Admonition

by Chris Throsby

  That night, for the first time in three months, I took off my boots and replaced them with the shoes. I didn’t like to examine my feet too closely. Three months in those boots meant they weren’t going to be in the best condition. I tied the boots together, put the laces round my neck and put the boots down the front of my chemise; though I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night, I was taking no chances.

  The night passed uneventfully and at first light, when letting us out on deck, they called those of us on the draft together and marched us towards the gangplank. Standing alone by the plank was the naval clerk. I waved farewell to Lolly, who looked surprised at first but then smiled and clapped; it was clear she thought that I had done the right thing by not even telling her I was going. I took the boots from round my neck and started swinging them around by the laces. As I passed the clerk, whose eyes had not left the boots since I started swirling them, I let them go. To be honest, I hadn’t expected them to travel so far and it was only because he was paying such close attention that the clerk was able to stretch out and catch them by the laces before they disappeared over the side and vanished in the oozing quagmire below.

  He swore at me, but I just smiled back. I knew we both had what we wanted.

  Still in shackles, twelve of us and a guard were put into the back of another wagon no bigger than the one that brought me from Chester and began the journey down to Falmouth. Even though we were cramped already, we stopped at Woolwich to pick up one more convict. At first we had no idea why we were stopping, but when the door opened and the guard stepped down, we got a glimpse of the pub we’d stopped outside. As he shut the door behind him, even though it was still early in the day, we assumed that was his destination.

  But moments later, we heard him talking to someone whose voice we didn’t recognise. Soon their voices were raised and we could hear every word. It was clear they were talking about a third person and they were haggling over money – it seemed our guard wanted a pound to take the extra passenger. But then the tone of the other man’s voice changed and he said,

  “Look, Mary Baldwin is on your draft list and Mr Peters paid your clerk fifty pounds to make sure of that.”

  We couldn’t believe it. Why would somebody have paid a year’s wages just to get this Mary on a draft list? Anyway, the door suddenly opened and a disconsolate guard followed by Mary climbed into the wagon. A second man poked his head in the wagon and told Mary he’d be riding with the driver to make sure she arrived in Falmouth safely. Before he shut the door, he fitted her with shackles and, as I was sat next to her, connected them to mine.

  When we pulled away, all thirteen of us and even the guard, who obviously hadn’t got his pound, were silent. Glancing sideways, I could see our new passenger, in addition to being very valuable was, for a convict, very well dressed. I knew all the others had heard what I’d heard and seen what I’d seen, so I was sure they had just as many questions as me. But no one said a word. Like me, they didn’t know who or what we were dealing with. Fortunately, Mary was very different from the person she might have been and as we travelled, she told us all about the time she’d spent on a hulk and especially about Simon Peters.

  Her story was surprising.

  Mary

  Descent into Hell

  The 27th June 1806 was a Friday. That’s true that is, and I might be the only person who remembers. I suppose for most people the day just slid by like any other, but for me I can definitely say it marked the start of the worst time in my life. I don’t mean the sentence, it was the third time I’d been caught thieving (This time, not that it matters, I’d been caught with a role of cotton I’d taken from outside a haberdashers in Poplar.) and fourteen years’ transportation was about the best I could expect. To tell the truth, I’m glad to be going. If I stayed in England, there are only two ways I was goin’ to go; more thievin’ with more jail, finally entertainin’ the crowd at Tyburn. Or walking the streets and drinking myself to death just so I could face with a cheery smile, all those ugly men who’d want to pay me for my time. No, New Holland holds no fear for me. But before I joined the Sydney Cove, I spent five months on the Warrior, a hulk moored off Woolwich and had I known what a hell-hole that was going to be I might have felt different about my sentence.

  A heavy mist rolling in off the marshes lay over the Thames when they rowed us out. So even when we were only yards away from the hulk, a silhouette was still all we could see. So it was the stench that hit you first, and long before the Warrior loomed out of the fog, the unmistakable sweet smell of death and damp decay overwhelmed all the other noxious smells rising from the river. Clambering on board the hulk, the dead n’ dying lying all over the deck, made it very clear where the smell had come from. Picking our way through the bodies, only the occasional groan told us who still waited for the blessed relief that death would bring.

  The top deck contained the dead and all but dead, but when they took us below, we entered what I can only describe as a living death. There were no candles and what little light there was entered through draughty gaps in the ship’s side. Filth and vermin were everywhere and the endless movement of convicts trying to ease their chains completed the feeling of descending into hell. Every convict, and there were more than I could tell, wore leg-irons and I soon discovered that when they broke a rule, big, small, real or invented, a convict’s irons would be either tightened, doubled or have a ball added to them. What’s more, anyone foolish enough to be caught trying to remove or adjust their chains would be introduced to the cat – a meeting, if they survived, they were unlikely to ever forget. The cat o’ nine tails, in case you haven’t met him, is a whip like no other. Coming from the handle, nine thongs of knotted rope, all between two and three feet long, mean each lash from the cat delivers nine of them to the unfortunate offender. So a convict sentenced to just ten lashes with the cat really receives ninety and I have to tell you there’s not much skin left on his back after that.

  The food they gave us was pretty poor as well. Boiled ox-cheek, pease pudding and mouldy bread is what we got on that first night and on most nights after that. Our diet only changed if they ran out of ox-cheek, in which case they gave us oatmeal. They also gave us mouldy biscuits when the bread ran out. Pease pudding never ran out ’cos if supplies ran low, they just thinned and stretched out what was left until they got new supplies.

  If the guards, conditions and food they gave us weren’t bad enough, then my thieving, cheating, fellow convicts completed the whole sorry picture. If these low creatures thought they could make a ha’penny by stealing from you, they would, and if they believed they could get better food by telling a guard you were plannin’ to escape, they wouldn’t blink at that either. Worst of all, they’d say they were your friend, and to seal your new pact with them, slide a knife between your shoulders. So, all in all, it didn’t take me long to see that if I was to avoid being murdered, and if gaol fever didn’t get me, there was only one way I’d survive.

  Despite his name, Simon Peters wasn’t a religious man – far from it. But he was the head guard and the other guards were as afraid of him as the convicts. A mountain of a man and as bald as a coot, his beard only half-covered the scar he’d gained from a knife wound. The slash of a blade had been a convict’s desperate final act before Simon crushed the last breath from him. That blade, having removed one of Simon’s earlobes, had travelled across his cheek and finished by widening the right side of his mouth. So all in all, he wasn’t a pretty sight and his temper was just as ugly. But I wasn’t about to cross him; no, I made sure he knew exactly what I had in mind right from the start.

  Most of the guards lived in one large cabin, but Simon Peters shared a smaller one with just three of his favoured guards. Keeping an eye on the cabin, I saw that three of the four went out every day to check both convicts and the rest of the guards, the fourth staying to watch over the cabin. So on the day Simon stayed behind, waiting as close to the cabin as I could without raising suspicion, and when I was sure the other
guards were otherwise engaged, I slipped through the doorway. I knew the guards were usually gone no longer than twenty minutes, but that was more than long enough for what I had in mind.

  Ducking back out of the cabin fifteen minutes later, leaving a bemused but smiling Simon, I re-joined the other convicts. The day’s inspection was still unfinished, so returning to my bunk with my freshly eased chains, though I got knowing looks from a couple of women, I went unseen by the other guards.

  So that’s how things went. Every four days, for the few minutes he was alone, I would enter Simon’s cabin and slip him from his breeches. I knew how to tickle a man’s fancy and Simon was like a puppy when we were done. I never left without reward or promise of reward that, pleased to say, he was always glad to supply.

  The chains I wore had been so tight that I knew if they weren’t eased, my legs would be permanently disfigured. But once they were loosened, I next needed protection and that’s why I’d chosen Simon Peters. Any guard could ease my chains and most could protect me from the other convicts, but only he could do both and protect me from the attention of the other guards. So on my second visit, he loosened my chains and promised me the protection I required, and I was then able to concentrate on improving the quality of my daily life. Over the next few weeks, my food improved. I was given better clothes (including new boots), extra bedding against the cold and even a second pillow. But after three months, he gave me somethin’ I will never forget, somethin’ he gave only out of kindness.

  Although the Warrior was already full of death when they put me on board, it was mainly the result of maltreatment, pitiable conditions and a poor diet. But then gaol fever started to spread through the ship, taking convict and guard alike. It spread like wildfire and pretty soon those guards, still unaffected, despite dire threats from Simon, started to abandon us and we would have followed ’cept the authorities placed a guard from the local barracks round the ship. As the weeks passed and more and more fell ill and died, those of us still fit were becoming desperate, knowing it was only a matter of time before we succumbed.

  All this time, Simon was becoming ever more wild and angry. Most guards, unless dead or dying, had slipped away, until only Simon and his chosen three remained to make sure we stayed under control and didn’t escape. Most of the guards may have gone but Simon, by threatening and cajoling both convict and guard alike, though never asking the guards to do anything he wouldn’t do himself, managed to retain some order.

  But after only a few days of living this new madness, one where we were made to carry dead and dying bodies up on deck and where four men watched us day and night, making sure that none of us escaped, the morning dawned when Simon failed to appear and I was summoned to his cabin by one of the other guards.

  Simon was lying on his bunk and I’d seen enough cases of typhus and how it progressed, to know it wouldn’t be long before he joined all the others who had succumbed. Despite a high fever that made him sweat from every pore, he was shivering uncontrollably. His vision was cloudy and he was unable to focus properly. Delirious, he talked nonsense no one could understand. But then he closed his eyes for a long moment and when he opened them again, they had cleared. He asked for water, and having drunk thirstily, whispered to one of the guards who, instructing the other two to join him, left the cabin. Summoning me to his bedside, he took my hand and I could see he was making an immense effort to stay lucid. Gripping hard, he said,

  “I know why you come to me and I know it isn’t because you care for me. You just want me to make your life easier. But Mary, that’s what I like most about you, you’re a survivor and you’ll do anything you need to do to get by. Strange as it may seem, that’s the reason I’ve come to care for you. But now I’m dying.”

  I squeezed his hand. There was no point in telling him he would recover because, like me, he’d seen too many die not to know his time was almost up. So I just let him finish what he wanted to tell me.

  “I’m not going to be able to protect you any longer and anyway, if you stay in this God forsaken graveyard, it won’t be long until you go the same way as me.”

  Since he started talking to me, his shivers had stopped but he seemed to be burning up even more than before. I tried to bathe him but he stopped my hand.

  “Don’t fuss Mary. I haven’t long and I need to tell you something before I die; it’s important if you want to live.”

  Now he had my full attention.

  “You saw me talking to Ben before I made the three of ’em leave; he’s a good man and you can trust him. At first light, he’s going to take you from here to join a wagon that’s coming from Chatham. It will be carrying convicts going to Falmouth to join a New Holland-bound transport ship. You should be heading there anyway, but I think they’ve decided to leave you and all the rest here to let the typhus do their job for them; it’ll save ’em a lot of trouble and more importantly, money. Anyway, when the wagon gets here, there’ll be room for one more and I’ve had your name added to their bay draft list. Ben will make sure they don’t forget.”

  Then he looked straight at me and I realised he was smitten; that big ugly man, who could kill as easily as swatting a fly and with no more thought, who knew our weekly dalliance was never going to be anything more, had fallen for me. But then he just smiled at me, closed his eyes and turned on his side and I knew he’d said goodbye for the last time.

  Early next morning, I was woken by Ben. Warning me to be quiet, he indicated I should follow him up on deck. The orlop was still in darkness, but I was already dressed and so followed him as quickly and quietly as I could. Reaching the deck unheard, I breathed out, only then realising I’d been holding my breath since I’d left my cot.

  Hurrying, I caught up with Ben as he reached the river side of the ship. Looking over, I could see another of our guards bringing a small wherry alongside. Ben breathed,

  “Alright then Mary. You first.”

  A net had been hung from the side of the Warrior and because the hulk lay in mud at an angle away from the river, climbing down the net wasn’t too difficult and I was helped into the wherry by its oarsman. Scrambling down the net after me, Ben joined us in the boat and took one of the oars. The wherry sat low in the water, so although it was beginning to get light, the morning mist that sat on the river kept us unseen. The two oarsmen rowed us slowly and quietly some way upstream, before drawing us into the opposite bank where, along with Ben, I stepped out onto a small beach and from there up an iron ladder to the dock. Surprising some early morning dockers, we slipped between two warehouses and stepped out into the High Street. I hadn’t looked back after I stepped from the wherry, so when I realised he hadn’t followed us, I guessed the other guard, having done what was asked of him, had simply rowed it back to its mooring.

  I suppose I could have tried to give Ben the slip, but what would have been the point? As I said, England held no future for me, at least not one I could look forward to, and if I did manage to escape, I’d have no future and I’d be a fugitive in my own country for the rest of my life. So I just walked beside him, keeping to the early morning shadows thrown by the High Street buildings and hoped we’d have no problems meeting the Falmouth wagon.

  Ben brought us to a halt outside the pub where I was to be picked up. Helpfully, like the hulk, the pub was also called the Warrior. We had been standing for about ten minutes, with Ben growing more and more edgy, when we saw this carriage appear at the top of the High Street.

  ‘Course I didn’t know it was our carriage, but Ben did, and though the cart was moving quickly, he stepped boldly into the road and turned to face the driver, his arm outstretched in front of him. At first it didn’t look like the cart was going to slow down. I don’t know what Ben would have done if it hadn’t, but then I saw the driver stand and pull on the horses’ heads. When the carriage came nearer, I could see the driver was pulling with all his strength, but I still couldn’t be sure he would stop in time.

  If Ben was worried, he didn’t show it.
He just stood motionless watching the horses coming towards him. I screamed out his name when I was certain he would be ploughed into the road, but I must admit I never really saw how things ended ’cos when I screamed, I must have shut my eyes. When I opened them, I was amazed to see the carriage stationary and Ben rubbing the steaming head of the lead horse. I swear if he’d moved at all, he’d only taken a step forward. I won’t say much more ’cos he’s sitting there, but the carriage door opened, our guard here stepped down and you must have heard all the arguing between him and the driver, but what you won’t know is what settled the argument.

  It had me wondering at first I’ll tell you, but then I heard someone clear their throat right behind me. I looked round and saw the guard who had been our other oarsman and the remaining guard from the Warrior, standing right behind us, batons in hand. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. The batons seemed to win the argument without further discussion.

  Admonition

  Hammocks

  We’ve got to learn to sleep in swinging hammocks.

  We arrived last night and they moved us onto the ship straight away. It’s nothing like the Brunswick, but the Sydney Cove is still fairly cramped below deck and they keep us in chains all the time we’re down there. Worst of all, we’ve got to learn to sleep in hammocks on a moving ship. We’d slept in hammocks on the Hulk, but unlike the Brunswick, the Cove wasn’t stuck firm in the mud and swayed with the swell. It meant I didn’t get any sleep at all, I was so afraid of falling out.

  This morning I discovered most of the others felt the same – but Mary was one who definitely hadn’t had any problems sleeping. As in the wagon that carried us from Woolwich, her leg shared a chain with mine, so when we retired for the night, the chain was too short for us to sleep any other way than next to each other. I knew she hadn’t had a problem sleeping, because it seemed I had barely got into my hammock before I could hear her snoring. So this morning, I asked her what her secret was.