First Fleet

by M Howard Morgan

  The Naval officer was making a further apology to Colonel Wilde and preparing to leave.

  ‘Come, Jack, let’s take the air – I need a cigar after that.’ Long pushed back his chair.

  They were leaning against a wall overlooking the parade ground talking of tomorrow’s duty when the sound of raised voices halted the conversation. They ran towards the stables and on turning the corner found Ross and the Naval officer confronting each other, Ross with sword in hand.

  ‘You stay out of this, it is not your concern.’ Ross commanded them. ‘Come on then, sailor boy, let’s settle this matter here and now.’ He pointed his sword at the young man.

  ‘No Major, I gave my word to your Colonel that I would seek no duel with you over this affair. That is my honour.’

  ‘And what of mine you bastard, you impugned mine, you

  little shit.’

  The commander stood his ground, but still did not withdraw his sword.

  ‘Sir, this is foolish.’ Jack felt compelled to intervene.

  ‘Vizzard is right, sir. Put away your sword, please.’ Long added his voice, pleading with his commanding officer.

  ‘I will not be insulted by this whippersnapper of a sailor boy. He befouled my good name in front of the mess, and for that he deserves to die.’

  ‘Not by your hand, Ross. You do not have the guts for it. It was your cowardice that dishonoured the Navy; you should have stood trial that day... not my brother! Do you know what became of him after the court martial? He was discredited, never given a command again, and hanged himself from the foretop of his ship! It destroyed our father.’

  Ross made to lower his sword, putting the young man off his guard, then lunged at him, the blade missing as the young man swiftly and neatly side-stepped, his cloak whipping open.

  Jack dived at Ross as the blade rose again. He pulled him aside and the big man fell.

  ‘Get him away from here, now!’ He shouted to Lieutenant Long.

  The lieutenant grabbed the commander firmly by the arm and took him inside, looking for help.

  ‘You little shit, Vizzard. He was mine, he should be dead but for you.’ Ross struggled to get to his feet. ‘You hit me, you young bastard, and that’s a court-martial affair.’

  ‘Sir, I probably saved your life. He is younger than you, and his hand was on a pistol in his boat-cloak. He was not going to fence with you. He meant to blow your brains out.’

  Ross got to his feet. He looked at Jack with cold, doubtful eyes, collected his sword and staggered drunkenly away without another word.

  18

  Gloucester Gaol

  The rat was crawling over the dying child’s body when Mary awoke. She thought she was awake. There had been so many dreams of late; she struggled to distinguish them from reality. The sight of the rats was so common to her now. The stench was there again too, bringing bile to her throat, as it never failed to do. It was worse on first awakening. The human faeces in each corner, the closely packed befouled bodies, and no real ventilation save for a pair of barred windows, high in the wall, which merely let in the cold.

  She picked up a pewter plate and threw it at the rodent, missing it, regretting the action immediately, but it gave her some small satisfaction. The clatter of the plate on the straw-covered floor woke some other women, who growled abuse at her. She thought of Jack, she did every day, cursing him for leaving her in this living hell. She feared for her very sanity, wondered how she could possibly endure it. Henry had visited, and dear Giles once with Louise. Only once. Louise had clutched a fine lace handkerchief to her nose, had retched violently and fled. How long ago was it? A week? Two weeks? She had no sense of time in this place, only pain and melancholia.

  Henry had submitted a Petition for Clemency but had heard nothing. She did not believe he ever would. He had looked older, much older than on that day at Lampern, when they had all been so happy.

  She knew now Jack had run away. Betrayed her, abandoned her. Giles had told her. The news had devastated her. Before, she had nurtured some small chance of reprieve, allowed hope of support to grow. Now, well now she had only the anticipation of years in a prison. Not even a prison where her family could visit, but one on the other side of the world. It might have been the moon.

  Mary knew too of Giles’ correspondence. He had written several letters, and was even intending to go to Plymouth, certain that he would find him there. She realized also Jack would not be back, never would come and rescue her from the nightmare that had become her daily existence. He had abandoned her, betrayed her, and that she could not understand. She felt deeply wounded, a pain so constant, never absent from her mind. Mary glanced towards the dark corner where another woman was earning some extra food with one of the gaolers. Rutting she called it, but now she was with child, and what future did that child have, if it survived?

  She had fought off many men who had promised to be good to her, to help and protect her. Some of the other women openly laughed at her, calling her names, but she felt degraded enough. Hardened and surprised at her ability to assert herself, to defend what she thought of as her ‘honour’. A wry, self-mocking expression was on her face – where was honour now, she wondered. Even her own beloved father she had sent away yesterday, was it only yesterday, because it grieved him too much to see her, and distressed her greatly.

  A key turned in the lock and the small, studded oak door opened. The gaoler brought in some thin potato soup. She was one of the first to reach it and took her share eagerly. Her father had brought her some cold mutton yesterday, with some bread, but she had shared that with Elizabeth.

  Crawling back under the high window she pulled out a small book, one that Henry had left her. She began to read, when the gaoler returned, this time followed by Giles. She saw immediately that he had nothing to tell her, and her spirit fell as quickly as it had risen on seeing him.

  ‘I am sorry, Mary. I have no news of him. The Admiralty has not answered my correspondence. I returned from Plymouth last night, but there is no record of him there. I felt sure that he was to go there to become a marine. I know only that he was to take the King’s Commission.’ He noted her confusion. ‘Jack has become an officer, Mary. I fear he will be overseas before I can find him.’

  Giles looked at her crestfallen features. How thin she was, her cheeks without colour and her hair become matted and lank. His spirit was low at the sight of her.

  ‘Henry assures me that some word will come from court very soon. You must not give up hope.’ He added vainly.

  ‘Hope? What hope do I have here, Giles? Tell me. Any day they may come to take me away, send me away from my home, my family... and what then?’

  His head lowered and he felt a lump rise in his throat. ‘Mary, I am sure he has not forsaken you. He has left because he felt he must.’ Giles glanced around, taking in the squalor of the place, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘What you have not been told, could not be told, is that... Barnwood is dead.’ He paused, seeing her shocked expression. ‘Yes, he died the night Jack left. Doctor Steele says it was of natural causes, but the man was diseased, infected.’ Her quizzical look caused him to hurry on.

  ‘Some loose tongues have already been wagging and linking Jack’s name with the death. They believe he smothered him. Do you see, Mary? Do you understand? If that is the truth, and it may be possible if hard to comprehend, then he will believe himself a fugitive.’

  Mary swallowed, slowly taking in the enormity of the news. She looked about but no one was paying any attention.

  ‘My God,’ she whispered. ‘Oh my God, so he believes himself to be a fugitive, and a murderer?’

  Giles nodded. ‘He may have used an alias and is presenting himself as something and someone very different. Young Tom is likely as not with him, because he is missing also, but I doubt that he had any part in the business. I have this suspicion that Jack has gone in search of his brother.’

  She shook her head, muttering. ‘My poor Jack. Oh, God, my poor dear J
ack.’ Over and over again she repeated his name.

  He gave her a small packet of food, embraced her quickly and left her to her tears, feeling more wretched than he could bear.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Tom shook Jack from troubled sleep. He quickly shaved and dressed, and met Lieutenant Long by the stables. It was not yet light and a thick sea mist enveloped Southsea creating shadowy, ghost-like shapes. It was cold, and breath formed small clouds before men’s faces. The short, frozen grass crunched beneath their feet.

  They left their horses by a copse of trees on the common and made their way with stealth and in silence to the Duke of Clarence, an alehouse known to be a haunt of seamen from the Company.

  A young midshipman, little more than sixteen, was already at the doorway, with half a dozen desperate looking seamen.

  ‘Is that you, Ferguson?’ John Long whispered.

  ‘Aye, sir’, the young, thin voice answered.

  ‘This is Mister Vizzard. He will be assisting this morning. Are your men ready?’

  ‘As ready as ever, sir. They know their duty and are keen to enlist some ship-mates.’ He smiled bravely, although this was the first press duty that he had commanded.

  Long smiled at Jack, ‘I served with his father on Surprise some years ago.’ He explained.

  ‘How do we get in?’ Jack asked.

  ‘With a key of course!’ answered the midshipman, producing the very thing with a boyish flourish. ‘The innkeeper makes a profit from this business as well as the Navy.’ He grinned.

  The door opened with a barely audible squeal and the young officer led the way in, opening a ship's signalling lamp as he did so. His men followed, ahead of the marine officers.

  Several sailors were asleep on the floor and on trestles, the remains of last night’s carousing laying about them. Empty bottles lay on the floor. A woman stirred, stretching and freeing herself from the embrace of a large black man, her mouth clamped closed by the hand of one of Ferguson’s men.

  ‘Right you lot,’ shouted the midshipman, ‘you are now members of the crew of His Majesty’s ship, Sirius. Wake them up please, Mister Brooks!’

  The bosun of Sirius was more than willing to comply. He needed more top-men if he was to keep Captain Hunter happy and set about with a starter and his boot getting nearly a dozen men out of their drunken stupor.

  Jack moved around the side of the warrant officer to help. He had not noticed a man in the shadows until a glint of steel caught his eye. He turned and the blade missed, chipping the edge of a table. He recoiled and felt for his sword, as the man lunged at him again. He tripped over a stool and realized that the man could reach him. He rolled quickly to his left, struggling to get to his feet.

  There was loud shouting; a blur of red, and John Long was standing in front of him, the sailor clubbed to the floor by the lieutenant’s musket.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, but that was damned close. My thanks to you, John. I thought I was gone then.’ He breathed hard, as the adrenaline coursed through his shaking body.

  ‘I am perhaps more used to this work than you, Jack. Some will always resist. It is to be expected that most will come willingly once caught, but there is often one who is willing to fight.’

  ‘Come along my boys.’ Ferguson said to the seamen. ‘You are now with the crew of Sirius, Captain John Hunter commanding, and no finer ship in the Navy.’ He laughed. ‘Take them away Mister Brooks, and we’ll have them sworn in by the first lieutenant.’

  The officers stood aside as the sailors staggered out with an escort of marines and Brooks’ own men.

  Jack looked at the man who had so nearly killed him. The man was oblivious and resigned now to his fate, his eyes showing no emotion, as one of the sailors from Sirius pushed him roughly to the door.

  They took breakfast at the inn before returning to the barracks. Tom was never far from Jack, his face showing some signs of fear. He had filled out in the last month and looked taller.

  ‘Are you all right, Mister Jack... er sir?’ He enquired when they were back in the barracks. ‘Only there’s talk as how you’ve fallen foul of Major Ross.’

  ‘Don’t you be worrying about me, young Tom. How are you getting along?’ Jack saw the boy daily but conversation between them was usually limited.

  ‘Fine, er sir, I’m just fine. The lads ‘ave got me workin’ on the drums and Sergeant Packer ‘as been drilling me with a musket. I fired one the other day, and me ears still buzz a bit, but it’s all right this soldierin’.’

  ‘Good. Packer seems like a good man. Be straight with him and he will look after you.’

  ‘It were a bit of a worry this mornin’, Mister Vizzard. I thought you were a goner, I did.’

  Jack looked at the boy and felt compassion for the lad.

  ‘There will be more scrapes before long, Tom. We must be better prepared next time, yes?’

  He patted the Tom’s shoulder and sent him away, in order to dress for dinner. Today was the 28th of October, Foundation Day, and a very important day for any marine officer. It was the anniversary of the founding of the regiment in 1664, during the Second Dutch War. It was officially the Duke of York and Albany’s Maritime Regiment of Foot and known as the ‘Admiral’s Regiment’, but all knew it as the Corps of Marines.

  After a cold wash, he donned a clean pair of breeches, a plain white shirt, over which he wore his best uniform; a scarlet coat with white cassimere turnbacks and skirts. He proudly wore a single bullion epaulette with a plain fringe on his left shoulder. Finally, satisfied that his attire was correct, he placed his hat under his arm and joined his brother officers in the mess.

  THERE WERE A LARGE number of visitors to the mess that evening. Several Naval officers were present, none of whom Jack knew. He did not see Major Ross, but a mess servant told him that Ross was in meeting with an important Naval officer, who would be guest of honour and would be joining them shortly. As senior officer in barracks, Ross would be at the head of table, he learned.

  John Long joined him, accompanied by a large, broad shouldered man, over six feet tall, with an open friendly expression, and gold coloured, curly hair. Jack noted his fine forehead and alert eyes, and was immediately impressed with his scholarly, authoritative appearance.

  ‘Jack, I have the pleasure to introduce Captain David Collins. David, this is our most recent addition to the regiment, Jack Vizzard. I feel you will have much in common.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, sir.’ Jack offered his hand. It was accepted, in a firm, friendly grip.

  ‘The pleasure is mine, sir. For reasons which will come clear later this evening I am destined to get to know you well.’ The Captain of Marines was enigmatic, and noting Jack’s puzzled expression continued, ‘I can say no more at present, but believe me, we will certainly become better acquainted!’

  Over a glass of wine, Jack learned that this striking officer came from Exeter. His father was a distinguished soldier, Major-General Arthur Collins. He had been commissioned a second lieutenant in 1771, had been directly involved in the rescue of the King’s sister, Queen Matilda of Denmark, had fought at Bunker Hill with Ross and seen service at Halifax, Nova Scotia. Collins was telling him about his wife, Maria, at which point Major Ross entered the room. A Naval captain, of short stature and of plain visage, a long nose, with quick friendly eyes, accompanied him.

  ‘That is Captain Arthur Phillip,’ said Captain Collins. ‘Now you will learn more, young Vizzard.’

  Ross made his way to the head of the table and paused to allow the hum of speculative conversation to fade.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen. Before we take our seats to celebrate Foundation Day, I have an announcement to make. Certain officers have now been selected for special service but have been required to keep silent as to their orders. I am today authorized to confirm our division will form part of the new garrison to be detached to Botany Bay in New South Wales, and there to assist in establishing a new colony in that territory.’ Ross allowed a few moments for the effect of h
is words to be fully appreciated then continued.

  ‘I have the pleasure to present our guest of honour this evening, Captain Arthur Phillip, recently commissioned as Commodore of the fleet and to be the first Governor of New South Wales.’

  19

  Embarkation

  He had expected to sail within days of receiving orders confirming his appointment to the garrison. However, the days became weeks and then months, with seemingly little progress being made to ready the fleet for sea. He drilled with other officers and his own section of marines. A field day in January was his first experience of exercising with a large body of men. It was foolishly and poorly managed, in his opinion. Major Ross became intent on re-enacting the battle in which he had made a reputation. Lines of marines, slowly marching uphill in close order, to attack a defended hill. Ross reprimanded him for deploying his men far to the left, widely dispersed in skirmishing order, the better to move to a flanking position.

  He spent evenings reading, thinking and writing notes about military tactics. His mind worked on the best means to defend a position, and how to assault the same location; how to find and use ground to protect his men, where and how to place artillery, and troops. How to keep men supplied and fit. He studied and read and wrote late into the night.

  Jack saw no more of Captain Phillip; the new governor spent his time in London, meeting the officials at the Admiralty, the Treasury and ministers of Pitt’s government, preparing and pleading and cajoling all he met, to hasten the fleet’s departure, and to ensure that the expedition was properly supplied and equipped. Jack expected almost daily to be discovered, taken and arrested; to be shamed before the Corps, and placed under guard to stand trial for murder. He grew increasingly restless and uneasy.

  Once, when assisting Captain Collins in the adjutant’s room, he recognized the handwriting and seal on a letter addressed simply to the commanding officer. It was from his father and he slipped it quickly and discreetly into his tunic. Intending to read it later when alone, he forgot all about it.