‘I’ve only ever murdered one person in me life, despite what people say, an’ that murder was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill anyone, an’ I don’t know if a man might’ve been ‘ung in my place. Maybe God won’t forgive me for that, I don’t know, but the man I killed was back in Liverpool. I smashed ‘is ‘ead against a wall, ‘cos ‘e wouldn’t give me ‘is money.’ Father McBride had heard thousands of confessions during his career as a priest, but was shocked by this revelation. He tried his best not to show it, and just kept on writing and listening. ‘Before I knew it, I was disturbed by someone and I scarpered down the alleyway as fast as I could. I didn’t even know ‘e was dead till I was told someone was murdered off Scotland Road the night before last. An’ that was the last I ‘eard of it.’ Rawlins began to wheeze again, visibly weakening.
Father McBride finished writing the confession in a hurry and got Rawlins to make a mark on the statement as proof of signing, then got the nurse to countersign it. He had immediately made the connection between the murder and Pat Roche’s story. Years back on the Rupert, while Pat was in the hospital quarters, he had told the priest that he had been wrongly accused of murder. Surely the murders were one and the same? Father McBride wanted to take the written confession straight to the prison governor, knowing that Pat was about to be hanged that morning, but he could not leave a dying man. He needed someone he could trust, and he suddenly remembered that Tommy Miller had been assigned to work in the hospital and he asked the nurse to go and fetch him at once. She returned moments later with Tommy. The priest told him to go and deliver the confession to the governor personally, as a matter of the utmost urgency. It was regarding the execution of Pat Roche. At the mention of Pat’s name, Tommy was determined to see the job done as quickly as he could. He knew that Pat was about to be hanged and if that letter could stop it he would see to it that it was safely delivered to its destination.
So Tommy flew out of the hospital. It was nine thirty and Pat was due to be hanged at eleven, so there was not a second to lose. He was forced to explain to every guard that he had a very important letter to give to the governor and eventually arrived at the governor’s office at ten o’clock and handed it over. Pat was already being taken from his cell to the scaffold when the governor appeared and ordered his immediate release. Incredible though it seemed, Pat was now a free man.
A celebration meal was prepared by Laura and Sarah and the major opened his finest bottle of brandy. After almost a full day of mourning, the household ended the evening in laughter and merriment. All the injustice and hardship that Pat and Sarah had suffered, for the moment, was forgotten, and for the first time in years, they were amongst friends and could now begin to plan a proper future together.
CHAPTER 15
THE TERROR ESCAPES
It was late afternoon in the early days of September 1831 and the signal fires were lit over Macquarie Harbour, alerting the military guard to an escape. Seven convicts had seized a boat from Kelly’s Basin, as they were about to finish their heavy day’s work. The escapees were heading for Hell’s Gate, almost twenty miles North West up the harbour. It was a long shot, but these men were desperate and ready to try anything. With the idea of getting out on to the open sea and finding a safe place to land further along the coast, they gave it all the energy they could spare. But after hours of strenuous rowing on choppy waters the men were fast growing exhausted. They had only covered about sixteen miles when strong currents forced them to divert north east at the King’s River.
Things were not going according to plan, the men had rowed so hard their hands were blistered and bleeding and a decision was made to abandon the boat and take their chances over land, which also meant less risk of being spotted. They left the boat at the mouth of the river, dragging it ashore and concealing it with greenery and then set about ovaling their fetters. As the last chain came off and was thrown into the harbour, some of the men felt a sense of new found freedom, but not all of them felt that way. A few had already begun to regret their situation.
‘They’re gonna ‘ang us when they find us,’ mumbled one to another, deflated by the failure of escaping the harbour.
‘I’ll ‘ang ye me bloody self if I ‘ear ye talk like that again! D’ye ‘ear me, fella?’ snarled their leader, a burly brute, on overhearing the remark.
‘Right, which way are we ‘eaded?’ enquired another nervously, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
Their leader took several paces inland and inhaled a few deep breaths of the cool evening air. The sun was already casting long shadows over the shoreline and a light breeze was softly blowing away the day’s warmth. Pretending to have some idea of which way to go, and making full use of his leadership skills, he pointed in an easterly direction straight ahead of himself, and set off walking. The other six followed him silently and without question into the bush. Armed only with one axe and a knife, the men fought and struggled through the dense undergrowth until well into the night. It was none other than Silas Wilson who headed the band of fugitives, and it was Wilson that carried the axe.
*
Later that evening, Sergeant Turnbull knocked at Lieutenant Jackson’s quarters. Jackson, jacketless with his braces hanging down, opened the door and peered into the night.
‘Well, what is it, Turnbull? Have you found them yet?’ he asked tetchily, annoyed at being disturbed at so late an hour.
‘No sir, but the pilot is certain they ‘aven’t made it out of the ‘arbour. I think they might’ve taken to the land, sir.’
‘Is the pilot keeping watch overnight?’
‘Yes sir. I’ve left two men with him. That’s why we were a bit late returning, sir.’
‘Good man, Turnbull, we will consult the commandant at first light and resume the search, no doubt. So you had better go and get some rest. Goodnight.’
As the door closed, Turnbull was plunged into darkness again and stumbled back down the stony path to the mess.
*
Just a few miles inland from the mouth of the King’s River a bright warm orange glow lit up a tiny area of the dark and spooky forest, as seven convicts sat contemplating their fate. Exhausted by the long day, all they had was the water sack they had stolen and without a scrap of food their hunger was burning in their stomachs. The light from the flames bounced off their sullen faces as they fought against sleep.
‘Someone ought to keep watch, in case o’ natives, or the soldiers coming for us,’ said Jack Whitaker, a cattle stealer from Lancashire, breaking a long silence, but no one seemed to be listening. Their eyes stared vacantly at the flames, as if under some mystical trance, but the truth was that they were all dog tired. Then Wilson spoke up.
‘If you’re so concerned, you keep watch. But I’m warnin’ ye, if anyone comes within an inch o’ me while I’m asleep, they’ll get this!’ and he shook his axe at them before bedding himself down, leaving his companions suddenly unnerved. Eventually, not even the fire could escape the power of sleep, and the camp slowly faded into darkness.
*
The following morning Lieutenant Jackson and Sergeant Turnbull were in the commandant’s office informing him of the night’s events.
‘I will not tolerate this, do you hear me? I want them caught immediately. Take out a patrol and don’t come back without them. Dead or alive, it makes no difference to me. They must not get to civilian ground. Take all the provisions you need, Turnbull, and track them down. They’ll hang for this, by god they will hang!’ said the commandant, lightly smacking his fist on his desk. ‘Anyway, how did they get away in the first place?’
‘They overpowered the overseer threatened to kill him, sir, so he had to let them go … a very unfortunate situation sir,’ explained Jackson.
‘And do you believe this overseer, Jackson? Who is he? What’s his name?’
‘Glyn Madocs, sir. Transported for erm … erm …’
‘Well, spit it out, Jackson.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, after an embarrasse
d pause. ‘Apparently he was caught interfering … with a farm animal, sir.’
A mixture of shock and disbelief appeared on the commandant’s face, then he roused himself to ask for a little more detail. But a knowing nod from Jackson was sufficient to appease his curiosity.
‘Well give him two dozen lashes anyway, as a deterrent to others,’ he said.
‘Sir, may I say that finding men to volunteer themselves for overseeing duties is hard enough … such a punishment may well deter more volunteers from taking up these duties,’ argued Jackson, somewhat hesitantly.
‘Do not question my authority, Jackson! If there is a problem with volunteers, we will just have to force overseeing duties on to the men, will we not? Now if that is all, I do have work to do and I am certain that you do too. Good day, gentlemen.’ The commandant dipped his quill into his ink pot and resumed his work.
On leaving the commandant’s office, Lieutenant Jackson ordered Turnbull to assemble a squad of four, including himself, and to collect the two soldiers at the pilot station, then start the search around the King’s River, the next most obvious point.
*
The fugitives were on their feet and making tracks again, as the sun climbed to its highest peak in the clear blue sky. As the heat bore down, sweat flies attacked and tormented them and the forest did its best to impede them. Branches flicked back into their faces, causing tempers to snap, while their legs and ankles suffered the worst, scratched sore by brambles and thorns. With no food, and little drink, they had to make do with plants and berries, or anything else that looked edible. They had just stopped for the night when it was noticed that now they were only six – Jack Whitaker was missing. Where had he gone? Had he been grabbed by natives? If so, who was next? The men exchanged anxious glances; someone might be out there, watching and listening. They had been warned that the natives enjoyed feasting on white men’s flesh, and as darkness fell, they were only too ready to believe such rumours. As they settled into their new camp their hunger began to burn inside them and replaced their fear of the natives.
‘I’m so ‘ungry I could eat an ‘orse,’ said Jim Bailey.
‘Yeah, but ‘ow ye gonna find one, there’s not a ruddy livin’ creature in sight,’ said Peter Drake.
‘I can see why the natives eat each other, ‘cos there’s precious little else to eat,’ grumbled Foster. ‘We need to do somethin’ ‘fore we starve to death out ‘ere.’
Silas Wilson had said nothing during this exchange, indeed, he appeared not to be listening, but then he suddenly declared.
‘Well, if it’s good enough for the natives, it’s good enough for us.’ His proposal was met with a stony silence. They all knew that Wilson was mad, but surely he was not seriously suggesting they become cannibals?
Bob Hall had fallen asleep before this gruesome topic of conversation had begun and so Wilson, leaning forward and dropping his voice to a whisper, suggested they should kill him while he slept. It would be swift and painless and solve all their hunger problems. Before the others had time to raise any objections, Wilson had taken his axe to Hall’s head with deadly precision. His body contracted with the impact of the blow, then lay still. Without further ado, Wilson set about the body by the light of the fire, as the others looked on in horror.
‘Me ol’ man was a butcher,’ he said, his hands and arms slimy with blood. ‘’Specs ‘is tips’ll come in ‘andy now.’ And with that he ripped away Bob’s shirt and tossed it into the fire.
Bob Hall had been transported after being convicted for stealing a string of sausages hanging in a butchers shop; never could he have imagined such a grisly end. The poor fellow was garrotted like a pig to drain his blood, then cut up and shared out equally between the remaining five, all of whom refused to touch their share until they smelt Wilson’s piece roasting on the fire. Hunger is a powerful motivator, and they quickly succumbed to the tantalising aroma and were soon voraciously stuffing their bellies with Hall’s body parts.
Despite having witnessed the murder of their comrade, they all slept soundly that night, moving on the next morning with renewed vigour, still heading east, in a bid to reach the settled areas. The following three nights were much the same, but without the brutal murder, since they still had sufficient meat left over, but then once more they awoke to find that they were again short of company. Will Stevens had met the same fate as Bob Hall and was being hacked to pieces by Wilson a little further off. Though sickened by the sight, they could not object, since they knew that they would soon be tucking into their friend’s flesh, but fear and tension was rapidly growing between them, with the unspoken question, ‘Who’s next?’
The four remaining were now locked into a battle wills, constantly scanning one another for fear of a plot against them. No one wanted to be left at the back as they trekked onwards, not even a few yards out of earshot, as they gained ground and drew closer to the settled areas. With Stevens now well digested, hunger was gnawing at their heels once again, but there were still a few hours to go before it became a real concern. The hope was that they would arrive in a settled area before it came to that, but their hope melted with the sun as the days wore on. Not even Wilson could escape the paranoia now, and lived in fear of a plot to overpower him.
These thoughts began to tick over in his brain day and night, they could pin him down as he slept, or club him with a big tree branch, but would they dare risk it? He was the biggest of the lot and was also in possession of the knife and the axe. Despite his worries, he was able to keep up his bravado at all times, probably his best weapon.
Before they knew it, early evening was upon them and time had almost come to a standstill. Slowly and painfully they built a fire and nervously settled round it. Frustrated by the fact that they should have found a populated area by now, they squatted in sullen silence; the tension choking their thoughts. Someone was about to break. The extent of human suffering within the confines of Macquarie Harbour had been so appalling they had been driven to eat each other, rather than return to a life of torture and hard labour.
*
A few miles west of the bolters’ camp, another fire burned. Turnbull and his squad had made good progress that day in following their tracks, but it was no easy task to find any kind of trail in such terrain. It was first thought that the fugitives would probably be huddled together somewhere around the King’s River area, too scared to return and face a severe flogging. Turnbull was put out by the fact that he would have to go into the forest and search for them. He wanted the easy option of returning a hero with the seven villains in tow, recaptured by his great leadership. So the seven soldiers also settled uneasily around their camp fire, worried that the bolters could be watching them, ready to pounce. Like the convicts, they too were concerned about the natives and the rumours of cannibalism
‘Collins, Reed, you’re on two-hour watch,’ announced Turnbull. ‘Then Philips and Jenkins can take over, then Henson and McManus.’ Each gave a nod, then went about sorting out their kit and preparing their beds.
‘If any of ye fall asleep on watch, I’ll give ye a dozen lashes when we get back to Sarah,’ said Turnbull, bluntly, before rolling over in his blanket and shutting his eyes. As the camp settled down to sleep, the fire was rekindled by another log, as each new guard came on watch and crept through the sleeping camp to meet the other. It was an eerie business listening out for any foreign noise, whilst continually looking over their shoulders, though the occasional sound of one of their comrades breaking wind in their sleep lightened their mood. They whispered through the silence to keep their spirits up, but sometimes so low that they could barely hear one another.
‘D’ye think it’s true then … ‘bout the natives an’ all?’
‘Well, I’ve not ‘eard it so far.’
‘’eard what?’
‘The native call … I say I’ve not heard it.’
‘I never said that, ye daft bugger. I said …’ He couldn’t finish because his weapon suddenly slipped, te
sting his reflexes, but he caught the weighty musket before it clattered to the ground.
‘Sssshhh! Keep it down! Ye’ll wake everybody up,’
‘Sorry … I was just sayin’ ‘bout the natives eatin’ people. D’ye think it’s true?’
‘Oh, that! Yeah. Must be true,’ said the other, pointing towards Turnbull. ‘It must be true see, ‘cos even Sergeant Turnbull is shakin’ in ‘is boots.’
‘Is Turnbull scared?’
‘Course ‘e is, ‘e’s shittin’ ‘is pants, can’t ye tell?’
Both men looked over at the sleeping Turnbull, then back at each other, sniggering quietly. The guards then went back to pacing up and down and the night wore on.
Turnbull had never seen a day of combat in his life, but he liked others to think otherwise and it had been to his advantage because most of the other recruits were relatively new to the regiment. Turnbull had only actually risen through the ranks by persistence and longevity of army life. No acts of gallantry had placed those stripes on his arms, no; he liked to show his gallantry in other ways, by flogging prisoners and instilling discipline on his subordinates, how very brave.
*
In the fugitive’s camp only the crackle of burning wood could be heard, the red hot embers floating up into the night, cooling and disintegrating in the darkness. The trees formed sinister shadows of ghosts and ghouls, watching over them in anticipation of another killing. No one dared sleep, so a target had to be singled out before they themselves were chosen.
‘’ere, you used to be a volunteer flogger, Foster. Reckon you don’t deserve our company no more,’ said Peter Drake, instigating the potential victimisation.
Immediately Wilson and Jim Bailey jumped in and Foster began to tremble with fear.
‘No, ye don’t deserve to live, Foster, ye turncoat!’ Added Bailey, turning to Drake in support, then to Wilson for more back up.
‘But … but … I was forced into it,’ replied Foster, almost incoherent with terror.
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