‘What’s going on here?’ Officer Corby’s voice preceded his appearance.
‘Nothin’ I can’t handle, sir,’ the guard sneered, his forehead creasing in disapproval. Corby was way too soft with the prisoners in his estimation.
‘It’s the cold, sir,’ William sighed. ‘These poor beggars have nothing on their bones to keep them warm. They’ll be dead before the winter’s over at this rate.’
‘Get a lamp, Duggan,’ Corby ordered, glaring at the guard. ‘I’ll check the state of the blankets myself. If it’s warranted there’ll be extra issue. There’s punishment enough in being locked away in this hole. We’re not called to inflict unnecessary suffering.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ William said gratefully.
***
‘Robert Bales…George Bannister…John Barford…Edward Davies…William Douglass…’ the guard called roughly as he read from a list of names. ‘Move aside.’ He pointed to one corner of the yard, shoving the men he’d called as they passed him, until there was a small group huddled together against the December chill. ‘Stay put’, he yelled, his smirk cruel as he dismissed the remaining prisoners back to their cells. ‘You lot’ll be moved to a holding bay,’ he sneered, turning to another guard. ‘Smithers…see to it. An’ don’t rush. It’ll be good preparation up here today for the weather they’ll be facing.’ He laughed out loud as he disappeared into the dark corridor of the prison.
‘Holding bay? Holding for what? What weather’s he talking about?’ The men muttered to each other.
‘My guess is we’re to be taken south…to the Thames. And then I think it’s a sea trip ahead of us.’
‘How do you know that, Douglass?’ James Price shivered violently as he spoke, as much from fear as cold.
‘The same way ’e knows everythin’ else, stupid.’ Robert Bales pushed at the small man in front of him, all but causing him to topple over.
‘Let’s not make enemies of each other, men,’ William cautioned. ‘We’ve a long journey ahead…and a challenge before us. We’ll more likely survive it if we pull together.’
The men eyed each other suspiciously but fell behind William and shuffled after the guard who led them away.
A week passed before William was able to speak to Corby. ‘Did you find out about the women?’
‘I did…and you can rest easy. She’s on the list. There’s no woman they’d rather be rid of.’
William’s shoulders relaxed with relief. He looked about him. The men in the holding cell were a motley lot, trouble makers for the most part, having aggravated the guards by persistently fighting amongst themselves and stealing food from less able prisoners. John Rogers was the only one who’d been with William on the streets. He’d been a faithful friend, who’d relied more than once on William to stand up for him against a bully, both outside and inside the prison.
The prisoners were all thin and emaciated, weak from years of immobility and poor food. William's appearance differed from the others: his shoulders were broad and his muscles were lean. In the eyes of the other prisoners, William was a tough man who could handle himself in a brawl, though he always avoided this if he could. In the eyes of the guards, his one crime was his insistence on better conditions and fair treatment of the prisoners. William knew he had been a thorn in their sides, and consequently felt he was being punished for it with transportation to the other side of the world. But now that he knew Mary Groves would be there too he was glad he’d been included. It was an odd thought, he mused, for he’d heard many a story of deaths at sea during the transportations to America. Scurvy, fever, murders, floggings; there were any number of enemies that might take their lives before they reached their destination. But if they made it across the seas who knew what might be waiting them? It couldn’t be worse than here, surely? William was thirty-two years old. If he was to have any life beyond these prison walls, it might as well be on the other side of the world.
‘We’ll never see England again, will we?’ John whispered, his face grim.
‘Likely not, John, but, tell me, what will you miss?’
***
It was still dark when the shouting began in the hallway outside the holding cell six weeks later. The sound of batons being run up and down the bars and the flickering light of the guards’ lanterns startled William from his sleep. He resisted wakefulness at first. To be awake was to feel the tight twisting of his stomach, to realise that the sores on his legs were still itching and oozing. But he couldn’t resist it for long as his cell door was flung open and he was roughly pulled from his straw cot.
‘Get up, ya filthy scum. Who do ya think ya are, the King of England?’
William cringed with the pain of the baton as it came down brutally on his shoulders.
‘Get up an’ look lively. Today’s ya lucky day.’ The guard guffawed loudly. ‘You get to go abroad.’
The roused prisoners were herded to the gates of the prison and loaded into two large carts; men in one, women in the other. William was ready for it. He was tired of the waiting, weary of the fearfulness of some of the other men, who could only imagine drowning at sea or being eaten alive by wild animals in an unknown country. Men, who suddenly found every good thing to say about their hometowns; places in which they’d been shown nothing but contempt or where they’d spent their youths in rowdy, drunken living, and would not be welcome back even if set free. No, he decided, it was better to think of this unexpected turn of events as an adventure, an opportunity for something better.
The air was still crisply cold and there was drizzling rain all morning, but by the middle of the day there were signs of sunshine. They might even be able to enjoy the sight of green hills as they drove south, William thought, and it warmed his heart. Guards rode up front and stood on the board behind, guns held aloft, a ready warning to any prisoner who thought about escape, though that seemed unlikely seeing as they’d all been fitted with leg chains. Twice now they’d been ordered out of the carts to help push it through bogged parts of the road. The iron clamps on their legs rubbed cruelly as they struggled to keep their balance. It would be a mad man who’d think he could get away.
William had noticed that the women had their hands chained together in front of them. As they were shoved back on the cart after the last bog hole, he heard a screech.
‘Touch me again, an’ I’ll be usin’ yer eyeballs fer marbles!’
He knew it was her. He strained to see the faces of the women in the cart behind as it bounced and dragged across the rough ground. The tone of her voice was deeper but the same boldness was clear. He cringed as he saw a guard lash out with his baton, beating into the back of a woman trying to scramble on to the cart. There was no crying out in pain, just a torrent of cursing that further convinced William that it was Mary Groves he’d heard. It seemed there were some things she still hadn’t learned. She’d never been content to keep her head down. She always had to have the last word; a scathing retort which outraged those chasing or chastising.
So many years ago, he thought, but now it seemed likely that he might soon come face to face with her again and the thought both pleased and intrigued him.
They’d have six or seven more days in the carts before they reached Portsmouth, where they were to be held on hulks till the fleet was ready to sail. He’d heard it said they’d be put to work for the next few months, helping to ready the boats. No doubt the men and women would be kept apart, likely shipped separately, but surely eventually their paths might cross. Some of the men were already counting down the time till they’d be able to return to England but William had no such thought. He was being transported for seven years. And that on top of the eleven years he’d already served in prison. It was a long punishment for picking pockets, for surviving the best he could and trying not to hurt anyone in the process. He’d not been like some, who would slit a man’s throat to secure a loaf of bread or a few oranges from the stalls. No, he owed Britain nothing. He had no inclination to pine for his return.
/> The place they were headed was untouched, he’d heard, needing strong backs and willing workers to build it from the ground up. The idea pleased him, gave him hope. If it worked out, he’d be keen to stay on. And, if Mary could keep her head, he believed it might be just what she needed to bring out the best in her as well. Would she recognise him? Would she care that he was still concerned for her? He could never really understand why she touched his heart all those years ago, why he’d made the effort to try and keep track of her throughout their prison years. It could hardly be said she was more vulnerable than others. In fact she was far more able to take care of herself than many, as reckless as she’d often been. Perhaps it was that he saw more potential in her. Such a fighting spirit. If anyone was going to survive this journey and make the most of the opportunity, it was Mary Groves.
Chapter Two
Portsmouth, England, March, 1787.
On their arrival in Portsmouth William was assigned to the Alexander. The ship’s master ordered the convicts onto the deck where they were inspected by the surgeon, doused to rid their hair of lice, washed down, and given clothes considered necessary for a year.
‘Two jackets, four sets of woollen drawers,’ the officer drawled, piling clothes onto William’s outstretched arms. ‘One hat, three shirts, four pairs of worsted stockings, three frocks, three trousers, three pair of shoes.’ He made a mark beside William’s name in the ledger and tipped his head, indicating that William should move on. ‘Store these at the head of your bunks. And guard them well. There’ll be no more.’
William nodded, hiding a grin. He had no allusions there would be less fights over their meagre belongings than he’d always had, but at least now they were starting out with a few new things. How he would keep them from the greedy hands of others was a challenge yet to be faced.
That night, when they were led below decks, assigned in fours to small cells and chained together, he realised it was going to be a struggle just to lie down all at once, let alone worry that his bundle of clothes was secure. The first few nights he barely slept but, as each morning broke and they were roused and set to work, he began to feel the tiredness that would ensure a reasonable night’s sleep regardless of the cramped conditions.
‘Are we to paint, mend and scrub the whole of this tub before we set sail?’ James Freeman whined after a month of long working days. He threw down his brush, leaving a large swath of paint across the deck.
‘Best she’s in good condition, I say,’ William grinned. ‘She has a long journey ahead and if I’m in the hull I’d rather she be seaworthy, wouldn’t you?’
James sighed heavily and took up his brush. ‘I’m exhausted every night with all this. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. And then I can’t sleep for the screaming in my muscles. I’m used to paper work, I am, not this kind of lackey work.’
‘If you had a job doing paper work, James, or any other kind of job, then you might have avoided this altogether.’ William tried not to sound judgmental.
‘Yeah, well, there’s always the temptation to have a little more, isn’t there?’ James’ face twisted into a sly sneer.
‘And now you have a little more than you expected, eh?’
‘A lot more…and a lot different…and I’m not sure I can survive it.’
‘Set your mind to it, James. You’d be surprised what you can survive.’
As the weeks wore on and the men adjusted to a physical regime most of them had never known, they began to feel better for it; stronger, fitter, less inclined to bicker with each other over minor differences, more ready for sleep at night and better prepared to rise each morning and get on deck, breathing deeply the fresher air, letting the sun’s rays warm and tan their flesh.
***
Captain Arthur Phillip’s arrival in Portsmouth in May was the signal that the time had come for the fleet to set sail; six transport vessels, three store ships and two men-o-wars, carrying around five hundred and fifty officers, mariners, their wives and children, the ships’ crews, and seven hundred and fifty convicts. There was an enthusiastic, almost cheerful mood on board the ships as they slowly headed towards the ocean.
But the harsh reality of what was ahead hit the prisoners once they were at sea. Though they were still taken on deck regularly for exercise, they spent much more time in their cramped cells and the rolling motion of the ships soon began to sort out those who would not do well on the long sea voyage. Many spent much of the first leg moaning, vomiting and rolling about, much to the disgust and discomfort of those who were chained to them. When they arrived in the Canary Islands, three weeks after their departure,some were already praying for a quick death.
‘Are we there, then?’ Peter Bond knew what he was asking was nonsense, but it was the only thought that enabled him to believe he might yet live through this nightmare.
‘Sorry, lad.’ William shook his head. ‘It’s some island off Africa, to get fresh supplies. You need to try and keep down some vegetables or you’ll be even sicker.’ He encouraged the younger man to his feet as they were led onto the decks. ‘Come on, some fresh air will do you good.’
‘If I’d known this would be the end of stealing those bits an’ pieces, I’d ’ave let me family freeze. They probably will anyhow.’ Peter struggled up the rough plank stairs, his face blanched and drawn.
‘Take heart, son. You’re only twenty. You’ll likely survive this and get home to take care of your family.’ William wasn’t as hopeful as he sounded but in his mind it was far too early for young men to be giving up.
The prisoners were allowed to spend much of that week on deck, exercising their limbs, which were missing the daily round of physical activity they’d become used to in Portsmouth. When the fleet set sail again, the break from the rolling seas had heartened some and convinced others that any fate would be preferable to spending the next seven or eight months of their miserable lives on board the ships. The moaning and whining from the cells increased night after night, the mood became more and more bleak. Men snapped at each other and snarled their hatred for their mother country. Eight more weeks passed before the ships dropped anchor at Rio de Janeiro off the coast of South America.
‘There’s been an attempted mutiny on the Scarborough.’ William's face was grave.
‘How do you know that?’ John Roger’s eyes flew open. He was hanging over the deck, watching birds soaring freely through the air.
‘One of the officers told me. Stupid fools tried to take the first officer of the ship prisoner. Beats me how they thought they’d gain control of the vessel. Or what they planned to do with it if they did. They were easily overpowered by the guards, and then lashed as an example to any others foolish enough to try such a thing.’
‘I can’t imagine having the gall.’ John shook his head.
‘Stupidity is what it is, lad, and I pray no one on this ship even thinks of attempting such a thing, or we’ll all be paying the price.’
‘Perhaps it’s the scurvy, Will,’ John sighed. ‘Half of us are out of our minds with the sickness. We’ve got bleeding gums and look at this.’ He pulled at the skin on his arm. ‘All but dead, it is.’
‘I know, but I hear they’ll get some more vegetables from this place. That’ll help some, eh?’
‘Will it help with the dysentery as well? I’m not sure I can go back down in that hull. The smell’s enough to kill a man off.’
‘Just breathe in plenty of this fresh air while you can.’ William patted the younger man on the shoulder, himself not wanting to think about the stench below. ‘We must keep our spirits up, John. It’s what’ll get us through.’
***
A month later, with sails repaired and seeds and plants collected to be grown in the new colony, the ships were made ready to leave port again. The prisoners, however, were not so well prepared. William worried about the rising tension amongst them. Frustrated with their conditions; suffering physically; and fearful about resuming the endless rolling and rocking of the vessel, the
y began to turn on each other.
‘Hey, darkie.’ James Freeman shoved the last of his gruel-soaked bread into his mouth. ‘You can do with less of that slop, can’t you?’ He pushed his face into the bars of his cell and sneered at the black skinned man in the adjacent cell. ‘You could take a piece of the boy beside you, couldn’t you? Isn’t that what you Africans do? Eat each other?’
Silas Jordan stopped eating and looked around, the whites of his eyes expanding, the blackness of his skin appearing to turn purple. His expression was thunderous and William, watching from his own cell, wondered if they’d get through the day without blood being shed. He had himself been quite surprised to see the mixture of people chosen for this first fleet to the new colony. There were many men sentenced in England but born in Europe, America, Canada, Africa or Egypt. There were men with the whitest of skin through to those who were black as night. Until now they’d had some sense of their common plight and ignored the differences in their background but now they were beginning to use anything to pick a fight. And, somehow, it didn’t surprise William that James Freeman was one to hold prejudice. He’d made it clear from the start that he thought himself a cut above most other prisoners.
The young boy beside Silas looked about anxiously and moved a few inches towards the other side of the cell, though he could hardly have considered himself a likely meal. He was all but skin and bones.
The dark man spun towards him, his face full of accusation. ‘You ‘fraid I’ll eat you, boy?’ he boomed. ‘You takin’ notice of this pig across the way?’
‘Nnno,’ the boy stuttered. ‘Just trying to make room.’ His lip trembled as he readjusted his position, fearful of giving offence.
A little further down the line of cells William could hear another ruckus begin when one prisoner accused another of swapping their shirts about.
‘You took mine, didn’t you?’ came a bellow. ‘I marked it on the collar. See? This mark here.’ There was scuffling and groaning and William had no doubt that fists were flying.
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