On that morning, Hannah Stanley scratched another mark on the wooden beam above her head.
‘Now may I know how many?’ Porter asked.
‘One hundred and fifty eight days since we left the Thames,’ Hannah replied, eyeing her friend with good humour, ‘and you saw the Woolwich docks move.’
‘Ha-ha, big mouth, very funny.’ Porter tossed bright-eyed Rosie a wink. ‘One five eight, you say? That’s just about my damn age.’
Chapter 7
SYDNEY COVE
September 1810
The Canada dipped her bow into the easterly swell of the Pacific, rose on cue and effortlessly shed the blue water to the sides. Captain Ward, standing on the poop deck, arms resting on the balustrade, squinted ahead over the dipping bowsprit to the dark land mass to port. ‘Can you see it, Mr. Robinson,’ he asked, an edge to his voice.
‘Aye, I believe I do, Captain. To larboard, I see an entrance. According to our chart, sir, it should be Botany Bay.’
‘Give me the glass, if you please.’ The captain wiped the lens on his sleeve and refocused. ‘Yes, there’s no doubt. I can recognize that broken headland to the north. You know, Arthur Philip must have been disappointed having to move on when he thought he’d finally arrived in the new land.’ He closed the glass, and thoughtfully tapped it on his sleeve. ‘Mr. Robinson.’
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘We have a good three hours sailing before we come abreast of the entrance to Sydney Cove and, seeing it’s almost dark, we will stand out to sea and come in on the morn. Have the helmsman steer three points east of north for the next two hours and then we will anchor for the night.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Robinson moved to the wheel and peeped over the helmsman’s shoulder.
‘Steering three points east of north,’ the seaman acknowledged, swinging the wheel.
The First Officer glared.’ Wait for my order next time.’ He pursed his lips in irritation. ‘Maintain that course,’ he instructed unnecessarily.
‘Mr. Robinson, I’ll be in my cabin. Call me in one hour if you please.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Robinson watched as the tall, gaunt figure of the Captain disappeared from sight down the aft companionway. Now, the Canada was his for the next hour. He looked up into the rigging. Something was flapping. Lucky the Captain hadn’t seen it. ‘Hey, you,’ he shouted to the nearest seaman. ‘Secure the lower topsail brace.’ He pointed at the mizzen mast and the sailor skimmed up the starboard shrouds like a monkey. When Robinson was assured the problem had been corrected, he moved to the foredeck, stepping past the open main hatch.
Raised voices of the convicts could be heard, chattering amongst themselves. They would be eating their evening meal now, before turning in to sleep on their bare boards. Every day since they’d left England, he’d heard them. How many quiet evenings when the seas were calm had he leaned against the near capstan, puffing his pipe — the peaceful squeaking of the rigging setting a languid background — and enjoyed their singing. That redhead from Cork would sing those sad Irish folk songs and if he closed his eyes, he could be back in Bristol with Lily and the children. Sometimes on deck, he’d seen them play-acting. There were some talented amateur thespians among them. Often though, they were abusive, used shockingly obscene language and screams and vicious fights were almost daily occurrences. Hair-pulling was a popular method of settling an argument, too. At night, it was quieter — particularly if the singing started — just the odd argument, occasional sobbing and pleas for attention. Sometimes, he’d heard the old lags intervene with ‘Shut up, you sniveling whores’ then all would be silent.
Robinson leant on the rail under the billowing foresail and stared out to sea. Tomorrow, it would be all over, after one hundred and sixty nine long days and traversing three huge oceans. The Canada 2, that’s what they called the ship, Canada 2, the ship’s second voyage to Port Jackson. It was his second voyage too, but not on the Canada. He’d been here on the Speke in ‘08 as third officer. Now, he wanted, no, he deserved his own command, but it all depended on what Captain Ward put in his report. It could be good or then again, who knew what he would say? Robinson reached into his pocket for his clay pipe. He’d have time for a good draw before he called the Captain.
Hannah Porter reached across and dropped two hard biscuits on Hannah Stanley’s lap. ‘There, sweetie, eat up. You’ve got to feed the young ‘un.’
Hannah sat up, eager and surprised, grasping at the prize. ‘Where did you get them?’ She looked with fondness at the pale, gaunt face of her dear friend and searched the tired, dark eyes for an explanation.
Hannah Porter shrugged. She ran a thin, wiry arm through short-cropped sandy hair. ‘Don’t ask, Stanley. You don’t want to know.’ She rolled over on her wooden bunk and put her head on Hannah’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got a bag full left,’ she whispered, ‘under the head roll. Shush, don’t talk. Let’s just eat ‘em quick. There are too many ears listening and eyes watching around here for my liking.’
Hannah Stanley nodded. As she chewed, she felt the baby kick, a solid movement like a boy would do. John Dixon’s child was restless.
The Canada pulled up anchor in the early morn, and with the aid of a moderate south-east breeze nudged her way, under a minimum of canvas, westward to their long-awaited destination, the town of Sydney in this new south land. Grouped about the helm, the Captain and his officers watched with interest and anticipation as the sheer cliffs abutting the narrow entrance loomed ahead. The Captain, glass to eye, gave a satisfied ‘humph’ which gained the officer’s attention.
‘Well, they know we’re coming.’ He gave a chuckle and lowered the glass. ‘I saw the flag being raised on South Head. Here, take a look.’
Gordon Robinson took the glass and focused on the fluttering Union Jack. ‘Aye, sir,’ he said, passing the glass to John Hendry. ‘The tide’s running out,’ he added.
‘That’s good,’ John Hendry stated, passing the glass to Sydney Fife in turn and eyeing the First Officer. ‘It’ll mean we can butt up to a wharf without having to use tenders.’
‘The Canada won’t be tying up to the Governor’s wharf for at least the first couple of days, Mr. Hendry,’ Captain Ward stressed, giving his Second Officer an irritated glance. ‘We’ll be standing off awaiting clearance by the Chief Colonial Surgeon and then Governor Macquarie himself could be coming on board with his aide. Only then will we get the convicts off who are allocated for hospital attention. How many are there, by the way, Fife?’
‘The surgeon says four, sir.’ Fife passed the glass in turn to midshipman Bartholomew Stubbins. ‘Two of them are real poorly, sir. I had to drug that demented woman Mary Dawson who slashed her wrists and the one you remember I told you about is now coughing up blood .’
‘Umm, I would say consumption, for sure.’ Captain Ward turned back to view the approaching heads. ‘Let’s concentrate now, gentlemen, as we enter these heads.’ He gave his officers a slow appraisal and a sardonic smile. ‘I’m pleased to see you all dressed appropriately. Oh, and by the way, my thanks for doing your duty on the voyage out. Well done.’
At mid morn, the Canada eased through the moderate chop into the harbor. To their immediate left the battery of guns caught the attention of officers and crew as they progressed further westward. On the ridge behind the guns, they could see two large buildings which Gordon Robinson recognized as the soldier’s barracks and the hospital. Closer to the shoreline, the imposing Governor’s House — with the large garden at its front — flew the fluttering country’s flag on its pole. On the skyline, windmills and a church spire stood out but Robinson caught his breath at the splendid sight of hundreds of small white cottages interspersed with larger ones that looked like inns or government buildings. Further west, he could see more houses, another church spire and tower and Fort Dawes on the tip of land abutting the harbour. At the waterfront, he could see the large warehouses — vastly extended since 1808 — owned and run by Robert Campbell and then the busy-looking
government dockyards and a host of miscellaneous other stores and buildings nearby. He was about to comment to the captain how the place had mushroomed when a loud boom rented the peace of the morning.
‘It’s Fort Dawes saluting the Canada,’ exclaimed a pleased Captain Ward. ‘What a surprise. Mr. Robinson, send the acknowledgement pennant aloft. Hurry up, man.’
Robinson hustled to obey, racking his brain, as the guns continued their volley . . . boom, boom, boom . . . He didn’t know where the damn pennant was and swore in frustration until a smiling bosun appeared before him clutching the flag. ‘Thanks,’ he said, relieved. The pennant was quickly roped, raised and flew proudly at the top of the foremast. ‘I owe you one,’ he muttered to the bosun before retracing his footsteps back to the poop deck.
After the welcome from the guns, the Canada moved to a position opposite the Governor’s Wharf where the sails were furled and the anchor dropped. When the ship was safely held, the Captain called the officers to his cabin and the steward poured drinks. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, raising his pewter. ‘I ask that you join me in a toast to His Majesty.’
‘And,’ Captain Ward smiled, as the officers sampled the fine blended whisky. ‘I ask that you drink to the Canada and the fine men who sail in her.’
‘To the Canada,’ the officers chorused and drank.
‘To absent friends,’ Robinson, eyes misty, raised his glass and the company responded in turn. As the toasts continued, his thoughts moved elsewhere to the little village of Stretford, out of Bristol, where a brown-haired, blue-eyed young woman named Lily waited with two growing children for the return of her seafarer husband . . .
The Canada lay off the wharf for two days while the crew prepared the ship for inspection by the Surgeon General. The convicts cleaned and fumigated their wooden bunks and bed clothing under the close scrutiny and instructions of the ship’s officers. Afterwards, they were called on deck to wash and be issued with fresh clothes, white bonnet, chemise, drawers — as big as the ship’s sails, Porter laughed — a thick, itchy calico smock and a pair of thick-soled shoes. The Captain ordered the portholes opened, which provided the excited women their first glimpse of Sydney Town.
The tang of vinegar hung in the air as the Surgeon General, Captain Ward, the surgeon and Third Officer Fife climbed down into the hold. The convicts, freshly washed and dressed, stood respectfully at the foot of their bunks, personal belongings laid out behind them and slop buckets nowhere in sight. Hannah shot a glance at the elegantly dressed surgeon as he passed. He said little, only an occasional undertone to the Captain before hurrying through the row of face-to-face convicts. Only at the sick bay far aft did he spend time to talk to the ill women and ask questions of the ship’s surgeon and Sydney Fife. When the officials finally departed, to the relief of the convicts, Hannah watched the sick women, including the shackled, mad woman, Mary Dawson, immediately removed from the hold.
‘They’re taking the sick ones to the hospital ashore,’ Fife, noting her raised eyebrows, muttered to Hannah as he passed.
‘What will happen to Mary Dawson, Mr. Fife?’ She asked.
‘Who knows, Stanley?’ He whispered. ‘It would be the insane asylum, if they’ve got one.’ He hurried to catch up with the Captain who was already climbing the ladder.
‘All very well for the sick ones,’ Porter exclaimed, frustration showing, ‘but when do we ever get off this coffin?’
‘Tomorrow, John told me last night. He’d called me from the hatch. Now don’t get .too worried, but there will be a selection tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean? What is this selection?’ Rosie’s face paled, her thin fingers twisting the fabric of her dress in obvious distress.
‘It means some fella is going to claim you,’ Porter said, tartly, ‘for better or worse.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Rosie said, confused. ‘I . . . I thought we’d all be together, us three, working at the same place. Oh, God, no, surely we won’t be separated.’ She shook her head in despair, eyes teary. ‘What’s going to become of us all? Oh, Hannah—’
‘Look, it may not be so bad, Rosie.’ Hannah put an arm around her. ‘You’ll probably go to a nice family and remember it’s not forever.’
‘But Bart never told me anything about this selection business.’ Rosie sniffed. ‘Oh, God, I hate this rotten Sydney place already and—’
‘We haven’t even landed yet,’ Porter finished for her with a wry smile.
The three women became silent, each occupied with their own thoughts, hopes and apprehensions. Hannah tossed and turned as she lay on their freshly washed bunk. It smelled of carbolic soap and vinegar. Beside her, the other two slept soundly, Rosie, with her hands clasped together as if in prayer and her lovely sensual mouth open, as usual. The sounds of the convicts coughing, moving about and using the slop pots and buckets seemed unnaturally loud on this last night on the ship as Hannah Stanley lay, sleep eluding her. Before she fell into an uneasy doze in the early hours of the morning, her thoughts kept returning to Rosie O’Donoghue. What would become of her? Would she be claimed by some lecherous, good-for-nothing scoundrel who would use her as nothing more than a target for his basic animal instincts? It would kill her. Of that she was sure, particularly after Bart. Porter would be okay. She was a survivor, although her mouth would continue to get her into trouble. As for herself, John had told her she was going to the women’s prison called the Female Factory in a place called Parramatta. It’s because you’re with child, he told her but emphasized that he would help her in every way he could, while he could. She’d accepted that, placing no real demands on him. As for marriage, she did not want to marry him although she didn’t tell him that. He’d been good to her and she would always remember his kindness and his protection. She shuddered to think what life on the Canada would have been without him. Her very last thought before her eyes eventually closed for her last sleep on the convict ship was wondering where she, Porter and Rosie would be sleeping tomorrow night.
In the morning, three days after entering Sydney Cove, the Canada berthed officially at the Governor’s Wharf and began unloading stores. Clustered around the portholes, the convicts watched with amazement the hustle and bustle on the wharf, the coming and going of open drays carrying goods, the gathering of elegantly dressed men and women and up on the hill a sight that chilled Hannah to the bone... a chain gang of convicts, heavily shackled, heads down, trudging after each other in single file.
‘Is there anyone here from Manchester?’ She heard someone shout and an answer from a convict further aft. ‘Aye, I’m from Manchester.’ That started a barrage of questions and frantic questioning.
‘Sir.’ The First Officer, Gordon Robinson, climbed back on the ship for the fourth time in as many minutes. Huffing and puffing and swearing under his breath, he approached Captain Ward, leaning on the poop rail. ‘Captain Garrett’s compliments, sir—’
Ward frowned. ‘Who’s this Captain Garrett when he’s at home?’
‘Ah . . .he is from the New South Wales Corps, sir.’
‘And what precisely does he want with us, Mr. Robinson?’
‘Sir, he wants to know when he could start the selection process.’
‘Does he? Well, Mr. Robinson, kindly advise this Army Captain that I don’t know and further more I don’t care about his damn selection.’ The Captain pursed his lips. ‘One things for sure, though, it won’t, I repeat won’t, be held on my ship. You can tell him that. You can also tell this fellow that the convicts will shortly be disembarked and then it’s no longer my responsibility. Then it’s up to the government clerks to administer, who I see are setting up their tables now. Do you see, Mr. Robinson? Look over there. Let them know, too, if you will. Between you and me . . . The Captain leaned down over the poop rail to better eye his subordinate and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t agree with this degrading business. It’s a disgrace.’ He sniffed. ‘I was under the impression Macquarie was going to stop it. It seems not. Anyway, mister,’ he w
aved his hand in dismissal. ‘Go and tell them.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Robinson hurried to the head of the gangway where the boatswain’s mate, John Dixon, stood supervising the coming and going of people. ‘You’re a busy man, First Officer,’ he commented, with a wry grin and Robinson shook his head in irritation and scurried past.
The convicts clustered on deck, their possessions tied up in neat bundles, and awaited the order to disembark from the vessel that had been their home for one hundred and seventy four days. Hannah and John Dixon stood together, arms resting on the port rail, elbows touching, looking ahead as they had done so often on the long trip from England. Dixon turned to view his lover and touched her tenderly on the cheek. ‘I’ll miss you, dear Hannah.’ He paused to gather his thoughts, his excuse. ‘I’m sorry that I won’t be here when the child is born. I believe I have to go back to England with the ship. I have no real choice but I do want you to take this. It’s not much but . . .’ His voice faded as he passed her a small, worn purse. ‘There are three guineas in there, Hannah. I only wish it was more,’ he added.
Hannah took the purse and placed it in the pocket of her smock. She turned to him, tears welling and gave him a hug. ‘I didn’t expect anything but thank you, John. Thank you for everything really.’
‘Tell me, what will you call our child? ’ He gazed intently into her eyes. ‘I have to know, to remember.’
‘If it’s a girl Charlotte and Jeremy if it’s a boy. I hope you like those names.
‘I do. Thank you.’ John heard his name called and looked up at the poop. The First Officer was beckoning. ‘I have to go, dearest. God bless and take care.’ He kissed her on the lips and held her, bodies rocking together for a few moments, before releasing her and walking away.
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