‘Too late for excuses, ye swine, ye ought to pay back all the pain ye caused ye fellow man,’ put in Drake, leering over to Wilson for approval of his choice.
Wilson needed no further invitation. He stood up and removed his knife from his waistband.
‘Guess it’s three to one, Foster, best say ye prayers, lad.’
Foster panicked and tried to make a break for it, but Bailey jumped on him from behind and he was wrestled to the ground kicking and screaming,
‘No! Ger off me! Ye murderin’ bastards. No!’
His screams echoed across the wilderness as he struggled in vain for his life. Bailey and Drake took a firm hold of him and pushed him on to his knees, while Wilson yanked his head back by the hair, stretching out his throat. Foster’s eyes, bulging in terror as he begged for his life, fixed on Wilson, knife in hand, as he moved in for the kill.
‘We’re gonna enjoy munchin’ on ye, Foster,’ he said, with a sadistic chuckle, before plunging the knife into his neck. His stifled screams turned to a sickening gurgle, as his body went into a savage convulsion and he lay in the dirt choking horribly on his blood. The remaining murderers looked on in horror, willing their victim to lie still. Then the process of what happened to Hall’s and Stevens’ carcasses was repeated with Foster’s, but as there were now less mouths to feed, his flesh would last longer.
*
The early morning sun had begun to dry out the dew and Turnbull and his squad had picked up a trail where the bush had been damaged by a forced path. The men still had not woken fully from their disturbed night, and they trekked drowsily on for some time without so much as a murmur. Then they came across a small clearing where there had been a camp some days earlier.
‘Sarge! Someone’s been ‘ere. Look!’ The soldier pointed to a patch of charcoaled wood and cinders. It was possible to see where the members of the camp had slept and there was a strange, sickly odour in the surrounding area. One of the men sat down on a moss-covered fallen tree trunk to rest, while the others searched the area, poking in the bushes and trying to determine what had been cooked on the fire.
‘Aargh!’ The young soldier leapt off the tree trunk, startling the rest of the patrol. ‘Look! over ‘ere! It’s ‘orrible … it’s one o’ them.’
The other men immediately became jumpy and tried to see what all the panic was about.
‘Calm yeself, lad, afore I put a dozen lashes to ye when we get back,’ snapped Turnbull, as he went over to see what had scared him and there, lying next to a boulder, crawling with maggots, was Hall’s decaying head, hands, feet, torso and innards. His immediate thought was that it was the natives; the rumours must be true, they were amongst cannibals, and they had caught and feasted on Hall. Turnbull ordered the burial of his remains and muskets to be made ready at all times, with bayonets fixed. No one wanted to be in the wild any longer than necessary, especially now.
Clutching their weapons they obeyed the order to press on, following the trail that led away from the camp. Flinching at every creaking branch, or snapping twig, the worst position to be in was at the back of the patrol. Turnbull reluctantly took the lead, but the safest place seemed to be right in the middle. For a while they were in such fear of being ambushed and eaten by natives that progress was painfully slow, but eventually Turnbull stamped down his fears and redoubled his efforts – but cracks were beginning to show.
*
The three remaining absconders battled on through that god forsaken land, trying to forge a pathway to a settled area. The towering trees intertwined, tree upon tree, growing so wild, as if the forest was trying to choke itself, blocking out the light and depriving itself of any sunlight, with only the occasional thin beam cutting through the canopy and bouncing off the lush plant life on the forest floor. The stagnant musty air was suffocating and they began to feel that the wilderness was slowly devouring them. Would they ever get out of this wretched forest?
Foster’s gruesome end had had a profound effect on Drake and Bailey, who were now tormented by recurring visions of their victim’s last moments. Bailey was now planning his escape from Wilson, who would kill anyone without batting an eyelid. He blamed him for the vile acts in which he had been forced to take part, or potentially suffer the same fate. As the evening came round again he watched with revulsion as Wilson feasted on Foster’s limbs.
‘There’ll be no more killin’ on my part,’ he announced.
‘Nor me, neither,’ agreed Drake, not daring to look Wilson in the eye and at the back of his mind still fearing that Bailey might still side with him.
‘Oh, gangin’ up on me, are ye, boys?’ replied Wilson tearing the last chunk of flesh off Foster’s left forearm and launching the bones into the bush. He ran his left forearm across his mouth leaving a trail of grease along the sleeve.
‘No, we’re not going against ye, it’s just not right, that’s all,’ answered Bailey, worried how Wilson might respond.
‘We should reach some open ground soon enough, so we can find somethin’ to ‘unt, or even a farm. We can fill our stomachs that way,’ reasoned Drake.
‘I’ve lost track of the days we’ve been through this bloody place and still ain’t found a way out. We might never get out,’ said Wilson.
‘Maybe we should take our chances and go our separate ways then,’ said Drake, looking to Bailey for agreement.
Tension mounted as Wilson realised they were planning to desert him, and as hard as he was, he did not relish the idea of being stuck out in the wilderness on his own. He only knew how to negotiate through fear and intimidation, so he made a threat in the hope that they would change their ideas.
‘Don’t fink you two are gonna leave me ‘ere alone in this dammed ‘ole, cos I won’t let ye!’ he snarled.
‘Ye can’t stop us,’ said Bailey.
‘Yeah, maybe we’ll just wait till ye asleep and then scarper,’ added Drake.
‘Well maybe I’ll kill ye both first, just for the ‘ell of it,’ sneered Wilson, eyeing them in turn and reaching for his axe, which was leaning against a tree. ‘If ye plannin’ on leavin’ me out ‘ere in the wild, ye might as well be dead.’ Bailey had had enough – the escape effort was futile – and he had resigned himself to the fact that he would never break free from the penal bonds and he wanted to go back to Sarah Island. Yes, he would probably hang, but he deserved to die because of what he had done of late. Guilt over the deaths of Hall, Stevens and Foster and the part he had played in them, weighed him down, but his pride refused to let himself be killed at the hands of Wilson. If necessary, he would die fighting, but he would not stand for Wilson’s tyranny anymore.
Drake sided with Bailey, in a desperate bid to get away from Wilson, but really he wanted to take his chances and go it alone. His thirst for freedom far exceeded his remorse for the three victims. He craved it, no matter what the dangers. The two men leaned on each other for support and the confidence to make their escape.
The three men sat in a triangle around the fire, at a distance of about three metres apart. The mood was intensely hostile, as they waited and scanned each other for the slightest movement. Bailey’s heart was almost beating through his chest, as he made the first move, calmly taking to his feet. Drake instantly followed, sparking Wilson to grab to his axe as he stood up from a rock, scowling.
‘Ye not leavin’ me ‘ere! Now sit ye backsides back down.’
‘I’ll not bow down to ye no more, Wilson. I’m off, and ye won’t stop me, lest ye axe cuts me down,’ replied Bailey, defiantly bending down to gather up his food supply of blackened human remains. Drake did the same, but fear would not allow him to speak out.
‘Ave it ye own way, Bailey,’ said Wilson, bursting into a fit of rage and lunging towards him.
Noticing a log on the fire in full flame, Bailey deftly stepped forward and kicked it at Wilson, just as he brought the axe up over his head. The flaming log broke on impact with Wilson’s thigh, sending sparks and red hot embers shooting high into the air. Bail
ey turned and ran, shouting for Drake to follow. The flames ignited the grease on Wilson’s trousers – grease from his human butchery. Looking down and seeing he was on fire, he let out a scream of pain and launched his axe with all his force at Bailey, who stopped and turned to see if Drake had followed him. In that split second, unknown to Drake, he was on a collision course with the axe.
‘Look out!’ shrieked Bailey.
Drake hesitated, a look of uncertain terror on his face, too scared to turn and look behind. Just as he decided to make a run for it, the axe split right through the left side of his head and still held the force to embed itself into a tree. Instantly, and without pain, Drake dropped to the ground like a felled tree. Bailey could see Wilson by the campfire trying desperately to put out the flames on his leg, dancing and yelping, and not even noticing the deadly accuracy of his aim. Bailey backtracked into the wilderness night, whilst Wilson attended to the minor burns to his leg.
*
Turnbull came to the decision that they would have to turn back after coming across Steven’s scattered remains at the second camp. His excuse was that rations were running low and already they would need to cut down to half rations for their journey back to Sarah. Stevens’ leftovers were buried, and the fire that had cooked him rekindled by the soldiers. They huddled as close to each other as possible, each thinking the same thought and picturing the horrible murder that had taken place right where they sat.
‘Hello,’ murmured a voice from the bush, sending the camp into a frenzy, ‘I give up.’
Shirtless soldiers jumped to their feet, muskets in hand, aiming in the general direction of the wood.
‘Who goes there!’ cried Jenkins, as he frantically scanned the darkness.
‘Come out, afore I run ye through!’ Shouted Reed, all fired up ready for a charge.
‘’e’ll ‘ave a bullet through ‘is brain before ye bayonet touches ‘im, Reed,’ put in Jenkins confidently.
On seeing that his men were assured in their actions, Turnbull was able to collect himself.
‘Show yeself!’ He shouted firmly, pistol in one hand, lantern in the other.
The exhausted Bailey stumbled out of the darkness and fell to his knees,
‘Do what ye like wi’ me, just spare me a drop o’ water first,’ he begged.
The patrol looked at him in astonishment. He looked like a wild beast, black and filthy, with straggly hair and beard. His lips were all dried up, chapped and bleeding. His eyes were red raw with lack of sleep for fear of being pounced upon by Wilson, or whatever else might be lurking about.
‘We’ll give ye some water once ye’ve told us who ye are, an’ where the rest of ‘em are,’ said Turnbull.
‘Jim Bailey, an’ all the rest are dead … ‘cept for the Terror,’ he said, sullenly. ‘Now please can I ‘ave some water?’
‘Change ye tone, Bailey,’ barked Turnbull, aggressively, before turning to Philips, ‘Give ’im some water.’
Bailey took huge gulps before Philips ripped the water bag from his hands.
‘That’s enough! I need some keepin’ for meself,’ he complained, giving Bailey a kick.
The bolter was then sat down and interrogated. They listened as they were led back in Bailey’s memory to Whitaker’s disappearance, then through all the gruesome details of Hall, Stevens and Foster’s murders. He then reached into his bag and pulled out some lumps of decaying flesh from Foster’s shin. The stench was hideous. How desperate must he have been to look upon such a monstrous mess as food? He went on to explain how he and Drake had stood up to Wilson and made a break for it, after kicking the fire at him, and how Drake was cut down by Silas’s axe. Finally came the remorse. He had lost his will for life and no longer cared about his fate. That night Turnbull didn’t even feel the need to put Bailey in chains – he wasn’t going anywhere. He was a broken man.
The next morning saw Turnbull filled with fresh confidence. Knowing that there was only Silas left and no native cannibals around, Bailey had soothed his fears and those of his men. So feeling more positive, he gave out his orders with stern authority. Philips and McManus were to guard Bailey like hawks as they made the journey back to Sarah Island to face the commandant. They would not pursue Wilson, as he could not last very long out in the wild alone. So the squad returned to the island with one of the bolters still alive and on the run.
Three days later, the squad arrived back at Sarah, only for Turnbull to receive a severe dressing down from his lieutenant and the commandant. He was ordered back out immediately to track Wilson down and was not to return without him. Then Bailey was brought in front of the commandant and gave a full account of his story again in a monotone, after which he requested to be sent to Hobart town to be hanged as soon as possible.
‘I can’t bear to live wi’ meself no more … and I’ll not live the rest of me life in the torment of this wretched place.’
So it was that Bailey’s request was answered and he was hanged on the scaffold outside the prison in Hobart town on the last Saturday of October 1831, glad to be rid of the turmoil his life had brought on him.
CHAPTER 16
THE HUNT IS ON
Within a few weeks of the escape, the news had quickly spread around the settled areas, that Silas Wilson, known as ‘The Terror’ had broken through the impenetrable terrain of the west and was now terrorising the free settlers of Van Dieman’s Land.
John was having difficulty breaking in a horse, so was too busy to acknowledge the man pulling up and dismounting with a piece of paper half scrunched up in his hand. He stood at the paddock fence shouting for John’s attention and waving the document above his head. But John was too busy struggling to keep a rein on his stubborn horse, as it kicked up the dirt in the paddock. He lost his grip and fell to the ground on his backside. Annoyed at the distraction and that his horse had got the better of him; he turned to see who his distracter was. He instantly broke into a smile when he noticed it was Pat sitting on the fence.
‘Hey!’ he shouted, a big grin on his face, then stood up and brushed himself off and made his way over to Pat. ‘It’s about time too. I thought you’d forgotten me. What have you been doing?’ he asked as they embraced.
‘Well I’ve been meanin’ to come over but I’ve been a bit busy on the plot,’ replied Pat.
‘So what have you got there?’ asked John, looking at the piece of paper.
‘Well, this is what I’ve come to see ye about,’ he handed the paper to John. ‘I’m goin’ after ‘im, John, an’ I want you to come with me … we’ll split the reward.’
John opened the paper and started to read. There was a reward out for the capture of Silas Wilson – £300 dead, £500 if he could be brought back alive. John gave it a few moments thought, as Pat watched for a positive reaction from his old companion.
‘This is not about the Rum is it?’ John asked light-heartedly.
He was referring to the yearly allowance of a Pint of Rum given to them every Christmas, compliments of the King. Silas made sure that he drank or spilt Pats quota on a number of occasions as well as John and a number of others. It was another thing Silas had a reputation for; to make sure he spoilt the only yearly pleasure they were allowed. Pat wasn’t in the mood to share his sense of humour. He certainly had vengeance on his mind but he was also thinking of the reward money.
‘I could do with the money John. Me and Sarah might be able to set ourselves up.’
‘Haven’t you got enough money out of this colony?’ asked John, with a hint of sarcasm.
This time referring to the £200 compensation Pat had received for his years of lost freedom and the physical scarring to his back, not to mention the psychological damage, which was why Pat wanted to go after Silas, so he could bury all his emotional trauma, along with Silas. It had been almost twelve months since their escape and six months since his pardon.
‘I’ll go alone if I ‘ave to,’ he said in a reluctant tone.
‘No chance of that, dear boy, I’m
with you all the way.’ The two looked at each other and shared the same thought – this was their chance to get some justice for their years of suffering at the hands of this despicable man.
‘Come into the house and see Laura and the major, and we shall discuss our plans, I’m sure they will be pleased to see you … though I’m not so sure Laura will be pleased to hear this,’ John added with a grin, trying to make light of the situation as they walked over to the house.
Pat was greeted very warmly by the major and Laura, though she was none too pleased at the news of their bounty hunting plans. She thought all that was behind them, and it took a lot of convincing to bring her round. It was not as though John needed the money; he was engaged to be married to Laura, and so would benefit from the major’s wealth. He felt very fortunate, having lost all his fortune, though his love for Laura had nothing to do with money. It had been a whirlwind romance and the major had allowed John to live in the house on the agreement that he stayed in a separate room. So he now lived in Sarah’s old room, and they were all getting along just fine and looking forward to the forthcoming marriage.
The two friends’ minds were set. It was something they felt they had to do. Arrangements were made over the next few days for Sarah to stay with Laura at the major’s house, until they returned. This time they would be going out into the wilderness properly equipped. They had plenty of provisions and everything belonged to them, including the horses, but all the preparation was bringing back memories of their time on the run, and they shared their stories over a meal and a few bottles of Summerfield’s wine. Their final evening before embarking on their hunt was spent in a jovial mood, with plenty of tales to make them all laugh.
‘Ye know, I dread to think what our lives would’ve been like if we’d still been in Liverpool. I mean, we wouldn’t ‘ave this much back ‘ome, would we, Sarah?’ Sarah shook her head in agreement as Pat’s mood turned sombre. ‘It still wasn’t worth losing our boy and going through what we went through .... I never thought the torment at Sarah Island and Macquarie Harbour would ever end.’
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