of rules and regulations.

  Janet Houston was next in line: age seventeen, fresh complexion, hazel eyes, red hair, oval visage, and no facial marks. She took off her shoes and was measured at five feet, three-quarters inches tall. Stern yet unexpectedly polite, Surgeon Superintendent Ellis handed the girls a sponge and a hunk of soap. The fully clothed sponge bath took place right on deck next to a cask of water. Among the first to embark on the Westmoreland, Janet and Agnes treasured the luxury of relatively clean water and fresh soap made from lard and lye. For the first time in months, Agnes scrubbed her hair and fingernails and used the sponge to clean her ankles and feet. She was happy to remove Newgate’s grime, but her elation ceased when Mr. Ellis picked up her fashionable brown leather boots. He looked them over and handed them back to a relieved Agnes.

  In earlier transports, the ship’s supply list included “clothing for use during the voyage.” But by 1836, this no longer appeared, and the allowance was enforced sporadically.15 Many prisoners arrived with only the clothes on their backs, and with no means of repairing items that would be worn threadbare on slippery decks, in driving rain, and through frigid temperatures. Agnes’s sturdy boots would come in handy in Van Die-men’s Land, but she learned quickly that bare feet served her better on the ship.