Jack thought there was barely room for the two of them and no protection from the elements or from enemy fire.
‘How many are to be placed here, would you say?’ He asked.
‘It would be common for two or three, even four of your best shots to be posted here, sir.’ The youngster replied. ‘But you had better speak to the Captain about that.’
Oliver Waterhouse was enjoying this as always. Most marines hated the fighting tops, preferring the security of the deck. This officer was no different he thought.
‘The ship is one hundred and ten feet in length overall, and thirty two feet in the beam, sir.’ Waterhouse grinned. ‘Where we are now is seventy feet and seven inches above the deck, sir. Thought you would wish to know these things, sir. I have to of course. Captain Hunter will most likely question me on the morrow.’
‘Where are you from lad?’ Jack thought to divert his attention from the swaying of the mast. Seventy feet and seven inches. He held tight to the mast.
‘Rochester sir, but I have been at sea for nigh on five years now. I shall not return home until I have my commission as lieutenant.’ He looked at Jack with a determined expression on his young face.
‘Well, with your leave, I shall now return to the deck. Perhaps you will kindly demonstrate the descent first.’
The midshipman nimbly swung out over the platform and, as agile as a monkey, disappeared down the ratlines. Jack followed, holding his breath as he hung suspended for a time, and slowly made his way down, greeted by the cheers of his men.
‘That showed the Navy, sir,’ volunteered Packer, who now made to follow Jack’s example and lead a section of marines up to the foretop.
He watched them crawl up the ratlines for a few moments, again wondering how it would be if they were ever called on to defend the ship from an enemy. How he might behave really. Would he be able to fight hand to hand, with cannon fire about him? A cold shudder passed through his body. He was no coward, at least he did not think so, but some of the tales he had heard, particularly from some of the old sweats in the company, made him swallow hard.
The ship’s bell rang eight times, signalling the end of the afternoon watch, and he went below to the wardroom for supper.
There was only one other officer present, a surgeon, busy writing up a journal. The man seemed disinterested in engaging in conversation, so he ate some cold meat and cheese, then left and went to inspect his men before the drummer beat ‘To Quarters’ and they were dispersed about the ship.
Packer was familiar with the drill and had the men ready. He looked them over in the thin light that came through the half open gun ports. Packer had done well he decided. He explained that before the bosun’s mates piped ‘Down Hammocks’, he would speak to them about the voyage and the little he knew about the coast on the other side of the world that was their destination.
The drummer arrived and he was amused to see young Tom standing at the foot of the companionway, a proud grin stretched across his face, as he beat out a ragged roll on the cumbersome drum hanging from his shoulders.
‘Be careful with that, young un,’ Packer spoke kindly, ‘that there drum was with Major Ross at Bunker Hill, an’ he won’t thank ‘ee if it be broken.’
Quickly, the marines were swallowed up, as scores of sailors rushed by to their positions, bare feet drumming on the deck and Jack made his way rapidly up to the weather deck and took up his position by the foremast.
‘You will have to move faster than that, Mister Vizzard, if ever we find ourselves up against an enemy.’ A rasping Scots voice from the quarterdeck called at him. Ross was not simply trying to impress the Captain, but, thought Jack, making a show of his authority, and perhaps attempting to belittle him.
‘Very well, sir,’ he called back. ‘I hope to have the opportunity to improve, sir,’ he shouted, hiding a smile, noticed only by the observant Packer.
‘Thee’ll have to watch theself with Mister Ross, sir. He be a bit of a stickler for drill.’
‘Packer, you are an insolent bugger. Pay attention to your own duty and deal with Bates. He has yet to load his musket, man.’
‘Ain’t you ‘eard, sir. Our powder and ball ain’t been loaded yet, sir. Muskets and carbines are aboard but the quartermaster says the ordnance cart’s gone missin’.’
He was not aware of this. He wondered if Ross knew, and decided he would say nothing, but would speak to the quartermaster at the first opportunity. Hell and damnation, he thought. That spelt trouble for the quartermaster, he thought.
‘Get him to go through the drill anyway.’ He snapped, annoyed at himself for his ignorance.
He took the time to look at the Captain. He had yet to be introduced to John Hunter, but had some knowledge of the man from his conversations with Midshipman Waterhouse, and the ship’s officers, Bradley and King. The captain was motionless on the quarterdeck, hands firmly behind his back, and his eyes slowly traversing the ship before him, the other vessels at anchor, the sky above and the sea all around.
Hunter was an officer of good reputation as a sound and skilled seaman and navigator. He was not yet fifty, had a plain, open expression, with eyes constantly searching his ship, his rather thin mouth rarely smiling, but he was well respected by all that knew him as a competent and resourceful officer with over thirty years sea experience.
As he watched him now, Hunter walked across his deck, his eyes taking in all the detail of the ship that he was now to command. Arthur Phillip was the commodore, but Jack realised that Captain Hunter would effectively command the ship, and navigate it around the globe to Botany Bay. Phillip would relinquish command when he officially assumed the post of governor on stepping ashore at Botany Bay.
He appeared satisfied with what he saw and spoke to a bosun’s mate at his side. The order, ‘Down Hammocks’ whistled loudly along the deck, and the ship again transformed itself into a colony of ants, as each man on deck made to collect his hammock and make ready for the coming night.
Jack followed the first lieutenant as he made his way down to the gun-deck on his rounds, inspecting the sailor’s messes. He reached the marines’ mess by the aft bulkhead to see that already they were filling tankards with ale and lighting long-stemmed pipes, filling the low space with a blue-grey haze.
Sergeant Packer offered a tankard to him as he perched himself on one of the six-pounder carriage guns that had been assigned to his men. Jack took a long swallow of the beer and grinned at the expectant faces in front of him.
‘Not as good as Gloucester ale, lads, but it will do.’ He was pleased to see that a few of the men laughed. He looked at their expectant faces, eager for news.
‘The place that we are going to is on the far side of the world,’ he started. ‘Botany Bay is in New Holland, which is in the Great South Sea. It will take us many months to get there, and when we do we have to mind a lot of criminals.’ He continued, ‘you are thinking that this is not a duty that will bring you fortune or glory, and in that you are probably right.’ He paused to judge the mood and decided that his men were in agreement with him.
‘But it will be an adventure, have my word on it! You will see things that no others have seen.’
He spoke about the discoveries that Joseph Banks and Dr Daniel Solander had made during the remarkable voyage of the Endeavour with James Cook. He talked of the coasts and islands of the South Seas Cook had charted with such exceptional skill and care. He spoke of the peoples they had met. He talked of the lessons learned about caring for the health of sailors. He spoke of the astronomical studies made by Charles Green during that same voyage.
As he talked, he sensed most men listening more carefully. A few, clearly disinterested, drifted away in the gloom to find other entertainment, but his own men stayed and listened with appreciation as Vizzard spoke of strange animals, of blue skies and seas, and a land of dense forests and white sandy beaches.
At last, he finished and drained the tankard, which Joe Packer had discreetly re-filled several ti
mes that evening. His head felt loose on his shoulders, and his eyes reddened from the tobacco smoke that filled the deck. Satisfied he had retained the attention of several of the men under his control, he felt they, and he, had come closer.
Swaying gently in his hammock, he lay awake a very long time, listening to the night breeze in the rigging and to the gentle slap of the sea against the wooden wall of Sirius.
21
Convict
Mary already felt sick. She had endured rough treatment for months, but now she felt utterly humiliated and desperate.
The petition Henry Vizzard had submitted to His Majesty was still unanswered. It would remain so, she was certain of it. Henry visited her each week for which she was grateful, as if it maintained some connection, however tenuous, with Jack. He left her food and brought with him a book or two, some change of clothes, and surreptitiously gave the gaoler coins; to ease her situation, but Mary knew nothing of that.
When she told them she was to be sent to Portsmouth to join the fleet assembled to transport a thousand souls to Botany Bay, her parents had wept pitifully. It was cruelty itself to see how her father had aged during her term in gaol. He visited her frequently, making the long journey to Gloucester, always tearful at the parting. Her brothers came also, offering words of comfort, supplies of food, which she shared with a few other prisoners. Now she was to go and never see them again. Her heart was shattered.
The news, though expected, was no less a shock. With less than two days to prepare, her emotions were in turmoil, her despair found new depth. The final farewell to her family tore souls apart. The last vision of her father, broken, sobs echoed, fought for attention as the convicts were pulled and pushed from their beloveds.
She journeyed in an open cart from Gloucester with a man, Edward Pugh, and two women, Elizabeth Parker and Betty Mason. It rained several times during the journey and she had been so cold and weak. Some folk jeered at the cart as it passed by. Once, a kindly innkeeper had thrust a flagon of ale and some stale bread into the cart, as they were left to stand while the gaolers had supper in the warmth inside the tavern.
There were two babes with them, Annie and Thomas. The women had sheltered them as best they could, feeding them what little they had to offer. Mary helped; she at least had money and food given by Giles and Henry. It had been a tearful parting with both.
The turnkey at Portsmouth signed for them, separated them from their male companion, and told them they were to board a transport, Lady Penrhyn, and then with obvious relief, hastily put them on a lighter taking stores out to that ship.
There was a rising swell as they cleared the harbour and grey, rain-filled clouds scudded low over the huddle of ships at the Motherbank, bringing a drizzle that penetrated everything. Mary shivered, her teeth chattered uncontrollably and she felt nausea rise in her at the sight of the ship that was to carry her away from home.
She looked up at the stern of a warship as the lighter passed astern. The name Sirius picked out in gold lettering eight inches high below the stern cabin. She half wondered who or what Sirius was. Jack would know, she thought, wrapping a piece of canvas sailcloth closer to her body and over her head against the rain that now started to fall.
Above her, a solitary marine officer leaned over the stern rail, eyes absently taking in the activity about the ships at anchor, only briefly glancing at the small craft passing by, carrying another handful of convicts to one of the transports. He shrugged as a gust threatened to remove his hat, and Lieutenant Jack Vizzard turned away to his duties.
Minutes later the small craft hooked on to the side of the ship and a coarse voice bellowed at her to move quickly. She fell as the sea rose and missed the tumblehome, almost falling into the cold grey-green sea.
The turnkey struck her back with a cane and she painfully climbed the side, pulling on a greasy rope hanging from the ship’s side. A dirty, calloused hand pulled her roughly up on to the deck and a grimy face looked down at her.
‘Welcome aboard, my lovely. Welcome to your new gaol.’ The sailor grinned revealing a toothless mouth, the legacy of scurvy survived, and Mary turned away as the man pulled Elizabeth onto the deck, with the same humourless greeting. A bosun’s mate shouted at her, telling her to follow him below. She turned at the companionway, not daring to descend the near vertical steps, and slowly lowered herself down.
There was light at least, but the putrescent smell that struck her was overwhelming, worse far worse than she had encountered in Gloucester gaol, and she vomited, falling to her knees as the spasm tied her belly in knots.
‘You’ll get used to it - they all do in time.’ The mate was concerned only with the mess on the deck. ‘Fetch a bucket and clean it up, and be quick about it.’
Elizabeth helped her to her feet and looked around for the bucket. She saw a leather pail and quickly poured water over the mess, taking a mop she swept it up into the pail and threw the puke out through an open gun-port.
‘Move along smartly now. This way.’ The mate beckoned to the lower deck, now converted into cells.
Rough hands pushed them along the deck passed a pair of inquisitive young marines standing guard, and into a cage made of stout timbers fitted with iron bars. They sat on a wooden bench set into the side of the ship. A dozen other occupants looked at them without interest, and resumed the murmured conversation their arrival had interrupted. Mary closed her eyes and put her hands to her face to smother the tears that had again started to smear the grime on her face. Her sobs moved her friend to speak.
‘Don’t you fret now my pet.’ Elizabeth Parker put a comforting hand on her arm. ‘We’ll be all right, now.’
Mary opened her swollen eyes and a half smile appeared on her face.
‘Thanks, Lizzie. I don’t think I could have borne all this without you.’ She pulled her legs up and hugged her knees.
‘We stick together and we be fine, I promise you. Now let’s get us comfy, and try and get some sleep. You look quite done in. My little Annie needs a feed first, though.’
The baby strapped to her chest had been quiet for the last hour but now started to cry from hunger, until Lizzie managed to start her sucking at her emaciated breast.
Mary unrolled a blanket, lay down on the boards and was soon asleep, too exhausted to care or do more.
Lizzie Parker stretched down on the floor of the cage and closed her eyes too, but did not sleep. She lay there listening to the sounds of the ship that was to be her next prison for many a long month. Her mind went back to her own home at Nibley, nestling under the Cotswold escarpment at Wootton-Under-Edge. She was not bitter. She had done wrong and had accepted her punishment with grace. Mayhap this Botany Bay will offer a better life, for my child than the desperate poverty in which I have grown up, and for me. I worry for my brothers and sister, probably now on the mercy of the parish. How will they manage without me to care for them, feed them?
She had listened with some envy to Mary’s tale and was truly sorry for the lost life that Mary so nearly had. But she had to survive. The rest of her life was now. The future was less certain than ever, and more than ever she had to use her wits just to survive. Mary turned and moaned in her pain and Lizzie Parker slept.
The bell on the quarterdeck rang and the mate bellowed along the deck.
‘Mess captains to the galley, on the double now.’
A number of women, trusted by the Naval agent, were unshackled and they rose quickly to their feet, making for the galley for the evening meal.
Because the ship was still in port, dinner was more than simple potato or pease soup. There were some lumps of quite good pork and boiled rice too. Eager hands grabbed hunks of fresh coarse-grained bread on wooden platters placed on the floor. Those too slow, or more distant from them, received none.
Lizzie Parker sat on the end of the bench and gently shook Mary awake, as a boy of about sixteen or seventeen years came into their cage and placed the wooden tubs on the floor. Some of the women made to fill their
bowls, pushing aside some of the older or less quick.
‘ `Ere, wait a mo’,’ Lizzie shouted. ‘If we’re to get through this we gotta be better ‘n animals.’
‘What’s your game then, luv?’ A London voice rasped back at her from the gloom.
Lizzie sought out the owner of the voice and calmly repeated herself.
‘I’m just thinkin’ that we’ve a long way to go an` we must be fair to all. Make sure that all gets a fair share like. No use us fighting over a bucket o’ stew.’ There was a muttering of agreement. ‘We must pull together, try and `elp, `cos those buggers up there won’t,’ she said, pointing her thumb upwards.
‘That’s right,’ said the boy. ‘We got to be fair to all.’
‘Give the nippers theirs first, then we share out the rest equal like.’ Lizzie moved to the tubs on the floor and picked up a ladle.
‘Right then ladies, let’s have the kid’s bowls an` the rest of you stand back.’
No one tried to challenge her authority and she deftly started to pour the steaming stew into the small bowls that each convict carried with their meagre possessions.
Mary stirred and sat upright, stretching as much as she could in the cramped space, and waited until Lizzie placed a bowl in her lap.
‘There you are then, Mary. The best meal we’ve had since Gloucester.’
And it was. Mary spooned the food into her mouth, enjoying the hot, greasy meal, and feeling the warmth of it spread through her aching bones. Within a few minutes she wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread and if she was not satiated it was the finest food she had eaten in months. The journey to Portsmouth in the open cart during the freezing wet winter had all but exhausted her.
The boy returned with some wooden tankards of beer that the captain had released for the prisoners and Mary drank that too. She started to feel stronger than she had for a very long time.
‘Thank you, Lizzie. I feel so much better. I might have missed out if you hadn’t taken charge.’
First Fleet Page 15
