by Lance Morcan
As Nathan followed the track back to the village, he walked with a spring in his step. He felt blissfully satiated and, not for the first time, congratulated himself on finding Tagaq. She fully satisfied his desires and would continue to satisfy them. At least until I get outta this place!
20
Gulf of Guinea, 1848
Ten days after departing the Canary Islands, Minstrel found herself becalmed off Ghana, in the Gulf of Guinea, en route to Equatorial Guinea. Conditions on board were so unbearably hot and sticky that the Drakes and their fellow passengers regretted they’d ever left the balmy refuge of Santa Cruz de Tenerife.
The Drakes and most of the other passengers had taken to living and sleeping on deck, so stifling were the conditions below deck. Even outside, the temperature was so hot and the humidity so dense that breathing was an effort and the slightest exertion resulted in torrents of sweat. But at least there, the passengers could escape the stench of bilgewater.
Now, as the mid-day sun beat down, passengers were sheltering beneath whatever shade they could find. Lying on the deck toward the bow, Susannah intermittently dozed and read her bible in the shade of a blanket her father had strung up for her between two lantern poles.
The young Englishwoman had no shortage of reading material for the long voyage. When she wasn’t reading the bible, she often studied a textbook of translations of Fijian words in order to gain some understanding of the language before reaching Fiji. Handwritten, it had been lovingly compiled by another English missionary couple, Harold and Charlotte Simpson, who were traveling to New Zealand aboard Minstrel. The couple had previously served as missionaries on one of Fiji’s outer islands, and were more than happy to share their first-hand knowledge of the destination with Susannah.
The excited shouts of children alerted Susannah to activity on the far side of the brigantine. She hurried to the starboard rail as fast as her lethargic limbs would allow and saw the object of the children’s excitement: schools of flying fish. They were literally flying by.
“Look mama!” a young girl squealed. “The fish are flying!”
Susannah became caught up in the moment and laughed delightedly as several fish ended up on Minstrel’s deck. Just then she caught the eye of Irishman John Donovan. He’d been giving her the eye ever since the captain had released him from the hold following the recent brawl below deck. Donovan grinned at Susannah lecherously. The young woman studiously ignored him. Awful man. He gave her the creeps. She tensed as Donovan sidled up to her.
“I know a quiet place we can escape the heat below deck, Miss Drake,” Donovan ventured.
“I’m sure you do…Mister?” She knew his name, but wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
“Donovan,” the Irishman grinned. “Me friends call me John.”
Susannah noted his face still bore the marks of the recent brawl. “I am sure I have better things to do than go below deck with you, Mister Donovan,” she said haughtily.
Donovan’s arm suddenly snaked around Susannah’s waist. He pulled him to her and forcibly tried to kiss her.
Susannah slapped his face hard and pushed him away. Her feisty response surprised the young Irishman.
Donovan hid his surprise behind a lewd smile. “Me invitation still stands,” he smirked.
At that moment, Kemp appeared behind the pair. “Is everything alright, Susannah?” the former colonel enquired.
Donovan executed a mock bow in Susannah’s direction and, without acknowledging Kemp, retired below deck. Kemp looked at the young woman enquiringly.
“It was nothing, Mister Kemp…ah…Harry,” Susannah said, making light of the incident. “I was just making Mister Donovan aware I have no intention of socializing with him.”
“Very wise, young lady,” Kemp suggested. “He’s nothing but trouble that one.” Kemp was momentarily distracted by another school of flying fish that scudded past the vessel. Smiling, he pointed at the fish. “One of nature’s strangest sights.”
Kemp’s schoolboy enthusiasm for such things further endeared him to Susannah and helped her forget the unpleasantness of a few moments earlier. His enthusiasm contrasted with his military bearing and otherwise serious demeanor.
“How long are we likely to remain becalmed?” Susannah enquired.
“Ships have been known to be delayed weeks on end in this part of the world.”
Susannah was horrified at the thought.
Kemp added, “But the first mate advised me he believes we should be underway in the next two or three days.”
Susannah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this prediction. She wasn’t sure she could stand even one more day of the stifling heat. However, she managed a smile for Kemp’s benefit. “That is good news.”
“Ship ahoy!” the cry came from Minstrel’s lookout.
Susannah and Kemp looked about them, trying to sight the other vessel. Kemp spotted it off to port. It was just a dot on the horizon, approaching from the direction of the Ghanaian coast.
Finally, Susannah saw it, too. “How can it be moving yet Minstrel is stuck fast?” Susannah asked.
Kemp didn’t hear her. He was too busy studying the other craft.
The first and second mate suddenly appeared on deck. Concern was written over their faces as they studied the approaching vessel through telescopes.
Kemp wandered over to talk to the pair. He returned moments later and confided to Susannah the first mate had advised him the approaching party could be pirates. “He doesn’t wish to alarm the others in case it’s a false alarm,” Kemp added.
Susannah nodded, suddenly afraid. She studied the other vessel a moment and noticed, as it drew closer, it appeared to be a brigantine – like Minstrel but smaller. And like Minstrel, her sails were unfurled and hanging limp in the still tropical air. Nevertheless, she was drawing closer. Bemused, Susannah turned back to Kemp.
Anticipating her next question, Kemp said, “She is being rowed. See.” He pointed toward the brigantine. “You can just make out the splashing of the oars.”
Susannah focused on the approaching craft. Sunlight reflected off the disturbed water around it, just as Kemp had said.
Kemp continued, “The first mate said pirates are the only people likely to be rowing a brigantine in these seas.”
By now, a number of crewmen had gathered around first mate Fred Paxton. He fired orders at them and the men began running in all directions. Significantly, there was no sign of Captain Mathers. There were no prizes for guessing where he was: he was dead drunk in his cabin. He’d been there since Minstrel had departed Tenerife.
Susannah became aware of just how serious their situation was when she noticed the crewmen were arming themselves. Several were loading muskets and pistols while almost all carried swords or knives.
“It seems Mr Paxton’s fears have been confirmed,” Kemp said resignedly. “You had best alert your father, Susannah.”
Susannah realized she had been so engrossed, she’d forgotten about Drake Senior. “Oh, yes! Excuse me.” She hurried away. As she neared the steerage, she met her father who was on his way topside to investigate the commotion he’d heard. He was clutching a large bible, which was well thumbed and rarely left his side.
“What’s going on?” he asked as soon as he saw Susannah.
“Another brigantine approaches,” Susannah said breathlessly. “The crew fear it could be pirates.”
Drake Senior hurried to the port-side rail to see for himself. Susannah caught up to him. The approaching brigantine was closer now. Her oars could clearly be seen, working in well-practiced unison and glinting in the sunlight. The craft was making good time despite the absence of wind in her sails.
The Drakes were joined by Kemp. Susannah noticed he now wore an Army-issue cutlass in a scabbard on his hip and had a pistol tucked into his belt. The two men greeted each other with a nod.
“A serious business, Mr Kemp,” Drake Senior mumbled.
“Indeed, Reverend.”
Crewmen began ushering women and children below deck.
The Swedish second mate, Sven Svenson, approached the Drakes. “Best get below deck,” he said.
Drake Senior immediately turned to Susannah. “You heard Mister Svenson, my dear. Go below now.”
“But papa, what about you?”
Drake Senior moved his bible aside to reveal the butt of a pistol protruding from his waistband. “I shall be fine,” he promised. He caught Kemp’s eye and winked.
Before Susannah could debate the issue, Svenson nodded to Minstrel’s rotund German cook, Hans Schmidt, who was hovering nearby. “See Miss Drake safely to her quarters, Herr Schmidt.”
“Ya,” Schmidt responded. He gently but firmly grasped the young woman by her elbow and steered her away.
Below deck, Susannah found the children and other female passengers assembled in the saloon. The women were fearful. They sensed something wasn’t right.
“What is happening?” Charlotte Simpson asked.
Schmidt shot Susannah a warning glance. “No sense in causing unnecessary panic,” he whispered. “I suggest you barricade yourselves in.” The big cook hurried off to join the others up top.
Adopting a forced smile, Susannah announced lightly, “The menfolk are performing a firearm drill.”
This seemed to satisfy some of the women, but not all. Several had already heard the whispers about pirates. Some of the children began crying.
“Is it true we are being attacked by pirates?” a heavily pregnant woman asked.
“They are not sure,” Susannah replied. “They are only taking precautionary measures. I suggest we barricade ourselves in…Just in case.”
Above deck, the menfolk had finally been joined by Captain Mathers. The steward’s assistant had done a good job making the captain presentable following his latest drinking binge. Having had a bucket of water thrown over him and having been force-fed several mugs of strong, black coffee, Mathers looked almost sober. Even so, he had the good sense to give his first mate the authority to prepare Minstrel’s defences – for the moment at least.
Paxton had wisely recruited the services of Kemp to help organize their defences. The former colonel had immediately swung into action and ensured those armed with muskets occupied the best vantage points.
By now, the approaching Brigantine was less than one hundred yards to port and showing no signs of slowing. The oars powering her flashed ominously in the sunlight.
21
Parramatta, New South Wales, 1841
It had been nearly a year since Jack’s ill-fated escape attempt. His back still bore reminders of the lashes he’d received on that occasion, and of the many others he’d received prior to that. Since then, he’d kept his nose clean and, thankfully, had suffered no more floggings.
Now twenty-five, Jack knew he was lucky to survive that last dreadful whipping. After three hundreds lashes – or three hundred and two to be exact – his flesh had been torn from his back, leaving portions of his spine and ribs temporarily exposed; infection had set in and only the intervention of a conscientious doctor, and the loving care of Mary O’Brien, had kept him alive.
Now, as he wielded his pick-axe, cracking rocks on the road that linked Parramatta with Sydney Town, he marveled at how well he’d recovered. Few thought he’d survive his wounds. Not only had he survived, but he’d never felt stronger.
As his pick-axe rhythmically rose and fell, Jack’s thoughts once again turned to escape. In fact, escape was all he’d thought about since that last flogging. He was still intent on stowing away on board a vessel bound for New Zealand or the Pacific Islands. If he could just make his way to Sydney Town, he was confident he’d succeed. The problem was getting to Sydney Town.
Opportunities to escape were few and far between, and this particular day was shaping up to be like any other. Except, for no apparent reason, the Red Coats guarding the convicts today were more numerous than usual. The ratio of guards to convicts was one to five as opposed to the normal one to nine. As a result, the Red Coats weren’t expecting any trouble and were noticeably less vigilant than usual.
And then, as Jack had hoped would happen, an opportunity came out of the blue.
The shadows were lengthening when a guard approached a small group of convicts whose number included Jack and Scottie, the hard-bitten Scottish convict Jack had met on arrival at Parramatta. “You men, lend a hand over there,” the guard ordered, pointing to two Sydney workmen who were loading rocks onto a stationary, horse-drawn cart nearby.
The convicts walked over to the help the workmen. As they walked, Scottie said, “These bloody rocks will be needed for that new construction project in Sydney Town, I’ll wager.”
That got Jack thinking. “You sure about that, Scottie?”
“I’d bet me left testicle on it, laddie.”
“I thought ye lost that testicle in a bet last year, Scottie,” a big, raw-boned Irish convict commented, prompting laughter amongst the other convicts.
Scottie didn’t join in the laughter, however. He glared at the Irishman who glared right back at him. There was clearly no love lost between the two.
As they started loading the rocks onto the cart, Jack maneuvered himself so that he was close to Scottie. “I need you to create a diversion,” he whispered.
Scottie stared at Jack for a moment then glanced over at the big Irish convict. Finally, he said, “You’re in luck, Cockney. I’m itchin’ for a fight.”
Jack grinned.
“Just don’t do anything silly,” the Scotsman warned.
“I can’t promise that,” Jack said.
Scottie rolled his eyes theatrically. “I was afraid of that.” He then walked over to the Irishman who had ribbed him moments earlier and, without warning, punched him on the nose.
The Irishman was momentarily dazed. Shaking his head, he asked, “What da hell was that fer?”
“For being such an ugly son-of-a-bitch and a disgrace to the Celtic race,” Scottie advised him.
As expected, the Irishman retaliated. Soon it was all on. Some of the other convicts joined in and an all-in brawl quickly developed. The brawlers were hampered by their leg-irons, but still gave a good account of themselves. The Red Coats didn’t intervene. Like their charges, they welcomed anything that relieved the boredom. Soon, guards and convicts alike were shouting encouragement to the various factions involved in the brawl.
Jack noted the two workmen were engrossed in the brawl also. Picking his moment, he crawled beneath the cart he and the others had been loading the rocks onto moments earlier. Climbing up onto its axle, he made himself as comfortable as he could and waited for the brawl to end.
It was then he noticed he wasn’t alone: a long, grey-colored snake was curled up around the other end of the axle, not three feet away. Jack froze. Oh shite! He debated whether to roll out from beneath the cart. The snake’s black eyes bore into Jack’s. Scared stiff, he tried to identify it. Whether or not it was a poisonous variety of snake would determine whether he stayed or fled. Jack was unsure if it was a deadly brown or a harmless carpet snake. He gambled on it being the latter.
By the time the brawling convicts ran out of steam, it was home-time. The guards ordered the convicts to board the half-dozen horse-drawn carts waiting to take them back to Parramatta. They willingly obliged.
Hidden from view, Jack prayed the guards would not do a head count. He was reasonably confident they wouldn’t for it had been over a year since the last escape attempt from Parramatta and the guards had progressively become less zealous in carrying out their duties. He also prayed
his reptilian companion wouldn’t bother him. The snake still hadn’t taken its eyes off the uninvited guest.
Jack listened nervously as the carts moved out one at a time. There was no head count. The two remaining workmen loaded the last of the rocks onto Jack’s cart then jumped aboard. Soon, the cart was lurching down the road toward Sydney Town. As it negotiated the bumpy road, Jack’s leg-irons clinked alarmingly. He repositioned his feet to keep the leg-irons taut. That did the trick.
Unfortunately, the movement of Jack’s feet alarmed the snake. It hissed at Jack.
“Easy boy,” Jack whispered. And take your beady little eyes off me!
The snake’s eyes continued to bore into Jack’s. Without warning, it struck out, sinking its fangs into Jack’s nearest leg. Its movement was so quick, Jack didn’t even know he’d been bitten until he felt a pain just below his left knee.
At that moment, the cart lurched, dislodging the snake from the axle and nearly dislodging Jack too. The snake fell onto the road. Jack watched, relieved, as it slithered away. Then his thoughts turned to his own mortality. He realized he’d soon find out whether the reptile was a brown snake or a carpet snake. If it’s a brown, I’ll be dead inside the hour, he told himself.
An hour after being bitten, Jack was no worse for wear other than feeling tired, sore and thirsty. The fact that he was still breathing confirmed to him the reptile was a carpet snake, not a deadly brown.
As the cart traveled through the night along the unfinished road to Sydney Town, every muscle in his body ached. Still, he was thankful he was alive and remained undiscovered. To pass the time, he listened to the conversation of his two unwitting companions atop the cart. He’d discovered they were Cockneys like himself. Both were single. The older man had been in the colony five years, the younger man less than a year.
It quickly became evident to Jack that both men missed home. They spoke fondly of English cider, bangers and mash, roast beef, Cornish pasties, and steak and kidney pies, and they named their favorite drinking taverns around London. Jack was familiar with them all. Right now, he was longing for a pint of bitter and a pie.
