Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  The old man began to enjoy Sarah’s company more and more, and though he did not realise it, it was the company that he desired more than anything else. He was a lonely old man with a great deal of natural care and compassion going to waste. The other maids he had hired did not have the sweet innocence that Sarah seemed to possess and he felt very protective towards her, like a father to a daughter. She had enriched his life in a way he would not have thought possible.

  Sarah had begun to flourish under the old man’s care and guidance and she gradually allowed herself to trust him. She had told him about the terrible journey and about losing Sam and he listened intently, with tears clouding his eyes. He had restored her faith in her fellow human beings. Then, one evening, a few nights after his generous shopping trip to Hobart, he requested her company again. They sat out on the terrace in the twilight of a warm evening after having dined on a good meal cooked by herself. He had something to tell her.

  ‘Well Sarah, I think it’s high time I got to know a little more about you, don’t you think?’ he asked outright, surprising her slightly.

  ‘What is it you want to know about me, sir?’

  ‘Well …’ he said, hesitating while he decided on the best way to continue, ‘… I think we may well have some kind of mutual connection, my dear.’

  ‘D’ye mean we might be related or something?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, laughing. ‘I mean that I used to know someone by the name of Roche who came from Liverpool.’

  ‘Did you really? Who was it? I might know them!’ she replied, eager to know.

  ‘He’s a man to whom I owe my very life, and to whom I can never be sufficiently grateful,’ he said.

  Sarah was even more intrigued, ‘Why? What did he do?’

  ‘He saved my life at Waterloo … twelve years ago.’

  ‘My husband was at Waterloo … and he’s got a medal to prove it.’

  ‘Yes, precisely, this could well be our connection, Sarah. You see, I have been making a few enquiries and I think that your husband and my saviour could be one and the same person.’

  Something immediately clicked into place in Sarah’s memory as she pieced it all together.

  ‘Oh, my God! You’re the major!’ she said, clasping her hands to her mouth in astonishment.

  ‘I am indeed, if your husband is Patrick Roche, my dear.’ He smiled, making his complexion appear rosier than ever. He then retold the story that Sarah already knew so well, of how gallant her husband had been, risking his own life to save the wounded major from a brutal death by the French. She was filled with pride all over again after listening to the story. The major then asked her how long it had been since she had last seen Pat.

  ‘I’ve not seen him for years, sir … they took him away,’ and suddenly she could not stop the tears, which flooded her cheeks as her chest heaved with painful sobs.

  ‘Where have they taken him?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir … nobody would tell me.’

  ‘Well, we shall just have to find out then, shall we not?’ And that is just what the major did, he took Sarah to Hobart town, where they made extensive enquiries as to Pat’s whereabouts. With the major’s influence and military background he was able to gain the information in no time.

  Sarah Island’s notorious reputation among the free settlers of Van Dieman’s Land was legendary. Pat had now been there for three years and knew full well the reality of the small island penitentiary. To him it was the harshest place in the world, its inmates constantly pushed to the limits. To the colony it was the place of no return – you went there to die, or go insane.

  When Sarah found out that he was at Sarah Island she grew desperate. Not even the major could find anything out about him; the only way would be via the monthly supply ship. The crew might make enquiries for them when they reached the island, but they could not be relied upon. There was nothing else that could be done, but at least Sarah now knew where Pat was, and he was not dead, because his name was not listed on the records of deaths.

  The months rolled by and spring had pushed out the buds of optimism in Sarah’s life, the major’s good nature bringing back her confidence and self esteem. Autumn had blown away all the bitterness she had harboured from the past, then winter had come along and frozen out her torment. Now summer had arrived, replenishing her beauty and zest for life. The only thing she craved now was to see Pat again. Would she still be captivated by him? Would she fall in love with him all over again? What if he had changed and didn’t love her anymore? She so longed to see him again. She did not know where, she did not know when, nor how it was going to happen, but one thing she was sure of – her hope had been restored.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BOLTER

  After thirty days on Grummet Rock, where solitude and mental turmoil threatened to overthrow his sanity, Pat rejoined the main population, where further punishment still awaited him. He was to be confined to the island for a further thirty days, and given what was considered the worst job of all – pulling in the huge logs from the shoreline and dragging them up to the saw pits, where they were stacked to dry out. The work was unremitting. If your muscles did not shake violently with over use, your body would shiver through being in and out of the cold waters of the harbour all day long. As if that were not bad enough, the work was often done in leg irons, though hands had to be free to enable the convict to manoeuvre around the awkward logs. The only tools they were given were hooked steel spikes with a wooden handle – similar to hay bale spikes – and ropes to use in much the same way as the felling gangs.

  In his thirty days of isolation, Pat had not heard about the trouble that Charlie and Joe had got themselves into, but he soon found out from his associates who shared his dormitory. He was told how Joe had been ordered to receive fifty lashes from Sergeant Turnbull, and how the surgeon had had to stop the punishment at thirty, when Joe had another seizure. He was taken to the hospital unconscious and died two days later, having never regained consciousness. He had been dead for ten days now and news of his death hit Pat like a hammer blow. Charlie was still laid up in the hospital quarters, having received the same punishment, but he was now on the mend. He blamed himself for Joe’s death, and there was no getting away from that.

  Joe was buried in the island cemetery, a small islet close to Sarah Island, designated for the convict dead, with a separate cemetery on Sarah Island for the free persons. Pat immediately requested permission to visit Joe’s grave, but his request was turned down. He would have to wait until Sunday, which was their only supposed free day, though even Sunday was a busy day for most. Pat needed to know the full story, and heard it from old Paddy Allen, the Irishman who had been flogged more times than he cared to remember. Charlie had decided one day to go and steal from the stores; other people had done it without being caught, so why shouldn’t he? Especially since he had noticed that the security around the stores was not that tight. Charlie, like all the rest, had been feeling frustrated with life at the settlement, and wanted something back for his life of toil, even if it was just a few moments of indulgence.

  Eventually the temptation of rum and fresh meat got the better of him and he broke into the stores one evening after work was over, taking Joe to keep watch, but they were caught by a guard just as Charlie was prising off the door lock. Paddy’s voice dropped in pitch as he described how Joe had gone mad at the triangle, terrified of being flogged. He repeatedly cried out for his father whilst the Cat was put to his back without mercy from Turnbull. It was pitiful to watch. Pat grew more and more agitated as he listened to Paddy. He should have been there for Joe, as he had been for him whenever he needed him. To assuage his guilt he began to focus on Charlie and his involvement of Joe in his crazy escapade, and began to feel quite bitter towards him.

  Pat toiled for a week at the shoreline, in and out of the freezing water till his bones ached, his mind increasingly consumed with anger towards Charlie. Eventually, Charlie was released from hospital and had to shar
e the same job as Pat, even though he was far from sufficiently recovered to cope with the demands of that back-breaking work. It had been six weeks since the friends had last met and Pat returned a very cool reception to Charlie’s cautious greeting. There was little eye contact, just brief glances as they tried to assess the other’s reactions. The tension was almost unbearable. They needed to get it out in the open, but were both reluctant to broach the subject of Joe’s death, or be seen to argue in front of the other convicts, who would do their best to instigate a fight and so bring the threat of further punishment.

  During the evening, with them both sleeping in different dormitories, they hardly saw one another, so the resentment festered. It was only when Pat decided to request another visit to Joe’s grave one Sunday afternoon, that Charlie felt the need to follow him and confront him about it. He caught up with him along the footpath leading to the other side of the island where they could take the boat. Keeping a few paces behind him, Charlie dragged his feet, hesitant of starting the inevitable confrontation. Pat was aware that someone was trailing him, and suspected it was Charlie.

  ‘D’ye mind if I join ye, Pat?’ he asked hesitantly.

  Pat didn’t even look behind him, but just grunted a cold response.

  ‘Do what ye like, Charlie.’

  Nothing more was said and only the sound of the dirt and dead leaves crunching under their feet disturbed the silence. They passed the gardener’s cottage halfway down the track, then the lookout post. It was a quiet and peaceful stroll along the footpath under a canopy of trees, cutting through the remaining bit of bush on the island, the rest having been cut down to make way for buildings and cultivation. The little islet itself was very peaceful, with picturesque views of the surrounding area, yet no convict ever wanted to be buried there and leave his soul in such a lonely and god forsaken place.

  The silence was broken at last by Pat, his stubborn mood seeming to be bending.

  ‘Why did ye do it, Charlie?’ He asked bitterly, without even looking up.

  ‘I just lost it … wi’ out thinkin’ … An’ ye’ve been guilty of that yeself a time or two.

  ‘Yes, but I pay for it. It never ends up in the death of anyone else, ‘specially a mate.’

  ‘Ye still deserted Joe every time ye tried to escape. Ye didn’t think about ‘im then, did ye?’ There was a moment of silence. ‘D’ye think I wanted Joe to die ... Don’t ye think I feel bad enough about it, without you and John treatin’ me like this … Life’s ‘ard enough in this hell hole, wi’ out the only friends ye’ve got turnin’ on ye as well.’

  Pat had to agree that Charlie was right; he had selfishly deserted Joe on a number of occasions in his efforts to escape, without giving a thought to what he would have done if he had escaped. But in situations of desperation people become selfish, focusing only on their own survival.

  They had arrived at the small jetty where a guard was posted outside a little hut. They explained that they had permission to visit the cemetery, and after giving them a suspicious look; the guard let them take the boat. It would be easy enough to raise the alarm if they tried to escape; the islet was only a stone’s throw away. He could probably even shoot them, it was that close.

  On reaching the islet under the watchful eye of the guard, they made their way to the cemetery. There were more than thirty graves in there at that time; by the end of twelve years, fifty-five people would be buried there. No more words were exchanged as they approached Joe’s grave; a little makeshift wooden cross sticking out at an angle from the recently dug soil, with only his name painted in black – no date of birth, or death. Pat knelt down at the graveside and bowed his head, ‘Ye needed carin’ for, an’ we let ye down,’ he said, addressing the cross as if it were Joe.

  ‘No, we didn’t let ‘im down, Pat … this cruel bloody world let ‘im down. It wasn’t us that sent ‘im ‘ere and worked ‘im to nothin’ and starved the poor bugger. Think about it, Pat, ‘e prob’ly got the best option …’

  ‘’ow can ye say that? ‘e was ‘appy enough so long as we were there for ‘im.’

  ‘No ‘e wasn’t. ‘e was always starvin’ an’ ‘e missed ‘is dad too much, and just ‘cos ‘e didn’t complain about the work, it didn’t mean ‘e didn’t feel the pain like the rest of us … an’ we weren’t always gonna be around for ‘im … what would ‘e ‘ave done then?’

  Maybe Charlie was right, as hard as it was. Joe probably was in the right place now – no more hunger, no more pain, and freedom from life’s struggles. They stood in silence for a few moments over the grave of their lost friend before heading back to the penitentiary.

  ‘’ow’s ye back doin’?’ asked Pat to break the tension.

  ‘It’s always painin’ me an’ it’s not ‘ealin’ right.’

  ‘I know exactly ‘ow ye feel … but it’ll get better, or ye’ll just get used to it, I s’pose.’

  The visit to Joe’s grave seemed to patch things up between them, and made their working day more bearable.

  The day had started like any other for Pat and Charlie, and with only a few more days of confinement on the island, their spirits were up, but the weather had taken a sudden turn for the worse. The wind was getting up and heavy dark clouds were massing overhead, as though Mother Nature had come to challenge their healing spirits and remind them that it was not over yet. Their dragging gang of twenty began to lag behind as the weather worsened, taking a lot longer and a great deal more effort to get the logs ashore through the choppy waters.

  Their overseer made no allowances and insisted on them increasing their pace, though they were fast becoming exhausted. So he went to fetch Sergeant Turnbull, who began to threaten them with the lash if they didn’t move faster. By mid-afternoon the rain was pelting down and the men were drenched to the skin and struggling to make headway in the softening sand. Tempers soon began to flare as they were forced to put themselves at risk by wading further out into the water. Rather than the usual thigh deep, they were going in waist and chest deep. Pat’s temper was starting to snap at being pushed to the limit, yet still not satisfying the demands of the power-hungry Turnbull.

  The rain became so torrential that they could no longer hear the overseer, or Turnbull. Pat had had it. It was impossible to go on working, so he instigated the others to stop by coming out of the water to confront the overseer. Turnbull was furious with the overseer, who had agreed with Pat, and again threatened them with a flogging if they did not return to work. Charlie, though terrified of another flogging, could not resist protesting against the injustice,

  ‘’Ow much more do we ‘ave to take from you?’ he screamed above the howling wind, then turned and waded back into the pounding waves, pointlessly shoving against one of the logs to vent his frustration. The others too began to realise that their appeals for a little leniency were hopeless and one by one began to make their way back towards the water.

  ‘Charlie, ‘ang on, mate. We’re comin’ now,’ shouted Pat, in an attempt to stop Charlie’s futile assault on the log. Then a sudden gust of wind and the choppy waters pushed the log and Charlie with it, further away from the shoreline. He scrambled desperately trying to cling on to the log but he couldn’t get a grip. He lost his footing as he was pulled out of his depth and went under.

  ‘Charlie!’ screamed Pat in an instant panic.

  He re-emerged, screaming for help. He could no longer touch the bottom. He couldn’t swim and his ankle fetters were weighing him down. He waved his arms frantically, screaming for his life. Pat and the others waded into the water and quickly formed a human chain. Pat was in front, forcing his way out, the men having to hold him back. One of them shouted for someone to get a boat.

  ‘’Ang on, Charlie, we’re comin’ for ye!’ Pat shouted.

  But Charlie was being dragged out by the fast current, and was soon too far out for the others to reach without risking their own lives. He slid under again, quickly losing his fight and his strength. Pat realised that he could do no
thing but watch helplessly until the boat arrived. The chain of men started pulling each other back to the shore when suddenly Charlie reappeared in one last desperate attempt to stay alive, with one arm waving in the air, still screaming for help. A small boat appeared with a man rowing erratically in Charlie’s direction, but he was too late. Charlie had been under for more than a minute. He was gone – swallowed forever by the dark waters of Maquarie Harbour. Charlie’s body was never found, probably having sunk to the bottom of the harbour’s deep waters, weighed down by his ankle fetters.

  Something inside Pat snapped. It was time to get off the island and this time he was not going to fail. He didn’t care anymore about the consequences; he just had to get off before he lost his sanity – or his life. He needed to meet with John, his only surviving friend to try and figure out a proper plan, but it would be two Sundays hence before they could meet. John had just been assigned to the lime burning team, considered to be the best job in the settlement, and only given to model prisoners. John, the only one of the four that had never been flogged, had the best opportunity for them to escape, working as he was down the Gordon River. Why no one had thought of that route was a mystery to Pat, who felt it offered an obvious chance of escape. Nobody had ever tried it, instead going over land, or trying to get out of Hell’s Gates and out to sea.

  Pat was willing to give it a go. This was going to be his fourth escape attempt, but he would have to persuade John to help him, but Sunday being the only day that they could meet properly, it would take time to devise and arrange a plan. John did not need much persuading, even though he was now quite a privileged prisoner. He was even allowed to take a fishing boat and go fishing on the harbour on occasions. But he still hated the place and being confined depressed him greatly. A well-educated man, John did not fit in well amongst most of the detestables at the settlement, and had often harboured desires to break free. It was down to him to make ready the escape, as he was no longer under the constant scrutiny of soldiers or overseers. He was regarded as being trustworthy, abiding by the rules of convict life without giving much trouble.