There were voices below. The cabin was only two feet below his feet, and the seniors were obviously enjoying themselves. There had been laughter earlier, but now the voices were more subdued. He thought he heard that marine, the one the men were talking of as a hero.
Ferguson had never known a marine officer spoken of in the way Vizzard was. Sailors had no time for redcoats. His men, a drunken, unruly mob of soldiers he thought, almost stood at attention whenever he appeared on deck. He knew how to lead, it seemed instinctive and natural to him, and that is what I want too, he thought.
Ferguson adopted what he thought would be a more austere, commanding expression, and commenced pacing slowly across the deck, imitating the senior officers. At the wheel, the bosun winked at one of his mates, and made the slightest correction to the rudder, keeping to the course noted in the log. Ferguson had failed to notice and omitted to give him any order.
BELOW FERGUSON’S FEET, the officers were finishing their meal. Lieutenant Bradley passed a large flat-bottomed decanter of port to Captain Phillip, who poured a small quantity into a glass, sliding the decanter across to John Hunter.
Phillip’s eye caught the young marine at the end of the table.
‘Mister Vizzard – we have heard little from you this evening. I prefer to know something of the officers I command, particularly those that distinguish themselves.’ Arthur Phillip glanced pointedly in the direction of Lieutenant Dawes. ‘You will be aware that the ship’s people now regard you as something of... well, shall I say you are now the subject of curiosity, both before and abaft the mast. Please, tell us something of your history, we are most interested.’
The faces around the table turned to look at Jack and he swallowed, embarrassed at the sudden, and unwelcome attention.
‘I fear sir, there is little to tell. My father is a lawyer of some note in Gloucestershire. I too studied classics at Oxford, but felt that the King’s service would provide more... how can I say this, satisfaction?’ he added hesitatingly.
‘Ah yes – the Oxford scholar with a sense of duty,’ said Arthur Phillip. ‘A rare attribute.’ Phillip smiled kindly. ‘Why would you think that, Mister Vizzard?’ Phillip probed a little deeper.
‘Sir, it seemed to me that a military career might offer more interesting prospects than those of say, a country gentleman!’ The officers around the table laughed.
‘Why then not a career as a sea officer, Mister Vizzard? We ‘blue-jackets’ have a penchant for adventure, do we not?’
Jack stole a glance around the table, and realised that there was unexpected interest in his answer to this question.
‘Sir, it occurred to me that a regiment of the line, or the cavalry, would demand too much by way of capital; the Navy, I reasoned, would demand too much of my intellect, and a commission would require many years service from me – whereas a lieutenancy in the marines is available to any fit man of average education!’ Again, there was laughter from the Navy officers present. Major Ross sat stony faced, although the other officers joined in the laughter.
‘Tell me, Mister Vizzard, we are ashore in Tenerife on the morrow, what do you know of these islands, hey?’ Captain Phillip continued to smile, for once in a convivial frame of mind.
Jack returned the smile. ‘Of course I have never visited them before, sir, but I have read of them; they are thought by some scholars to be ‘The Garden of the Hesperydes’.’ He paused as the faces about him acquired expressions of puzzlement. ‘One of the labours of Hercules?’ He asked of no one in particular. Receiving no reply, he continued.
‘The story starts with Atlas. He was condemned by Zeus to support the sky beyond the Columns of Hercules – the Straits of Gibraltar.’ The sailors at the table knew of that at least, he thought.
‘Atlas had three daughters, the Hesperydes: they were Egle, Eritia and Aretusa. The three lived in the westernmost land of the world, some wonderful islands in the Atlantic Ocean, a Garden of Eden where weather was always mild and where golden apples grew on the trees. The goddess Gea gave those apples as a wedding gift to the king and queen of the gods, Zeus and Hera.’ Jack raised the fine glass to his lips and drank. A good number of the officers around the table had studied, but none seemingly had knowledge of mythology, as their facial expressions clearly showed. Gaining courage from their silence, he continued more confidently.
‘The Hesperydes cultivated the Garden, but a fierce dragon looked after it; he was called Ladon, and he had a hundred flame-spewing heads. Hercules had to perform twelve very difficult tasks, almost impossible to accomplish, the ‘Twelve Labours of Hercules’. You will have heard of these no doubt. The eleventh of these consisted of stealing the Hesperydes’ Golden Apples.’ To his surprise, Jack found he had an audience. The officers were looking at him with genuine interest.
‘Hercules found Atlas supporting the sky near the Ocean, in the mountains which today we call Atlas. Since the Hesperydes’ dragon knew Atlas, Hercules persuaded him to go to the islands and steal the apples, while he stayed as supporter of the sky in his place. Atlas went to the Garden into which he could enter since the dragon recognised him, killed the monster, stole the golden apples and returned to the place where Hercules had stayed. Atlas, tired of his task, intended to leave Hercules with the burden upon his shoulders, but Hercules managed to cheat him and fled with the apples.’
Again, Jack halted in his story, took another swallow of the wine and completed his tale.
‘However, the tale is not ended. The apples were given to the goddess Athena, who gave them back to the gardeners, the Hesperydes, who are said to watch over them still.’ He sat back in his chair, and grinned. ‘That is all I really know of these islands, sir.’
‘A good tale Mister Vizzard, and well told. `Tis a pleasure to add to my knowledge of the classics. However, it is of doubtful benefit to a sailor transporting a fleet of convicts to the other side of the world!’ Phillip laughed, joined by the remainder of his guests, with the exception of Ross, who merely scowled at his subordinate.
‘Bloody nonsense, if you ask me, sir.’ he said, the words slurring, as he drained another glass of port. ‘Bloody Greek gods’ll be nae help to you when the shot and shell are flyin’ boy.’ He glowered at his subordinate.
Captain Phillip snorted derisively. ‘Major Ross, we will need a good deal more than raw courage in the new colony. We will need officers with brains too, by God. People who can think, not just those able to act under orders of more senior officers.’ He smiled, but the point was not lost on Ross, he thought. ‘Men who can plan, and design, those who can teach and learn.’ He looked at William Dawes. ‘We will learn a good deal in the years ahead, will we not Mister Dawes?’
‘Indeed, I do hope so, sir.’ William Dawes looked towards his friend. ‘I am most interested in the night sky of the southern hemisphere. I would hope that some of our navigators wish to assist me in that matter, sir.’ He gazed about him, but none offered any particular comment. ‘Of course, I understand part of my duty to be in the design of fortifications, and artillery. However, I trust that such skills as I may have might be put to more, shall I say, peaceful ends.’ Dawes smiled. ‘I am of course, at your disposal, sir.’
Arthur Phillip was no great scholar, but his father had been a language teacher, from Germany. Phillip himself was sleight of build, with large, penetrating eyes, beneath dark and pronounced eyebrows. His high forehead suggested a deep intelligence and determination. An aquiline nose overshadowed a small, pinched mouth, which belied a sensitive, compassionate nature.
‘Time enough for forts and ramparts, Mister Dawes. We will need a harbour and wharf, farms, a hospital, barracks, houses, streets. In time a park or two, perhaps even a library, and a school.’ He smiled broadly, ‘Most certainly a school; there will be an abundance of children to fill it, I am certain. One only has to consider the births we have had already, and the fleet not yet half the way there!’
He discoursed for some time on his hopes and plans for the new colo
ny, deftly probing other officers for opinions, knowledge and suggestions, ranging from animal husbandry, to horticulture, hospitals and military fortifications. He made clear his view, indeed his requirement, that the indigenous natives of the country were to be treated equitably by officers and men alike, and with justice and humanity.
He spoke of his hopes for emancipation of convicts once their sentences had expired. While talking, he discreetly observed the faces of his officers, and noted with approval that most, if not quite all, indicated agreement.
Major Ross did not express approval, or voice any contrary opinions, but Phillip discerned from the Major’s expression that he was not to be counted as an ally. He detected support in the face of Lieutenants Vizzard and Dawes, he thought.
The junior Naval officer present, Midshipman Henry Brewer, offered his thanks to Captain Phillip and left the cabin. Jack took his cue and likewise expressed his thanks.
‘I thank you, sir, for the hospitality of your table, and the company of similar spirits. I bid you a good night.’ He rose from the table.
‘Goodnight, our classics scholar, and if I may offer some advice to a young officer: ‘ Aequam memento rebus in arduis Servare mentem’. Homer, I believe. Mister Vizzard’
Jack glanced at Ross, who glowered in return, lack of understanding etched on his face. Did Arthur Phillip know of the ill will between them, he wondered.
‘I regret to say, no, sir. The Book of Odes; Horace; the Roman poet, sir. If I too, may make use of my limited Latin: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Goodnight to you sir, gentlemen.’
Ducking below the door of the cabin, he acknowledged the salute of the marine sentry, and made his way carefully below.
26
A Rite of Passage
The wind was light from the northwest. The fleet weighed anchor at five o’clock on the 10th June and left Tenerife for the next port of call, Port Praya, in the Cape Verde Islands. Lieutenant Bradley had the deck as the fleet approached the reef guarding the eastern point of the bay, when they reached Port Praya eight days later.
He was troubled. The heat during the last week had been all but bearable. A number of the transports had reported brawls amongst the sailors. Some seamen had to be sent from the Friendship and had been flogged for breaking in to the female convict’s cages and removing four of them to their quarters.
However, the present cause of Bradley’s troubled mind was not the irksome women of the transports, neither was it the seamen he had seen flogged. He sensed storms in the air. The winds were blowing from all points of the compass, and a swell was rising. He trained his telescope on the reef and then along the straggling fleet of ships.
‘Haul the mains, Mister Ferguson. I fancy that we had better stand clear. Please offer my compliments to Lieutenant King and beg him to join me on deck. I am much troubled by these winds.’
The request was made to Phillip King, who appeared very quickly, obviously alert to the movement of the ship, and the sounds of men running to trim the sails.
‘Sir, you have need of me?’
Bradley passed his telescope. ‘Take a look, Phillip. What d’you make of this?’
Although the junior of the two King was a respected sailor and they were the same age. Having served together with King on Ariadne, under Arthur Phillip, Bradley had come to trust his friend’s judgement, particularly in matters of seamanship.
King glanced quickly up at the masts, noted the scudding clouds, and put the telescope to his right eye. He turned to the signal midshipman, ‘Mister Fowell, immediate signal to Charlotte and Lady Penrhyn if you will; “Make immediate offing, you are in danger of grounding.” I think the signal gun as well, please. Wake them up, Mister O’Mara!’, he yelled to the gunner’s mate, already loading the gun with powder only. Almost too late the ships reacted.
He passed the glass back. ‘They are too close, William. These winds will cause a catastrophe. The current here is quite contrary too. We cannot get in here. I must speak with Captain Phillip.’
A few minutes later, he was back on deck. ‘We’re to stand well clear, my friend, and make for Rio.’
‘We need water, Philip. He will have to reduce the ration. Lord, the sun is hot today.’ William Bradley pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket, drawing it about his face to dry the beads of sweat that glistened on his forehead.
The Cornishman in Philip King came to the fore at times such as this:
‘Better’n than bein’ on a lee shore, with a swell likes this be, my beauty!’
Bradley grunted, but smiled at his friend’s humour.
Some two hours later, clear of the islands the fleet found a true wind at last. The danger past, the two officers relaxed a little as the watch on deck continued with the routine of day.
‘What news of our impetuous young marine, Will?’ King enquired of Bradley.
William Bradley looked up at the sky.
‘I fear we are due some storms, Phillip – and not just from the heavens. Mark my word. That young man will bring trouble on his head before we make our land-fall, of that I have no doubt!’
‘Aye, he seems a hothead, for sure. To show defiance to our gallant Major is to court disaster. He is not a man one would wish to have as an enemy!’
‘I hear they had a confrontation in Portsmouth, over the matter of the marines` ammunition. Ross holds the young man responsible. But then, he is fond of relinquishing responsibility, I understand...’
Bradley’s voice dropped as he saw the subject of their conversation appear at the top of the companionway.
‘Good morning to you, Major Ross.’ He spoke almost too loudly. ‘Have you come to observe real sailors at work, sir?’
Ross flushed at the barely concealed insult. He was not a popular member of the ward-room, never could be as a marine, the more so because he was not considered a ‘gentleman’ by these naval dandies, with their gold buttons, and buckled shoes and with friends at court and in Parliament. Damn the Navy. Yes, it was their task to transport real soldiers to the place where they were needed, but more than that they were of no importance. Soldiers, not sailors, won battles. Damn them all for their foppery.
He snorted his disdain and strode aft to the rail, staring at the ship’s wake for a very long time. Young Mister Vizzard was clever, had gained the respect, not only of his men, but also of the senior officers. The bastard had become popular. Too popular by half. Now he had the Governor’s favour too; all that Latin – a secret code between ‘educated men’; and was a threat to his own position and authority, and that would not do. Something more would have to be done about it. The man should have drowned. Vizzard was now talked of as a hero, damn the upstart. I am the hero of this detachment; it is I who commands them. Major Robert Ross will be Lieutenant Governor, and should anything happen to mister high and mighty Arthur Phillip, then it is I who will become Governor of the colony, and these bastard Navy men had better understand that, he thought. He stood motionless, his mind working, considering options, plans and hoped for an opportunity.
THE AIR WAS HEAVY AND still in the cage, even the cockroaches seemed languid, lacking their usual aggression. Mary flicked another off her leg and stamped on it.
She would never get used to this. Whatever Botany Bay held for her, it would surely be better. Insects and pests had become part of her life; initially distressed by them, now she extinguished them habitually, without thought, as though she was oblivious to their very existence. The fleas bit her, and her clothes became home for lice. Her smooth skin covered with rashes, which itched. She countered their infestation by bathing under a pump whenever the opportunity arose, and she obtained some extract of coal tar from the surgeon, which she used to wash with, and clean the floor and walls of the cage. Mary found that the cage was one of the healthiest in the ship. The heat and airlessness however, she found suffocating. The women lay around as discarded rag-dolls with which a child had grown bored.
The day had passed like all those before. The heat had bec
ome oppressive, so much that she had abandoned her modesty, and on an impulse she had made a crude shirt for herself, with calico from the captain’s stocks, and cut her skirt to just below her knees.
That night a violent storm threw the ship about. The crew had been on deck for hours, fighting with the sodden sails and she had been sick, for the first time since coming on board. In the morning, the women were allowed on deck, made to work on the captain’s stock of linen and old canvas making shirts and trousers. The fleet could not be seen from the deck and she heard the captain, swearing at his mates, bemoaning the fact. The Lady Penrhyn sailed poorly and kept company with the fleet with great difficulty. She was often some miles astern.
The water ration was reduced again, on the orders of the commodore. Women became desperate for water. Some barrels, damaged in the last storm, were condemned. One prisoner, a foul-mouthed prostitute from Stepney, found a brown glass bottle and without thought had taken a large swallow. It was a solution of mercury, and she coughed up blood for two days. The surgeon, Arthur Bowes Smyth, treated her with an emetic to induce vomiting, and she recovered.
Subsequent days saw more storms. The crew set up water catchments, but they became contaminated with seawater. Always the sea was present. Constantly rolling, crashing into the ship. Always wet below, continuous motion, never any respite from the sea.
No respite from the men. She had resisted until now, but today she was hungry, and thirsty, so very thirsty, and wanting; wanting a protector, a confidante. She had come to comprehend the wisdom of Lizzie’s advice. Jack was gone, but she could weep for him no more.
First Fleet Page 20