The Highwayman

by F. M. Parker

  “Then I say we outfit a boat and go down the bay to the sea. We’d set a course for New Zealand. There are colonies of freed convicts along the southern coast. They’ve developed a seaport and trade in wool and timber so there’s ships coming and going there. We could stay there until we caught one to England.”

  “If we could find New Zealand.”

  “I can navigate and handle sail,” Patrick said. “I’d need compass and sextant.” During the voyage from London on the Vimeira, several of the sailors had become sick and the captain selected some of the stronger convicts to replace them. Patrick had been one of those men. They knocked off his irons and let him come up from the hold. Over the next several days he stood watches handling sail and as helmsman. He had persuaded one of the deck officers to show him how to use the sextant and navigation tables.

  “I can get those and other things we’d need from the company,” Swallow said. “Maybe we could make it,” his voice held both doubt and hope.

  “We would give it a hell of a try.” Patrick knew the mighty sea was the great wall that held men prisoners in Australia and a boat was the only way to truly break free. Even if a man could reach the wild bush land of interior Australia, it would be but half an escape. However this was wintertime and the Antarctic storms made the sea fierce and cold. Tackling it in a small boat was hellishly dangerous, they could be swamped, and currents and storm winds could take them off course by hundreds of miles. They could freeze to death. He shrugged all that away for any danger was better than remaining a prisoner.

  “Tell me how the witnesses are brought to the courthouse.”

  “Whenever men are to testify, they’re kept on shore at night in a special room in the Prisoners’ Barracks. There are many men waiting for trial. There are so many cases that the judge has been holding court late in the day. Often it‘s dark when he stops because the winter days are so short. Maybe you could slip away from the guards as they march your group from the courthouse to the barracks.”

  “That’ll be damn dangerous for the Marines like to shoot. But I’m game to try it. I can’t go far with my irons.”

  “I can have hammer and chisel ready to knock off your irons,” Swallow said in a voice gaining strength. “Now the fishing company is named Cockrell’s and it’s located five blocks south of the courthouse on the waterfront. My sleeping room is in the back.”

  “I’ll meet you there some night not too far off, unless the Marines kill me.”

  “Then we have a bargain. Once your trial begins, I’ll wait with a light every night for you to come.”

  “There’s one thing you got to know. Nothing can make me turn back once I start down this road. Not even to save my life, or yours. I’ll escape, or die trying.”

  “I don’t want to die. I want to get to my wife and daughter.” Swallow held out his hand.

  Patrick gripped it firmly. “I’ll help you get there if it’s at all possible. Be watching for me.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “Prisoner Jacob Taylor, how do you plead to the charge of murdering one Timothy Popjoy on July ninth of this year of our Lord 1860?” asked the judge. He was dressed in a flowing red robe and white wig and staring down from his high seat behind the tall, polished wooden bench in the government court in Sydney.

  “Not guilty,” Taylor replied. His voice quavered and he held himself erect by a fierce grip on the railing of the prisoner’s dock.

  Taylor glanced at the corporal of Marines from Van Diemen’s Land to whom he had admitted killing Popjoy in the quarry. The corporal gave him a challenging look from where he sat beside the prosecutor. Both men knew the game that was being played out.

  Taylor looked at the nine convicts of his work gang seated in the witness pew. He leaned toward them, wanting a sign of approval from those who had shared with him so much misery and the death lottery of the Sydney plan. His eyes moved searchingly across them.

  Patrick signaled his approval to Taylor with a slight nod of his head. That’s right; plead not guilty. Make it so that every witness must be heard and the trial last as long as possible. Give me time to find a way to escape.

  “You plea is recorded,” the judge said. “Prosecutor, begin you case.”

  “Yes, your Honor,” said the bewigged and robed prosecutor as he rose from his seat. He faced the judge and began his opening statement, recounting Popjoy’s death and Taylor’s admission of the crime to the corporal.

  Eight days had passed since Patrick had arrived in Sydney. This was the first time he had been off the hulk ship and was savoring it. The convicts had been allowed to bathe and were given new prison uniforms, the standard yellow shirt and gray trousers. They had also been issued yellow coats, much used and threadbare and giving little protection from the cold. With the new situation, his spirit felt light and his courage strong. Swallow, be where I can find you for I’m going to try and slip the guards tonight. We must leave this place that holds ten more years of imprisonment for you and death for me.

  The convicts were heavily guarded. Two Marines from the Prisoner Barracks, one a sergeant, sat directly behind the convicts. Both were armed with pistols and rifles with bayonets attached. Two other Marines with rifles and bayonets were stationed at the exit of the room. Knowing the convicts desperation to escape, the Marines had secured every man’s wrists with manacles in addition to their leg-irons. Double ironed or not, Patrick was determined to try to slip away in the dark tonight if the slightest opportunity presented itself. He willed the time to speed by.

  The trial droned on. McCoy was called to the witness box for questioning. Patrick’s thoughts veered away from the proceedings in the courtroom. The prosecutor’s voice faded until it was barely a murmur on the edge of his awareness. He glanced at the wide spectator’s section of the courtroom and found it empty except for a handful of men poorly dressed in much worn and frayed civilian clothing seated close about the large iron heating stove that show flames through the isinglass windows of its door. The men were paying no attention to the goings-on in the courtroom and had obviously come in from the cold to get warm. They were basking in the heat from the stove. Two men appeared to be sound asleep sitting upright. Other men were silent or talking in whispers that didn’t reach Patrick. He wondered how many of them were convicts who had served out their sentences and chose to remain in Australia.

  He looked beyond the men and out through the courthouse window where the winter sun cast long, dark shadows on the nearby street. A fog was forming along the coast and creeping up the hill and hiding the buildings. Night would be just beyond the range of his sight and sweeping across the cold ocean toward the land. With luck, darkness would have fallen by the time court recessed for the day.

  The prosecutor called the Marine corporal to the witness box. In his impeccable red uniform, the Marine marched across the courtroom. By the end of the questioning of the corporal, the courtroom windows were black with night.

  The judge yawned hugely, picked up his gavel and slammed it down on the wooden block on top of the high bench. “That is sufficient testimony for today,” he said. “The court is in recess until nine o’clock tomorrow. Guards, take the prisoners away.” The judge rose and climbed down from the bench and went out through a door in the rear of the courtroom.

  “Convicts, get on your feet,” the sergeant of Marines ordered. “Form a single line.”

  The sergeant called out to the two Marines in the rear of the courtroom. “You two, light your lanterns. Then go outside and stand alert.”

  The two took up their big storm lanterns from the floor, pried up the glass globes, lit the wicks and lowered the globes. They went out the door and into the street,

  “Outside with all of you,” the sergeant commanded the convicts.

  Patrick fell into line ahead of Knatchbull, who was near the center of the convicts, and moved with him and the others through the front entrance and into the street. A cold winter night accompanied by a dense fog filled the street and blanketed the surr
ounding buildings. The wash of the streetlights at the nearest street intersections showed as dull yellow pools in the foggy darkness. Patrick felt his spirits rise at the presence of the masking fog. Maybe there would be a chance to slip away.

  “One lantern carrier lead and one bring up the rear,” directed the sergeant. He spoke to the third Marine, “You work with me to guard the sides. Now take your positions, and by God keep your eyes on the convicts.”

  He shouted out to the prisoners. “Stay in the center of the street and maintain one step separation. Anyone falling out of line will be shot without warning. Now march.”

  Patrick and the others shuffled off with a scuff of shoes on the cobblestone street and a noisy jangle of wrist manacles and leg-irons.

  Patrick twisted his head and whispered over his shoulder to Knatchbull. “I’m going to try it tonight. When I fall out of line, close it up and keep moving. Don’t give me away.”

  “Right,” Knatchbull whispered back. “I’m thinking about trying it too.”

  One of the lantern carrying Marines, walking some four steps ahead of the convicts, led the way along the dark street. The second lantern carrier was the same distance behind the last convict. The sergeant and the fourth Marine marched along the left side of the convicts, the sergeant near the front and the fourth man paralleling the last convict. All the Marines stayed well out of the reach of the convicts.

  The gang of prisoners and their guards went up the slanting street toward the Prisoners’ Barracks on the top of the hill. One block was covered, and then another. Patrick watched every recessed doorway they passed, every unlit alley, any possible place where he might dive into and be hidden for the few seconds that would be required for the guards at the rear to pass by. He saw nothing that could hide him.

  From the darkness ahead, a team of trotting horses drawing a wagon heavily loaded with barrels burst into view and bore down upon the Marines and their contingent of prisoners. The vehicle was upon the men swiftly and they jumped for the nearest safety. The Marines sprang to the left from in front of the wagon. The sidewalk to the right was closer to the convicts and they scuttled that direction as fast as they could with their irons. The pounding hooves of the horses and crunching iron-rimmed wheels of the wagon tore past between the guards and prisoners.

  “Bastard!” the Marine sergeant cursed the driver of the wagon.

  “Go to hell,” the driver shouted back as the wagon vanished into the foggy night.

  “Form up,” the sergeant shouted at the broken line of convicts. “Lantern carriers, take your positions.”

  For a moment as the Marines with the lanterns moved to their positions, the group of convicts blocked off the light and shadows fell on the right side of the street. Patrick sucked in his breath and took three hurried steps with manacles rattling and fell into a patch of dead weeds in the narrow opening between two buildings. The weeds were too sparse to hide him. Still anything was better than nothing. He rolled to his back and bent a clump of weeds over him to hide his yellow coat as best he could. He lay motionless and listening for a call of alarm from the Marines. To be found out, would mean death from a bullet, or a bayonet thrust through him.

  CHAPTER 26

  Patrick lay in the weeds of the alley with his heart slamming against his ribs and waited for the dreaded shout from the Marine guards that a prisoner was missing. Any moment now he would hear running footsteps approaching and a shout of his discovery and a bullet would drill through him. Should that happen, let the shot go true to his heart.

  Seconds passed and still no cry of alarm sounded. He pushed the weeds aside and sat up and peered around the corner of the nearby building and looked along the street. The lantern lights and the jangle of manacles and leg-irons were drawing away into the night. Knatchbull had done his job and closed up Patrick’s space in the ranks without the Marines noticing they were short a prisoner.

  Careful not to make noise with his irons, he came to his feet, and shuffled out from the opening between the buildings and onto the street. He had little time remaining for he would be missed when the headcount was made at the Prisoners’ Barracks. Swallow had said Cockrell’s Fishing Company was located on the waterfront five blocks from the courthouse. That would put it some one-quarter mile from Patrick. How was he to find it in the fog and darkness? He shoved that problem away for the moment. First the waterfront must be found. Walking so that his chains were stretched taut and couldn’t rattle, he went down the sloping street for that direction had to lead to the harbor. His spirits climbed higher with each step gained toward possible freedom.

  He crossed to the opposite side of the street to stay out of the light of a streetlamp. Then crossed back to avoid a man coming toward him through the darkness. He held close to the walls of the buildings and kept a sharp lookout for a hiding place to duck into should he meet somebody with a light.

  He had gone but two blocks when a door in the building close ahead swung open and light spilled out onto the street. A Marine with a lantern stepped out onto the sidewalk. Patrick stopped immediately and held his chains silent with the Marine but a few feet distant.

  The Marine moved off in the direction away from Patrick. After two steps, he halted and pivoted back, peering into the night. The man had sensed Patrick’s presence nearby. He lifted his lantern high to see into the darkness.

  “What the hell!” the Marine exclaimed as he saw Patrick in the convict’s uniform.

  Patrick was already scurrying forward as fast as his leg-irons would allow. The Marine must be silenced quickly. With a desperate lunge, Patrick dove at the man. He came in under the upraised lantern and clasped the man around the waist. They crashed down upon the stone paved street with Patrick on top of the man’s legs. The lantern fell from the man’s hand, the glass shattered and the flame snuffed out.

  Patrick reached up with his manacled ands and caught the man by the shoulders and jerked himself fully upon him. He fended off the man’s grappling hands, grabbed him by the hair, raised his head up and smashed it down onto the stone pavement. The man went limp. Patrick had felt the solid muscles of the Marine, and so to be certain the man wasn’t faking unconsciousness, he slammed his head down once more upon the pavement. He felt no regret at his rough treatment of the Marine. In fact it was a fine thing to deal out what had been so often dealt him.

  Patrick hastily searched the man for a weapon and found only a jackknife and a wallet. He put both objects into his pocket. He climbed to his feet and cast a look both ways along the street. Nobody was visible in the short range of his view through the night fog. He caught the unconscious man by the collar and dragged him along the street for a score of feet and into an alley and dumped him on the ground. Working awkwardly with his manacles, he stripped the Marine of his red uniform, coat, pants and shirt, bundled it all up and tucked it under an arm. He returned to the street warily. Neither seeing nor hearing anybody, Patrick hastened off.

  A smell came to him of salt water and fish, the odor of ships and their damp canvas and yardage and wood, and the scent of many varieties of cargo. He had found the waterfront. He slowed and came out cautiously onto the stone paved quay between the bay and a row of warehouses.

  To his right half a city block away, several lanterns glowing with yellow flame sat in a line on the quay and lighting the way from a warehouse to a ship berthed at one of the piers. A string of stevedores carrying huge loads upon their shoulders were transferring cargo from the warehouse to the ship. A steady tramp of feet and a mutter of voices rose from the laboring men.

  Patrick went off in the other direction from the men. Without knowledge of which direction Cockrell’s business lay, one way was as good as any other to search. He moved on, his eyes probing the night. Behind him the noise of the stevedores moving cargo faded away in the distance. Swallow had acted as though the place wouldn’t be difficult to find. Patrick hoped that was so.

  Shortly a faint light became discernible ahead in the night fog. As he drew nearer
it became a rectangle of light, and a few steps further it became a window in a door. He stole closer and checking for some identification of the building. Then he saw it, a sign across the front of the building proclaimed it to be Cockrell’s Fish Company.

  Patrick peered inside. The room was large with a long workbench running left and right. A torn fishing net was stretched on the bench together with some tools for mending it. There were baskets and barrels sitting in neat rows and oars piled in a corner. More fishing nets and several fishing poles hung on the sidewalls. Behind the counter and far back against the rear wall, was a desk with a man sitting hunched shouldered and working on an open ledger in the light of an oil lamp. The man was Swallow.

  Luck is still with me, thought Patrick. He tapped a knuckle on the window.

  Swallow lifted his head and peered across the room. Patrick pressed his face against the window. Swallow stared hard for a moment and then his hand rose quickly in a gesture of recognition. He swung off his stool and dragging his lame foot, came at his best hobbling pace.

  Throwing a bolt, he unlocked the door and stepped into the opening to block it. He looked past Patrick and both ways along the street. “I thought you might come tonight what with the thick fog. That’s why I’m still here with a light.”

  “Damn glad to see you, Swallow. I wasn’t sure I could find the place. Where are the company people?”

  “At home. They shouldn’t be coming back tonight.”

  A rifle shot sounded from the hilltop above the town. It was instantly followed by a flurry of shots, both rifles and pistols.

  “That has to be Marines firing,” Swallow said in a worried voice.

  “Some other prisoner is making a run,” Patrick said. “I’d guess it’d be Knatchbull or maybe McCoy. Maybe both. We haven’t much time. Let’s get inside and knock irons off.”

  “I’m not sure this is the right thing for me to do.” Swallow said in a hesitant voice. He remained standing in the doorway.