Convict Girl

by Chrissie Michaels

  Commander Baudin has instructed me to look out over the harbour at ten o’clock where I shall witness a marvellous spectacle. I am curious to see what he has in store.

  Later

  Something magical and mighty happened over the cove tonight. As I stood outside under the black and shining sky the stars were hanging there as if someone had strung up a thousand twinkling lanterns. Every ship’s mast and rigging had their charcoal lines sketched upon the seawater. I felt tiny, a speck, as I waited for the stroke of ten.

  The music drifting across from the French ship hushed. I imagined the guests pausing to turn their eyes upwards, and shared their bursts of delight as the humming, spits and cracks spilled mother-of-pearl buttons from the sky.

  Forgetting I was alone, I called out, ‘Quick, Mistresses, come see the fireworks!’ Silly dolt I am, my little mistresses being so far away. At this hour no doubt they were tucked up in bed fast asleep, where all fine little ladies should be. I felt a pang.

  The white brightness continued to dazzle and twinkle and shoot off in every direction, leaving behind trails of silvered powder. I was grateful the Commander had told me to watch. He should be most pleased with the evening’s display.

  10 November 1802

  ‘What is your opinion of my purchases?’ the Commander asked me today on his return from Master Lord’s warehouse. A bolt of scarlet cloth sat on the table, alongside a pile of strictly folded handkerchiefs made from silk. There were yards of hair ribbon, and several fine hats, combs and leg stockings. The Commander pointed to them. ‘They are mainly for my officers and scientists, who are young men. They enjoy primping and preening.’

  All I could think to say was, ‘You will do no better for quality or variety than at Master Lord’s, sir, I assure you.’

  He deposited the scarlet cloth in my arms. ‘Make a suitable cloak for yourself. Long, to the ground, if you will.’

  Before I could discover why he thought I would have need of a winter cloak when the summer season was drawing nigh, he said, ‘Last evening your Judge Atkins made enquiries after you. I told him you were a commendable servant. Governor King was within earshot. When I suggested you could serve me admirably on my ship, he was not unduly vexed by the proposal. ‘

  ‘Serve on your ship, sir?’

  ‘Yes, remain as my maidservant.’

  My stomach clenched into a tight knot. ‘Leave the colony?’

  ‘At the subtle persuasion of Mrs King I was induced to make a sizeable donation to the Orphan School.’

  I gasped. ‘You paid for me to go with you?’

  He looked at me in shock. ‘Do not presume my donation and you are in any way connected, or I shall be greatly offended. My reasoning was simple. In the short time you have been here, you have been bien comportée. How to say? Well behaved. You tended me well when I was ill. You may continue to give such care. I should think you would be grateful to be away from the colony. Give me your answer, Mary. I require a maidservant, but it does not have to be you.’

  With a pounding heart I realised that sailing away with the Commander was my only real chance of avoiding being reassigned. My one chance at freedom. He was only asking for a steady hand to mop his brow, feed him a herbal brew when the wheezing bothered him, or spoon out a broth if he was feverish. I had tended Dadda in the same way before I was hauled off to Newgate. I took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes, sir, I will go.’ I could not help but think that this time I was really throwing myself at the world.

  ‘I am pleased to hear you say so. Influence is working in your favour. The Governor has assured me no further inquiry will be made into your departure. You are certainly privileged. But you must realise he is not giving you a pardon. You can never return openly to England.’

  Never say never, I thought. Lawdy! I was a Beckwith. Weren’t we always coming up with one notion or another?

  11 November 1802

  Our lodgings have been emptied of all the specimens. From daybreak until nightfall the movement of the collection kept everyone busy.

  ‘Imagine,’ the Commander said, his eyes shining, ‘on the ship are wild dogs, lizards, toads, a native cat, a platypus. All are destined for Paris. And there is so much more.’

  We are to sail on 26 Brumaire. The Commander said I must learn the dates according to the French calendar. All I know is I have to mark off six crosses.

  13 November 1802

  22 Brumaire XI

  This is how I must write today’s day and month and year. On this day, 22 Brumaire XI, Mumma was allowed to visit me.

  ‘Ask the Judge if you can sail with me,’ I implored her. ‘Men of influence like him, like the Governor, can tear up the paper our life sentences are written on.’ My plea was heartfelt, coming from a fear I would never again see Mumma.

  ‘They will never allow it,’ she replied. ‘The only reason I am here today is because Mistress Atkins consented to let me accompany her and the girls while they are in Port Jackson. They are having their portraits painted. She is to sit for a miniature herself.’

  I managed a smile. ‘My little mistresses have become such ladies.’

  Mumma came closer and clutched me by the shoulders in a strangely comforting embrace. With the gentlest of tremors in her voice, she said, ‘From now on you are truly on your own. But heed, you are a Beckwith. No one ever gets the better of us.’ Before she pulled away, she whispered, ‘We shall not let them make an orphan of you. Search out Dadda.’

  I clung to her and promised, ‘If I can, I will. I shall never forget you, Mumma.’

  14 November 1802

  23 Brumaire, XI

  Today, dearest Ann and Tibs surprised me with a call. Ann tearfully clasped my hand. I gulped hard, trying to make light of her tears which were unstoppable. They would as much fill a pail as the spills of a rainstorm. ‘You are the best Weeper I have ever heard in my life,’ I managed to say.

  Tibs cleared his throat and rattled off more words than I had ever heard him utter. ‘This is sorry news for us, Mary. Yet we are thankful to visit before you sail. One day you may be free to return. Know you shall always have a home with the Booths.’

  Oh, my dear, dear friends! I embraced them one after the other. We parted, hopefully not forever, but forever binding true friendship in our hearts.

  15 November 1802

  24 Brumaire XI

  The Commander said I must on no account leave our lodgings today. So I have occupied the time sewing the end stitches into my cloak.

  There! Finished! As I pulled it round my shoulders, it occurred to me that I wore a cloak much the same, scarlet and reaching the ground, to Ball’s Linen Drapers on the Strand that fateful night.

  16 November 1802

  25 Brumaire XI

  First light

  Almost one year ago I arrived in this colony on board an English transport. I am to leave on board a French Discovery ship. But not on the Géographe, not yet.

  Captain Hamelin came to collect me. I am to hide on the Naturaliste until the time comes for me to board the Commander’s ship. The Captain is a man of few words, but he did take the time to explain why I was being hidden away on his ship. Surgeon Thomson and his wife have taken passage with him. Tonight they are to dine with the Commander on Géographe, before boarding the Naturaliste. If they see me, it may cause Governor King embarrassment.

  I fully understood what he meant. By allowing me to leave without a pardon, the Governor and the Judge, indeed everyone who knew, had flouted the regulations. Oh, if only His Majesty knew that his colony was a place for lawbreakers of all persuasions!

  Greeting me on the Naturaliste was a deafening animal chorus. The ship is a floating zoo. All I could hear were squawks and snorts and grunts. Vapours from the steaming dung and straw tickled my nose. Along with the animal pens there were clusters of bushes and plants. The sailors turned away as I passed by. Captain Hamelin escorted me down into the gun room and forbade me to venture out.

  An hour before midnight

 
; I have spent this whole day in solitude. By the time Captain Hamelin returned to tell me Surgeon Thomson and his wife were settled in their cabin, and a boat was to take me over to Géographe, I was suffering hunger pangs. The Captain tossed me a red cap, breeches and coat. But no supper was forthcoming.

  ‘Dress as a boy,’ he ordered.

  My tummy rumbled loudly as I changed clothes, rolled up my shift and cloak, and tucked them under my arm.

  On the flagship, I received hostile glares. Go about your business while I see to mine, I thought silently. After all, ain’t I here at your Commander’s pleasure?

  In the Géographe’s Great Cabin, glass-cased insects and plant specimens cluttered every nook and cranny. There was a smell of spices and pickling spirits. At the long oak table the Commander sat writing in the ship’s log. The black flourishing of his words, strange mark on mark, were imaginings of a journey I could not fathom.

  Longingly I spied his uneaten supper and wondered at my chances of sneaking a portion from under his eyes.

  17 November 1802

  26 Brumaire XI

  At first light I awakened to the groaning of the anchors being raised and the grind of the chains. Since I was not a prisoner anymore, I decided to venture out on deck and see for myself the weighing of the anchor.

  Things did not go smoothly. First the heavy tackle used to raise the anchor snapped. Then the bow became firmly embedded in mud.

  We are not going to be sailing anywhere on this tide.

  For much of the day I have remained in the captain’s cabin, pressing my face and hands upon the panes of glass. We still have not sailed. At dusk, a commotion of feet made me step out. I saw shadowy figures shuffling upon the wooden boards and made out the tattered slop clothing of convicts under guard. My eyes were drawn to a tangle of chestnut-coloured hair streaming over the shoulders of one of the captives and I could not help but let out a scream.

  Bridget’s eyes searched around for the source. ‘Dear-o, can that be you?’ She must have known I was close, for she called, ‘If ever you’re tellin’ of this voyage, be sure to mention Bridget Whelan and her fight for justice. And Joe here with me, to be sure.’

  ‘I won’t go forgetting you both,’ I shouted across, before a rough hand pushed me back into the cabin. The door slammed shut in my face. I heard the lowering of a boat.

  Bridget had found Joe! For that I was relieved. But to be detected in these final hours before we sailed, to be sent back because the Commander wanted to please the Governor, while I was being taken on board because the Governor wanted to please the Commander. Lawdy! It did not seem fair. How could our fate be so bound up with the whims of these powerful people?

  18 November 1802

  27 Brumaire XI

  The Commander mentioned he had left behind a most gracious letter for Governor King thanking him for the kindness he had shown. He said he would always hold him in high esteem and look upon him as a true friend.

  I could tell the Commander a thing or two about true friendship. Were not mine the best a girl could ever find? Watching from the swaying deck as our line of farmyard ships—Géographe, Naturaliste and Casuarina—finally rolled out to sea, as the gold and green countryside which had been my prison for almost a year was fading to far-off grey, my thoughts were filled with the faces of those friends I would never meet again. Farewell!

  6 December 1802

  15 Frimaire XI

  We have dropped anchor north west of Van Diemen’s Land at Sea Elephant Bay, a shallow cove. Naturaliste, which has not yet sailed for France, has anchored beside us, alongside Casuarina. I stood on deck for awhile and counted the fat sea elephants that stretch out sleepily on the rocks. They bark like dogs at each other. But I had to stop when I reached cent because I have only learnt my numbers to 100. My eyes kept straying over to a sealer’s camp. I wondered how many hunters were here for the oil and skins.

  So far, the Commander has been kind to me. He keeps making a fuss of repeating French words in his sing song voice. Then he orders me to say them with an: ‘Oblige! Oblige!’ As I dust over the vast range of nautical books and charts that lay on the table in the Great Cabin, I keep turning these new words over in my head. For I swear I do not have many other duties to occupy my time.

  Everyone here calls each other Citoyen. Whenever I show my face on deck most citizens ignore me. But not Citizen Antoine, who is one of the gardeners. He is two years older than I am. His last name is Guichenot, but he has insisted I call him On-twarn. First I had to agree to allow him to call me Mary, which he pronounces Mah-ree. He has dark curled hair that pokes from beneath his cap and kindly eyes of grey that resemble a summer sea mist. Bouts of scurvy have loosened his teeth, but his jaw is strong and he has a fine nose.

  For some reason Antoine has decided to take me into his care. When he discovered I could write, he even presented me with a bundle of papers, roughly bound and covered in woven cloth. ‘Everyone of importance keeps a journal,’ he told me.

  Of all his friends, the artist Citizen Petit is the liveliest. Lawdy, how he loves to play the fool! How tired he gets by the lonesomeness of the sea! How he pines for his land legs! Always he wishes to find new people and creatures to draw.

  ‘I shall sketch you one day,’ he promised me. ‘I shall make you into a white bird that flies across the ocean like Géographe in a full wind—’

  In my excitement I urged him to do this drawing without delay. In all my life no one ever had seen me as a beautiful white bird.

  He replied slyly, ‘Oh no! I have made a grave error. Your white bird must be caged. And even if you get through the door you can never escape, for your wings are clipped.’

  I understood him rightly enough. He was pointing out I was a prisoner for life. That the way I had left meant I could never go back to England. When I told him he was mean-spirited to taunt me so, he brushed off my protest. ‘Do not distress yourself, Citizeness! I shall but muse upon you further, then draw you unawares.’

  This cheered me. Especially when he brought out some fine sketches he had done of the natives at home in nature. They appeared most noble and brave. The young mother carrying her child on her shoulders made me think of my little mistresses. In the Citizen’s drawing the mother is wearing a white bandana about her head, and she has a wide nose and glossy cheeks. Another I admired was of a warrior with a long necklace looped several times around his neck, and bearing scars on his arms, chest and belly. A bit like my egg fella.

  I told as much to Citizen Petit, who seemed amused. ‘I made that warrior laugh by mimicking some English officers. He spoke your language very well. Your natives picked up our words much faster than we picked up theirs.’ Full of mischief, Citizen Petit made some strange rolling sounds.

  I scolded him. ‘That warrior must have soon grown weary of your playfulness.’

  ‘He did,’ he conceded. ‘He snatched one drawing from my hand and threw a large stone at me. Nevertheless, I bowed gracefully and reminded him that I was a gentleman, and extremely serious about my art. Consider how I also encouraged the natives to draw for me.’ He flourished some line drawings of a fat kangaroo and a dogfish.

  I especially liked the God of the Blue Mountains, drawn in three different ways as a man, sometimes with fingers, sometimes with fins, always with a beak. They looked like they had been flattened by a giant rock falling on them.

  Another friend of Antoine’s is the astronomer, Citizen Bernier. He acts most kindly towards me, even if he talks of nothing but the stars, especially the Transit of Mercury, which he was disappointed not to chronicle during his stay at Port Jackson.

  But all the other citizens do not like me. They always make their feelings known. Citizen Péron has been acting the worst. He struts around like a young peacock, snapping and clapping to get his own way. Lawdy, Mumma would be wiping out his mouth with soap if she could but hear the names he has come out with! I cannot understand how Antoine admires him as a friend, or comes to his defence every time I make a
complaint.

  Most shocking of all, Citizen Péron has been openly disrespectful to the Commander. He challenges his every order. After witnessing one such insolence today, I could no longer hold my tongue. ‘How do you stand for him, sir?’ I asked the Commander.

  With a wave of his hand the Commander silenced me. ‘Péron is merely a pup, one among many who wish to be head of the pack. They are all young. They are all clever. Scientists and officers alike. But they are bad sailors. They all think they know better. They bark and nip. They are always trying to pull me down and will only be satisfied when I am lying on my back helpless. But they will not better me, and it does not give you the right to slander them.’

  Slander pander! I refuse to accept Citizen Péron’s insults. Only yesterday someone complained that his timepiece had gone missing. The Commander ordered a search of all the bags and chests. All manner of missing articles were discovered, but there was no sign of the clockface, or the felon responsible. And what did Citizen Péron do? Only pointed me out as a suspect!

  I made a curtsey bob, saying as sweet and bold as I could muster, ‘You must try to temper your faultlessness, Citizen, you are much too perfect.’

  I was sure he was going to throw me over the side but Commander Baudin ordered me firmly to retire. Even if Citizen Péron and the others insist on thinking me unworthy, I am now on a French ship, so ain’t I have the right to be considered with égalité. Ain’t I Citizeness Beckwith?