Morgan's Run

by Colleen McCullough

  This statement was not quite accurate; somewhere in Cumberland County were four black Cape cows and one black Cape bull. The precious Government herd of cattle, pastured near the farm under the care of a convict, took advantage of his rummy state, swished their tails and broke out of their compound. The search for them was frenzied and signs of their passing were found in heaps of dung and chewed shrubs, but they had no intention of being recaptured, and were not. A disaster!

  Supply had come back from a second trip to Norfolk Island with some cheering news and some depressing news. The pine logs could not be loaded whole thanks to lack of an anchorage, nor could they be towed because they were so heavy they sank, but they could provide plenty of sawn beams, scantlings and boards for Port Jackson. This meant that Port Jackson could erect better wooden buildings than palm log, and concentrate upon a liquor store in stone—Fishburn and Golden Grove were stuck until some secure premises were erected on shore for the liquor.

  On the other hand, Supply reported, growing plants in Norfolk Island was proving almost insuperably difficult because the place was infested with literally millions of caterpillars and grubs. Lieutenant King was so desperate that he was sitting his handful of women convicts among the plants to pick the grubs off by hand. But as fast as they picked, two replaced every one grub removed. Such rich, deep, fertile soil! Yet he could not grow in it. What did shine through in Lieutenant King’s despatches, rumor had it, was an unquenchable enthusiasm for Norfolk Island. Despite its myriad pests, he truly believed that it had more potential to support people than did the environs of Port Jackson.

  Among the ailing were pockets of healthy convicts, the majority of them led by resourceful men with the ability to general their dependents toward good health, a minority led by men of different resource—robbing the weak. There were no regulations to the effect that convicts who encountered patches of wild parsley or the sweet tea vine (samphire was just too far away) must surrender their spoils to those in command. The chief restriction on plant-gathering expeditions was fear of the natives, who were getting bolder and now even came into the camp from time to time. The Governor was hoping to capture and tame a few—introduce them to the English language and English ways—and thus, by returning them, Anglicized, to their tribes, persuade these wretched people to ally themselves with the English effort. Did they, he was convinced, their own standard of living would be immeasurably improved; it never began to occur to him that perhaps they preferred their own way of life—why should they, when it was so draggled and pathetic?

  To English eyes the indigenes were ugly, far less prepossessing than African negroes because they stank, daubed themselves with a white clay, mutilated their faces either by knocking out an incisor tooth or perforating the gristle between their nostrils with a small bone. Their unashamed nakedness offended grossly, as did the behavior of their women, who on some occasions would coquette brazenly, on others scream vituperation.

  Poles apart, neither group stood a chance of understanding the other, nor did sensitivity rule conduct. Inundated by exhortations from the Governor that the natives were to be handled through kid gloves, the convicts grew to loathe these feckless primitives, especially as they were immune from punishment when they stole fish or vegetables or tools. To make matters worse, the Governor always blamed the convicts for the occasional attacks and murders; even if there were no witnesses, he assumed that the convicts had done something to provoke the natives. Whereas the convicts assumed that this was not so: the Governor would side with Satan if a convict were involved because convicts were an even lower form of life than natives. Those first few months at Sydney Cove cemented attitudes which were to persist far into the future.

  The winter was cold, yet not unbearably so; no one would freeze to death. Had the invaders been decently fed, they would probably not have shivered the way they did. Food warmed. A few hut owners piled sandstone into unmortared chimneys and reduced their residences to cinders so frequently that the Governor issued orders—no chimneys were to be put on any save brick or stone houses. The smithy burned down; luckily perishable items like bellows were rescued, as were the rest of the tools, but clearly the smithy would have to go high on the priority list of solid buildings. So too the bakehouses, one communal, the other devoted to baking bread for Sirius and Supply.

  Ned Pugh from Gloucester Gaol presented himself to his old comrades. He had been sent to Friendship with his wife, Bess Parker, and their little girl, two years old when they landed in New South Wales. Within three weeks Bess and the child were dead of dysentery. Ned was so inconsolable that Hannah Smith, a convict who had become friendly with Bess between Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town, took him under her wing. She had an eighteen-month-old son, who died at Sydney Cove on the 6th of June. Nine days later she and Ned Pugh married. Aside from lack of food they were prospering; Ned was a carpenter by trade and a good worker. A child was on the way and both prospective parents were determined to keep this one.

  Maisie Harding, the cheerful giver of favors in Gloucester Gaol, had not been transported, though she was a fourteen-yearer reprieved from the noose; what had happened to her, no one knew. Whereas Betty Mason had come out on Friendship, pregnant yet again to her Gloucester gaoler. Her baby son died at sea out of Cape Town, and that plus her yearning for Johnny the gaoler had eroded her thought processes; she turned bitter and hard, was one of those who was occasionally lashed for stealing men’s shirts. Though Lizzie Morgan stoutly maintained that another convict woman had it in for her and victimized her.

  In Richard’s hut all was well apart from perpetual hunger. Lizzie was so well known to at least half the men that they accepted her as a sister returned to the fold; the only one she could not charm was Taffy Edmunds, whose misogynistic tendencies worsened. He refused to be fussed or clucked over, did his own washing and mending, and came to life only on Sunday evenings, when the group lit a fire outside next to the fallow vegetable garden and he could sing counter to Richard’s baritone.

  Richard and Lizzie had their own small room, added onto the basic structure, though they slept apart even through the coldest weather. On some nights when sleep was far away Lizzie would toy with the idea of making overtures, but never did. She was too afraid of rejection, preferred not to test the temperature of his affections and drives. Men were supposed to suffer powerfully from sexual deprivation, but among her ten men there were three who seemed to give the lie to this—Joey Long, Taffy Edmunds and her own Richard. She knew too from congress with the other women at the laundering place and around and about that Joey, Taffy and Richard were not unique; there were certainly some men who liked men, but there were others scattered here and there who elected to be monks, who had shut themselves away from sexual solace of any kind—even, she suspected, tossing off. If Richard tossed off, it was extremely silently and without moving. So she was afraid, too afraid to attempt anything he might dismiss her for.

  Not all of life revolved around food and the lack of it, and there were good moments. Despite the two-thirds rations issued to their mothers (convict and marine wife alike) and the half-rations they themselves received, the children who managed to survive played, whooped, got into mischief and rejected the attempts of the Reverend Mr. Johnson to confine them in a school to learn reading, writing and arithmetic. Those he could not capture were the offspring of living parents; orphans had to do as he bade them. Family life did exist among the convicts and enlisted marines, often of a happy nature. Feuds existed too, especially between the women, who could conduct vendettas any Sardinian might have been proud of. As they refused to be bullied and answered back with profane fluency, the women were lashed more frequently than the men. Not for stealing food. They stole men’s shirts.

  Of Stephen Donovan, Richard saw absolutely nothing. Since the 30th of March he had absented himself, Richard deduced because he hoped that the marriage would work itself into something both parties to it enjoyed. Oh, he missed Stephen! He missed the easy friendship, the sparkling conver
sation, the discussions they used to have about a book one had read and the other was reading. Mrs. Richard Morgan was no substitute. He admitted her loyalty, her capacity to work, her simplicity, her cheerfulness. Qualities which inspired him to care for her. But love her as a wife he could not.

  The first of the transports and storeships had sailed in May, and Alexander, Friendship, Prince of Wales and Borrowdale were due to sail halfway through July.

  So when the convict couple Henry Cable and Susannah Holmes from Norfolk prosecuted Captain Duncan Sinclair for loss of most of their belongings early in July, the convicts who had sailed in Alexander exulted, even if Sinclair was bound to win the case. Cable had fallen in love with Susannah in Yarmouth prison, and Susannah had borne a son. But when she was sent alone to Dunkirk hulk in Plymouth, she was not allowed to take her baby with her. This London callousness provoked an outcry around Yarmouth and resulted in a petition’s being sent to Lord Sydney. When Cable followed Susannah to Dunkirk hulk, he brought their baby with him. Their plight had touched many Yarmouth hearts; a goodly amount of clothing and some books were wrapped in canvas and sewn into a parcel by their well-wishers in Norfolk and sent aboard Alexander, though the Cables had sailed on Friendship. At Sydney Cove all Sinclair gave them were the books; the clothing could not be found.

  As it was a civil case, the panel which sat to hear it was presided over by the Judge Advocate, marine captain David Collins, assisted by the Surgeon-General, John White, and the Reverend Mr. Johnson. Sinclair’s contention was that the parcel had broken when being moved from one part of the hold to another and that the books had fallen out, so had been kept separately. As to what happened to the parcel itself, he had no idea. The court found in favor of the Cables, whom the Reverend Johnson had married after they landed. The worth of the books was assessed at £5 of the £20 total value; Captain Duncan Sinclair was ordered to pay the Cables £15 in damages.

  “I will not!” he cried, outraged. “Let them pay me fifteen pounds! They owe me for freightage of their wretched parcel!”

  “Pay up, sir,” said Judge Advocate Collins wearily, “and stop wasting this court’s precious time. Your ship was in the service of Government and you were remunerated accordingly for the sole purpose of conveying these people and the little property they possess to this country. Fifteen pounds, sir, and no nonsense!”

  A verdict which told Alexander’s convicts that the higher-ups were well aware that Esmeralda Sinclair had been selling convicts’ belongings at Sydney Cove.

  The episode had one curious consequence. Two days after the court case Major Robert Ross sent for Richard to his palm log house; a stone house was being built for him with haste, as his accommodations were not fitting for the Lieutenant-Governor. His nine-year-old son, John, had been disembarked from Sirius and was now living with him; the child’s mother and younger brothers and sisters had remained behind in England.

  The Major was in a wonderful mood, smiles from ear to ear.

  “Ah, Morgan! Ye heard that Captain Sinclair lost the case?”

  “Aye, sir,” said Richard, returning the grin cautiously.

  “Take that—’tis your property,” said Ross. “It magically appeared out of nothing in Alexander’s hold. But first, ye’d best look to see what’s missing.”

  There on a camp stool stood Richard’s big wooden tool chest, bare of any cloth wrappings; had it not still borne the brass plate with his name on it, who would ever have known? The locks had been broken; his heart sank. But when he opened it and removed all its nested trays, he could find nothing missing.

  “I’ll be buggered!” said the Major, peering at the contents of the trays. “Ye’re no saw sharpener, Morgan—ye’re a gunsmith.”

  Everything was perfectly ordered. Senhor Tomas Habitas must have packed the box himself because it contained whole flintlocks, parts of flintlocks, screws, pins, bolts, brass and copper cladding, springs, various liquids—whale oil!—special brushes. Far more than he had ever needed to carry to and from work. Nothing had moved or broken; everything was so tightly wadded in lint that a bedbug could not have crawled inside. With what was in here, he could make a gun did he have an unfinished stock and a freshly forged barrel and breech.

  “I am a master gunsmith,” Richard admitted apologetically. “However, sir, I am a genuine saw sharpener too. My brother in Bristol is a sawyer and I always set his saws for him.”

  “Ye’ve been very close about the gunsmithing.”

  “As a convicted felon, Major Ross, I thought it inadvisable to air my skills at handling weapons. My interest might have been misinterpreted.”

  “Fuck that!” rapped the Major, delighted. “Ye can turn to and overhaul every musket, pistol and fowling piece in this camp. I’ll have a proving butt built immediately—there are too many children running loose to pot bottles on tree stumps. How is your apprentice saw sharpener coming on?”

  “He is as good as I am at it, sir.”

  “Then he sharpens saws and you work on guns.”

  “To work on guns, Major Ross, I will need a proper work-bench of the right height, some sort of stool, and shade allied to plenty of light. ’Tis not work can be done well otherwise.”

  “Ye shall have whatever ye need—the rust, Morgan, the rust! There is not a gun in this place smaller than a cannon is not full of rust. Half the muskets aimed above the natives’ heads or at the kangaroos hang fire, flash in the pan or fizzle. Well, well!” The Major rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I knew that fat fucken flawn Sinclair had your tools, so as soon as the court rose I took him by the collar and told him I had an informer willing to give evidence that he’d stolen a chest of tools belonging to the convict Richard Morgan. Next morning I took delivery of it.” He emitted a short bark which Richard decided was his version of a hearty laugh. “He must have taken one look inside it and thought it more profitable to sell the thing intact in London.”

  “I cannot thank ye enough, sir,” said Richard, wishing he might shake the Major’s hand.

  The Major clapped a hand against his forehead. “Wait a moment! Nearly forgot I have something else for ye.” He scrabbled around in a heap of items rescued from his lightning-ruined marquee and held up a large bottle of sluggish fluid. “Assistant Surgeon Balmain distilled this while he was—er—slightly incapacitated last month. ’Twas Mr. Bowes Smyth found the tree before he sailed for Cathay. He thought it not unlike a turpentine, though its sap is a sort of a blue color. It fell to Mr. Balmain to test it on the rusty saw. He said it worked very well.”

  Richard stood expressionless as the Major gave him this information, well aware (as were all his fellow convicts) of what the officers were convinced they had kept a close secret: that Mr. William Balmain and Mr. John White, who had loathed each other ever since the affair of Alexander’s bilge pumps, had had such a fierce and drunken quarrel at the King’s birthday feast that they promptly went out with a pair of pistols and fought a duel. Mr. Balmain had received a flesh wound in the thigh, and the Governor had been forced to tell the two combatants very gently that surgeons should concentrate upon letting blood out of patients, not out of each other.

  “Then I shall save my butter of antimony and whale oil for the guns and give Edmunds this bottle of whatever-it-is for the saws,” said Richard, and departed hardly crediting his good fortune.

  Within two days he was ensconced beneath the shelter of a stout canvas tent, its sides retractable, at a work-bench of the right height and with a stool to match. Major Ross had not exaggerated; the settlement’s armaments were shockingly rusted.

  “What a close-mouthed bastard you are, Richard,” said Stephen Donovan, arriving to investigate the latest rumor.

  Oh, how good to see him! “I did not think it right to speak of things that were behind me, Mr. Donovan,” he said, making no attempt to conceal his joy, written all over his face. “Now that I am officially a gunsmith, I am happy to discuss it with you.”

  Chin tucked in, eyes gleaming derisively, Dono
van said no more for perhaps an hour, contenting himself with watching Richard work on his first consignment, a pair of pistols belonging to the Major. What a treat to be privileged to watch a consummate craftsman doing something he loved to do! The strong sure hands moved over the gun delicately, applying a drop of whale oil with the tip of a lint-bound stick, working at the frizzen spring.

  “The frizzen is soft,” Richard explained, “so ’twill not strike sufficient spark. Aside from that, the Major has kept his pistols very nicely. I have removed the rust and browned them with my butter of antimony again. Thank you for the wedding present, it is more appreciated now than it was then. What have ye been doing with yourself?”

  “Captaining a longboat to bring oyster shells, mostly. We are taking the boats out to sea now that Port Jackson is exhausted.”

  “Then ye’d better go back to your longboat, captain. I can see Major Ross approaching,” said Richard, putting the pistol down with a sigh of content.

  Donovan took the hint and departed.

  “Done?” asked Ross brusquely.

  “Aye, sir. All remaining is to test them.”

  “Then come with me to the proving butt,” said the Major, taking the walnut case from Richard. “Once the muskets are something like workable, there will be practice every Saturday at the butt, and ye will supervise. This place should be fortified, but since His Excellency deems battlements and gun emplacements frivolous, the best I can do is have my men prepared for emergencies. What happens if the French arrive? There is not a ship moored in a defensive position nor a cannon could be fired in under three hours.”

  The proving butt was a log house with no front wall and sand piled inside it; a post bearing a chunk of blackened wood was the target. The Major fired at it while Richard loaded his second gun, fired that, and grunted in satisfaction. “Better than when I first bought them. Ye can start on the muskets tomorrow. And I have found ye an apprentice.”