Before we left, she kindly gave me four potatoes and four eggs and a leftover scrap of grey soap. She warned me to use the soap most sparingly. I wish that I had some of Mama’s to give her. I remember Mama making soap and colouring the bars pink with beetroot and green with spinach. Sometimes Mama would add oatmeal to the mix to soften our skins.
Back home, I insisted Emily take a nap while I laundered everything we were taking to Sydney Cove. Then I boiled the potatoes and eggs Sarah had given me for our supper. The Surgeon came home well after sunset. He told me that Winston would be travelling to Sydney with us, but that he was to sleep in the barracks until then.
The Journey
Saturday 15th May
Late last night, my Master told me to pack everything we own. He says that there is hardly any food left in Sydney Cove and that we must prepare ourselves for the worst. I think that he is very sorry to be leaving Rose Hill.
Winston had hired a pony called Patch to carry Emily. A good horse and rider could manage the journey in less than a day. But when my Master caught sight of Patch, he shouted that Winston should have found us a better nag.
‘You did not see the others,’ his son protested, and then he sulked and sulked until nightfall. Patch’s ribs show through and she has a weeping sore on her right leg. But we have so few horses in Rose Hill, I think Winston was lucky to find her.
It is not my place to criticise my Master, but while he is very harsh with Winston, he is soft as dough with Emily. Perchance this is why Winston is wary of showing anyone his true feelings? Edward, I think that he misses his mama as much as I miss ours. Sometimes I hear him call for her in his sleep. Though when he wakes, he is always calm and distant.
This morning we left Rose Hill and Emily wheezed very badly. The men decided to piggyback her and use the pony to carry our packs. The track was so littered with boulders and fallen branches that we had to stop very often to help Patch through. My Master and Winston carried sticks in case we came across any escaped convicts or Indians. My Master reports that many Indians are sick with smallpox and influenza. So many are dying, he thinks that they have never had these maladies before.
Tonight we have camped by a stream. At dusk, a wicked wind blew up and we could not stop shivering. While the men went looking for firewood, I dressed Emily in all her shifts and petticoats to keep her warm, then wrapped her in my Master’s coat so that only her face showed through.
Around us, huge gums with reddish bark rose into the sky. Their trunks were so wide a man’s arms could barely encircle them. The wind shook their branches making their leaves tremble. Shivers ran down my spine. This land is awesomely strange. What monsters were watching us from the shadows? What if they were just waiting to attack?
We supped on a little salt pork and hardtack, though there was hardly enough to touch the sides of our bellies. Then my Master turned to me. ‘Come now, Scheherazade,’ he cried—and I had to smile at my new name. ‘More of your story will help us forget how hungry we still are.’
I was tired and would have liked to stay quiet. But my Master has shown me so much kindness I did not dare refuse. Drawing closer to the fire, I began, ‘Sir, what I did not know before I went to prison was that there were so many convicts, the government did not know where to send us …’
‘That is true,’ my Master cut in as a wicked gust shook leaves and blew dust into our eyes. ‘But when Captain Cook returned from his great southern voyage, he praised the timber and flax he saw here.’ A log fell out of the fire. He leaned forward to push it back. ‘My apologies, Scheherazade. I interrupt your story, and my children will be angry. Pray continue.’
So I told them how, for the first time in a year, we convicts were permitted to shuffle into the open and down to where Blackfriars Bridge crosses the River Thames. I told them how wonderful it was to breathe fresh air and see people going about their everyday affairs.
When we reached the docks we were pushed onto barges that sailed to Portsmouth. There, we were imprisoned for many months in old ships called hulks where the spars and rigging had been removed. These hulks were dirty, dangerous places. Even worse than Newgate Prison.
‘Yes, yes, we know all about that,’ Winston broke in impatiently. ‘Did you not tell us that Sarah Burke saved your life?’
‘Indeed she did,’ I replied. ‘Many times.’
Winston’s eyes gleamed. I think he enjoys my stories, though he would never actually tell me this. He said, ‘Will you relate one to us?’
I thought back. ‘Perhaps the most dangerous time was when Rachel Bolton thought I was trying to steal her child …’
I thought my Master was half-asleep. Now he stirred himself enough to chuckle. ‘Steal a child? Why would she think that?’
I explained how I had only been trying to help a poor woman who was seriously ill. She had given birth to a boy in Newgate Prison, and her baby was choking on his own vomit. I had tried to clean his face so he could breathe. But my action set the whole prison against me. The other women accused me of trying to kidnap the baby. When I protested that I had only been trying to save his life, no-one believed me. Only Sarah protecting me with a sharp knife, saying she would use it on the first person that came too close, had kept me alive.
The hair on the back of my neck prickled as I recalled those crazy women crowding around, and how close to death I had been.
A loud sigh came from Emily. I turned to see if she was unwell, but she was sleeping most soundly. Winston asked, ‘What happened to the mother and child?’
‘They died shortly after. So many maladies ran through the hulks, it was a miracle that any of us were strong enough to step on board the Lady Penrhyn and sail for Botany Bay …’
I would have continued, only my Master’s hand stopped me. ‘Enough for tonight, Scheherazade,’ he said gravely. ‘More of this sorry tale will make us wakeful. Leave the rest for tomorrow.’
While the others arranged themselves to sleep, I crept closer to the fire so I could still see enough to write in my journal. Though I am tired enough to sleep a whole week, there is too much keeping me awake: the wind swishing the upper branches, animals prowling through the undergrowth, shadows thrown by the fire, and my half-empty belly.
Winter is in the air. Yet strangely, I look on it with less dread than at home. Here, it never snows. Nor does it get too cold. But how strange to have Christmas in midsummer and Easter heralding winter. I am sure that if I did not see this for myself, that I would think it a fiction, perhaps written by Mister Defoe.
Sunday 16th May
Last night, an hour or so after falling asleep, I dreamed that I was back in Newgate Prison. Sarah was not there to protect me. That Turnkey, that same greedy fat man who crushed the toes on my left foot when I told him that I had no money was using his clamp on my other foot. All I could do was scream and scream …
I woke with a start to find my foot in a bull-ants’ nest. The wretched insects had bitten me and now my toes are red and itchy. Also, in the early hours of this morning Emily coughed and coughed. Then she threw up everything she had eaten the night before.
Her papa had brought with him some crushed tea-tree leaves. He instructed me to heat these leaves in a pan with some water. We put a shawl over Emily’s head so she could inhale the fumes. Half an hour later, the worst of her gasping stopped. Even then the Surgeon decided that she was not well enough to travel, and that we should stay here another day.
Winston was most dreadfully disappointed. I think he can hardly wait to join the rest of his regiment. Secretly I am relieved. This morning I woke with severe cramps in my belly. My Master says the salt pork is rancid, and that it is responsible for all our troubles. Last night he looked me up and down with a critical eye and said, ‘A little more food, and perchance you would grow taller.’
I did not know what to say. Whenever I complain to Sarah about being too small and thin, she will say ‘Lizzie, you might look a child, but after all your misfortunes, you do not think like one.�
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This morning, the smoke from our fire brought several visitors to our camp. The first was a man with piercing grey eyes, a most prominent nose with a bump in the middle, a balding head and a florid complexion.
Because he came in torn breeches, a sleeveless shirt and carried a musket, we thought he must be an escaped convict, and we sprang to our feet in fright.
My Master reached for his stick.
The man held out his hands to show us that he meant no harm. He bowed and quickly introduced himself as Lieutenant William Collins. He said, ‘My apologies for coming upon you like this. My uniform is so shabby, I only wear it when I am on duty.’
Winston whispered to me that he knew this Lieutenant. It seems he was the first officer to step ashore at Botany Bay with a party of convicts to hoist the Union Jack.
(I think that sometimes Winston forgets that I am a girl, worse still a convict, and that he does not want us to be friends.)
The Lieutenant and my Master settled in front of the fire. We heard more of the situation in Sydney Cove. The Lieutenant reports that there is much stealing of food. The Governor has given each person or family a plot to grow vegetables. But the Lieutenant says that too many folk know little about farming, and even if they do, that they are too weak to work.
Winston repeated a rumour that many folk were dying from lack of vittles, and he wanted to know if this was true.
‘There is food of a sort,’ Lieutenant Collins said reluctantly. ‘Some trap small animals. Others catch small fish. These squash the worst of our hunger. But such foods will not give our men strength. We need more salt beef, salt pork and salt mutton. Also, we are almost out of flour and rice …’
He stopped. We heard footsteps coming close.
My Master and Winston reached for their sticks.
The Lieutenant held up his musket.
A woman and a man were coming along the track. At first they seemed as startled to see us as we were to see them. Then they greeted us most amiably. The Lieutenant put his musket away. I am sure that he intended to use it only as a threat. There is hardly any ammunition left in all of Port Jackson.
These new people introduced themselves as Seaman Abel Flush and Mistress Margaret Stewart. Both are in their early twenties, and both are blue-eyed and fair-skinned, though considerably weathered. Margaret ties her curls into a leather string, just the way our mama wore hers whenever she had much to do.
They told us that they are heading for the Government Farm at Rose Hill. I could tell Margaret is a convict and probably not Abel’s wife. She clung to his arm as if she was not sure if he would stay with her. Even so, she has a kind heart. When she saw how pale and weak little Emily was, she searched in her pack for a woollen shawl, insisting that Emily wear it to warm her chest.
My Master thanked her with tears in his eyes. All we could offer our visitors was liquorice tea. To everyone’s delight, the Lieutenant produced a flask of rum from his pack. He poured a healthy tot into each mug. Though I dislike the taste, the rum’s fiery warmth soothed my aching belly.
As we sat around the fire, somehow the conversation turned, as it often does, to home. Then to all the hardships we must suffer.
Lieutenant Collins said, ‘Sometimes when I am too hungry to sleep, I repeat the names of the ships in our fleet.’ He closed his eyes, ‘Sirius. Alexander. Scarborough …’ He opened his eyes and laughed.
At this Margaret burst out, ‘Didn’t this good Lieutenant sail on the Sirius?’
‘I most certainly did,’ he replied. ‘And was most upset to learn that she has foundered on Norfolk Island. She was an excellent flagship.’
Margaret stared at him impatiently. ‘So you can have no idea how it was for the rest of us.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘Those who sailed in the prison ships were packed in worse than animals. No portholes or windows. Any day the ships were in port and every night, each of us slept in an area not much bigger than a child’s crib.’
The Surgeon looked most disturbed. Though whether it was at Margaret’s outburst, or what she was telling him, I could not say. He said that it was true that he did not see inside the prison ships, but surely it could not have been so bad as she described …
She would not let him finish. ‘We were like caged animals,’ she cried. ‘We could not stand up or move about without hurting ourselves. We must lie perfectly still until the sun rose next morning.’
‘Nor were there any candles or lanterns to light our nights,’ I said, adding my own piece to her story.
Winston said, ‘Were not the captains frightened that these would set fire to their ships?’
‘True enough,’ said Margaret. ‘And in bad weather the hatches were battened down. We lay in the dark, lapped by heaving seawater, sewage and vomit. All we had as company were curses and groans …’
Before she could continue, Abel placed his hand over her mouth as if he feared that her angry outburst would get them into trouble. My Master glanced at the Lieutenant. A look passed between them. But whatever he was going to say, he must have decided against it, and there was a long silence as each of us recalled that eight-and-a-half-month voyage. Certainly for Sarah and myself, it had been much as Margaret described, though conditions were perhaps a little better on the Lady Penrhyn than on some of the other prison ships. Yet our lives were uncertain and only Sarah’s courage saved me many times from being hurt.
Some of the women on the Lady Penrhyn were so miserable that all they did was quarrel. Occasionally our captain, William Cropton Sever, would get so angry at their foul language, he would order them to receive a severe lashing. When more sorely provoked, he had their hair cut off. Not that this did him much good as the women only cursed more loudly as they were being whipped and shaved.
Monday 17th May
All night Emily coughed and wheezed most piteously. None of the Surgeon’s inhalations could ease her distress. He said that she was still not well enough to travel and that we should rest here another day. Not that I mind, as I will use the time to fill my journal.
The Lieutenant had noticed me writing, and he wanted to know what ink I use. He says there is hardly any left in Sydney. I told him that my friend Sarah mixed certain barks, beet-skins and charcoal. Then she leaves this potion in a pot for two weeks to absorb the iron.
He picked up this book and glanced through some of the pages. ‘You have a fair hand. For a convict, that is,’ he finally commented. ‘Surgeon Russell tells me that you are teaching his little girl her letters.’
‘Sir, that I am,’ I replied.
His glance was shrewd. ‘You are not the only diarist in Port Jackson. Phillip keeps excellent records. Captain Watkin Tench also keeps a very full journal. Do you show your writings to others?’
I shook my head. Better not to mention that what I write, Edward, is for your eyes only. But ever since I had started this journal, something had been bothering me. ‘Sir,’ I said to the Lieutenant, ‘I intend posting this diary to my brother in England. But I do not know if the ink will last long enough for him to read my words.’
He saw my point and poured a little rum into the ink to preserve it.
I thanked him very carefully. Then waited for him to turn to my Master before picking up my pen. Marines can take offence so easily. They are too easily provoked. Winston is like a prickly porcupine. If ever I speak to him, his answers are miserly—almost as if he cannot bear to spare me too many words. His lofty attitude always reminds me that I am a convict-girl and am thus to be despised. At the same time, he tells his papa that our legal system is unfair and that it should be changed.
‘Why do you speak such rebellion?’ my Master once asked him. ‘You question everything far too openly. In France there is much talk of revolution.’ He looked most concerned. ‘Winston, be careful or you will be sent to gaol for treason and trying to provoke a mutiny.’
His son flushed angrily and his stammer grew worse. ‘H–How can we t–tolerate a system that allows so many hungry people to be hung and tra
nsported?’
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind Winston that his rebellion could start by being kinder to me, his convict-servant. But I thought better of it. Teasing him would only make things worse.
While we were thus gathered around the fire, my Master asked me to relate more of my story. At first I was too shy to speak in front of so many people and I shook my head. But when my Master insisted, I told them how Sarah and I were imprisoned for many months in the hulks. Here, conditions had been even grimmer than they had been in Newgate Prison. Many prisoners died from disease and neglect. Meanwhile Captain Phillip worked very hard at collecting the stores needed for such a long voyage. As my Master said, ‘Only, a terrible outbreak of prison fever on the Alexander hurried things along. If we had brought everything on Captain Phillip’s list, we would not presently be on such short rations.’
Emily was awake and feeling slightly better. She joined in the conversation. ‘Why, Papa,’ she cried. ‘What did we leave behind?’
He reached over to stroke her cheek. ‘Clothing for our women. Lime to make mortar to hold our bricks together, and we brought too few fishing nets. We certainly need more nails. Most importantly, there is no shot for our muskets so we cannot hunt for game.’
The Lieutenant said, ‘At least Captain Phillip took enough food to last two years of settlement. He could hardly have known that our crops would fail.’
My Master nodded grimly. ‘Although while we were on board ship, the food was not equally shared.’
‘True enough,’ Winston broke in. ‘The men c–convicts received only two thirds of the marines’ rations. And the women only half.’
The Lieutenant’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You think the women deserved more?’
Surviving Sydney Cove Page 7
