A Spitfire Pilot's Story: Pat Hughes: Battle of Britain Top Gun

by Dennis Newton

  An article appearing in The Times of 30 March 1787, before the First Fleet was due to sail from Portsmouth, recorded:

  The transportation to Botany-bay has the advantage of the former mode of transportation to America, in securing the kingdom from the dread of being again infested with these pernicious members of society. From the mortality which has already taken place on board the transports, it is supposed not more than one in five will survive the voyage; and should the remainder live to the expiration of their sentence, they can never pay the expence of a passage home.

  Expectations at the time, therefore, were that the majority of those transported would survive the 15,000-mile voyage, with those that did manage to see out their sentences never affording the passage back to England.

  Mortality was an issue even before sailing. The government intended that the convicts should be embarked in good health. This was mostly the case, but on the Alexander many prisoners arrived from different gaols already suffering ‘malignant disorders’. Despite receiving fresh provisions, their confinement handcuffed together in the prison space below deck led to outbreaks of illness. By 15 April, eleven men on the Alexander had died. While lighters took off some of the prisoners temporarily, the ship was thoroughly cleaned, smoked, sponged with oil of tar, and white-washed. These measures proved only partially effective for, although the prisoners began to recover, there were five more deaths prior to sailing. The vessel was down to 195 convicts out of the 211 originally embarked. Meanwhile, one woman died of fever aboard the Lady Penrhyn.

  There were 101 remaining female prisoners aboard the Lady Penrhyn. One of them was Mary Carroll, a former dressmaker. Reportedly, she was born Mary Randall in 1752 but was married to a James Carroll at the time of her trial. She had specialised as a mantua maker – a mantua being a loose wedding dress or ball gown fixed open at the front to show an underskirt. It was a favoured garment worn in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Mary had been convicted at the Old Bailey on 25 October 1786 for stealing linen to the value of 15s. Like John Nichols, her sentence was transportation for seven years.

  The number of convicts embarked was reportedly 586 men and 192 women, but two men later received pardons and were returned to shore and freedom. This was further reduced by the deaths aboard the Alexander and the Lady Penrhyn, but the other transports sailed with their full complements of prisoners.

  Inconsistencies exist in the returns regarding prisoner numbers, but the most reliable evidence indicates that the six convict ships sailed with 568 male and 191 female convicts – an overall total of 759. At the anticipated survival rate of just 20 per cent, around 600 of them were expected to perish. In addition to the prisoners, the transports carried marine guards, some with their wives and children; there were other children belonging to the convicts, various officials, and of course the crews. The decks were cluttered with water casks, animal pens and caged birds. Stowed below decks were large quantities of stores and provisions. By modern standards, but not by those of the eighteenth century, they were woefully overcrowded.

  Many female criminals were difficult to control. On 19 April, five of the Lady Penrhyn’s prisoners were put in irons for prostitution and the ship’s second mate was dismissed. Similar trouble occurred aboard the Friendship and probably on the Prince of Wales. Despite rigorous efforts to prevent it, keeping the women and seamen apart proved to be impossible. Neither the Alexander nor the Scarborough had this problem because their convicts were all male.

  At last all seemed ready, although clothing for the women had not yet arrived despite Captain Phillip’s appeals. Phillip had spent most of this time in London attending to the countless details connected with the expedition. He joined HMS Sirius on 7 May, and on the 12th, when the escort frigate, HMS Hyaena, arrived, he made the signal to sail but there were delays until very early next morning. The eleven ships of the First Fleet departed on their historic voyage on Sunday 13 May 1787, with a fresh breeze from the south-east. With the fleet at sea, Captain Phillip ordered that the convicts could be unchained and allowed fresh air and exercise, except for those under punishment.

  A potentially dangerous surprise was not discovered until after sailing. The navy’s notoriously inefficient Ordnance Office had neglected to deliver the expedition’s small-arms ammunition! Naturally, except for those who needed to know, this was kept a closely guarded secret for fear that the prisoners might find out. If they knew they might mutiny.

  On 20 May, the fleet was some 200 miles west of the Scilly Isles, and Phillip gave orders for the Hyaena to return to Plymouth with his despatches. The weather was fine but such a high sea was running that Phillip, experienced seaman though he was, found it difficult to sit at the table. The swell delayed the Sirius sending a boat around to the transports to collect their returns relating to the prisoners, but eventually this was done. Phillip had just sealed his despatches when word reached him of trouble brewing aboard the Scarborough, the vessel carrying John Nichols.

  John Marshall, the Scarborough’s master, had reason to believe a serious plot existed among the convicts to seize his ship! An informer even named the ringleaders. Given the shortage of small-arms ammunition, and Phillip’s earlier direction that the irons of the convicts could be removed, the report had to be taken seriously. The alleged ringleaders were transferred to the Sirius where each was given twenty-four lashes and then sent heavily ironed aboard the Prince of Wales. Phillip wrote a hasty report of the incident before his despatches were finally placed aboard the Hyaena. Then, after exchanging three cheers with the First Fleet, Hyaena departed for Plymouth.

  Most of the prisoners suffered from acute seasickness during the early part of the voyage, but in general their health improved once at sea. For the time being, the majority were too dejected and lethargic to cause problems. Apart from the alleged near-mutiny aboard the Scarborough, they gave little trouble.

  By ten o’clock on the heavily clouded morning of 20 January 1788, the entire fleet lay at anchor in Botany Bay. Some vessels had arrived earlier over the previous couple of days, but it had been a gruelling expedition and an amazing voyage. The passage from Portsmouth had taken thirty-six weeks. Of the 212 marines, only one had been lost; and of the 759 convicts who had departed from England, only twenty-four had perished while at sea. Given the prior expectations for the voyage, this had to be judged an outstanding success and a remarkable achievement. The newspaper’s judgement of a 20 per cent survival rate was completely wrong. Altogether, from the time before departure when the convicts were loaded onto the transports, thirty-six men and four women had died. There had been eight other deaths – a marine, a marine’s wife, a marine’s child and five children belonging to convicts. The total number of deaths, therefore, was forty-eight – a long way short of 600.

  As for John Nichols and the others confined on the Scarborough, all of whom had been embarked in good health, Death had not visited them at all.

  One hundred and forty nine years later, John Nichols’ great-great-grandson, Pat Hughes, made the voyage in reverse. He departed from Sydney Harbour in January 1937. For him, the voyage was the start of the adventure of his life. It was a journey of his choosing, and it took just six weeks. There were no deaths – not on his passage to England anyway.

  John Nichols, Mary Carroll and the other convicts had not had a choice. They were forced to leave their homeland on a perilous journey, and on that January day in 1788 they had arrived at an unknown, perhaps hostile place. The voyage had started the adventure of their lives. Even more than before, it was a matter of survival.

  What was ahead of them now?

  Botany Bay was not suitable for a settlement. The terrain was too open to the elements and there seemed to be only a scanty supply of fresh water. As well, the soil was poor, not suitable for crops. Before attempting to carry out his instructions to establish a colony, Captain Phillip decided to search along the coast for a better site. He knew of an inlet to the north which James Cook had seen as the Endeavour
sailed along the coast in 1770. Cook had charted it merely as a boat harbour and named it Port Jackson. With a few officers and some marines Phillip set out in three open boats and proceeded northwards. They passed numerous precipitous rocky cliffs until, after having run about three leagues, they were abreast of some high sandstone cliffs at the northern extremity of which appeared to be a promising inlet. The entrance was flanked by two steep bluffs – the present day North Head and South Head.

  Phillip and his party had the satisfaction of finding what he called ‘the finest harbour in the world, in which a thousand sail of the line may ride in the most perfect security’. In his despatch to Lord Sydney, Phillip continued,

  The different coves were examined with all possible expedition. I fixed on the one that had the best spring of water and in which the ships can anchor so close to the shore that at a very small expence quays may be made at which the largest ships may unload.

  This cove, which I honoured with the name of Sydney, is about a quarter of a mile across at the entrance, and half a mile in length.

  He made the obvious decision – the fleet would transfer from Botany Bay to Sydney Cove.

  Arthur Phillip’s Secretary, David Collins recorded:

  Jan. 1788. The governor, with a party of marines, and some artificers selected from among the seamen of the Sirius and the convicts, arrived in Port Jackson and anchored off the mouth of the cove intended for the settlement on the evening of the 25th; and in the course of the following day sufficient ground was cleared for encamping the officer’s guard and the convicts who had been landed in the morning. The spot chosen for this purpose was at the head of the cove, near the run of freshwater, which stole silently along through a very thick wood, the stillness of which had then, for the first time since the creation, been interrupted by the rude sound of the labourer’s axe, and the downfall of its ancient inhabitants;—a stillness and tranquillity which from that day were to give place to the voice of labour, the confusion of camps and towns.5

  John Nichols may have been a member of the first work party to go ashore for clearing trees. It has also been suggested that he may have carried on his back the first Royal Marine officer to go ashore, but that is unlikely. The officer carried ashore was Lieutenant George Johnson, and the convict that carried him and almost dropped him in the shallows was James Ruse, another convict transported on the Scarborough.

  On 26 January 1788, when the Union Jack was raised to the masthead in the first clearing made at Sydney Cove to allow the unloading of the ships, there were two main causes for celebration. First, it marked at last the real ending to the long voyage from England, and secondly, half of this unknown continent was formally claimed for the British Empire. The ceremony was formal and simple. A detachment of marines fired three volleys and Phillip proposed a toast to the health of His Majesty and the royal family. Then there was another toast for the successful future of the new settlement.

  Much needed to be done. The Englishmen had a slender foothold on a vast unknown land. There were enough rations to tide them over for the first few months but beyond this there was no way of knowing whether or not they could scratch out even a subsistence existence. As well, the new arrivals were surrounded by a native people who gave no indication that they would help them through their first agonising years to extend and consolidate their precarious foothold. Rather, the possibility was they might hinder and endanger their efforts. Causing additional concern on top of all this was the unexpected appearance of French ships in Botany Bay as the British were in the process of leaving. Captain Lieutenant of Marines, Watkin Tench, described the ant-like activity at Sydney Cove:

  The landing of a section of the marines and convicts took place the next day, and on the following day the remainder were disembarked. Business now sat on every brow, and the scene, to an indifferent spectator, at leisure to contemplate it, would have been highly picturesque and amusing. One party was cutting down the woods; a second was setting up a blacksmith’s forge; a third was dragging a load of stores or provisions; here an officer was pitching his marquee, with a detachment of troops parading on one side of him, and a cook’s fire blazing up on the other. Through the unwearied diligence of those at the head of the different departments, regularity was, however, soon introduced, and, as far as the unsettled state of matters would allow, confusion gave place to system.

  Into the head of the cove, on which our establishment is fixed, runs a small stream of fresh water, which serves to divide the adjacent country to a little distance, in the direction of north and south. On the eastern side of this rivulet the Governor fixed his place of residence, with a large body of convicts encamped near him; and on the western side was disposed the remaining part of these people, near the marine encampment. From this last two guards, consisting of two subalterns, as many Serjeants, four corporals, two drummers, and forty-two private men, under the orders of a Captain of the day, to whom all reports were made, daily mounted for the public security, with such directions to use force, in case of necessity, as left no room for those who were the objects of the order, but to remain peaceable, or perish by the bayonet.6

  Among the many problems Captain Phillip had to face anew was the morality of the male and female convicts.

  Phillip was proclaimed Governor on 7 February 1788, to the acknowledgement of another ‘triple discharge of musquetry’. The new Governor thanked the soldiers and then turned to address the convicts. He promised that the full rigour of the law would certainly be applied against offenders and particularly drew attention to the illegal intercourse between the sexes as an offence which ‘encouraged a general profligacy of manners, and was in several ways injurious to society’. To prevent this, he strongly recommended marriage, and promised every kind of assistance to those who, ‘by entering into that state, should manifest their willingness to conform to the laws of morality and religion’. The new Governor’s speech obviously had some effect. During the ensuing week, the Chaplain of the Settlement, the Reverend Richard Johnson, was kept busy with some fourteen marriages among the convicts.

  Shortly after that, on 24 March 1788, Reverend Johnson also joined in matrimony Mary Carroll and John Nichols. John, who could not read or write, placed an ‘X’ on the register in lieu of his signature.

  *

  After nearly five years in the colony Watkin Tench was ready to go home, but before departing at the end of 1792 he had to carry out another survey. By now in his early thirties, Tench was more than just a military officer. Described as a cultivated and good-natured man and a person enthused by scientific curiosity, he rendered more than just reliable service in the fledgling settlement. He took part in a number of useful explorations into the bush, and kept journal records of his experiences which he had published in England. They came in the form of two books, namely A Narrative of the Expedition to Botany Bay, first published in 1789, and A Complete Account of the Settlement at Port Jackson, first published in 1793. Like many of his contemporaries, Tench was well aware he was part of history in the making. Indeed, his first book appeared in print before his return to England, the manuscript having been taken back by the first ship home from the voyage to Botany Bay. Suddenly, Port Jackson and Sydney Cove were in the news. Exciting accounts of the colony were splashed all over the press. Tench’s book went into three authorised editions within a year, plus another in Ireland. In the same year it was translated into French twice and into German and Dutch.

  Back at the ceremony of February 1788, when Arthur Phillip was proclaimed Governor of the new colony, Watkin Tench’s account added details as to what took place. Phillip made his first efforts at crop growing on nine acres of land adjoining what was therefore called ‘Farm Cove.’ They were a failure. So were his attempts to establish vegetable growing on Garden Island, a beautiful place in the harbour. The rocky ground around Sydney yielded little success.

  He turned his attention inland to an area that seemed to have potential. He named the place ‘Rose-hill’, after Sir Geor
ge Rose, a secretary to the Treasury. Later, in June 1791, he renamed the growing settlement ‘Parramatta’ after he found out the aboriginal name meaning either ‘head of the river’ or ‘the place where eels lie down’.

  By June 1789, the year following settlement, Rose Hill was a useful base from which to explore. On the 26th, Captain Tench, now in charge of the Rose Hill outpost:

  Accompanied by Mr. Arndell, assistant surgeon of the settlement, Mr. Lowes, surgeon’s mate of the Sirius, two marines, and a convict, I left the redoubt at day-break, pointing our march to a hill, distant five miles, in a westerly or inland direction, which commands a view of the great chain of mountains, called Carmarthen-hills, extending from north to south farther than the eye can reach … we found ourselves on the banks of a river, nearly as broad as the Thames at Putney, and apparently of great depth, the current running very slowly in a northerly direction. Vast flocks of wild ducks were swimming in the stream … Having remained out three days, we returned to our quarters at Rose-hill, with the pleasing intelligence of our discovery.

  When Tench reported his finds to the governor, Phillip named the new river the ‘Nepean’. The hill from where he saw the ‘Carmarthen-hills’ (later to be called the ‘Blue Mountains’) was given the name of ‘Tench’s Prospect Hill’; this title was later shortened to ‘Prospect Hill’ and later still to ‘Prospect’. Governor Phillip formed a farming settlement at Prospect Hill in 1791 by granting land to time-expired convicts.

  It was by the end of April that year that John Nichols finished serving the full term of his seven-year sentence. As a free man, he now had the choice of trying to return to the life he led back home by working his passage to England, or attempting to settle in the colony. The first emancipated convict to settle was James Ruse, a fellow transportee on the Scarborough with John.