by Bonnie Leon
“No one here needs anything from ye,” Rosalyn said.
Mrs. Atherton’s eyes moved about the room. “Are you all in agreement?” Her gaze settled on Marjorie. “How about you?”
“I’ve some complaints, but there’s nothing can be done about them. And I’d never consider allowing anyone but a real surgeon see to my needs.”
“I understand your concerns, but there’s only one surgeon and so many prisoners. Most likely you shan’t see him.” Her eyes went to Marjorie’s hand. “You’ve a cut that needs tending.”
“Do you think it’s serious?” Marjorie asked, seeming to have forgotten her resolve about professional doctoring.
“Might I have a look at it?”
“I suppose it would be all right.” Marjorie held out her hand. The edges of the wound were fiery red, the center puckered with infection.
“It must be painful.” Mrs. Atherton cleaned the cut, applied salve, and bandaged it. “Clean it every day. I’ll leave bandages and some of the ointment.”
Marjorie held the hand close to her abdomen. “Thank you.”
Next Mrs. Atherton moved to Lottie. “And how are you?”
“Good, mum, just a little hungry. Wish I got more to eat.”
Mrs. Atherton smiled, but her eyes looked sad. “Perhaps I can help with that.” She reached into a satchel and retrieved a small bag tied shut. Untying the string, she asked, “Would you like a sweet?”
“Yes, mum.” Lottie’s eyes were bright with anticipation.
“There’s enough for all of you.” Mrs. Atherton gave a piece to each of the women.
Lottie had eaten half of hers when she said through a mouthful, “This is good.” She leaned against Mrs. Atherton. “You’re a fine lady.”
“Thank you, child.” She looked at Hannah. “Is this your daughter?”
“No. Her mother died during the crossing.” Hannah rested a hand on Lottie’s shoulder. “We found each other.”
“You’re a pretty little thing. What’s your name?”
“Charlotte, but everyone calls me Lottie.”
Mrs. Atherton dug into her bag. “I think I have a dress here that might fit you.” She lifted out a small pink gown.
Lottie sucked in a breath. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never had such a fine dress.”
“I think the pink will go nicely with your freckles,” said Mrs. Atherton. “I’ve other dresses too. Each of you may have one. They’re in the large satchel.”
The women descended on the bag, except for Rosalyn. They each found dresses—Hannah a white linen, Lydia a green one, and white for Marjorie. Reluctantly, Rosalyn chose a pink gown.
“It’s been a long while since I’ve had anything nice,” Lydia said. “Thank ye.” She held the dress up against her.
“I’ll visit again.” Mrs. Atherton’s eyes settled on Lottie. “There’s a family I know who would love it if a pretty little girl like you went to live with them.” She looked at Hannah. “They’re a fine family. Would it be all right if I inquired?”
Hannah felt the instant sting of tears. She adored Lottie. How could she let her go?
“Of course,” she said. “This is no place for a child.” She smiled at Lottie. “Imagine having a real family.” She tried to keep her tone light.
Lottie frowned and said nothing.
“Good then.” Mrs. Atherton stood. “I’m sure I’ll be back soon. Good day to you.”
16
John and the crew ambled up the road to a waiting wagon. Fatigue had fixed itself in his very bones. He wasn’t sure his legs would carry him. Glancing at blistered, bloody hands, he kept walking.
When he reached the wagon, John climbed into the back and sat, leaning against a side rail. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to rest. Another man’s misfortune had provided the entire crew with a day’s respite, for they were required to return to the prison.
Kian Murphy, an Irishman, had tried to escape. He’d been hunted down, put in irons, and marched back to Port Jackson where he awaited punishment. John didn’t want to think about what that could mean for Kian.
“Right poor reason for a day off,” Perry said, sitting beside John.
“You’re right there.” John let out a haggard breath. “Poor Kian.”
“Wouldn’t want to be him, that’s for sure.” Perry rested his arms on bent legs. “Living on the streets I had some bad days, but nothing like he’s gonna have. The gallows would be better.” He was quiet for a moment. “Wish there was some way to save the poor bloke.”
John only nodded. There was nothing to be said and he didn’t want to talk about it. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind remained with Kian and he could find no rest. At the end of this day, Kian would most likely be dead. John didn’t know the young man well, but he seemed pleasant enough and not the type to run off. Why had he tried? It was common knowledge there was no escape, not overland anyway.
On the trip back to the gaol, the men were silent. Even Perry turned uncharacteristically quiet.
At the prison John hobbled to his hut and dropped into his hammock. It was the first time in three weeks he hadn’t slept on rocky ground. Longing for sleep, he closed his eyes, but an image of Hannah intruded. He wanted to see her. Was she still at the prison or had she been moved? He’d heard that several women had been transferred to the Female Factory in Parramatta. If she’d gone with them, he’d likely never see her again.
Sleep, he told himself. Don’t think.
“In the yard! Everyone in the yard!” a soldier bellowed as he walked along the row of huts.
John groaned and rolled to his side, dropping his feet to the floor.
“That’ll be Kian,” Perry said. “Poor beggar.” He walked to the door and looked outside.
John pushed out of the hammock. “He’ll be made an example of. It’ll go hard on him.”
“It’s depraved, but yer quite right.” Perry remained in the doorway. “Don’t guess there’s a way to escape this, eh?” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he shuffled outside.
“Hope he makes it through.” John followed, resigned to witnessing a flogging.
John worked alongside Perry. Sweat dripped into his eyes and ran down his back, soaking his shirt. His muscles quaked at the stress laid upon them. Still he continued to swing his pick, digging out rock and earth.
Perhaps if he worked hard enough he could erase the images of poor Kian. The prisoners had been called into the main yard and forced to watch while the young man had endured one hundred lashes with a cat-o’-nine-tails. John could still hear the sound of the leather strap whir as it snaked through the air and the drumbeats that counted off each stroke.
Hannah had been there. She’d looked pale, but with tear-filled eyes and her jaw set she’d watched, as ordered. Pride stirred in John. Hannah had been courageous.
He drove his pick into the hard ground. Why force the women to watch? What purpose did that serve? He wanted to protect Hannah from the miseries of this place, but there was nothing he could do. His frustration was so intense it burned in the center of his gut.
Kian had survived the flogging, but just barely. The memory of it made John’s stomach turn, and it angered him. Flogging a man to that degree was unpardonable. There was no justification for such punishment, especially not for a man like Kian who, like so many others, didn’t belong in Port Jackson. He’d been arrested as a subversive. Simply being an Irishman offered so-called proof of wrongdoing, and he’d been transported.
John’s mind turned to his own injustice and to those who’d served it to him—Margaret and Henry. Fierce bitterness raised up in him. His mind filled with thoughts of what he’d do if he ever saw Henry again. No use thinking about that. There’s nothingserved in such musings.
He straightened and rested the shank of his pick against his leg. Taking a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped away the sweat and dirt from his face and eyes. Kian had been an example of what happened to anyone foolish enough
to try escaping. The only safety lay beyond the Blue Mountains, and no white man had ever crossed them. John’s eyes rested on the mountain range, and a longing for freedom welled up inside. But there was no escape. The few prisoners who had escaped were never seen again; but it was said that the bones of many had been found scattered north and south along the New South Wales coast.
Perry glanced at John and flashed him a smile. The man was an enigma, always seeming to find reason for cheerfulness. There seemed to be nothing that could be thrown at him that he didn’t manage to come back at it boldly.
Still smiling, he said, “Breaking a good sweat today.”
“That I am.” John stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “But better this than lying about at the prison.”
“Right you are. A life sentence would be hard to face with nothing to do.”
A guard approached John. “There’s a gent wants to talk to you.” He nodded at a carriage parked alongside the road.
John’s gut tightened. This couldn’t be good. He walked toward the carriage. A tall, slender man with graying hair stood alongside one of the horses. He was well dressed and clearly an aristocrat.
“Sir, you wanted to speak to me?” John asked as he approached.
“John Bradshaw?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I’m William Atherton.” He shook John’s hand. His grip was sturdy. “I was told you know something of toolmaking.”
“That I do. My father owned a tool manufacturing company. I was raised in the business and apprenticed as a young man. When my father died, I took over the company.”
“You’re just the man I need, then. I own a timber company and live on a farm west of here in Parramatta. I’ve need of a toolmaker. British merchants can’t get tools to me quickly enough.” His gaze moved to the road crew. “Your talents are wasted here. You’ll come to work for me.”
Relief and jubilation spread through John. “I’d be glad to, sir.” He barely managed to conceal his excitement. It wasn’t always wise to give away too much of one’s feelings.
“Splendid. I’ll see to it that you’re transported to Parramatta. A man will come for you.”
Although unwise to press a new employer, John didn’t want to leave Perry behind. He feared that working on the road crew would eventually kill his friend. “Sir, have you need for more workers? Tool men?”
“Indeed I do.”
“I know a man. He’s a fine chap and a hard worker. Name’s Perry Littrell.”
“You’re recommending him?”
“That I am, sir.”
“All right, then. I’ll transfer him as well.” Mr. Atherton climbed into his carriage, and the driver set off.
Wanting to shout his exultation, John managed to control his emotions and returned to his pick. No longer feeling his pain, he labored beside Perry and quietly said, “Got us a job. A good one.”
“Both of us?”
“Right. We’ll be working for a William Atherton. He lives in Parramatta. Says he needs tool men.”
“I know nothin’ ’bout tools.”
“No. But I do. I’ll teach you.”
“So, ye lied to him?”
“Not completely.”
Perry shook his head, but he was grinning. “Hope yer stretching the truth don’t come down on our heads.”
As promised, John and Perry were transferred to the Atherton farm. It was a fine place and Mr. Atherton seemed a fair and honorable man. He raised cattle and sheep and an assortment of other farm animals, just enough for food. He also harvested feed for the stock plus managed to grow a large garden. Mr. Atherton dealt mostly in timber, an emerging commodity in New South Wales. He’d done well since immigrating nine years previously.
The tool shop was more than John could have hoped for. Well stocked, it had every convenience, including a large fire hearth and billows for founding. He and Perry set to work immediately. Perry learned quickly, not only because he was a dedicated pupil, but also because he had a natural bent for toolmaking.
Life was good, considering—except for James Lewis, the overseer who had an unreasonable dislike for John. James had little integrity, and making John miserable seemed to give him pleasure. He was forever complaining about John’s work, requiring him to rebuild and reassemble tools unnecessarily. And he seemed incapable of giving an order without bellowing.
John could do nothing to please James, and he finally quit trying. He decided to do his work, keep to his tasks, and pay no mind to the overseer. In time, Mr. Atherton would see he did superior work.
One afternoon James ambled into the shop. As usual, he looked surly. Lifting his hat, he wiped wetness from his forehead with the back of his hand. Sweat mixed with dirt became a mud smear. He swiped back thinning hair and replaced the hat. “Ye get that work done I give ye?”
“It’s done,” John said, keeping his eyes on a chisel he was making. “Finished it more than an hour ago.”
“Ye act pleased with that.” James strode up to John. “I wanted that auger and bits two days ago. There’s a ship in Sydney Harbour ready to sail, except they can’t because they’re waitin’ on ye. They got repairs to make. I told ye!” His skin flushed red and sweat trailed down his face. “I’ve had enough of yer loafing.” He crossed to the workbench. “Show them to me. Where are they?”
“Where they always are.” John nodded toward a workbench on the far side of the room.
James stormed across the shop. He picked up the auger and studied it. “Shoddy work this is. It’ll not last. I’ve a mind to send ye packing.”
Anger seething just beneath the surface, John moved to the bench. “Those are good, solid tools.” He stared at the auger in James’s hand. “Let me have a look at it.”
The foreman slapped the tool into John’s upturned palm.
John tried it out and then studied it from every angle. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s fine.”
“Don’t get high-and-mighty with me.” James’s cheeks puffed out and his eyes bulged. “I’ve had enough of yer insolence. Get yer things!” He stormed out of the shop and headed for the main house.
Stunned, John stared after him. “So that’s it, then.”
“Guess the both of us will be packin’ up,” Perry said. “Kind of liked it ’ere.”
John and Perry walked to their quarters where they packed their belongings and then sat at a table to wait. They played a game of cards.
“I call,” John said. “Let me see what you have.”
Perry frowned and set a pair of threes faceup in front of him.
“That’s it?” John laid down two nines.
“Nines are so much better than threes, eh?”
“Still beat you.” John scooped up the six straws that had been set out as a wager. He shuffled the cards from one hand to the other. “Hate working on the road crew. That kind of labor can kill a man.”
“Right, but it can make ye strong too. And in this place a man needs to be strong.” Perry grinned. “We’ll do all right.”
John looked at his friend. He didn’t figure he’d last long building roads. He was small and skinny.
Perry stared at John. “Don’t worry ’bout me. I’ll be fine. I might be puny, but that don’t make me weak. I lost me mum when I was young, but I still remember her sayin’ I was scrappy. Bein’ tough helped keep me alive. Counts for a lot.”
John dealt the cards. “True. You’re a hardy one at that. You may outlast me.” He knew it was unlikely, but he wasn’t about to steal his friend’s hope. And he had to admit that Perry had more spunk than most. He just might make it.
It was several hours before anyone came for them. It was Mr. Atherton. John and Perry were sitting on the porch when he walked up. They both stood.
“Afternoon, sir,” John said.
Perry nodded and tipped his hat.
“Afternoon to you.” A pipe rested on Atherton’s lower lip. He took it out of his mouth and studied the bowl for a moment, replaced it,
and then turned his gaze on John. “James came to me today. Said he’s unhappy with your work.”
“I know he feels that way, sir.”
“It’s not true,” Perry said. “John does first-rate work.”
“That so?” Mr. Atherton spoke in clipped tones.
John looked directly at his employer. “Yes. I’m good at what I do.”
Mr. Atherton puffed on his pipe. “I had a look at the records. Your production is good. Also examined some of the tools. They were fine. Seems you’re highly thought of ’round here as well.” He put a foot on the bottom porch step. “So Lewis has been giving you a hard time?”
“That’s true,” Perry said. “He’s been real hard on John, from the beginning.”
“That right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lewis has been with me a long while.” He studied his pipe a moment. “But he’s wrong about you and your work.” He smiled. “I decided it’ll be Mr. Lewis who’ll be moving on.”
Perry’s eyes widened, but he kept quiet.
“What are you saying, sir?” John asked.
“Lewis has a bad history. I don’t need his kind here.” He leveled serious eyes on John. “I grew up a poor relation to a wealthy family. Because of that I was offered a first-rate education and the finer things in life, but in the end I still had to make my own way. And I did.” He turned his pipe over and tapped out the burned tobacco. “I’ve a good eye for people. You’re a good sort, hard worker, dependable, and a fine toolmaker. I want you to stay.”
“Thank you, sir.” John could have cheered, but he remained steady.
“You’ve run a business of your own, and I need someone who knows how to deal with people, someone who’s levelheaded.” He smiled. “With Lewis gone, I’ll be needing someone to take on his job. You think you could do it and still keep up with the tooling?”
“Yes. But I’ll need another man here at the shop.”
“I can do that for you.”
Mr. Atherton set his pale blue eyes on John. “Why were you transported?”
