First Fleet

by M Howard Morgan

  Jack introduced himself to the other marines on board, explaining briefly the purpose of his visit. He had not met Captain James Campbell or his subalterns before the fleet’s departure, and did not feel immediately welcome in the cramped quarters occupied by the marines of Lady P, as her master described her. Campbell was another Scot, on good terms with Major Ross, and met Jack with a cool reception. He declined a polite invitation to make a foursome for the card game in progress, and bid them a good night and safe voyage, promising to join their company once the fleet was safely at anchor in Tenerife.

  On deck, Jack grabbed a lubber’s line that the crew had rigged out earlier when the prisoners had been on deck to take some exercise. He breathed in a deep lungful of air to clear the foul taste in his mouth and reported to Captain Sever that the muster was complete and correct.

  He looked at the sea and sky and was troubled to see that the waves were higher, the sky darker and angrier, white foam springing from the wave-tops. There was the sound of thunder to the west, and the unmistakeable show of lightning in the clouds. The wind was blowing harder.

  ‘Mister Waterhouse – we had best get back to the flag-ship while we still have light.’ He found that he had to raise his voice to be heard.

  ‘The crew are ready, sir, but I suggest we wait `til the morning. This looks bad, sir.’ The midshipman was not unhappy at the prospect of a night away from his own ship. ‘May I suggest we stay aboard for the night, sir? I suspect a bit of a blow will be on us before we can return.’ He added with usual understatement.

  ‘No, Oliver - we must get back aboard. I have no desire to spend a night aboard a convict transport, and Commodore Philip needs our report. Come on, let’s get the men busy.’

  ‘If you say so, sir, but I would encourage caution. This is a wild sea, and can only worsen, I feel.’ The midshipman thought he knew more of the sea than any officer of marines.

  Once more, the crew lowered the ship’s boat to the turbulent sea, with two men aboard to hold it steady, the rest using a cargo net to negotiate the tumblehome. Jack was the last to go, pausing to judge the moment, as the small boat tossed on the sea, rising and falling a dozen feet. He dropped as it rose, landing awkwardly and heavily, on a stocky seaman.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ The man growled.

  ‘Yes thank you, Eldridge. Push off now - quickly.’

  Waterhouse shouted, ‘Pritchard and Smith, get that sail up, and let’s get away. Flagship is about three or four cables distant, sir. Sit tight.’

  The wind started to howl as the midshipman pulled on the tiller.

  ‘Any sign of Lieutenant Dawes, Oliver?’ He shouted back.

  ‘Not sure, sir, but I thought I just saw him abeam of the Scarborough.’ Midshipman Waterhouse half rose from the thwart to obtain a better view. ‘Yes... there he is, sir!’

  They cleared the lee of the transport and the wind hit them, heeling the small boat over to her starboard gunwales. Cold, dirty grey water drenched their already chilled bodies.

  Waterhouse corrected swiftly, making his tack when the boat was in a trough, and steadying the craft on a course to run down onto the Sirius.

  Vizzard could see the other boat now, as it rose on a wave. Dawes was slightly ahead of them, off to leeward, but his boat had taken water and was sitting low. As he looked, he could see several men baling frantically. They appeared to be on a course away from Sirius, and Jack was puzzled.

  Dawes was waving his hat trying to shout something, his voice whipped away on the wailing wind. For a few moments he was lost from sight as Jack’s boat slipped down another trough, then he caught sight of it again, as both craft rose together. ‘They are in some difficulty, Oliver, make for them please. We must see what help we can give.’ Jack instructed.

  ‘Sir, I believe they are making for the Alexander. They may be unable to make it to the flagship!

  They were closer now, about half a cable or less apart. Dawes started to stand, again waving a hand in the general direction of the transport, the largest in the fleet, when he stumbled, appeared to slip, falling over the side. His boat slewed away as he drifted into a trough and young Ferguson pulled hard on the tiller.

  There was no time to think. Jack plunged over the side, even as Oliver Waterhouse cried out to stop him.

  The shock of the water hit him with the sharpness of a thousand needles passing through his body as he struck out, his strong arms pulling him along. The salt stung his eyes, but as he rose on another wave, he could see the other boat. He pulled harder, spewing water from the side of his mouth. He swam rapidly, pulling hard with each stroke, trying to gauge the direction. He heard shouts from the boat, but could not understand for a moment. The wind shrieked across the waves, shredding them to spray that obscured all vision. His body rolled with a wave that threatened to push him under. Then it was clear. Dawes was to his left, and he saw a flash of scarlet of the Lieutenant’s coat. He pulled again, three or four hard strokes, and his hand hit a body.

  Dawes spluttered something incoherent, and struggled to grasp hold of him.

  Jack tried to kick; his right arm went around his friend’s neck and his other hand he clamped onto Dawes’ flailing arm. He felt himself under water; he was sinking. Holding fast to Dawes, he managed to kick one boot free. He kicked again, pulling up. His face felt cold air, and he gulped in gratefully, his lungs burning with pain.

  Once again, he was under, unprepared, as if a giant hand was propelling him down. Water was in his mouth and gut. He kicked, more wildly, desperate now for air, lungs seared with heat and suddenly other hands were holding his collar, and he felt himself hauled aboard the boat, young Ferguson shouting in his ears. He collapsed in the scuppers, coughing, retching and gasping as the air filled his bursting lungs; vomiting the food recently eaten, frothy red bubbles filled his mouth. All around him grew a deepening darkness.

  ‘Pull together lads. Keep baling. We’re going to make it!’ Ferguson shouted encouragement at his crew. He looked down at the marine, and a frown manifested itself on his young face. We have to make it for his sake, he thought.

  With the level of the water in the boat rising, the crew all but abandoned the oars and used anything to keep afloat.

  Sirius had hove to but had difficulty holding position. Seas pounded her sides and men called, shouting encouragement from the nettings. A line was thrown but fell short and then another, and another. A seaman caught hold and made it fast. Within a minute or so, they had pulled alongside and the crew scrambled up the tumblehome, pulling themselves up with muscles screaming with pain.

  Ferguson could see the climb was beyond Jack. He swiftly looped a line around his chest and under his arms. Suddenly, another marine dropped into the boat. Joe Packer tied another rope around Dawes. Men above hauled them up as Ferguson and Packer steadied their ascent from below.

  As they climbed, supporting their human cargo, the wind roared and the ship’s boat hurled itself against the side, splintered and broke apart, slipping under the waves, consumed by the ever-hungry sea.

  24

  Hero of The Atlantic

  George Bouchier Worgan was a kindly, gentle man with an amiable, friendly manner. He had long, pianist’s fingers; fingernails always immaculate and well trimmed. Music and medicine were the loves of his life. They had mocked him of course, in a good-natured fashion, for insisting his piano accompany him on the voyage to Botany Bay. It was a Broadwood, a square piano, of a light shallow tone, with the new brass under-damper. It was his most treasured possession and he could never have left it to gather dust at home. Worgan loved it and Captain Phillip had agreed to its being stowed in his day cabin, had not regretted it, for Worgan had already entertained the officers to his music. He was particularly fond of the work of George Handel, and often played the Largo from Handel’s opera seria, Serse, one of his favourite pieces. Almost forgotten now in London, Worgan loved its buoyancy and originality. He hummed it now as he carefully regarded the marine officer he had watched dive i
n to a wild, storm-blown sea to rescue a friend.

  The young man had spent the night retching, bringing up some blood. That had caused Worgan concern. Now however, he was asleep, albeit a rather fitful and disturbed sleep, punctuated with blasphemous language, and pleas to the Virgin Mary for forgiveness. At least, that was how it sounded to Worgan’s ears.

  The knock at his cabin door preceded Captain David Collins, who crouched between the beams, until offered a seat by the cot.

  ‘How are the patients doctor – will they recover?’

  Worgan regarded him sympathetically. Dawes was in his own quarters, in the adjacent cabin. He had swallowed a lot of water, much of which Worgan had been able to expel.

  ‘Your marines are hardy men, Mister Collins. Lieutenant Dawes should have drowned and this young man has a fever, a slight one, but enough to take him from his duties.’ He fiddled absently with his waistcoat, and continued, ‘however, I may also have a pneumothorax here, Collins.’ Noting the officer’s puzzled expression, he explained. `Tis commonly called a collapsed lung. He breathes with difficulty, so I shall need to insert a drain and expel what I suspect is a pocket of air over his left lung.’

  The early relief Collins showed on his face now turned to a more anxious expression.

  ‘I had feared the worst. It was a damned brave thing he did yesterday.’

  Worgan agreed. ‘I never saw a braver act. Where he found the strength to make that swim, I will never know. Some angel was watching over him, that much must be certain.’

  ‘Please send me word if... when he awakes, Mister Worgan.’

  ‘I am confident of a recovery Captain, but he will have considerable discomfort for some weeks, I think.’ Worgan made a pencilled note on a paper. ‘He will not be fully fit for strenuous duty however.’

  The surgeon followed Collins from the cabin and entered the one adjacent.

  Dawes too, was sleeping. He leaned over and listened to the heart. Satisfied, he climbed to the next deck to report to Captain Hunter.

  THE STENCH IN HIS NOSTRILS was overpowering. Human excrement and vomit, mixed with coal tar, vinegar and bilge water. A baby was crying and a woman, breathing fumes of brandy, was baring her bosom for his inspection.

  He was running, no that was wrong, he was on his back; cold, salty water was filling his eyes, his mouth, his belly, his lungs. He coughed and retched; again and again, he retched. There was scarlet in his face – blood, no – a coat, a marine’s coat. He coughed again, a long gut - wrenching cough, which did not end. The stab of pain seemed directly in his heart. This must be death, he thought.

  Worgan wiped the dribble from his mouth. He placed a cold, wet cloth across Jack’s forehead.

  ‘All right lad, you will be all right.’ He examined the sputum. At least there was no blood now, he thought. By Christ this one is a fighter, he thought. Should have died in the night.

  A low moan crept from Jack’s mouth. His head moved to one side and his eyelids flickered and slowly opened and closed.

  ‘I was just thinking of some breakfast. Do you feel ready to eat something?’ Worgan said as he watched closely for a reaction. The eyes opened, flickered a few times and steadied, staring at the beams above his head.

  ‘What...’ Another rasping cough, but this a dry one. ‘What happened?’ Jack managed to speak.

  ‘Ah, well now young man it seems that you chose to enjoy an Atlantic swim. You damn nearly drowned and almost took another officer with you. Be hell to pay for it, I shouldn’t wonder. The Navy prefers not to lose too many officers in one day, even if they are redcoats!’ Worgan smiled as Vizzard’s eyes slowly recognised the sparkle in the surgeon’s eyes and registered the jest.

  ‘No... I mean, what happened to Will... Lieutenant Dawes. Is he alive?’

  ‘With thanks due to you, he is indeed. That was quite a remarkable thing you did. The whole ship is a talking `bout it.’

  Jack lay back in the cot and closed his eyes.

  ‘Well, I will let you rest, while I see to my other patients.’ Worgan received no reply. He examined the site of the drain in Vizzard’s side, grunted in satisfaction and again reported to John Hunter.

  CAPTAIN ARTHUR PHILLIP paced his cabin. He was in a sombre mood. The well-polished, mahogany table was littered with papers that he had spent many days poring over studiously.

  ‘I tell you, John, it is abject nonsense. Half the prisoners have no value to a new colony. Most of them are listed here as labourers. What good is that, pray! Where are the carpenters, masons, the brick-makers, the husbandry men, and the fishermen? The bloody fools have given me no skilled artisans, or precious few. I am expected to build a new settlement with no more than the dregs of Newgate.’

  ‘Some will be of use, sir. They know they must work to live. You plan to give land grants, do you not? The prospect will surely encourage some to reform, to seek emancipation.’ John Hunter had discussed this with his friend before, and although he shared Phillip’s vision for the new colony, he had concerns such an incentive would prove of limited value.

  Phillip resumed his seat at the desk. ‘Aye, in time... but only to those who do prove worthy. I must instigate some detailed enquiry as to their histories, and occupations. We should make great use of the warrant officers, and we need the marines to supervise the work parties though. I have no overseers, John. Here, I have prepared some details of those. The sergeants and subalterns, I think. Will you talk to Ross about these matters? We need his co-operation.’

  Arthur Phillip had not had many discussions with his deputy, the Lieutenant Governor. Major Ross was something of a troublesome martinet, not a man he could warm to, or empathize with. Thus far, he had maintained a civil relationship with the soldier, but not without difficulty. He considered him acerbic, truculent and uncooperative. I will not cross swords with that man just yet. John is the diplomat; he will handle the bugger for me. He smiled across at Hunter.

  John Hunter smiled back at his friend. It was not that Arthur ran from a fight, far from it, but he was a diplomat. Tough when needed but slow to anger and a man who saw confrontation as failure.

  ‘Very well, Arthur. I will see him, although he will argue agin it, for sure.’

  ‘Yes, I have no doubt. I will leave it to you then. Now, John; this matter of Lieutenants Vizzard and Dawes. How are they both?’ Arthur Phillip quickly read a note on his desk.

  ‘Worgan reports that both are well, Dawes should be fit for duty tomorrow, possibly the next day.’ Hunter waited for further comment.

  ‘And the... ‘Hero of the Atlantic’, as I understand the lower deck now refer to him; young Vizzard, how does he fare?’

  ‘Mister Worgan tells me that he had a... something Latin, the man will be in pain for some time.’

  ‘Have them both dine with us tomorrow, would you please. I think it time I knew these young men a little better. Philip Stephens tells me Dawes is a very competent astronomer and engineer, and of course Maskelyne, the Astronomer Royal, sponsors him. I should like to discuss my plans for the new town with him. As to Vizzard, I know nothing of him.’ Phillip looked enquiringly from across the table.

  ‘By all accounts a competent young man. His commission is only very recent I believe, so he is very inexperienced. He is an Oxford scholar I am told, so must be educated I suppose. His prompt and courageous, but if I may say rather foolhardy action undoubtedly saved Dawes. His men think well of him, it is said. Ross has no high regard for him, so he is probably destined for great and glorious things... if he survives this commission.’ Hunter grinned.

  ‘Good, then we will have some stimulating conversation. Ross had better join us too.’ He made a sour face. He thought of the last occasion at the marine’s barracks, and the rumour that Ross had challenged another officer. He wondered, not for the first time, why the man had been selected for this task. Evan Nepean was behind it. He had learned they had served together in America, and now Nepean was the senior official at the Admiralty, he was supporting Ross. Ross w
as tough, no doubts on that score. A hard, fighting man, but an officer who had not risen as high in the service as he would have wished.

  We all will face some hardship, he knew that, but the prisoners under his care would need more than just hard discipline. They would need strong leadership, given in a humane way. They would have the opportunity to redeem themselves in the new land.

  By the words of his commission, the King had personally commanded Phillip and he fully intended to reward hard work and good behaviour with emancipation. He needed officers who shared his aims, who would assist in that object.

  In addition to establishing a penal colony, England wanted, needed, a new trading base. There were many Americans, still loyal to the Crown who would support the venture, and who were anxious to find a new home and develop business. That was the true purpose of the expedition.

  ‘Yes, have Major Ross join us.’ He repeated. ‘We have some work to do with that man, John, to convince him of what must be done.’

  Phillip turned to stare at the wake beneath the sloping windows of the stern cabin. He was lost in his thoughts and did not hear Hunter leave, the door being closed quietly behind him, as Hunter wished he could do more to ease his friend’s burdens.

  Phillip stood there for a very long time, watching the sea stretching back to England.

  25

  Transition

  Mary felt better than she had for many months. The master of the Lady Penrhyn allowed them to work on deck as the weather improved, and she was eating more and better food than she had ever received in gaol. There was a colour in her face, extinguished during her captivity in Gloucester, now brought back through fresh food and sunshine. Not that she would describe her state as one of happiness, she was nonetheless more content, more accepting of her situation. Her melancholia remained, but not as frequently nor as deeply felt as before. Why, she had even caught herself laughing once or twice.