Prison Ship

by Paul Dowswell

  The weeks merged into one another. The threat of disease, murder or molestation hung over us like a shadow. I held my fear at bay by hoping every day would bring a reprieve. Vincent was our salvation. He could not have protected us better if we were his family. Everyone, it seemed, had a healthy respect for Vincent Thomas. His sheer size, and those vengeful tattoos, were enough to warn both the guards and inmates that anyone who crossed him, and his pals, was in trouble.

  One Sunday morning, towards the end of May, I was washing my clothes up on the deck when the Bosun called over, ‘Oi Witchall, you got visitors.’

  My spirits lifted at once. This must be the reprieve I had hoped for.

  I was taken to a cabin on the quarterdeck with bare wooden benches. ‘Wait there,’ said the Bosun, and the door was locked. I wondered with mounting excitement who was coming to see me. For the first time aboard the hulk I let myself believe it might be Lieutenant Middlewych or Robert Neville, come to tell me the villainy of the Pritchards had been revealed, and Richard and I were now free men. A minute later, there was a kerfuffle at the door and in came my father, mother and Rosie.

  We hugged and cried and shrieked with delight. My father looked older – he was grey round the temples and his hands were shaking. My mother looked drawn. Rosie stood back from them, feeling out of place.

  Then, after that first flurry of excitement, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Middlewych and Neville had let me down. As we settled I blurted out, ‘Do you have news of my reprieve?’

  ‘No son,’ said my father softly. ‘We’ve come to say goodbye.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, suddenly alarmed.

  ‘Our news is that you’re to be sent to New South Wales when the convoy sails in June.’

  Tears of desperation streamed down my face. ‘But we didn’t do it. Surely they would have found that out by now? We’ve been double-crossed. You know that, don’t you? Please tell me you don’t think we’re cowards.’ The whole story came tumbling out – the overheard conversation, the business with Pritchard in the hold, the mock execution …

  My father shook his head. ‘Of course I believe you, son. But even if you had hidden from the battle, no decent soul would blame you. It’s a cruel world we live in, where boys as young as you are sent out to be killed for their country.’

  ‘It’s like seeing a ghost, Sam,’ said my mother. ‘We all got the letters you wrote before they were going to hang you. I felt too sad to cry. Then another letter arrived about a week after that, to say you’d had your sentence commuted. It’s a right mess you’ve got yourself into, Samuel. You and your going away to sea. Why didn’t you stay in the village? Now there’s only Thomas left. Three children I’ve had taken from me. And what’s this about New South Wales? They might as well be sending you to the Moon. We’ll never see you again.’ She started to sob.

  Seeing them after so long, and after so much had happened, was strange. I had been their little boy when I went to sea. I still was, I suppose, but I didn’t feel like it.

  My father spoke. ‘Look, we’ve got this for you. Where you’re going, you’ll need influence. We don’t know anyone of influence so you’ll have to make do with valuables. Here’s ten pounds. I’m sorry I can’t give you more, but it will be of some use.’

  Then my mother slipped off a ring my father had given her before they were married. It had been the most valuable thing his family possessed. ‘I can’t take that,’ I said, although I knew the sapphires and emeralds set in gold were worth a pretty penny.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Your father and I, we’ve discussed this. You need looking after, Sam. We’re not here to look after you, and we won’t be able to help you on the other side of the world. Wear it on a cord around your neck.’ She fished out a thin silk ribbon. ‘If you don’t have to trade it, then let it be a reminder of me and your father, and how much we love you.’

  ‘We’re going to go for a breath of fresh air,’ my father said, ushering my mother to the door. ‘Leave you two alone for a minute.’ They banged on the door, waited for it to be unlocked, then went out on to the deck.

  I turned to Rosie. I hadn’t really looked at her until now, so taken up was I with my parents. She wasn’t exactly as I had pictured her. Not quite the willowy, dark-haired beauty of my memory. She was now an inch or so taller than me, even though I had grown over the last year. Her hair was longer, and hung black and straight down past her shoulders, making her look even skinnier. Then she smiled, and I remembered at once why I had fallen for her. She was pretty when she smiled, and I felt so protective of her. This was my Rosie, who I had thought of every day at sea.

  I suppose this was meant to be a great romantic moment. But it didn’t feel right in this shabby little cabin. On the St Louis we had to wash in stagnant water and dry ourselves with a filthy towel. I felt like a dirty urchin in my prison clothes, irons on my ankles. I wanted Rosie to see me at my best – freshly scrubbed, with new clothes and money in my pocket.

  ‘There was talk of a midshipman post,’ I said. ‘Before all this –’

  She wasn’t interested in that.

  ‘I haven’t got a ring to give you, Sam,’ she said, ‘haven’t really got anything.’ She seemed awkward, and her eyes would not meet mine. This wasn’t how I’d imagined our meeting again.

  ‘I cried for a week when I heard they were going to hang you. They say you’re a coward. I suppose I wanted you to be a hero. People have been saying such horrible things. And now you’re telling us it’s all lies. Well, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.’

  I flushed red with anger. She could see, and quickly began to talk of something else.

  ‘I’ve thought of you so much since you went away. I read your letters so often I could tell you every word. You write a good letter, Sam.’

  She was in tears now, and we hugged each other tight. She was so slight and frail. I could feel the bones of her back hard against my finger tips. My anger faded. She held my face in her warm hands and kissed me softly on the lips.

  Shy once again, she moved away.

  ‘Well look at you now, Sam.’ She stood back, holding my left hand. ‘Even growing a little moustache, I see.’ She giggled. ‘Doesn’t really suit you.’

  I blushed with embarrassment. I had not seen my reflection in a looking glass for many months. ‘They don’t let us have razors,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to ask the barber to shave me when he visits.’

  ‘I like your hair though.’ Like many tars, I had grown it long and wore it tied back.

  At that moment I wished more than anything to be alone with her in the empty fields at Wroxham. Just us and a picnic on a warm summer day. Nestling miles from anyone else, in the dappled light of the riverbank trees.

  ‘You know I’ll wait for you, Sam,’ she said. ‘You’re my sweetheart. I don’t want anyone else.’

  Before we could say anything more, the door opened with a rattle of the lock and my parents returned.

  ‘Bosun says we’ve got to go, Sam,’ said my father, his voice stiff with regret.

  It was a terrible farewell. ‘You may as well be dead, Sam,’ my mother sobbed. ‘People say no one ever comes back from New South Wales. And you with your life sentence –’

  I felt a rush of defiance. ‘I swear I’ll be back. Even if I have to escape. I shall see you all again. I know it in my bones. I’ll write to you as often as I can. If the letters stop, you’ll know I’m coming home.’

  But I didn’t really believe what I was saying. As I watched them go, I thought I would never see them again.

  I wrote to Rosie that afternoon. I told her how pleased I had been to see her, and how, over the last year, the thought of her had made me smile on the dreariest of days. I told her I would always remember her as a dear friend, but that she should not wait for me to return to England. I cried when I wrote that letter, but I didn’t tell her. I wanted her to forget about me. It was only right she should not waste the rest of her youth waiting for me to return.
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  One early morning a few days later, the St Louis’s Bosun came round the lower deck calling out names. ‘Richard Buckley,’ I heard quite clearly. We all knew what this meant. Those selected for transportation were to be ferried to the ship that would take them to New South Wales. I was gripped with anxiety. What if they took Richard and left me here? What if they took Vincent and left me here? I strained hard to hear. Soon enough my name was called, and I breathed easier. Johnny Onions was coming, and Joseph Swales. Shortly after, the Bosun stopped calling out names. Mr Updike was staying. Perhaps his friends in high places had helped him out. Vincent was staying too. I said a little prayer, asking God to forgive them and send them off the hulk soon.

  We gathered our few belongings and said our goodbyes. Vincent gave me a bear hug. ‘Thank you for looking after us, Mr Thomas,’ I said. ‘We’ll miss you.’

  Those of us who had been called were lined up on the upper deck. A blacksmith was present and we were ordered forward to be double-ironed with heavier chains.

  ‘When will these come off?’ I asked, only to be struck around the head with a switch.

  The chains weighed heavy on my ankles, and put paid to any idea of jumping overboard and swimming to freedom. After a few hours they began to chafe and rub my skin raw. We were about to take the first steps on a journey to the other side of the world. If Joseph Swales’ stories were still true, we’d be lucky to get halfway there.

  Chapter 7

  Over the Dark Blue Ocean

  A small boat ferried us towards a three-mast cargo ship. Above the gilded windows of the stern we saw her name, Euphrates. Her quarterdeck ran level with the upper deck, like a frigate, although she was not so sleek. I thought she looked a small vessel for so great a journey, but Joseph Swales assured me Captain Bligh had sailed to the South Seas on such a ship, the Bounty. The Euphrates had been well prepared for our arrival. The hold had recently been fumigated. As soon as I came aboard, the smell of tar, brimstone and vinegar caught in my throat.

  Under the watchful eye of a squad of marines we were lined up and told to strip naked. This order was made comical by the fact that our leg irons prevented the removal of our trousers. A marine came down the line with a bayonet, and cut the garments from our legs. The clothes were gathered up and bundled overboard, considered too louse-ridden or diseased to be worth washing and re-issuing.

  As we stood shivering in the sharp wind blowing down the Solent, they called us forward one by one to be doused in several buckets of seawater. A swift examination followed, conducted by a piggy-eyed man I took to be the ship’s surgeon. In his manner he might well have been examining a sheep at market.

  We were given new clothes – two pairs of trousers and two shirts. Each was marked with a large A or B. The trousers were buttoned on either side of the leg, to allow them to be removed over leg irons. I said a silent prayer, entreating God to spare us from being double-ironed for the whole voyage.

  ‘You will wear items A on the first week, and items B on the second week,’ barked the Bosun, ‘and wash these clothes with care and regularity.’

  Then came the bedding. I was disappointed to discover we would be sleeping in bunks. I had got used to a hammock and the way it rolled with the waves. Bunks wouldn’t be as comfortable. Each bed roll had a large black number painted on it, as did the three threadbare blankets we were given. Finally, each of us was issued with a worn, wooden pillow, also marked with a black number.

  ‘They’re spoiling us,’ whispered Richard. ‘These clothes look too thin to keep anyone warm. We’ll need to wear both shirts at once when the North Wind blows.’

  We tramped downstairs. Despite Swales’ warnings I didn’t feel the same trepidation as when I had entered the hulk. There was something about the look and feel of this ship that told me it was going to be well run. Besides, I was glad to be away from the St Louis. It was such a threatening, dangerous place, I knew our luck would not have held for ever.

  On the lower deck a corridor with cells either side stretched almost the whole length of the ship. Richard, Johnny and I were pointed to a small cell with four bunks, next to the stairway. There was already one occupant in it, a tall young man with spectacles and a bright, inquiring face. ‘Dr Daniel Sadler,’ he said with a pleasant smile, and stood up to shake our hands. What was a man like this doing in here?

  When I saw some of the other prisoners file past, I was glad not to be sharing with them. There was another small cell on the deck, but the rest held ten or more men. I guessed there must have been a hundred or so convicts on board, men and boys of all shapes and sizes. We certainly had some villains among us.

  The Euphrates sailed later that morning. As we were confined to our cells for the first week of that voyage, I couldn’t see Portsmouth and the coast of England slowly slip away from us. Perhaps it was a good thing. It would have been too distressing. I tried not to reflect on everything I was leaving behind, but I couldn’t help myself.

  It was not just the thought of leaving loved ones I would never see again, it was everything I had ever seen and done and known. One late August day, at the end of my last summer at Wroxham, I stood on the pebbly banks of the River Bure just where a small tributary flows into it. There I watched the water babble through the shallows and the cross currents push against each other. Three cows came to see me, staring in their benevolent way and the river bank was still full of flowers. Now I would never stand there again.

  My mood lifted when our shackles were removed. As the ship passed the last of England we were allowed to walk in the fresh air on the deck. I saw at once we were sailing in convoy. There were three convict ships, of which we were the smallest, with two Navy sloops for escort. I longed to be on one of the warships as part of the crew. It felt wrong being on a ship and doing nothing useful.

  * * *

  The Captain of the Euphrates was a stern Liverpudlian named Casewell. He paced the quarterdeck with a quiet authority. Looking at his weather-beaten face and wiry frame, I guessed he had been at sea from a very young age. Although he was courteous to everyone, crew and convicts alike, there was something in his manner that suggested it would be very unwise to disregard what he was saying. The First Lieutenant, in contrast, was a haughty toff called Holkham. I could see at once it was an uneasy partnership.

  Casewell’s crew were a scruffy bunch. I thought they could do with our help. Also aboard were a platoon of marines, some of whom had brought their wives and children. It was pleasant to see women on board, and to hear young children playing and reciting skipping rhymes. It made our ship seem less sinister and more part of an everyday, ordinary world.

  Among the passengers I noticed a beautiful young woman. Doctor Dan told me her name was Lizzie Borrow. She was the daughter of one of the Governor’s officials, and was travelling out to be reunited with her father. Casewell must have felt confident in the security of his ship to carry such a passenger. Clearly, Joseph Swales’ dire predictions for the voyage were proving to be wrong.

  Most of the time Lizzie remained in her quarters close to the Captain’s cabin, but occasionally she would take the air on deck. Richard noticed her too and was smitten. She was sixteen, only slightly older than him. He often tried to catch her eye, in the hope of winning a smile.

  We could not have hoped for a better cell mate in Doctor Daniel and I swiftly began to think of him as a friend. He told us he had been a ship’s surgeon aboard the frigate HMS Esmeralda. There had been a rebellion among the crew, occasioned by the behaviour of a brutal officer. The Doctor had mediated between crew and captain. He had argued so fiercely in favour of the crew, the captain had him court-martialled. Doctor Daniel was duly sentenced to transportation for seven years. He seemed to take his fate remarkably lightly. ‘Probably short of medical men down in New South Wales,’ he said with a bitter laugh. Captain Casewell had taken a shine to him as soon as he came on board, which was why he had been given a small cabin with us boys for company. He was asked to assist the bumbling shi
p’s surgeon Nicholas Privett. In return he was provided with extra food.

  Dan and Privett would often clash over what to do with a patient, and he enjoyed telling us about it. ‘Privett just believes in bleeding,’ he said. ‘Anything wrong that can’t be remedied by opening a vein and extracting a pint of blood, and he’s stuck for an answer. George Randall has an ulcer on his leg from an ill-fitting iron that was left on too long. When I suggested powdered Peruvian bark and citric acid, Privett looked at me as if I were reciting a spell. “Do we need some bat’s blood and snake skin too, Doctor Sadler?” he said. He can’t bear the fact that one of the convicts knows more about medicine than him.

  ‘Bloody fool even wanted to bleed an eight-month-old baby. Sergeant Tomlins’ little girl has awful colic. Been with her since she cut her first tooth. She needs mercury and chalk with a little powdered rhubarb root. Privett has got all this stuff in his medicine cabinet, I think he’s just forgotten how to use it. He let that poor little girl suffer for another week with his thrice-weekly bleeding, until she was at death’s door. Then he asked me to make up the medicine I’d suggested. The child is getting better, but she still looks sickly.’

  As soon as we had won his trust, Doctor Dan told Captain Casewell that he had two skilled seamen among his cargo of villains. We were put to work caulking the deck and repairing sails and rigging. We were given extra rations as our reward, and we shared our good fortune with Johnny Onions.

  Despite our kindness, Johnny proved to be a surly, difficult cell mate. He would mimic our accents and manners, and even steal food from our plates. He often just stared at us with baleful hostility. He couldn’t help himself. ‘He wasn’t like this on the St Louis,’ I said to Daniel. ‘Vincent was such a terrifying-looking fellow, I suppose he was too frightened to misbehave. I think he thinks we’re soft.’