Rise and Fall

by Michael Whitehead

  “Three? Really? That is dire news indeed,” Harris said.

  “It’s the call of the gold, sir. Nobody wants to leave the one place in the world they stand a good chance of becoming rich,” Wright said, giving the captain information he already knew.

  “It will be a tough voyage without a full complement, Stephen. Do we still have men out recruiting?”

  “A few, sir. I have to be honest, a couple wouldn’t even take our money. They said it wasn’t worth our expense or their time,” Wright replied.

  “Honest of them, at least,” said Harris, he turned back toward the crew, who were struggling with another bundle of timber. “Well, we will make do with what we have, they’re good men and I’m sure we can get the job done.”

  “Very good, sir. Anything else before I get back to the job at hand?” Wright asked, while gesturing to the loading.

  “Yes, if we can’t replace the men that have gone, we can at least try to make the men who are still on board a little happier. Order three more barrels of rum, a side of beef and three more barrels of salted pork, put it on my account. Full stomachs and sore heads, aye Stephen?” Harris chuckled at his own humour

  First Mate Wright smiled dutifully, “Yes, sir. I’m sure the men will be grateful.”

  “Are the new men up to snuff?” asked Harris, as an afterthought.

  “Obviously not very good at digging for gold, sir,” said Stephen, making a joke of his own.

  Harris chuckled again, enjoying the humour “Quite, Stephen. Quite.” With that, the first mate turned back to his duties of supervising the loading.

  Harris strolled on, nodding and complimenting the crew where the opportunity arose. The loss of so many crew, while the guest cabins would all be full, was a blow indeed. He would need to push the men hard in order to fulfill all the duties. He was sure it would have a detrimental effect on some of the crew. However, there was always the fact that the share of the bounty would be divided between fifty nine instead of sixty eight men, to soothe sore backs at the end of the day.

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  The wind was cold as it blew through the bars of the small window. George Francis rolled down the sleeves of his rough shirt and wallowed in his misery. Two men approached him on the other side of the bars that made up the wall of his cell. “Where’s your brother, George?” Sergeant Robert Brooks asked George, as the man sat in one of the Melbourne jail cells. He had been on the docks when Brooks’ men had arrested him. He sat on a wooden pallet in the corner of the cell, looking despondent.

  “I’m telling you nothing,” muttered the figure, who was hunched with his back to Brooks.

  “Don’t be like that, George,” said Brooks. “Listen, I know you weren’t the ringleader in all this. In fact, I’m fairly sure it wasn’t even your brother. It was John Grey, if I have my information right. Bring your brother in and get him to talk to me and I can let you both go under Queen’s evidence.”

  “Why should I believe that?” George Francis asked but Sergeant Brooks heard a hint of interest. He smiled to himself, honour among thieves had ever been a myth, in his experience. All you usually had to do was dangle an escape from punishment in front of one of the men involved and he would sell the others down the river. The information was that there were six men involved in the McIvor gold robbery, he would be happy to hang five.

  “Think of your wife, George. What will happen to her if you go to the gallows? How long would it be before she was spreading her legs for the sailors down on the docks?”

  George was up on his feet in a snap. For a man who had appeared resigned to his fate a moment before, he had a lot of life in him now. He reached through the bars, grasping for the front of Brooks’ shirt. Had the sergeant been a fraction slower in stepping back, he might have found himself in trouble, as it was the fingers of George Francis’ right hand caught nothing but air. There we go, thought Brooks, that’s the crack I’m going to use to open the safe.

  “What do you need?” asked George.

  “Give me the names of everyone involved in the robbery. Tell me where I can find your brother, John, and anyone else you know about. Get John to corroborate your story.”

  “What does corroborate mean?” asked George. Brooks did his best not to let exasperation show on his face.

  “Get John to confirm your story is true, George.”

  “Oh, okay,” replied the bushranger.

  “Do that for me, George, and I will let you and your brother go,” Brooks said with a smile.

  “What happens to the other men?” George asked.

  “Someone has to be punished for the theft, George. That was a lot of gold you boys robbed. I can’t just let it go, can I? The question you need to ask is would you rather spend the rest of your life with that lovely wife of yours, somewhere quiet and peaceful, or hang from a rope in a few weeks time?”

  George looked around the room, taking his time to make up his mind. He seemed to settle on a place on one of the walls. Brooks tried to see what George was looking at, it looked like every other part of the dank, grey, misery that was the jail cell.

  “You promise you won’t hurt John?”

  “George, if you brother does what I need him to, I might even pin a medal on him.” In truth, Brooks knew that George would make a poor witness, dull-witted as he was. If it came down to it, he would do, but Brooks would rather have John Francis giving evidence in front of the judge.

  “Madagascar,” George said, with a look of shame on his face.

  “John is going to Madagascar?” asked Brooks.

  “No, that’s the name of the ship we were both supposed to be leaving Australia on. It sails tomorrow, John will be on that ship.”

  “Good man, George. You won’t regret this,” smiled Brooks, as he backed toward the door of the jail house. He called for five men to join him as he reached the yard. If John Francis got word of his brother’s arrest, he might be in the wind by the time they reached the docks, there wasn’t a moment to lose.

  Despite the loss of nine men to the lure of gold, the loading of the Madagascar had gone without a hitch, if one ignored the near disaster involving the timber, and Captain Harris did. There was always an air of excitement at the beginning of a voyage and it normally began with the captain’s dinner.

  Harris had a man ready with a silver tray, laden with drinks for the guests as they boarded the Madagascar. Most of the men were in Melbourne, enjoying one last night of freedom before sailing on tomorrow’s tide. Harris was confident he would see them all return, each had been presented with ample opportunity to have his head turned by the prospect of prospecting. Harris allowed himself a small chuckle at his play on words, conscious that there were more than one pair of eyes on him.

  His best dress coat had been returned from a tailor in Melbourne, where it had been undergoing some much needed repair. It felt stiff at the collar and slightly tight across the chest. Harris was more inclined to think the man had somehow shrunk the item, than to admit he may have gained a few pounds during his stay in Australia. He had found the food simple but engaging, the portions were magnificent at the few eateries he had frequented. A brisk walk around the deck each morning might be in order.

  “Permission to come aboard, Captain Harris?” called a broad, deep voice from the dock. A portly gentleman stood waiting, with the plainest woman Harris had ever seen on his arm. She wasn’t ugly, as such, just unremarkable in almost every way. On top of this, Harris had to add, she was the dullest of creatures. They had spoken when her husband had booked passage and a five minute conversation had seemed to drag on for an hour. Mr. Bassett, on the other hand, was a gentleman of the world. Not the most successful of merchants but certainly one that promised a good story on the long evenings to come.

  “Mr. Bassett, what a pleasure to see you again. Please, come aboard,” Harris said with enthusiasm. He helped Mrs. Bassett onto the deck and handed both a glass.

  “Please, call
me Malcolm,” said Mr. Bassett, shaking Harris’ hand.

  “With your permission, Malcolm,” replied Harris but knew as he said it that he would stick to Mr. Bassett for the crossing. A lesson learned on previous voyages was not to get too familiar with passengers. One might find the use of Christian names charming, while the next might be insulted by the over-familiarity and informality.

  “How are you this evening, Mrs. Bassett?” Harris asked with trepidation.

  “Tolerable, thank you, Captain Harris. I have had better days and I have had worse days. I am hoping for a fine meal but fear ship cuisine may not be to my liking. One can only hope,” Mrs. Bassett replied.

  “Quite so, quite so,” bustled Mr. Bassett, seemingly aware of his wife’s affect on strangers and wishing to divert the attention away from her. “May I ask, captain, what delights you have in store for us this evening?”

  Harris was spared the need to explain that he left those decisions to the ship’s cook, instead his attention was demanded by the arrival of the second two guests of the evening. Lady Worthington, a widow of many years, who was travelling with her son. The gentleman in question, being sickly looking even on land, Harris feared for the man’s health when he was at sea.

  Lady Worthington had briefly explained that she was from a house in Yorkshire but Harris, to his shame, had forgotten which one. He had made discreet enquiries so as to avoid embarrassment at dinner but so far had drawn a blank. He could only hope the name came up before he was required to prove himself to her ladyship.

  Even as he was handing Lady Worthington a drink, a further three guests joined the party. Harris turned to Stephen with a look of desperation in his eyes. That worthy stepped neatly between the captain and Lady Worthington, diverting her attention as Harris turned to greet Mr. Thomas Richmond.

  Mr. Richmond was, by reputation, an eminent scientist and while Harris took only a passing knowledge of natural philosophy, he was more than happy to have a man aboard who could stretch and peak his interest.

  The final two guests of the evening were Mr. John Francis and his beautiful wife. A last minute addition, taking the last first class cabin, Mr. Francis was the owner of a substantial portion of the privately owned gold that now ballasted the ship.

  Mr. Francis had the rough, tanned, skin of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors and would normally not be the sort of person Harris would invite to join the Captain’s table. Harris, however, found Mr. Francis to be particularly well spoken and interesting. Besides, his wife, Rose, was beyond fair and would be a welcome addition to a table that held little in the way of pleasing the eye.

  Sergeant Brooks stood in the shadows of the docks, looking across the deck of the Blackwall frigate. It had a single deck, which meant that from his high vantage point on the roof of a nearby warehouse, he was able to see the whole party as it gathered on the deck.

  He had men ready to approach the ship as soon as he saw Francis board. It seemed at the start that he may be in for a long wait, however, as this seemed to be a high class affair and not the sort of event that Francis would be invited to, or attend.

  Brooks watched a number of well-dressed and important looking people join a man, who Brooks assumed, was the captain. They were greeted with drinks and began to mingle.

  “How the other half live, aye Smith,” Brooks said to the constable next to him.

  Smith, a young lad of no more than eighteen years, looked up at Brooks from a crouching position. “Must be nice, sir.”

  “That it must, Smith,” said Brooks.

  “Who’s that, sir?” asked Smith. He was pointing to a tall gentleman wearing a wide-brimmed hat. “That’s not Francis is it, sir?”

  “Hard to tell, Smith but I don’t think so. He looks a little tall to me,” said Brooks.

  The two of them watched the captain of the Madagascar greet the new guest but almost as soon as he had, a new couple turned up.

  “That, on the other hand, looks exactly like the man we are looking for,” Brooks said to Smith. “Apparently crime does pay.”

  The two men crouched in the darkness and watched the man who had robbed the gold reserve transport. He walked amongst the other dinner guests on the deck of the ship as if he belonged in their midst. Brooks felt his blood begin to heat with anger.

  “Tell the men to get ready, we’re going to move on my word,” Brooks ordered the young constable.

  “Sir, if I may, should we rush in?” Smith asked.

  “What’s on your mind, Smith?” the sergeant asked.

  “I’m just thinking, if we wait a couple of hours he will be pretty drunk. We can wait for him as he gets off the ship and arrest him much easier. Less chance of anyone getting hurt, as well, sir,” Smith said.

  “How old are you, Smith?” Brooks asked.

  “Eighteen, I think, sir.”

  “You’ll go a long way, with thinking like that,” Brooks said with a smile in the dark.

  Chapter Two

  “Please, Mrs. Francis, allow me,” Thomas Richmond said, leaning across the table with the wine bottle in hand. He poured her a generous glass, which she accepted with a smile and a nod of the head.

  Harris was very pleased with the way the meal was going and the balance of the guests. In his opinion, variety was ever the spice of life. He leaned back in his chair and undid the top button of his waistcoat. Lady Worthington noted him doing so and a smile crossed her own lips.

  “Lord Worthington used to do exactly the same half way through a meal. I have always appreciated a man with a good appetite for the finer things in life,” she said. Harris noted that her own son, Philip, had touched almost nothing of his own meal. Lady Worthington had spent almost the entire meal telling him all the ways he was embarrassing her, out of the corner of her mouth but loud enough that every other guest could hear.

  His napkin wasn’t straight, he was holding his fork badly, he was drinking too much wine, he was eating too little food. Harris couldn’t tell if having such a weak son had made her overbearing, or if having to live under her cloud had made him a more timid man. In many ways she was fine company but to her son, she was just short of a tyrant.

  “Tell me, Mr. Wright,” interjected Mr. Bassett, “is the ship loaded and ready to sail tomorrow?”

  The first mate raised a glass and said with genuine pleasure, “The hold is full and the sea awaits, with God’s will, we will see easy sailing.”

  “Well said, Stephen,” Harris commended and raised his glass, the rest of the table followed suit. “God and Queen Victoria.” The toast was echoed around the table, some with more gusto than others.

  At the far end of the table Sailing Master Timothy Brent, a broad man who was having to sit with one leg outside the table in order to accommodate his bulk, spoke, “Tell me, Mr. Bassett, where have your previous journeys taken you?”

  “Well, I have no wish to bore the table, but I’ve had the pleasure to travel to the Orient and the African subcontinent in my time. I travelled to America but didn’t stay, it wasn’t for me. I made enough to cover the cost of the journey and returned back to Mother England.”

  “Ah, the Orient. I believe Captain Harris has had the pleasure of sailing to China more than once,” Brent mentioned, hoping to bring Harris into the conversation. However, a voice cut across the conversation and all eyes turned to Rose.

  “Tell me Captain Harris, is it not frightfully easy to find one’s self lost in such big oceans, I know sailors use the stars to navigate but how do you do it on cloudy nights?” She seemed to realise she had cut into the conversation a little too late and looked embarrassed at her impertinence. “I am sorry, that was frightfully rude of me,” she said to Mr. Bassett.

  “Not at all, I find your question of utmost interest dear lady. Please, Captain Harris, if you could enlighten us?” Bassett requested.

  “For that we have to thank another Mr. Harris. John Harris, to be exact,” Captain Harris began. “John Harris was one of the finest makers of clocks there
has ever been. You see, the world to a sea fairer is divided into lines of latitude and longitude.” As he said each, he first described circles in the air, horizontally and then vertically with his finger.

  “Latitude was never a problem for navigators, however, longitude was ever a mystery. Hours spent staring at the stars would leave sailors hundreds of miles from their destination. What was needed was a way of telling the time accurately at sea. That way the correct measurements could be taken and the correct longitude could be ascertained. Mr. Harris was the first man to create such a time piece, although he was badly treated for his whole life by men who thought the stars held the entire answer to the problem. It is because of the chronometer on this ship that we will always know, within a small area, exactly where we are.”

  “How fascinating, so you have one of Mr. Harris’ clocks on board?” Rose asked. Her husband John Francis smiled at her enthusiasm, although he had spoken but the barest word since sitting down.

  “Alas, Mr. Harris made but five clocks and only three of those went to sea. It is the legacy of fine clock and watch makers that have taken up his mantle to whom we must give thanks for the sea clocks we use today,” Mr. Brent interjected.

  “Well, I would like to raise a glass to the fine sounding Mr. Harris,” said John Francis, speaking for the first time in a while, the table duly obliged.

  “Tell me, Mr. Francis, what has occupied your time in Australia?” Thomas Richmond asked of the bushranger. All eyes turned to John Francis as he put another mouthful of steak into his mouth. He held up a hand to apologise for his inability to talk and elicited a moment of polite laughter from the table. Eventually, he was able to give an answer.

  “I’ve worked the land for most of my time here,” he said with a grin. “I was a ranger for a few years until Rose here tamed me. I turned my hand to prospecting, almost as a hobby and, eventually, I struck lucky.”