by Cameron Nunn
“It was in God’s mercy to have saved us,” the surgeon spoke, as he stood on the upper deck and addressed those who were well enough to come above. I guessed there were fewer than half the number. “And if in His sovereign grace He has saved us, then in His mercy He shall also deliver us. Like Paul and the shipwreck off Malta, God has preserved the life of every person on board the ship. Those who have injuries or sickness, I have no doubt will recover. Therefore, because of this mercy, it is incumbent of all men to decide today whether they will turn from their wickedness and live a life worthy of such providence. For be assured that any man who turns his back on divine grace should expect only judgement when he meets his maker.”
The surgeon seemed to forget we were all still going to New South Wales. There are times when death is more merciful than being revived to a life of torture.
Will hovered. He wasn’t trying to spy but in his dad’s haste to speak with Gran, he hadn’t shut the door properly. His father’s back was towards him.
“What have you said to the children?” Gran asked, her arms folded.
His father seemed to have grown old almost overnight. He sat down at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands. “What could I say? Rosie found her like that.”
“So you’ve told them the whole situation?”
There was a long pause and Will thought he’d missed what his father had said.
“Robert, what have you told them?” Gran asked more forcefully. She seemed to tower over him.
“What am I supposed to say that she–“ His dad stopped himself. “Why would she do it when the kids were there?” He seemed to slump lower in the chair.
Will couldn’t hear what he said next but whatever he said, it brought a strong reaction from Gran. “You of all people should know that we don’t always make good choices when we’re in that state.” Will had never heard anyone scold his father. Gran’s voice wasn’t angry, but she was a rock. “So what next?”
Again there was another long pause. Will could see his dad was staring at the table while Gran had him firmly fixed. “I’ve told them that they’ll stay with you for a couple of weeks until she gets better . . .” he said awkwardly.
“Robert!”
“I don’t know what else to tell them.” His voice was thin.
“You could’ve started with the truth. For pity’s sake, Robert. This is your responsibility.”
“I just need some space to work things out.” His voice was pleading.
“It’s not that we don’t want the kids. You know that. We’ve seen them little enough, but not like this. This isn’t right. It’s not fair on them.” She unfolded her arms and put her hands on her hips.
“Just give me a couple of weeks to get things sorted. Please.” His dad turned and for a moment Will thought his dad had seen him but he was too caught up in his own troubles.
“Who knows what your dad is going to make of all this in his condition,” Will heard his gran say as he moved back from the door.
A minute later, they emerged from the kitchen. His father was unable to make eye contact. Rosie had come into the room just a moment before. She cast a worried look at Gran who smiled back but Will could sense there was hopelessness in her eyes. “Your dad thinks it’d be good for you and Will to spend some time with Pa and me.” Gran was a smaller, thinner version of Will’s father but she had a sturdiness that stretched beyond her appearance. “Just till your mother comes home from hospital. Do you need a hand packing?”
“Will helped me last night ’cause Dad was busy in the shop,” Rosie said innocently.
Gran shot an annoyed look at their father.
“I said I’d help her in the morning,” he explained limply.
“It’s the afternoon,” Gran said, not missing a beat. “How about we check that Will hasn’t left anything out. I’m sure he’s done a great job, but it doesn’t hurt to have another set of eyes. My, that’s a brightly painted wall.”
“Mum chose it,” Rosie said without enthusiasm. “It’s not finished yet.”
“Well, maybe she’ll finish it when she’s better. Now, let’s have a look at that bag of yours.”
Gran slept the night at Will’s house and they packed the car after breakfast. The drive west was a long drawn-out silence, punctuated with bursts of awkward enthusiasm from Gran. Will sat in the back next to Rosie. “I think you’ll love the farm,” she said, trying to sound as positive as possible. “You like sheep, don’t you?”
Will had no feeling either way about sheep other than he enjoyed eating them, but that probably wasn’t what Gran had in mind. They crossed the Nepean River that marked the far edge of Sydney. Will couldn’t remember ever travelling to the Blue Mountains, even though they were so close to Sydney. Ahead of them was a family van. From the bikes on the back and the suitcases piled high, it was clear they were heading off on holidays and Will thought back to his mum’s attempt to get to the Gold Coast. That memory only added to the despair. Rosie was asleep, her head rocking with each bump of the car.
Halfway across the mountains the traffic came to a standstill while a group of workers stood and watched one man filling potholes. Another hung onto a stop–go sign, staring in a bored way at the traffic as it banked back.
“It always confuses me how convicts built the whole road over the Blue Mountains with hand tools,” Gran said, “but road workers with bulldozers take six months to fill a handful of potholes.”
There was a long pause before Will said, “I’m sorry you had to come all the way to Sydney to pick us up.”
“Nonsense. Getting out for a drive does me good.”
“I mean, it’s just . . .” He looked across to make sure that Rosie was still asleep. Her head was lolling in front. “It’s just with Pa being sick . . .” he said finally.
Gran shot him a quick look in the rear vision mirror and then stared back at the man holding the sign as though she feared missing the moment when he’d turn the sign. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
“I heard you and Dad talking and you said you were worried about his condition.”
Gran laughed a little unconvincingly. “Pa’s old, that’s all. When people get old they just need more looking after.”
Will nodded even though Gran was still looking ahead. He didn’t want to ask any more questions so it was a relief when the traffic finally began to move again, inching slowly past the workers who were still standing as though watching would eventually fill the pothole.
Every now and then they passed a town with a cluster of shops scattered along either side of the highway. The road ran endlessly on. Will stared out the window trying not to think about home.
They stopped in Orange at McDonald’s for lunch. Gran made a big thing of letting Rosie choose whatever she wanted. Rosie could be easily bought, Will thought. She seemed to forget the fact that their mum was in hospital and they were heading to the middle of nowhere because no one else wanted them and that irritated him. Will ate slowly. Part of him wanted to ask questions but his stomach twisted whenever he thought of speaking.
“Are we nearly there?” Rosie asked when they were back in the car. She’d only woken up at Bathurst and was already growing restless despite the stop.
“About another hour,” said Gran as she pulled out of the carpark.
“An hour!” Rosie exclaimed. She flopped herself back in her seat and threw her arms out dramatically. “A whole hour? That’ll take forever.” She dragged out the last syllable and Gran laughed.
“The best things are worth waiting for,” she said, turning her head briefly and smiling at Rosie.
“It suddenly occurred to Will that he’d no real idea where the farm was. His dad had always said it was just west of Orange but now Gran was saying it was an hour west of Orange. What was west of Orange? He tried to imagine a map of New South Wales, but he only had the faintest idea of towns. “What’s the name of your town?” he asked, trying to sound unconcerned.
Gran smiled as tho
ugh she had a secret. “Murga. Although calling it a town is probably a bit of an exaggeration. I’m told there was a town once, with a school and everything, but that’s been gone a long time now. Down our road, it’s just Dot and us. There are other farms about, but the sheep outnumber people a thousand to one.”
Rosie laughed, clearly thinking Gran was playing a trick. “If there’s no town, then how do you go shopping?”
“Eugowra’s only fifteen minutes away, or I drive to Canowindra if I need groceries. Sometimes Dot and I come into Orange, but not that often. You’ll find it a bit different to Sydney.”
“But where do the kids go to school?” asked Rosie, frowning.
“I don’t think there are any children, but I guess they’d go to Eugowra. That’s where your dad went to school, and then to Canowindra for high school. ”
Rosie glanced over at Will, her brow creased. He could tell by her look that she was confused about this place where Gran and Pa lived which had no shops or school or anything. Will tried to avoid making eye contact.
As they drove along The Escort Way, yellow paddocks slipped by with regular monotony and pale houses looked onto the road with bored indifference. Farmland shuffled backwards from the road in dry yellows and sun-faded greens. Only the road was travelling anywhere, further and further from Sydney. They passed through a small town made up of dismal shops with For Lease signs in front of closed curtains.
“Last pub before Murga,” Gran announced as the road turned back to empty farmland.
Near as quick as the storm passed, the flux seemed to disappear. Before long, those what could stand outnumbered the sick at muster above deck. Many of those what’d suffered were haggard and drawn, like men uncertain whether to live or die. They were pale, bent and exhausted, but no man who could make it up the stairs would stay down in the hold any longer ’n they had to. Each day more surfaced. By the time we reached Sydney there were none left in the infirmary. Still, we had to fly a yellow flag on the foremast till we were declared safe to land.
We’d been told that when we entered the harbour, all prisoners would be kept below deck until we were documented and assigned. How long ’ll that be? “As long as it takes,” were the only answer we’d get. I cannot say how I felt now I’d arrived. Amos would say that a man will not happily climb into a lion’s den to escape a bear. I were caught between the dread of knowing and not knowing. And so we sat in the shadows and waited.
No one, we were told, could come on board while the yellow flag were flying, except the colony surgeon to decide if it were safe or not for us to be landed. That night there were no less than eight visitors who came down with the ship’s captain. One man looking for a prisoner who were a stonemason, another for a cobbler, another for a cooper who could make barrels. Prisoners were inspected, conversations were had, deals were struck. Later that night a short barrel-chested man made his way down towards the bow. The captain were holding a lantern what made the shadows dance up and down through the bars.
“Blacksmith’s boy, you say?”
“Properly ’prenticed, he says.”
They reached our cell and the captain held the lantern higher. Cabbage Fists were told to step forward.
“He’s a big ’un, I’ll say that. How old are you, lad?” the barrel-chested man asked in a manner what seemed not unkind.
“Sixteen.”
“Be a shame to see such a big lad go to the gangs,” the captain added.
“Show me your hands.”
Cabbage Fists stretched them through the bars.
“Turn them over.”
“Big hands,” the captain spoke. “Blacksmith’s hands if ever I seen them.”
The barrel-chested man ignored him. “How long were you at the forge?”
“Been working at the forge near on six years. I were ’prenticed a year or more before I got taken up.” Cabbage Fists tried to sound off-hand as he brought his hands back through the bars.
“Have you a mind to return to the forge? I could do with a blacksmith’s boy. Better ’n being on a work gang.”
“Aye, I would,” Cabbage Fists replied.
“We’ve a deal then?” The captain seemed eager to conclude the transaction. “I’ve a man in the superintendent’s office who can ensure convicts are assigned . . . correctly. The two guineas mostly goes to those who take care of such matters, you understand.” The captain were already leading the large man back down the ship. “The terms are cash, you understand . . .” His voice faded as it went.
We stood in silence for a moment, until Cabbage Fists said, “I think the captain just sold me for two guineas.”
“Like a donkey,” I added. And then we laughed so loud that one of the marines came down to find out what the commotion were about.
It hadn’t occurred to me we might end up doing the very trades what we’d left in London. At Tothill Fields we’d picked oakum for hours on end and I’d imagined New South Wales would be like one enormous house of correction.
“It might be you get to work with a sailmaker,” offered Cabbage Fists.
That night I dreamed I were back in London, working with Amos, a sea of canvas stretched out before us. I were telling Amos he’d need to pay the captain two guineas if I were to be allowed to work for him, but Amos said he didn’t have so much as a farthing to give. With that the captain came in with two marines and they dragged me out and threw me back in gaol. It were an ill-omened dream.
The next day all the prisoners had their heads shaved again and we were made to wash with a soap what burned the skin red-raw. New canvas slops were issued what were lighter ’n the wool of Newgate. One cell at a time, we were called up onto the main deck to be inspected and sorted. I were the last of our cell to be called by number.
A man of slender build sat at a desk, recording each detail in his book. His fingers were long and pale and manicured, like a lady’s hands. I looked down at my own stumpy fingers. Perfect for climbing walls.
“Age?”
“Fifteen, I think.”
“You think? You don’t know your age?” He pushed a pair of spectacles back up his nose and looked at me like I were a bag of pus.
“I mean, fifteen.” I tried not to stammer.
A marine held a stick beside me and announced I were four foot two inches.
“Hair?”
“Brown.”
“Face?”
“Round.”
“Eyes?”
“Brown.”
Each time the marine called out a detail the man with the slender hands wrote it down. And so they pulled me apart bit by bit and tied me to that book.
“Trade?”
“Sailmaker’s boy.”
“Remarks?”
With that the marine grabbed my face and pushed up my lip to see my teeth. Then he seized my arm and pushed up each sleeve, turning my arms and hands each way up.
“Anchor tattoo, inside left arm,” he announced.
The sea stretches a person’s memory with its vastness, and hope can vanish like salt spray. But everyone needs hope and memory. They’re what keep you alive. Some of the others had pricked initials of their parents or those they were determined to remember. There weren’t none for me to remember ’cept Amos and George. Initials would’ve meant naught to them, so I’d pricked an anchor and smeared it with lamp soot. An anchor were a certainty that I’d go back to Amos as soon as I were free and we’d go on like things were before. It weren’t just an tattoo; it were a promise.
“This one can go to the Carters’ Barracks. He’s too small to send out. The big boy’s already been spoken for. The others can be sent to Grose Farm until they can be assigned.” He wrote a note and handed it to the marine. “Let the superintendent’s office know that they can begin disembarking the men tomorrow morning.”
It seemed strange after four months of being caged together this were the end of things. It weren’t that I just knew each of them, but I knew every part of them. I knew things what the man with t
he pale hands could never know, even if he asked as many questions as he could imagine. I knew who snored the loudest and who farted in their sleep. I knew about their mothers. I knew about how Dibbs lost his front teeth and why Slipper had a scar running down the right side of his face. I knew Cabbage Fists liked stories more ’n anyone and Jimmy were dead afraid of being eaten by a tiger in the new land. I knew the names of their fancy girls and the fences they used to sell the stuff they stole to. But now there were naught but a hollow emptiness of breath.
Next morning we were assembled on the dock like cargo, stacked this way and that. There were different soldiers this time. Each had the same blank look. Thinking had been pressed out of them with their tunics. For the first time I got a good look at Sydney town. The dock were a tumble of people moving like ants about their business. Bond stores lined right along the length of the dock and men were busy carting goods to and from the warehouses. Behind the stores the land rose to a hill mounted by two windmills. Two ships were on the dock and another eight moored in the harbour.
I closed my eyes and tried to hear the sounds of the London dock, but all around were the hard clattering sounds and the dry, brittle voices of a foreign country. In place of the soft greys of the Thames were hard yellows, hard blues, hard browns. There were nothing beautiful about this place. It were a quarry yard of shattered bricks and bones. Every now and then a detachment of soldiers would arrive to march another chained group up the dirt hill and away from the harbour. Their voices steadily drowned in a murmur of chains. By the middle of the day it were just me sitting there, guarded by four soldiers. I were ravenous hungry but nobody thought so much as to give me a bite.
Steadily, as though he’d all the time in the world, a gentleman strolled along the dock. He had a piece of paper in his hand what he kept checking and glancing up as he walked. The first thing what struck me were how ridiculous he looked, dressed up like a fat peacock. He wore a coat of velvet blue over a green waistcoat what were straining to hold in his bulk. His hair were wispy and jumbled in all directions.
