Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  ‘Maybe we could look at giving them more exercise time, but I assure you, Father, that the prisoners are in good health.’

  ‘And I can assure you that they are not,’ said the priest, turning angrily to Flynn. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant Flynn, do you know how it feels to be desperate and hungry? And then, to top it all off, to be taken from your home and family and dumped at the ends of the earth?’

  ‘No, I don’t know how it feels, and I don’t intend to either. With respect, I think you are missing something out, Father. Most of those wretches have no home, nor any family, for that matter. Some have even committed grave offences that should have sent them to the scaffold, so they will never elicit my sympathy.’

  An embarrassed silence descended as the other diners anticipated a reply from Father McBride, who was obviously frustrated at not being taken seriously and turned to the surgeon for some support.

  ‘Doctor Gibson, you said you may be able to offer the prisoners more exercise time. That would be a good start, considering that it is your responsibility to keep them in good health.’

  ‘Well, I suppose we could rotate another hour’s exercise for them,’ he offered reluctantly. ‘It would not be that much trouble, would it, Lieutenant Flynn?’

  ‘Well, it would mean an extra three hours of guarding time for my men, which I would be very reluctant to impose on them.’ Flynn stood up and poured himself yet another drink. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I will join the ladies on deck. It has become a little too stuffy in here for me. If you will excuse me, Captain?’ He then turned to the doctor,

  ‘Surgeon Gibson,’ he said, giving a nod. Then he deliberately turned to the priest with an arrogant glare and left the table.

  To break the silence which followed, Captain Hughes suggested the doctor join him on deck for a smoke, and the two men left for the open deck, accompanied by Second Lieutenant Goldsmith. The deck officers also made their excuses and hurried back to their quarters. Father McBride sighed deeply, putting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. His frustrations pounded in his head – this was going to be a long and difficult task and he began to question whether he had done the right thing in choosing to spread the word of God in the colonies. Trying to re-educate the prisoners was bad enough, but without the support of others, it seemed like a lost cause. He had not anticipated the appalling conditions they were to be held under and sat for a few moments in silent prayer. Then he remembered that he had been promised an extra hour of exercise time for the convicts and his optimism slowly returned as he left for his quarters for the night.

  Out on deck the breeze was cool, the sky clear and the ocean calm. The moonlight caressed the dark waters and lit the starboard side of the ship and the stars twinkled in the tranquil heavens. Those in authority on board took it all in, scattered as they were around the quarter deck in silent contemplation. There was a feeling amongst them of emptiness and isolation. They were in the middle of nowhere, miles away from land and surrounded by darkness, the only light coming from the stars and the moon. This sombre mood had killed all conversation; only the odd creak from the rigging could be heard.

  The quiet was soon broken by a muffled screaming from the prison beneath the boards of the main deck, and the raised voices of the guards trying to silence the culprit. A few moments passed and the hubbub began to disturb the peace of those on deck. Irritated, Lieutenant Flynn marched off to investigate. Once down the companionway the light was dim, but Flynn could see two guards at the barricade with a younger prisoner crying hysterically. He was gripping the grated barricade and forcing his frightened face into one of the squared gaps

  ‘What’s the problem here, guards?’ Flynn demanded.

  ‘Just a little ruffian refusing to settle down, sir.’

  ‘Out of my way … I’ll handle this.’

  The guards quickly moved aside as Flynn stepped up to the barricade, and came face to face with the prisoner. It was John Harper, Fourteen years of age and terrified out of his wits. He had been caught stealing handkerchiefs and sentenced to seven years. Flynn asked one of the guards to fetch a lantern and hold it closer in order to get a good look at the lad.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’ Flynn asked tersely, studying the horror in the lad’s face in the lantern’s glow.

  ‘They’re tryin’ to … to … bugger me, sir!’ he cried, as tears of terror rained down his cheeks. ‘Please get me out of ‘ere!’ he shrieked, trying to shake loose the barricade.

  ‘Well, it serves you right, you little wretch.’ Flynn drew closer, ‘Now listen to me, if these guards hear so much as a peep out of you again tonight, you’ll get fifty lashes first thing tomorrow. Is that clear? Now get back to your bunk.’

  The light was swiftly removed from the poor lad’s face to sinister sniggers from deep within the pitch-black hold. Flynn made his way back to the quarterdeck, having, to his mind, satisfactorily imposed discipline on the worthless wretch.

  ‘What was the problem, Flynn?’ enquired the captain, slipping his pipe into his mouth and putting a fuse to the tobacco.

  ‘Oh, nothing, sir … just a young scoundrel trying to make trouble, but he soon thought better of it when I threatened him with the lash.’

  Removing the pipe from his mouth, the captain chuckled, his face wreathed in smoke. ‘Good man, Flynn, no nonsense from you, eh? That’ll teach the insolent brat.’ The captain admired Flynn’s strength of character and discipline regime. Though harsh at times, it served his purpose well, for he had never really had the stomach or nerve for confrontations, especially those involving the convicts. He had a hidden fear of the prisoners, like most on board, and he tried to restrict his authority to matters of sailing. By ten thirty all was quiet again, the decks were clear except for the odd sentry guard on duty and the crewman at the wheel, steering the creaky ship into the coming dawn.

  The weeks passed and the days grew warmer. The Rupert had now been at sea for three months, having earlier stopped at the Bay of Biscay and the island of Tenerife to take on supplies. Father McBride had triumphed in getting the prisoners an extra hour’s exercise per day, so the three groups now had one hour between twelve and three, and another between three and six. Prisoner morale was temporarily raised and the priest had gained their respect. Lieutenant Flynn, however, was none too pleased about the situation and felt out manoeuvred by the priest. He would bide his time, waiting for the right moment to vent his frustrations and get even with him.

  At first the sunshine felt good, but now, as the ship drew closer to the equator, its stifling heat began to torment the prisoners. As they lazed on deck at exercise time there was no place to hide between the boundaries of the painted white line that crossed the main deck on two sides and separated prisoner from guard. Any prisoner caught as much as an inch over the line would be punished, or even shot. An occasional cool breeze soothed their over-heated bodies, but the open deck offered little shade to protect them from the burning yellow hole in the sky, unlike the quarter deck and the bridge, where an awning had been set up to protect the ship’s authority.

  Pat, Joe, John and Charlie sat together leaning against the bulwarks. Over the months, Joe had shed a lot of weight, and his stomach was constantly churning with unsatisfied hunger. It was inevitable that most of the bigger prisoners would lose weight; the rations were barely enough for the average-sized man. Again Joe was complaining of an empty belly while the other three ignored him, quietly occupied with their own thoughts, occasionally glancing enviously at the quarter deck. A seething resentment had built up between the convicts and their commanders. Flynn especially was a great breeder of contempt and there was not a convict on board who did not want his head on a plate. Flynn relished the power he had over them; untroubled by conscience and never giving a thought to their despair.

  Like many of the detainees, Pat was fretting for his family, worried how they would cope without him. He pined for their company, doubting he would ever see them again; a recurrent and ago
nising preoccupation that he tried his best to quash, but it would pop into his mind uninvited.

  Charlie’s thoughts were similar, but tinged with more regret. For him, it was a case of not appreciating what you had till it’s gone and he wished he could have been a better father and more thoughtful husband; those times when he should have gone straight home after work and not to the pub. Not that he was a bad man; he had still provided for his family and they loved him and rallied round him when he lost his job. Unfortunately, Charlie loved his drink, but now that he was sober, the guilt was preying on his mind.

  As for John, well, who knows? He was probably thinking of some fair maiden he had charmed and taken advantage of and then relieved of her valuable possessions. His torment had started years ago but now his grief had passed, though he still harboured thoughts of retribution. The estate that had been left to him and his sister on his father’s deathbed had been stolen from them by a trustee, who then disappeared without a trace. His father’s life’s work, built up for his children’s future, stolen away, and there was nothing John could do about it. His bitterness and frustration had turned him to crimes on the highway. Their silent contemplation was broken when Tommy came racing between them, jumping on to Joe’s crossed legs, like he was settling into a comfortable armchair.

  ‘What’ve ye been up to then?’ asked John, noticing the mischievous look on his face. There was also an element of fear there, as his eyes scouted around the deck, like he was somebody’s prey.

  ‘Noth’n,’ replied Tommy with a cheeky smirk.

  ‘Watch yeself, Tommy, ye don’t wanna be muckin’ around wi’ sum o’ the folk on this ship. D’ye ‘ear me?’ said Pat, who had also correctly read Tommy’s expression.

  Ignoring the caring tone, Tommy turned to Joe, ‘A’right, Joe? Bet yer ‘ungry aren’t ye?’ he asked, with a big smile.

  ‘Yeah, I am, ‘ow did ye know?’

  ‘’ere, I saved it for ye.’ Tommy pulled out a piece of bread from his pocket, handing it to Joe.

  ‘An’ where did ye get that from?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘I saved it for Joe, cos ‘e’s me mate,’ said Tommy innocently.

  ‘Ah, thanks, Tom,’ said Joe, champing on the bread.

  ‘Ye gorra give me a bite though,’ said Tommy.

  Joe stretched his arm up to the sky, ‘Ye’ll ‘ave to get it first.’

  Jumping to his feet, Tommy playfully tried to reach the bread, but Joe’s arm was too long and too strong, and a hungry albatross perched close by on the quarter deck rail swiftly took his chance. The bird was in and out in a flash, to guffaws of laughter from those watching.

  ‘Did ye see tha’? The cheeky beggar!’ said Tommy. ‘I’s gonna give ye twenty-five lashes when I get ‘old of ye!’

  The albatross was already soaring away in the distance, the big chunk of bread held tightly in its beak. Tommy ignited another roar of laughter with an impersonation of Lieutenant Flynn, but the few moments of fun soon petered out and the onlookers turned back to their idle chat. Tommy always seemed to make people laugh, not that he craved the attention; it was just the lovable rogue in him. Tensions seemed to ease when he was around, and bringing a smile to the sullen faces he saw all around him made him feel better himself.

  The Rupert was now anchored off Rio de Janeiro taking on supplies. Pat and the others were on their exercise time, but the fresh air could not lift Pat’s melancholy mood. He needed some time alone, so he separated himself from the group and stood leaning over the side, staring out over the ocean. Like the ocean swell, his longings came in waves and were deeper than the fathoms they sailed above. He needed to feel Sarah’s tender touch and hold his son in his arms to restore his peace of mind.

  On a vessel full of convicts there were unwritten rules of engagement and a front to be kept up at all times. But bravado was tough on the prisoners’ energy stores and Pat was growing tired of having to be guarded every waking minute, just to keep potential trouble makers off his back. He drifted into memories of cold nights when he and Sarah would huddle together to keep warm, with baby Sam in between them, and to times before Sam came along, when they were children; the good times and the not so good times. Then a tap on the shoulder brought him back to harsh reality.

  ‘A’right, Roche?’ came the hated voice of Eddie Rawlins.

  ‘What d’you want?’ asked Pat in defiance. His guard was back up, but it only made Rawlins more determined to intimidate him.

  ‘There’s talk that ye a murderer, Roche.’ Pat ignored him, but Rawlins persisted, ‘So ‘ow come ye escaped the noose then?’

  Pat turned and stared at Rawlins, the tension mounting between them as he drew closer. ‘What I’ve done, an’ what I ‘aven’t done is no bother o’ yours, Rawlins. Now leave me be and go pester someone else.’

  ‘Well, I reckon ye were caught with a sheep meself,’ he smirked, turning to those around him. ‘Listen ‘ere, Roche says ‘e got caught shaggin’ a sheep.’

  Pat couldn’t hold his temper any longer. He was not going to stand there and take a mocking. Without any thought of the consequences, he flew at Rawlins, punching him with full force in the face and sending him staggering across the deck in shock. He had not been expecting it. The sudden outbreak alerted the attention of the other prisoners and before they knew it, they had an audience. Rawlins didn’t get a chance to find his feet as Pat jumped on him, sending them both sliding along the crowded deck, with men jumping out of their way on both sides. He was like a wild animal and Rawlins felt his full power. Pat punched him in the face several times, then grabbed him by the hair and bashed his head on the deck repeatedly before the guards fired shots into the air, alerting the authorities’ attention.

  ‘Break it up at once!’ shouted Goldsmith from the rail of the quarter deck.

  Then Flynn rushed to the rail to see what was happening.

  ‘I’ll handle this, Goldsmith,’ he announced abruptly, then flew down the ladder on to the main deck, closely followed by two guards, leaving Goldsmith feeling undermined. The crowd parted as they made their way to the two scrappers, the guards struggling to drag Pat off Rawlins.

  ‘You insolent dogs! What is the meaning of this outrage?’ bawled Flynn.

  Pat struggled with the guards, as they fought to restrain him and Rawlins lay on the deck, semi-conscious and feeling the effects of pushing someone too far. Knowing nothing of what had gone before; Flynn assumed that Rawlins was the victim of an unprovoked attack.

  ‘Goldsmith! Call Surgeon Gibson,’ he shouted, turning to the quarter deck, then to Pat, ‘You are a savage. What is your name?’

  Pat refused to utter a word, keeping his head down.

  ‘It’s Patrick Roche, sir,’ said one of the restraining guards.

  ‘Let him answer me!’ snapped Flynn, but Pat stubbornly refused to open his mouth.

  ‘Who started this?’ demanded Flynn, looking round for an answer, but nobody said anything.

  ‘Why did you attack this man, Roche?’

  ‘He provoked me.’

  ‘He provoked me WHAT? You will address me as ‘sir’ when you speak to me. Is that clear?’

  ‘He started it … sir,’ growled Pat.

  ‘You insolent dog! Calm your tone, or I’ll have you flogged.’

  Pat was still seething with rage and showed no signs of letting up. John and Charlie looked on, silently willing him to calm down and keep his mouth shut, but all Pat’s pent up frustration at the injustice of his situation bubbled to the surface, Rawlins was only a small part of it. Flynn could see that he was still enraged but was insistent that he bend to his authority.

  ‘I don’t care who started it, Roche. I will not tolerate mindless violence under my command.’

  ‘You’ve got no idea what goes on down in the ‘old wi’ bullies like ‘im,’ said Pat bitterly.

  ‘It seemed from where I was standing that you were the bully here, Roche. Well, let’s see if twenty-five will settle your aggression.’ Pat’s bitterness and
frustration erupted. He broke free and punched Flynn with a single blow that sent him reeling. He was immediately wrestled to the deck by the guards, who used their musket butts for added persuasion. It could easily have escalated into a dangerous situation with prisoners rioting, but Flynn’s harsh discipline prevented the thought from crossing their minds and order prevailed. He quickly picked himself up off the deck holding his bleeding mouth. He was visibly shocked but quickly composed himself and stepped towards the restrained prisoner.

  ‘Strip him to the waist and tie him to the mast!’ ordered Flynn, wiping the blood from his mouth with a handkerchief. ‘And let this be a lesson to you all!’

  Pat’s shirt was removed and he was tied to the main mast, his arms pulled right around the timber trunk to prevent any movement, at the same time painfully stretching his skin, and so giving maximum effect to the punishment he was about to receive. Out came the Cat o’Nine Tails, one of the most lethal instruments of discipline ever invented, devised in the depths of hell: nine strips of thin leather cord, about two feet in length, each knotted at the end. Surgeon Gibson was required to be in attendance by law, and stood by ready to step in and stop the punishment, should the prisoner’s life be threatened.

  Pat’s anger rapidly subsided to be replaced by deep anxiety. All eyes were on him, awaiting the slow and painful process of his punishment. The hold-up was due to the surgeon, who was attending to Rawlins, who was pretty much fine apart from a few bruises and a damaged ego. Lieutenant Flynn insisted on administering the lashes himself, instead of the assigned Sergeant Jacobs. Now all eyes were fixed on Pat’s bare back. To many of the convicts on board this punishment was new, but Pat had witnessed it in his military days and he prepared himself for what was to come. Surgeon Gibson was now in attendance and gave the go ahead to Flynn to begin.

  ‘Fifty lashes will now commence, Surgeon Gibson,’ announced Flynn with a nod.