by John Marsden
It was a long time before Surgeon Gossam appeared. He presumably did so in some trepidation, for he had an escort of six soldiers. I had a little sympathy with him. To descend into a nest of convicts, in the middle of the night, knowing that there was trouble but knowing little of what it might be, must take some courage.
They brought more lanterns and by their light I could see a rivulet of blood slowly trickling along the floor, rushing a little every time the ship tipped at the stern. I heard the surgeon exclaim: ‘This is a bad business,’ then a little later I saw four soldiers carrying a man past. I saw his sweating pale face and heard his groans. They were followed by the other two soldiers, escorting a man who had his hands bound behind his back. I wondered how they would get him up the ladder, with his feet shackled as well.
At least this terrible incident had a sobering effect on those of us left behind. There was a stillness and silence below decks, such as I had not experienced on the previous nights. I felt safe enough to go to sleep, reflecting as I did so that the medical care in this floating prison seemed very different to the standards I had experienced in Newgate. Surgeon Gossam appeared to care for his charges, to be anxious to keep them alive, to want orderly and clean conditions. The contrast with Newgate, and indeed the life I had known in Hell, was striking. It gave me another glimmer of hope, another reason to suppose that I should not yet despair about my future.
Chapter 23
As early as the following day I had further cause for optimism when Carmichael Lance quietly informed me, as we scrubbed pots in the galley, that he had fixed it for me to take the hammock next to his. I don’t know how he managed this, but a sallow-faced man with skin pockmarked by old smallpox scars brought his meagre possessions to my hammock and I took my meagre possessions to his, and so the exchange was effected.
I also didn’t know why Carmichael took such an interest in me, but as we lay in our hammocks that evening he told me a little about himself. For the sake of privacy we had to speak quietly, as anything above a whisper was heard by half-a-dozen men in surrounding berths. Carmichael came from a place called Bickleigh Vale, a rural hamlet a couple of hundred miles north of London. The son of a clergyman, he was born in the middle of a wild storm which blew the roof off the rectory. ‘My father took it as an omen,’ he said. ‘I was the firstborn, but he believed me to be an ill-fated child. He proved a good prophet, I fear. Yet I strove to do all that he expected of me and to live piously. With the greatest respect to his memory, though, I fear it is not unreasonable for me to say that he was difficult to please. He had a harshness to his nature, and I saw my mother suffer at times from his lack of sympathy.
‘When I was eight years old, by which time I had two younger sisters, my father sent me away to a school at Abbotsley.’ Carmichael paused for a moment, as though recollecting troubled memories. ‘You believe,’ he continued, ‘that Newgate and this ship lack a certain, shall we say, comfort, or gentleness. Well, I can only say that compared to Mr Pine’s establishment at Abbotsley, Newgate and the Admiral Barrington are the epitome of luxury. Truly, only those who have been there can conceive the hell that is an English school for young gentlemen.’
He sighed. ‘I was allowed home but once a year, and on those occasions my poor mother wept so much to see me that I could not break her heart by telling her of the privations at Mr Pine’s Academy. I did not wish to add to her sufferings. But those sufferings were destined not to last a deal longer. One evening she accompanied me in our little pony trap to the coaching station, from whence I was to return to school. A fearful storm was raging and my father had forbidden my mother to go. But he was called out to see a dying parishioner – for all his faults he was a Godly man, and unlike some of those in holy orders would not neglect his duty, even on such a night. My mother for once disobeyed his instructions and travelled with me to the town. On the journey back, they came to the bridge across the River Wyburn but in the rain and darkness were unable to see that a span had been washed away. The pony and trap plunged into the torrent. The driver swam to safety but was not able to rescue my mother.
‘And so the prophecies made at my birth were fulfilled. I received the news at my school some days later. My father then wrote to Mr Pine requesting that I remain at school during future vacations. I was not permitted to see his letter, but I understood that he expressed a view that I bore some responsibility for my mother’s death. I myself was never to receive any direct communications from him on that or any other topic again.’
‘That’s a sad story,’ I whispered.
I’m not sure if he heard me. He added: ‘I had in mind to follow my father and take holy orders, but alas, my university career was short and inglorious. After just a few months I was rusticated. The demon drink, I’m afraid. From then on, my trajectory has been steadily downhill.’ His eyes opened wide suddenly, and he looked at me again with the fervent eyes I had seen by the porthole two days earlier. ‘Botany Bay . . .’ he whispered. ‘The Pacific Ocean washes gently into the harbour. No storms there. I believe it is meant to be. The very name “Pacific Ocean” gives me comfort and hope.’
I didn’t know quite what he meant by that. We lay in silence for a while. I became aware that the insidious progress of darkness through the mid-deck section had begun once more. I felt a trickle of fear in my insides. I had put my faith in Carmichael to keep me safe, but I had never thought about the manner in which I expected him to do this. He was a lean man, quite tall, but with none of the bulk and obvious strength of my previous neighbour, Holt. Nothing about Carmichael gave the impression that he would be any use pitted in a fight with one of the more brutish occupants of our quarters. And I did not want him dragged away by our keepers for stabbing a man, as I had seen happen to the man the night before.
Some hours passed without incident, however, and I began to feel more complacent. I was drifting into sleep when I became aware of a movement, a shadow, a presence looming at the foot of my hammock. He had moved so stealthily and I had been so little awake that I had not noticed his approach. A moment later a callused hand made its way under my blanket and felt its way up my right leg. ‘Carmichael,’ I croaked urgently, hoping against hope that he would be awake and would be able to miraculously find some way to rescue me from my assailant.
I had underestimated Carmichael. And I had yet to learn that a defender need not use the weapons of the attacker; indeed, to use the attacker’s weapons is oftentimes to give him the advantage. Fisticuffs would never have been to Carmichael’s benefit. Words were his rapier, and he wielded them well.
‘SODOMITE!’ he suddenly bellowed, sitting up in his hammock as though possessed of a tremendous burst of energy. ‘BEGONE SODOMITE! Leave the child alone, or God’s curse be upon you. BEGONE I SAY.’
I was astounded, but the brute at the end of my hammock was even more so. He snatched his hand away from my leg and stepped backwards. As other men began stirring and calling out, some telling Carmichael to cease his disturbance, others asking the cause of it, and at least two, whom I found out later had been recruited by Carmichael for this very purpose, shouting with equal force, ‘AWAY WITH YOU, SODOMITE’, the shadow fled back into the shadows from whence he had come.
I sank into the shelter of my hammock, frightened, embarrassed and relieved in equal measure. After a time I whispered, ‘Thank you Carmichael,’ to which he replied, ‘Think nothing of it, my young friend. I doubt that you’ll be troubled again, for some time at least.’
He seemed perfectly composed, as if this were an everyday occurrence. I was filled with admiration for his ingenuity and courage. I thanked him again the next morning, but he made it clear that he was not interested in any further conversation upon the subject.
That morning was the dawn of the Sabbath, and for the first time the whole body of men was let up onto the deck, for divine service. With what inexpressible feelings of excitement and delight did I ascend the ladder! I, who had spent
most of my life in the open air, despite it being the diseased and fetid air of Hell, had already come to think of such an opportunity as an almost unattainable luxury. And the smell of the sea air was like nothing I had experienced. I was as one who has never allowed strong drink to cross his lips but has just consumed an entire bottle of gin. The most powerful sensations engulfed me as I climbed out of the hatchway. I was almost deaf to the bullying shouts of the soldiers as they marshalled us on the main deck. Instead my eyes strove to take in the arena in which I found myself. I had never seen the horizon before. I had never enjoyed an unencumbered view of the ocean, only the pitiful perspective offered by the porthole below decks. Now I understood the boasts of the Creator to Job. The Divinity that had shaped this awful panorama had every right to heap scorn upon the man, so insignificant, no matter how many sons and daughters and camels and sheep and goats and servants he had. All of these possessions, so esteemed by Job’s compatriots, were tiny elements in the unimaginable vastness of a universe shaped for a purpose beyond our mortal understanding.
The church of St Martin’s had been a grand structure, and in my childlike way I had developed some dim awareness that the fine and noble words of the Prayer Book were worthy of such an edifice. Now I stood in the greatest cathedral I had ever known and listened to the words of divine service as read by the captain of the Admiral Barrington, Master Marsh. And even in these surroundings I felt that the words were not unworthy of the occasion.
He began with the scripture reading from Ezekiel: ‘When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness that he hath committed, and doeth that which is lawful and right, he shall save his soul alive,’ and followed with the familiar prayers and confessions: ‘Dearly beloved brethren, the scripture moveth us, in sundry places, to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and . . .
‘Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.’
And when Master Marsh pronounced the absolution, which he did most feelingly, I was glad that I was on my knees for those words, which I heard for the first time under the all-encompassing heavens stretching from one horizon to the other. ‘He pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent and unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel.’
I dismissed from my mind my doubts about the treatment meted out to Job and felt truly joyful in the Lord.
The next morning the ship was hove to, and we were brought up into the open air again. The significance of the hour was lost on me, but not upon those among our number who had nautical experience: they knew well enough that eleven o’clock in the morning is the time when punishment is meted out on His Majesty’s ships, and we were ushered upstairs at about twenty minutes short of eleven. The sight of a yellow flag at the masthead of the Admiral Barrington gave further concern to those who were privy to the ways of the sea, and upon seeing it their faces assumed a grave demeanour indeed.
Their expressions were well justified. It soon eventuated that we were there not only to observe a punishment but also to take part in another religious observance, of a very different kind to the service of the day before. I would cheerfully have remained below decks rather than be a witness to it. We were dressed at close quarters, and a roll call taken, after which Master Marsh appeared before us again. The prisoner whom I had last seen being led away in the night-time, handcuffed and shackled after the fight between the two men, was at this point dragged forward from the brig in which he had been confined. It appeared that his name was Thomas Ffolkes, and a tribunal had been convened upon the vessel to consider his conduct. The master now read the findings of the tribunal. The injured man had died and been buried at sea that very dawn. The tribunal’s finding was that he had died as the result of being stabbed in the chest by Thomas Ffolkes. The defendant’s plea of self-defence had been rejected; he had been found guilty, and the sentence was that he should be hanged at the yardarm.
The captain told us in the sternest tones that we were compelled to be witnesses to the execution, as a lesson to us that the laws of His Majesty the King were to be observed at all times and in all places, including on board ship. The wretched man was then asked whether he had anything he wished to say. He raised his eyes towards us and began: ‘Comrades, I beg of you . . .’ His voice faltered and he did not seem able to continue. He looked helplessly at Master Marsh, who did not meet his eyes but instead nodded to the bo’sun, whereupon that officer stepped forward. He invited the prisoner to quick march to a scaffold that had been erected upon a platform projecting from the ship’s side, directly beneath the fore yardarm. Ffolkes seemed unable to move. He took one dragging step in the direction indicated, then stood swaying, as though he might fall at any moment. The officer failed to persuade him to go any further, and in the end he resorted to calling upon a couple of soldiers, who half-dragged, half-walked the reluctant man to his awful destination.
Once he had reached the platform, another command was given, and six sailors stepped forward, taking up a rope which had been laid upon the deck, and which led to the scaffold.
I began to see now how the thing was to be done.
Thomas Ffolkes, who still seemed barely able to stand, had the rope reeved around his neck, a blue cap placed upon his head, then a pocket handkerchief put into his hand. A large shot was carried, not without difficulty, to him, and tied to his legs. The whole scene was one of horror to me, and I became aware, from the sound of stifled sobs around me, that I was not alone in my feelings.
It appeared that the handkerchief was given to Ffolkes so that he might drop it when he was ready for the punishment to be carried out. Once he had been prepared for his fate a long silence ensued. Ffolkes seemed as unwilling to play his part in this aspect of the ceremony as he had been in all the proceedings to date. We waited, with every eye fixed upon the small white cloth which the condemned man gripped convulsively.
Then, slowly, his fingers began to open. A terrible silence reigned on board the ship. Not a man moved. The only sound that could be heard was the gentle susurration of the small waves slapping against the timbers of the vessel. For a moment, the handkerchief appeared to be stuck to Ffolkes’s hand, no doubt by sweat. But then, in an instant, as lightly as a bird’s feather, it dropped to the deck. I believe that a cry issued from the doomed man, but before I could be sure, my ears were deafened by a mighty blast.
Directly below the scaffold, right beneath the feet of the prisoner, the bow gun had been fired. The sound of it caused such a shock to my system that I believe I screamed, and certainly I clapped my hands to my ears. A cloud of white smoke enveloped Thomas Ffolkes, and at the same moment the men who had taken up the rope charged as fast as they could away from him, with the effect that he was run up the yardarm.
I closed my eyes at this sight, but quickly became aware, from the horrified murmurs of my shipmates, that things were not going according to plan. For some minutes, whilst I kept my eyes grimly shut, the mutterings continued, but were gradually succeeded by a sense of relief, until I heard a man behind me say, ‘There, I think he’s gone,’ to which another man responded, ‘Aye, the bloody butchers, may God have more mercy on his soul than they did.’
I was surrounded by anger that was palpable. It was not until we were below decks again, and permitted to talk openly, that I learned of the scene which I had resolutely avoided observing. Apparently the knot around the neck of the condemned man had somehow worked its way under his chin, so that his neck did not break, but he was instead slowly strangled.
At least, some of the men observed, Master Marsh showed decency in not letting the corpse hang for hours, as was so often the custom in those barbaric days. When there had been no movement of the body for several minutes he ordered it to be lowered to the deck again. I observed this, for by th
en I had my eyes open again. The surgeon examined the body and pronounced life to be extinct.
At this point, a canvas bag was brought forward, and the same half-dozen sailors who had run Ffolkes up the yardarm lifted his body and placed him in it. Another of their number began stitching the bag closed, which he did with despatch and not inconsiderable skill. Upon the completion of this task, all eyes turned to Master Marsh once again. He had taken up the Book of Common Prayer, from which he had read with such effect the day before, and now he began the Funeral Service for Those Who Die at Sea, culminating in the words: ‘We therefore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the Sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ.’
A couple of sailors brought out a plank and ran one end of this over the side of the ship. Ffolkes’s body, wrapped in its canvas shroud, was placed on the plank. It seemed heavy, because, I believe, they had at some stage, unobserved by me, added metal to its contents, to help it sink. Despite this, I was pleased to see that the sailors treated it gently and with respect. They pushed the plank further out, until the body was positioned well clear of the side of the ship, upon which, at a signal from the captain, they lifted their end. After a moment the body slid from the plank and disappeared from view. I did not hear its entry into the water.
