Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  Reeling from the blow, Pat felt around and realised that he was lying next to an inert human body. He checked to see if it was still alive and then shouted out again for the watchman, who suddenly dashed into the alley, breathless, with his lantern swinging on the end of his pole. Alerted by the shouts, he had run from one of the neighbouring streets. The light from his lantern soon revealed Pat, leaning over the blood-soaked body of George Higgins.

  Pat was without question the prime suspect and was arrested and taken to the bridewell, to await trial. He could not take in what was happening to him. He had merely intervened through goodwill and now he was being put on trial for murder. The case brought lots of public interest, and when it came to the trial the crowds gathered outside the court, hoping for the fatal verdict which would lead to the scaffold. George Higgins had been a well respected member of the community and the public wanted Pat strung up. Without legal representation, he stood no chance. There was so much evidence apparently pointing to his guilt, that he despaired of any lawyer getting him off the hook.

  The courtroom at the Liverpool Crown was in a bustle, while the jury withdrew to consider their verdict. The excited crowd that filled the public gallery was having its own little jury session.

  ‘D’ye think ‘e did it? I do.’

  ‘’ow long d’ye think they’ll be out?’

  ‘Could be hours yet.’

  ‘Nah! It’s obvious ‘e’s guilty.’

  ‘’e’s a cold-blooded murderer, if ye ask me. Give ‘im the noose, I say.’

  Sarah sat, a solitary figure in the public gallery, with two- year-old Sam on her lap, Pat’s only support. She surveyed the crowd, listening to their murmurs, accusations and ignorant opinions. She wanted to stand up and scream out how wrong they all were, her frustration and anguish ready to erupt. All this, while her child innocently played, becoming bored with only a string of cord attached to his mother’s dress to entertain himself with, and oblivious to the fact that his father was probably about to be sentenced to death by hanging. There was no doubt in Sarah’s mind that her husband could not have committed such a crime, but the circumstantial evidence was stacked against him. With no witnesses, his own clothes had betrayed him, covered as they were with the victim’s blood. The public were usually keen to send a man to the gallows; they enjoyed nothing more than a good hanging.

  The punishment for murder was hanging, without question and the public couldn’t wait to secure the conviction. But the courts recently were beginning to show more leniencies in cases such as Pats, taking into account the circumstances surrounding the crime. Transportation had become the other option for those fortunate enough to escape the gallows. These decisions only denied the common folk a spectacle to which they looked forward to; an open theatre in which the lead actors were strung up – innocent or guilty, it didn’t much matter to most.

  The Solicitor General seemed, with some success, to have tied and knotted a nice little noose, with all the evidence he could muster. It took approximately fifteen minutes for the jury to return and the accused was brought back into the dock. Pat’s hands gripped the wooden rail of the dock enclosure, his knuckles white, his face taut, like so many before him that had been put to the scaffold, many, like him, innocent of any crime. Pat had only managed to swing a few opinions to his side, though he had defended himself very well, for a man of few words. His life was on the line and only words could save him, so his effort was exceptional. The circumstantial evidence may well have been against him, but the lack of a motive was the strongest point in his favour.

  Turning his head slightly to his wife in the gallery, his face broke into a little smile, which immediately reassured her that he loved her, but his face was pale and drawn, and he could not hide the fact that he was terrified that his life was about to be snuffed out. Even if not, he might never see her or Sam in the free world again. Little Sam, still sitting on his mother’s knee, had noticed that his father had returned to the little box, and was excitedly pointing over to him.

  ‘Daddy!’ he cried, as he waved to him, turning heads in the court.

  Sarah gently took his arms and placed them back down by his side, whispering for him to be quiet, and settling him back in her lap. Judge Kilgrum solemnly made his entrance and took up his seat. The court was silenced as he turned to the jury.

  ‘How say you, gentlemen?’ He asked, as his sagging chin echoed the movement of his mouth.

  The people of the court awaited the outcome in silent suspense; each second seeming like minutes. Pat drew in a deep breath, in an attempt to stop his body from trembling. The plump gentleman from the corner of the jury box stood up and stated in a loud and confident voice.

  ‘Guilty, my lord!’ The words bounced off the courtroom walls as the chief juror resumed his seat, followed by a communal intake of breath from the public gallery.

  Pat’s head sank to his chest as he heard his conviction. He had strived so hard to make a good life for himself and his family and now it was all about to collapse. His body shook and his heart pounded against the walls of his ribcage, as if about to burst through his chest. He could hardly bear the weight of his legs, their strength had deserted him. He was about to die and he could not comprehend the feeling that had overcome him. He had stared death in the face on the battlefields of Europe and faced his father’s severe beatings as a child, but this was it … the end.

  The verdict hit him particularly hard because his heart had softened over time with contentment. Since being with Sarah, and having Sam, there was no longer any need for him to keep up his guard, or feel threatened in any way. He had never been happier and was devoted to his little family. Why did it all have to be snatched away from him now? And like this. The injustice of it all was utterly crushing.

  Sarah’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach as she watched Pat’s reaction, but she fought back her tears while the court buzzed all around them, in contrast to their suffering. She could not bear the thought of life without him. Deprived of a husband, what would she do? She had to keep herself together for Sam’s sake, but the verdict had shaken her to the core. She had composed herself so well during the court hearing, but now she had to fight hard to keep that composure. She could not help but notice the enthusiasm on many a face, delighted by the thought of this man’s shortcomings and the price he was about to pay; the man she loved so dearly, the father of her son. She burned with bitter frustration – they didn’t even know him, so how could they be so keen to condemn him? These thoughts spun round in her head spooling bitter resentment for those she looked upon, growing to include the whole of the court, then widening to the whole community.

  ‘Silence in court!’ Bellowed Judge Kilgrum, bringing Sarah back to her senses with a jolt. The rest of the court fell silent, quelled by his mighty authority. ‘Now, after careful consideration, I have decided to spare Patrick Roche the death sentence,’ he announced sternly.

  The court immediately erupted, their blood lust thwarted by the judge’s leniency. By some miracle, Pat had managed to convince the judge with his heartfelt speech, not to be put to the scaffold. The public’s opinion was now of no consequence – he had been saved by his own words. But for the court there was no satisfaction, he had been found guilty by the jury, so he should be strung up. Pat raised his head in disbelief and felt his eyes well up as he looked over at Sarah, who was elated that he had been spared the death sentence. But it was not over yet. Although he had been spared the ultimate penalty, he still did not know what his sentence would be.

  ‘Silence in court! I will not suffer insolence in my court,’ roared Judge Kilgrum, scanning the court for anyone with an open mouth. All heads turned back towards him in submission to his overpowering presence. ‘Mr Roche, I have taken your military history into account, and with some interest, I may say. I cannot help but wonder how you got yourself into such a position to commit this heinous crime, as it does not appear to be in your character. Nonetheless, you have been found guilty of murder and
must be punished. Your letter of commendation for bravery, from the Duke of Wellington himself, has, in fact, been your saviour from the noose. You assisted in saving your commanding officer’s life, and many of your colleagues’ lives with your gallantry, putting your own life at risk in order to protect them. Therefore, I have decided on a more lenient punishment. That punishment is to be banishment from the realm.’

  The judge’s words filled Pat with disappointment and dread. He now knew for certain that he would never see Sarah or Sam again and the judge’s voice, echoing around the fine oak-panelled courtroom, seemed to get further away and take on an unreal quality.

  ‘You will be taken from this courtroom and sent to Kirkdale prison. There you will await the next available vessel for departure to take you to the shores of Van Dieman’s Land, to begin a life of hard labour, for the term of your natural life.’

  His words rang out through Pat’s ears.

  ‘Take the prisoner away,’ were Judge Kilgrum’s final words to him. Privately, he believed Pat to be a victim of circumstance and passed the sentence regrettably.

  Pat cried out to Sarah.

  ‘Come and see me at Kirkdale!’ and she gave a nod of acknowledgement, before he was hurried down the steps into the bowels of the court.

  Sarah could no longer hold back the tears, relieved that he was spared but devastated by the thought that she might never see him again. But she now had more urgent things to deal with. The frustrated spectators had turned their disappointed rage on to her and she had to get out before they could make a mockery of her, so she jostled her way out of the building as quickly and inconspicuously as she could. She received many a contemptuous look and cruel jibe, and some even spat at her as she tried to break free from the angry crowd.

  Once outside the court, she briskly made her way home with her head bent. She wanted to hide away and would only feel safe once she was inside the walls of her own house. But there was no longer anywhere to hide for Sarah. She had no one, only Pat, her parents having both passed away and her neighbours had shut their doors to her. Once home, she sobbed uncontrollably the whole night long. How was she going to cope without her husband?

  CHAPTER 6

  A DESPERATE CARGO

  Pat and his new companions had decided that, in order to protect themselves, they must stick together, so they all agreed to watch each other’s backs. It was hard to trust anyone in their dire situation, life was so uncertain, but trust they did and this trust was to become the moulding of a solid friendship between them. Little Tommy Miller also found comfort in their friendship and often joined their company. The lively lad felt safe with them and became especially fond of Joe, the gentle giant.

  The rest of the inmates were also settling into their new surroundings, though some had banded together for purposes other than companionship. In the darkness, little groups had congregated in the prison section, their confidence bolstered as their eyes had become accustomed to the shadows. Some had formed alliances with the sole intention of terrorising their fellow inmates. With no women on board, apart from the odd officer’s wife, there was a great desire for sexual gratification, so the young, the weak, or the loners, would be singled out, victimised and raped. Their humiliation was compounded when tormented by their new nicknames – ‘Molly’ or ‘Betty’.

  Yet that was not the only threat that hung over them. Some would be bullied into swapping their clothing, because their persecutors’ clothes were torn or dirty, or did not fit properly. On some occasions, the victim would end up with just a shirt, or trousers, or even nothing at all, and then would be punished for having lost his clothes. It soon became a case of safety in numbers, as those in authority turned a blind eye.

  One such menace was Eddie Rawlins. He had already firmly stamped his authority down below, by forcibly removing six inmates from their berth, while no one seemed to argue about it. Claiming the superior berth for himself and his chosen pals, it was pure luxury in comparison to the others, with almost half of the scuttle hole uncovered, bringing in plenty of light and fresh air. Rawlins was as hard as they come and most of the inmates lived in fear of him and he thrived on it, deliberately tormenting those who feared him most.

  Rawlins was well over six feet tall and quite heavily built, with a face that looked like he had been smacked with his mother’s rolling pin half a dozen times at birth. His chief sidekick was his physical opposite: a wiry fellow who went by the name of ‘Harry the Cat’. Harry was a successful burglar, who had eluded capture for many years, but this time he had slipped up, for it was Harry who had run into Grimshaw’s lumber yard, after being caught red-handed crawling out of a window in broad daylight. In the event, he got poor Joe arrested as well, but Harry didn’t give a damn. As for Rawlins, he was just an out and out ruffian, who was rumoured to have murdered two prostitutes down the backstreets of Williamson Square, but he was never arrested or charged. He gained his reputation by wheeling and dealing in stolen goods, fighting and pimping, and getting people like Harry the Cat to carry out robberies and burgle houses and shops for him. He had his sticky fingers in every pie.

  Some of the younger convicts on board hung around him, either through fear, or because they looked up to him and wanted to be like him. The only gratification the rest of the inmates got from having to share their captivity with Rawlins, was the fact that the prison section was too small for him; the ceiling was only six and a half feet high and the beams reduced that to six feet. He was constantly banging his head on the beams and letting out a roar of irritation and pain. The beds were also too small, so he often slept on the floor of the berths, between the beds. Poor Joe had the same problem but he just slept with his legs bent and banged his head without much complaint.

  Tommy Miller seemed to be up every morning before the guards woke everyone else, and would wander around the murky area, mischievously waking fellows up and receiving mixed reactions.

  ‘Wake me again, an’ I’ll kill yer, yer little bastard!’ or, ‘Oh, it’s too early, Tommy. Come back later,’ whilst others didn’t seem to mind the early wake-up call. Of course, there were certain prisoners he did not dare go near, such as Rawlins. Like everyone else, Tommy was terrified of him and tried his best to steer well clear of him.

  There was another dubious character whom Tommy tried his best to avoid, as did most other people, for that matter. His name was Ronnie Church, but he was generally known as ‘Rat-faced Ronnie’, because not only did he have a shifty pointed little face like a rat, but he also acted like one, skulking about the place and creeping up on his fellow prisoners when they least expected it. He had a ghostly grey complexion, gaunt, with a long thin pointed nose that almost extended down to meet his rotting bucked teeth. Under his jet black shoulder-length receding hair, which was matted with grease, his shifty dark eyes darted about, missing nothing. Ronnie spent his days tucked away in corners, casting many a leer of silent contempt at those in his view, or he would sleep through the day and during the night prowl around the prison section unheard, sniffing around the bunks of the sleeping inmates.

  It was another evening and another fine meal at the captain’s table, headed by the man himself, Captain Hughes, with his good lady wife opposite. To the captain’s left sat Surgeon Gibson, with his wife opposite. These two ladies were the only ladies on board, joining with their husbands in taking up assignments in Van Dieman’s Land. They were to become free settlers in the new colonies, something they seemed to view with considerable unease, especially on a ship full of convicts. Next to Surgeon Gibson sat Lieutenant Flynn, who was enjoying the brandy a little too much, though nobody either noticed or cared. Second Lieutenant Adam Goldsmith sat opposite Flynn, and then there were the deck officers, 1st mate Abe Richardson and 2nd mate Isaac Taylor along with Father McBride, who appeared to be a little distracted and rather uncomfortable. The topic of conversation had turned to the condition of the prison quarters, which concerned the priest deeply. Having got to know some of the inmates by visiting their
living quarters, or talking to them during exercise periods, the stigma attached to them had dissolved on his part.

  ‘Captain, these men are human beings with feelings, and we cannot go on treating them like animals. Something must be done about the poor light and the lack of air; the poor wretches are half suffocated down there. Because of the cramped conditions some even have to sleep on the open floor. And the one hour exercise allowance is simply nowhere near adequate. It’s a wonder the poor fellows have not fallen ill,’ the priest complained bitterly.

  ‘Nonsense, Father,’ replied the captain, dismissively. ‘We abide by the King’s Regulations. I have checked over the paperwork myself ... and as for the ventilation, why, the main hatches are open from dawn till dusk, along with the scuttle holes, allowing ample fresh air to circulate.’

  ‘Most of the scuttle holes were blocked up when the berths were built,’ answered the priest, losing patience.

  The captain looked a little sheepish, knowing full well that he had not carried out a proper inspection down in the prison hold.

  ‘May I say, Father,’ interrupted Flynn, eyeing the priest condescendingly, ‘that your concerns are all well and good, but these men are prisoners of the Crown; convicted felons who have lost all their rights and privileges by breaking the law. This is not supposed to be a pleasure trip.’

  ‘These men still have the right to some dignity and self- respect. They should not be treated like wild animals,’ retorted the priest.

  Flynn downed the remaining brandy in his glass in one swift motion, then poured himself another and said in an obnoxious tone.

  ‘They should not act like wild animals then, should they, Father?’ The conversation was getting a little too heated for the ladies, so Mrs Hughes stood up and invited Mrs Gibson to join her up on deck for some fresh air. As the two ladies departed, there was a moment of tense silence which Surgeon Gibson broke.