by James Fearn
‘Have you any witnesses who can substantiate your story about the gipsy peddler?’ asked the Justice. ’Er . . . No, Your Honour. I didn’t know the names of any of the other patrons. Anyway, when the police arrived they scattered like frightened rabbits.’ John realised that his grip on freedom was slipping. There appeared to be no one to support his account of events.
‘Constable, do you have anything further to add?’ asked the Justice.
‘Yes, Your Honour,’ responded the prosecutor. ‘When we took Mr Francis back to the station, we asked him, as is our practice, to empty his pockets.’
‘And what did you find in Mr Francis’ pockets?’ responded the Justice.
‘The contents of Mr Francis’ pockets were as follows,’ said the constable reading from his little red evidence book. ‘One pencil, one gold watch, £5 3s. 6d. in cash and several pamphlets, Your Honour.’
‘Pamphlets? What sorts of pamphlets?’ queried the Justice.
‘They were copies of the seditious pamphlet, “The Victims of Whiggery”,’ said the constable.
The Justice immediately swung around in his seat and glared at John over his pince-nez. ‘Are you one of these Chartists, Francis?’ he inquired angrily.
‘I have attended some of their meetings and recently became a member, Your Honour’, replied John innocently.
The face of the red-sashed magistrate darkened, and it suddenly dawned on John that the judiciary, as part of the British establishment, did not look with favour on an organisation dedicated to the overthrow of the political system.
The Justice of the Peace deliberated for a moment as he addressed the accused. ‘John Francis, I find you guilty as charged, and because of your confessed membership of a seditious movement, I sentence you to fifteen years penal servitude in Van Diemen’s Land.’
John stood there dumbfounded, unable to comprehend the severity of his sentence. Fifteen years! A wry smile passed momentarily across his face. The irony of the situation had not escaped him. Here he was, the son of a well-to-do British industrialist about to be sent as a convict to the other end of the earth following a poor Bog Irish girl who was a free settler.
But the gravity of his position soon overwhelmed him as the Justice continued. ‘John Francis, you will be taken to a prison hulk at Woolwich where you will be held until you are transported to Van Diemen’s Land. Take him down!’
The magistrate’s words pierced John’s soul like an arrow, and his heart was suddenly heavy with loneliness. Love and politics were proving to be severe taskmasters.
Chapter 3
John’s first glimpse of the hulks at Woolwich struck terror into his heart. The very sight of these grotesque vessels was punishment in itself. Incarceration in these foul, crowded, rat-infested, floating prisons was calculated to break the spirit of the hardest of criminals.
John was assigned to the hulk, Justitia. She had been decommissioned from the Royal Navy many years earlier and her oak timbers were showing their age. The prisoners on the lower decks were permitted on the top deck for brief periods of exercise each day.
Before boarding, the prisoners were stripped to the skin by some of the roughest looking members of the crew and drenched from head to toe with several well directed buckets of water as they crouched together ignominiously.
‘’Ere lad! Lather yourself all over!’ said one of those deputed to carry out the bathing, tossing John a chunk of carbolic soap. The embarrassment of standing naked on the wharf was as distasteful to John as were the biting winds that blew up the Thames.
‘Ouch!’ yelled John as the sadistic fellow took a rough scrubbing brush to his back. The treatment continued for several minutes until he and the other prisoners looked like boiled lobsters with blood oozing from the many deep scratches on their bodies.
‘Ah! Oh!’ The searing pain was exacerbated by the soap that was worked into John’s torn skin. A few more buckets of sea water removed the lather and John was given a threadbare towel with which to dry himself. A worse indignity followed at the hands of the barber. John was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and his head shorn as close as the scissors could go. His beautiful auburn locks, part of his very being, lay in humiliation at his bare feet. The shock of this introduction to prison life left him staring dejectedly in front of him, wondering when he would awaken from this repulsive dream.
‘’Ere, you! Put this on!’ John was being addressed by another of Justitia’s crew. A bent and wizened old tar he was. His deeply lined and scarred face portrayed the dissipated life common to many of Britain’s seamen. A gnarled pair of arthritic hands proffered a neatly folded ‘magpie suit’, as they were affectionately known, one side black and the other light blue.
Then followed the most humiliating experience of all. The prisoners were marched, single file to the blacksmith’s shop on the wharf. Working beside his brazier, the blacksmith belted the red-hot iron bars with his massive hammer. A thick leather apron protected him from flying sparks, and he frequently wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
The ear-splitting jangle of metal on metal emphasised the harshness of the convicts’ lot. An iron ring was riveted around each of their ankles and connected by a chain of eight links to another ring set between their feet. To this was attached a leather strap, hanging from the waist-belt, which supported the links preventing them from dragging on the ground. Thus equipped, the prisoners were marched back to the hulk where they were allocated their numbers. John was given 3622, and thereafter, he was known as ‘Thirty-six twenty-two’, for no names were ever used on the prison hulks, a further sign of subservience. He and three others were assigned to Cabin Number 24 on the top deck.
John and his fellow convicts were immediately set to work, cleaning shot in the arsenal, knocking rust scales from the shells, and filling them with scrap iron in preparation for the war with the Chinese. Not for one moment during this time was he ever without leg irons each weighing about twelve pounds, and he became so used to them that he might well have missed them had they been removed. The work was constant and tiring for John who was not accustomed to such sustained physical effort. At a penny a day, this was literally slave labour.
One of John’s cabin mates was an old fellow known only as ‘Thirty-six ten’. Like John, he was awaiting transportation to Van Diemen’s Land. He would not admit to any felony and the reason for his detention was the subject of much conjecture and innuendo. ‘Thirty-six ten’ was a cunning old devil contriving whenever possible to have a nap after his midday meal. One of his favourite hiding places was the room where a dozen makeshift coffins were stored. He would lie inside one of them and remain out of sight and undisturbed for an hour or so.
One very hot afternoon, as he was scrubbing the deck near the coffin-room, John heard an unusual thumping sound like the striking of a bass drum. Looking inside he saw the old malingerer.
‘Get me out o’ ’ere!’ came his cry of desperation.
John could hardly contain himself when he saw the reason for the old fellow’s predicament. Earlier that afternoon ‘Thirty-six ten’ had made himself comfortable in one of the coffins and fallen asleep not realising that it was being used to store pitch. The weather was so warm that he had become firmly embedded in the sticky mess, which lined the bottom of his gruesome bed. Despite his frantic efforts he just could not extricate himself. Indeed the coffin had to be knocked to pieces to release him.
One of the more tolerable aspects of life on the prison hulk to which John looked forward was the frequent visitation to the Justitia of Rev. James Hovenden, a clergyman of the Church of England. He had been deputed to attend to the spiritual well-being of those incarcerated on the hulk.
Hovenden was a softl-spoken man of the cloth. He had about him a calm air of serenity, which evoked trust in his fellow human beings. And yet it was said of him that he could preach a sermon with a dynamic fervour that would bring tea
rs of remorse to the eyes of many of his captive audience.
It was such an occasion when the worship service had concluded, and John was at particularly low ebb in spirit, that the chaplain approached him as he gazed dreamily across the river.
‘Greetings, young man!’ The gentle lilt of the voice arrested John’s wandering thoughts. He looked up to see the smiling face of the saintly preacher. There was a look of genuine compassion in his soft blue eyes that John had rarely seen in a man before although they did remind him of the eyes of the Man of Galilee whose portrait adorned the cover of one of the favourite story books of his childhood.
‘Would you like to tell me how you’re feeling?’ said Rev. Hovenden invitingly. He stepped closer and placed his arm around John’s shoulders as if he was his own son. A glow of acceptance swept over John’s body like the water of a warm bath. His eyes moistened as he whispered his thoughts to this comforting stranger. ‘Everything seems so hopeless and humiliating. My girl’s has been taken from me. I can’t tell my parents about this,’ he said pointing to his leg irons. ‘The shame would destroy them.’
‘I don’t know what you have done. I don’t even know your name’ said the kindly clergyman. ‘But I do know that God forgives those who truly repent and turn their lives over to him.’ John felt that it was useless trying to justify himself, but the thought of a forgiving God was a comfort. Was he also a God of justice?
‘Are you getting enough to eat, my boy?’ the older man continued. John assured him that such was the case. ‘And are you warm enough at night?’ As James Hovenden inquired of his well-being, John began to feel as he used to feel all those years ago when his mother would tuck him into bed secure and loved. ‘Don’t let this experience defeat you, but look upon it as the beginning of a new and exciting life. Serve your time well, my boy. Don’t let it break your spirit. I hear there’s good farming in Van Diemen’s Land. You’ll make good if you trust in God, and do the right.’
John’s eyes followed the man of God as he went from convict to convict, offering words of encouragement and pondered why some people seemed to be so filled with love for their fellow men and women, whereas others exuded hatred. The semblance of a smile crossed John’s face. It was hard to count his blessings, but at least he was alive and perhaps he’d meet Anna one day on the other side of the world.
Quietly and unnoticed by the convicts a barge had glided quietly alongside the Justitia, and within the hour, John and thirty or so of his fellow prisoners were herded aboard, and the barge cast off. Thinking that they were on another work assignment, they were shocked when the officer in charge spoke to them. ‘Take a good look around, boys. This is your last ride down the Thames.’ As the implications of this announcement dawned upon them, many groaned in dismay while others called out the names of their loved ones in desperation. The sights, sounds, and smells of the old river were sweetness and light to this desolate band of men drifting inexorably towards an uncertain future.
For the best part of three hours, the barge glided gently downstream past the docks and other river craft. Here and there on the banks small groups of people were fishing and noisy gulls swooped overhead. The tang of the sea air was noticeable.
Rounding a bend in the river, John caught sight of a stately four-masted barque tied up at the wharf at Sheerness some five miles downstream from Woolwich. On her stern, John could see the name, Barossa, written in large ornate lettering. His heart skipped a beat. Was this the transport vessel, awaiting them? He stared in awe like a little boy when he sees an elephant for the first time. Would he ever return to old England? Would he ever see his family again? He felt dreadfully homesick as he thought of his dear mother and sister. A shudder of apprehension shook his body as he contemplated his future. Ironically, the security of the wretched life to which he had become accustomed on-board the prison hulk seemed strangely attractive in the face of the unknown.
Her Majesty’s hired convict ship, Barossa, accommodated three hundred and fifty prisoners with a guard of forty redcoats and a crew of sixty men and boys. Still wearing their leg irons, the prisoners struggled with difficulty up the rope ladders, which hung over the sides of the vessel. On the deck, they were ordered to stand to attention. A distinguished-looking officer stepped forward. All of the convicts assumed that he was the Captain, but were soon to discover that this was the surgeon whose responsibility it was to ensure that the ship’s company reached its destination in a state of good health.
Before embarking the convicts were subjected to a rigorous health clearance. After washing themselves thoroughly, they were issued with new clothing. Regulation dress on the Barossa consisted of a jacket, a waistcoat of blue cloth, duck trousers, a coarse linen shirt, yarn stockings, and a woollen cap. These clothes were suitable for the summer voyage, but were too light for the English winter. On the hulks, they had worn woollen clothing and the substitution of lighter garments in the winter often led to illness.
Not all of the prisons in England and Ireland had been administered with the same strict attention to hygiene as had the Justitia. Some of the convicts, who had been assigned to travel on the Barossa indeed had come from fever-ridden inland gaols and were in a wretched state of health. John had heard stories of the lax medical examinations to which convicts were sometimes subjected, allowing many to embark suffering from contagious diseases, which endangered the whole of the ship’s company. He was relieved, however, to see the surgeon taking time to examine each convict carefully. Some were rejected on the grounds that they were too sick to make the journey.
John’s spirits were immediately buoyed as he observed the spotless condition of the decks and ship’s fittings. The seagulls glided high overhead, squawking as they perched in the lofty rigging.
The final check of the convicts was made at a table where one of the ship’s officers sat writing out their indent papers. ‘Name?’ he asked.
‘John Francis’, replied John, retaining his assumed name. Many had taken an alias to cover their true identity even before their trials.
The officer began to quiz John. ‘What was your crime, Francis?’
‘Buying a coat, sir. They said it was stolen property.’ The officer raised his eyebrows with a sceptical expression on his face.
‘Sentence?’ he continued nonchalantly.
‘Fifteen years in Van Diemen’s Land,’ responded John dejectedly.
The officer looked up in surprise. ‘Fifteen years?’ he said with emphasis and shrugged his shoulders with a look of disbelief. ‘Where were you tried, and when?’ he went on.
‘At the Lancashire Assizes last March, sir,’ answered John. ‘March 1841’, repeated the officer as he wrote.
‘Can you read or write?’ he continued. ‘Yes, sir, both.’
‘What’s your trade, Francis?’ ‘Sailor, sir’ lied John without a blush.
‘You don’t look much like a sailor to me,’ retorted the interrogating officer but recorded John’s responses, nevertheless.
After a few more perfunctory questions, the Barossa’s officer called out, ‘Next!’ The accuracy of these recorded details was, as in John’s case, highly questionable as many false names and much spurious information were given.
The men were assigned their cooking and eating utensils and a small keg for their drinking water. A crew member was sent to show John where the water and pumps were located, and it became one of his duties to fill the men’s kegs whenever necessary.
On the order of the sergeant, the convicts were herded down to the third deck that lay below water level. Their quarters were cramped, poorly lit, and badly ventilated. Their berths ranged around the hold each accommodating two men and equipped with horse-hair mattresses and blankets. Several tubs of water for washing were also provided at each end of the hold.
The men had just begun to settle into their new quarters, glad of the change from life on the hulk, when the sergeant re-appeared at the
far end of the hold. ‘Prisoners Rogers, Francis, and Barton!’ he barked. ‘Report on deck immediately.’
With an air of apprehension, the three followed him to the officers’ mess where the First Mate awaited them.
‘I understand that you three can write,’ he commenced. ‘In view of your previous good behaviour whilst imprisoned on the Justitia, the Captain has granted you the privilege of writing a letter to your family. There’s paper and quill. You’ve got thirty minutes.’
John hesitated for a moment. He was torn between the thought of hurting his family with the news of his disgrace and his concern for his mother whom he knew would be desperate for some word of him. He took up the quill and sat pondering what he might write. After a moment of reflection, he began to record the salient events of the last month, which had brought him to his present state and of his resolution to make a new life in Van Diemen’s Land. As he signed and sealed the letter, he felt a great weight lift from his mind. He thanked the First Mate, and made his way with the others back to the hold.
Her Majesty’s ship, Barossa, set sail from Sheerness with some two hundred and fifty souls aboard passing fairly soon through the Bay of Biscay. After ten days, the Canary Islands came into view, and the convicts were permitted on deck for a brief period to watch the arrival under the watchful eyes of the redcoats. They stared in disbelief as Barossa sailed past knife-edged mountain ridges and precipitous ravines towards Tenerife.
As the sails were furled and the ship glided to its anchorage, shepherds could be seen tending their flocks on the hilly pastures, which surrounded the township. John was intrigued by the variety of small craft that came to greet them. Fishermen making their way out of the harbour waved as they passed. Bare-breasted girls with flowers adorning their hair came alongside in long canoes loaded with pottery, weaving, flowers, and fruits, which they held up for sale. The soldiers, with not a little interest, rushed to the side of the ship leaving the convicts to crane their necks for a glimpse of these sirens of the Canaries.