South of Darkness

by John Marsden

  ‘I stole them from a man who had fallen down drunk, quite a short man, outside the tavern on Oxley Street.’ It took me a full minute to get all this out as I could only manage a couple of words at a time.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I’d never seen him before and I’ve never seen him since. He . . . he looked like a foreign gentleman, but he spoke like an Englishman.’

  ‘Short, was he? With a black beard, neatly trimmed? Red waistcoat? Smoked a pipe, did he?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes, sir. Is he a friend of yours, sir? If so, I’m exceedingly sorry . . .’

  ‘A friend!’ He laughed, but without a trace of humour. ‘You keep dangerous company, boy. Yes, it had to be him. Any less of an artist would never have taken me in. Well boy, you’re in a fair way to end up on the gallows yourself. Now, where’s the money I gave you? The bag of coins?’

  ‘Why, most of it’s spent, sir.’ Only now was I starting to get my breath back. I tried to tighten my stomach muscles in case he hit me there again. ‘But I can get you what’s left, sir.’

  ‘Oh, deuced generous he is. So, spent you say? Well, you can just unspend it. You deliver all of it to me by Sunday morning, or you won’t have to wait for the Tyburn Tippett. I’ll turn you off myself.’

  I didn’t dare ask what he meant by the Tyburn Tippett, but I guessed it was a nickname for the gallows.

  ‘Fifty pounds you owe me,’ he said, and before I could respond, he flung me across the little clearing into a mess of brambles and weeds. I would not have guessed he had strength enough to do that, for, light though I was, he lifted me well clear of the ground and threw me quite a distance.

  I lay in there scratched and sore and frightened, watching him stalk away. He had only gone a few yards when he suddenly turned on his heel and came back to me. ‘Send your ugly little mate to my office with the money,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you coming anywhere near me ever again.’

  Off he went, and suddenly the black cat with the white-tipped tail sprang from a straggly bush outside Riley’s and followed, like a vicious little sprite trailing behind him.

  I waited until he had gone before crawling out of the prickly weeds. I did so gingerly, and with exclamations of pain, for it was impossible to avoid having my skin ripped in many places by the thorns. Then I lay on the bank for some time, unable to move, still struggling to breathe properly, though that may have been as much the effect of fear as a result of the blows he had rained upon me. Fifty pounds! I was sure he had paid me nothing like so much. He had probably just made up a figure. Unfortunately Quentin and I had never counted it, so we could hardly contradict him, even though I had not seen him count it either.

  Fifty pounds or not, I was too afeared of him to contemplate paying him a penny less. But where was I to get such a sum? I guessed that I had between seven and eight pounds left in the bag of coins. It seemed that my decision to live so far outside the laws of God and the King was already bringing me to the brink of disaster. As I limped back towards the refuge of St Martin’s, I could see no way to obtain the balance of money demanded by Mr Weekes, short of committing another felony. And who knew where that might lead me?

  Chapter 15

  That very night I had the chance to become acquainted with one who was apparently a felon of long standing. Quentin and I were in a small smoky tavern in Nicholas Street that went by the name of the Pie and Peas. We were in the smallest room, at the very back. I had been practising a policy of discretion since robbing the unconscious drunk man of his money, and so not for me the noisy front rooms, nor the raucous corridors and staircase, which were crowded with as rough a bunch of ruffians as one might expect to find anywhere in London that night.

  Quentin and I huddled on the floor, as close as we could get to the fireplace. In the small room any decent fire would have radiated heat enough to blister the skin, but this was a feeble conflagration, based on a few meagre green sticks.

  Barely a dozen people could fit in the room at once, and it was at capacity by nine of the clock. The only other person sitting on the floor, a little way to my left, on the other side of the fireplace, was a man who did not attract my attention for some time. His grey hair, tanned skin, grey beard and dirty dark black overcoat caused him to blend in with the shadows, the room being dimly lit anyway.

  But after we had been there an hour or so he broke into such a fit of coughing that I felt compelled to notice him, if only to ask if he required assistance, which he indicated by a wave, between coughs, that he did not. When he seemed to have recovered his breath I asked him again if he was all right.

  ‘For the moment,’ he growled. ‘The accursed air of England . . . it’d kill anyone.’

  Such was my ignorance of the world that it had never occurred to me that there might be other places where the air felt different. I looked at him in some surprise and asked where one might go to experience a change of climate.

  For the first time he looked full at me. ‘You heard of a place called New South Wales?’

  ‘Is that where they’re going to send the convicts?’

  ‘My oath it is. They’ve already started. Not only have men gone out there, and women too for that matter, but at least one of them’s come back already.’

  He laughed as though this was indeed a good joke, then looked at me again. ‘Know where New South Wales is, lad?’

  ‘I suppose it would be near South Wales somewhere?’

  He laughed so hard at this that the coughing came back upon him. He pulled out a red kerchief and held it to his mouth. The fit lasted nigh on a minute, and when he took the kerchief away I noticed that, red as it had been before, it was now even redder, splattered with dark spots. He saw that I had observed the spots, and put the cloth away quickly, saying: ‘Aye, lad, I’m not far from the Judgement Seat, and no mistake. That’s why they gave me a ticket home.’

  ‘A ticket home?’ I asked, puzzled.

  He leaned in closer. I recoiled a little, for he had a smell on him that I had not smelled before, but knew in my bones to be the precursor to the grave. He grinned at the distaste that must have shown on my face. ‘I was in the First Fleet out there and the first one back,’ he said. ‘Yes, they did me for robbery on the King’s highway, but by the time we got to New South Wales the surgeon said there were naught he could do for me, and so I got a governor’s pardon, and a ride home. All the way back they had the sail ready, to sew me up and slip me over the side. But I cheated them. I saw the white cliffs of Dover, and I’m yet to see the red flames of Hell.’

  To my relief he sat back again, but it was just for another coughing fit. It was some time before he spoke again. Finally he said: ‘You talk about climate now. Oh aye, they’ve a climate out there that a man would dream about. All day long you can have your shirt off and the sun warms you, inside and out. And at night, no need to bother with blankets. Even when it’s raining, you never feel cold.’ He leaned back further, to get closer to the fire perhaps, but his voice was becoming fainter and he was harder to hear. ‘It were grand out there,’ he whispered. ‘Those rascals they sent out . . . They didn’t want to go, no sir, they didn’t. It’s not an easy trip, but when you make it . . . and when he gets his ticket-of-leave, a man could do anything. All the land he wants, as far as the eye can see. It would have been a fair place to die in. But I came back to see my wife and children, only to find she’d run off with old Blakey, the stablehand at Sir Matthew’s . . . she didn’t want to know me. And the little ’uns too. Funny, I did it all for them.’

  ‘So where is New South Wales?’ I asked. But his eyes had closed. He could have been entering his last sleep for all I knew. I didn’t wait to find out. Even more people had squeezed into the room and it was now impossibly crowded, as well as smoky from the fire and the pipes. I motioned to Quentin and we hightailed it out of there.

  Skulking along the side of the street, both of us
with one eye out for Mr Weekes, I couldn’t stop thinking about what the man had said. I was desperate to get the money I needed, to pay Weekes, but I knew I had virtually no chance of succeeding. All I could think was to stumble upon another drunk, one with genuine banknotes. The likelihood of that did not seem good. Most drunks who littered the streets of Hell could be relied upon to have empty pockets. Well-dressed men in suits and waistcoats might fall out of the sky occasionally, but they were few and far between.

  We talked gloomily of our lives and our prospects. Quentin probably had no need to fear Mr Weekes, for he had done nothing to harm the gentleman, but for my part, I considered I was at great risk of being murdered. I seemed in a fair way to be tossed into the river for the second time, if I was not able to cough up the dosh for my tormentor.

  It was too late to get into St Martin’s at that time of night, so we headed for another of our familiar haunts. The cemetery of St Martin’s was for some reason nowhere near the church, despite that it bore the church’s name. I didn’t mind it too much, as somewhere to sleep, but Quentin was always reluctant and would only go if he were with me. It was an unnerving sort of place, to be sure, even in the daytime, but one of the reasons I liked it was that it was generally safe from the hooligans and bash-artists and gangs of hobbledehoys that were always such a threat for youngsters like Quentin and me. They were scared witless of the place.

  It’s true, there was a fearful sort of man hung around the cemetery day and night, like it was his home, and I think it probably was. I didn’t know his name but folks called him Mad Man Abraham. He had a long beard and a hat with holes in it. People said the holes were for his rats; he had pet rats, they said, and they lived in his hair. I didn’t know about that, but it wouldn’t have surprised me. I did know he talked to himself all the time, and he must have thought the cemetery was his kingdom, for every time he saw us boys near the place he came after us waving his arms like he was demented. He used a big hazel stick as a cane, and he’d shake that and call out threats about how he had our graves ready and waiting. So you wouldn’t want to make his acquaintance in the cemetery in the middle of the night, and Quentin and I took pains to ensure that we kept out of his path. It wasn’t too difficult if you knew his habits, for he tended to favour certain parts of the place and shun certain others.

  Just outside the cemetery we met the Ferret, one of our friends, who was about the same age as me. I didn’t know back then why he was called the Ferret, because although I knew there was a creature with that name, I’d never seen one. When I did meet one at last, and it sank its teeth into my hand, I understood why our friend in Hell deserved the sobriquet, for he would bite anyone, friend or foe.

  The Ferret was looking for a place to sleep, same as us, so we skinned over the fence one at a time and crept to a hollow on the hillside. There we nestled down together, out of sight of Mad Man Abraham, or so we hoped.

  We talked for a while, until Quentin dropped off to sleep. I didn’t tell the Ferret of my difficulties with Mr Weekes, but I did tell him that I needed fifty pounds, and in a damn hurry. When the Ferret laughed it was something like the bark of a small dog, and he gave one of his short laughs at the sum I mentioned. ‘Fifty pounds,’ he said. ‘You want the moon up there? I’ll get you that before I’ll get you fifty pounds.’

  That summed up the situation pretty well. Once Quentin was asleep the Ferret and I didn’t talk for some time. Quentin was lying half across my lap and I had my arms around him. It didn’t seem right to disturb him. After a considerable while the Ferret said: ‘Looking at the moon and them stars, it makes you think there might be something else somewhere.’

  I’d never heard him talk like this and I asked him what he meant by it. ‘Oh, nothing in particular,’ he said. He sounded quite embarrassed. ‘Just, you know, that there might be something better, even for such as us. That’s the trouble with the damn stars and such. They make you so you’re not satisfied.’

  I told him then about the conversation in the tavern with the dying man, the conversation about New South Wales. ‘Aye,’ said the Ferret. ‘They’ve sent a few thousand out there already. You know the Hulks?’

  Oh yes, I knew the Hulks all right, down by Woolwich. Who didn’t? And who didn’t fear them? A hundred times worse than any prison, people said, and prison was a hundred times worse than Hell, and Hell was a thousand times worse than the life ordinary folks lived. Yes, the Hulks were to be avoided at any cost.

  ‘Well,’ said the Ferret, who knew everything. ‘There’s been a fuss made by the rich ’uns about the Hulks. Seems like the Government had to do something. There were that many crims dropping off the perch every day that even the rich ’uns said it weren’t right and it had to stop. So they’ve been emptying the Hulks and sending them out to Botany Bay.’

  ‘Botany Bay?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s New South Wales. Over on the other side of the world it is. You know, transportation. They used to send them to America until those damn Yankees and Frenchies did the dirty on us. Can’t send ’em there any more. That’s why they were piling up in the Hulks. Now they’ve got New South Wales.’

  He looked at me in the moonlight. I can see him now, his thin pointy little face, more like a fox than a ferret, his sharp eyes that never missed a thing. ‘There’s your answer. Get yourself sent to Botany Bay.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Get yourself transported. If it’s good as the man said . . . nothing but sunshine. What’ve you got here? Rain and cold and half-starved, and getting your throat cut by Weekes when you don’t come up with the fifty quid.’

  ‘How did you know it was Mr Weekes?’ I asked, startled.

  He gave a dark laugh, out of the darkness. ‘I hear stuff. You got yourself a good one there. He’d cut your throat just for saying a bad word about his precious cat. He’ll never let go of you, that one. Yeah, you got yourself a bad one all right.’

  I pondered his words. ‘How would I get transported?’ I asked.

  He gave his fox-bark-laugh again. ‘Couldn’t be easier. Just pick the right crime. Steal something worth less than five shillings, say. You don’t want to go over five shillings or they’ll put the black cap on for you. Not that they wouldn’t commute it for young ’uns like us. Still, it wouldn’t be a nice feeling to stand in the dock and listen to the judge say them words. But a couple of shillings worth, that should get you a free ticket to Botany Bay.’ Then he started getting excited. ‘Of course! You’ll be in the clear with Weekes as well. You get arrested, he’ll think you were trying to get the money for him. He won’t bother going after you, not when you’re inside. He’ll think, Ah well, he were trying to do the right thing. And if you’re in New South Wales, that’s too far away even for him.’

  Chapter 16

  In the cold light of dawn, when our plans and intentions are so often exposed as impossible or unwise or ill-advised, I lay in the graveyard, Quentin still draped across me, and contemplated the Ferret’s counsel. Partially sheltered though we were, I had not escaped the morning dew. I was wet and cold, and the fog of London was seeping into my soul, as it has a way of doing, yet the description of New South Wales by the man in the Pie and Peas kept a small part of me warm. Although in some ways the idea of transportation made me fearful, yet the alternative made me more fearful still. Being pursued by Mr Weekes through the streets of London was a death sentence, and despite the miserable circumstances of my life I was not yet ready to go to Judgement.

  Trust the Ferret to come up with a scheme that was sharp and sly. He had slipped away already, so I could have no further discussions with him about his advice. When Quentin awoke we too hastened from the graveyard, on our daily ceaseless search for food. Yet as we roamed the streets I thought continuously of the delights of that place – what had the Ferret called it? – Botany Bay? I imagined oranges and apples dangling from trees, fresh-baked bread, fish being pulled from the rivers, all in e
ndless abundance . . . a kind of Garden of Eden, somehow mixed with the scene near Bethsaida where Christ had fed the multitudes with seven loaves and two fishes.

  I took little notice of Quentin that day. He as always was uncomplaining, although at times I did contemplate with pangs of guilt the effect on him of my possible desertion. It would leave him altogether alone. On the other hand, if I was killed by Mr Weekes, Quentin would be left alone too. Better for my sake that I be alive in New South Wales than dead in London; for Quentin, the outcome was the same either way.

  Even so, I was scared to leave Hell. Scared out of my wits. Hell it may have been, but it was the only world I knew. To me it was more like Purgatory, and everything beyond it was Hell. But I got to the point of thinking I had no choice. My decision to steal that money . . . how it had rebounded on me! It had led inevitably, fatally, step by step, to my present position, and what was worse, I felt that I was in all probability nowhere near the end of the path and had no idea of the destination for which I was bound.

  But I could not weaken myself further by dwelling on these fearful topics. Instead I set about thinking of a crime I could commit that would get me transported. I knew I had to be careful. I had already experienced the treatment meted out to those who strayed outside the law; I had put myself in that very position when Quentin and I had entered the house that was on fire, and again when I stole the counterfeit notes; I had been put in that position when accused of the heinous crime against Josephine Ogwell. I wanted a plan now that would not expose me to more than I could bear.

  How ignorant, how naive, I was in those days! Truly, nothing can equal the ignorance of the child, for his extensive knowledge of some topics is betrayed by his complete ignorance of others. The adult generally has at least a smattering of knowledge of most aspects of the world. The child is like a creature who hibernates in winter; it may know the world of spring and summer intimately, but should it wake in winter it will find itself utterly confounded.