by John Marsden
However, a shark was the inadvertent cause of my incurring the hostility of one of the members of the New South Wales Corps. Corporal Arnold was the keenest of the soldier-fishermen and when off duty could usually be found on deck, tending to several lines at the same time. A short, pudgy man with eyes set close together, he had a nose so red that it was difficult to look at anything else when he was speaking to me. He frequently supervised my detachment when we were scrubbing and cleaning, whether below decks or above deck, but he was disliked by, I think, all of us. He seemed to take pleasure in finding fault with every task we completed, making us redo the work over and again, accompanied by abusive language and, when he thought no one was looking, cuffs and kicks.
Pierre De Lafontaine called him a coward, but not to his face. ‘When we get to New South Wales,’ he said, ‘I will challenge ’im. We will see what kind of man ’e is then.’
Naive as I was, even I thought it unlikely that Corporal Arnold would agree to fight a duel with a French convict.
The incident when I first attracted the corporal’s wrath began with my seeing one of his fishing lines suddenly drawn down. Judging by the pressure it looked as though a sizeable fish had been hooked. Corporal Arnold and I saw it at about the same time. As he began hauling the line in I edged ever closer, attracted by the excitement of the event but still pretending to clean the deck. The struggle was a long one. Perhaps ten minutes passed before I saw the shape of the fish below the surface. I abandoned all pretence at scrubbing and called to Chris Norfolk, who was closest to me. He came over to have a look.
‘A sawshark,’ he said. ‘You don’t normally find them close to the surface.’ Chris Norfolk had all sorts of knowledge, which he shared only occasionally. He was silent about his past. As far as I could tell no one knew anything of his history, but when not engaging in his unattractive habit of self-abuse he was not a bad fellow.
Several minutes more went by before Corporal Arnold was successful in dragging the shark up the side of the boat. I took a few steps forward and to the right, hoping to be able to help land the creature and thus be of some use, but in doing so I inadvertently kicked the corporal’s bucket of bait. This, with the rocking of the boat, which was quite severe on this occasion, threw me off balance and I fell against the corporal, who as a result was knocked over. He let go of the line, grabbed for it again, but Chris, who was rushing in to help, tripped over him too, and by this means the line was lost; not just the line but of course the shark also.
The corporal was infuriated, and turned on me, smacking me fiercely about the face and shoulders until my head rang and I cried out with pain. I tried to protect myself but I knew there was little I could do without getting in more trouble, so I covered my head and accepted the blows, though at the same time backing away to try to evade them.
It was lucky for me that Surgeon Gossam was going past at the time, and I heard him call out: ‘Corporal, what are you about? Desist, sir, before I report you to your officer.’
The corporal did desist, but with the greatest reluctance, saying sulkily to Surgeon Gossam: ‘He ought to be given the cat, sir, for what he just did to me. I was merely saving the captain the trouble.’
‘Well then, report him. But we’ll have no rough justice on this ship. I believe you know the captain’s views on the subject.’
Corporal Arnold had no more to say. He merely scowled and turned back towards me. ‘Get below,’ he snarled. ‘And you too,’ he said to Chris Norfolk.
I scuttled away. Chris followed, at a slightly more dignified pace.
This incident was to have ramifications for me that I could not have dreamed of as I clambered down the ladder to the dark underworld. I did not think much more about Corporal Arnold. After all, I was used to being in trouble, and many an adult had lifted his hand against me in the past. I was not aware of the vengeful nature of the bulbous-nosed corporal. His life was to intersect with mine again before long.
I had been developing quite a keen interest in the creatures of the sky and ocean and picking up fragments of information about them, principally from Chris Norfolk and Pierre De Lafontaine. The wild creatures were of course best observed in calm weather, such as we had enjoyed until, as I say, some three weeks into our voyage, when the wind picked up and the waves became more choppy. Thunderous grey clouds began to amass in the sky, and I could see flickers of lightning dancing among them. I heard the distant mumbling of thunder and started to feel apprehensive.
As the wind got higher, the crew were called upon to reef the mainsail. No fewer than fifteen men swarmed over the main yard, reefing it with the greatest industry and energy. One poor fellow, though, had his hand shockingly injured; he hung on to a rope that was loosened, but his hand was then trapped in a belaying pin; his knuckles were torn off and his fingers terribly cut. It seems that among sailors, however, any weakness is seen as intolerable. Cuts and bruises and heavy knocks are ignored, and even this fellow, with his hand mutilated and his face white with shock and loss of blood, appeared of stoical disposition as he hurried past me on his way to the surgeon.
The wind built up further and the temperature dropped rapidly. The ship began to roll more and more, and we were ordered to make haste down the ladders to our quarters. It was as well we did. Already a quantity of water had poured through the hatchway, and as I descended the ladder a vast rush of it engulfed me, almost knocking me from my perch. My legs lost their footing, and my right hand lost its grip, but somehow my left hand managed to cling to a rung with enough tenacity for me to recover my position once the bulk of the water had passed.
I staggered to my hammock. All around me were anxious questions from those who had not been on deck, whilst others were clearly suffering the first spasms of seasickness. My teeth were chattering too much for me to join in the conversation; I wrapped myself in my blanket and lay in my hammock shivering as the ship tossed frantically from side to side. Further down the cabin I could see Chris Norfolk’s nervousness manifesting itself in his customary response. I turned my eyes from the sight.
Thus began a storm which raged for three days and had us at all times in mortal fear. Time and again the sea swept over the bulwarks, defeating the cook’s attempts to light a fire, with the result that no cooking could be done and we had nothing but dry biscuit to eat. Our portholes were sealed over to prevent their being broken, and the hatches kept shut to prevent the ingress of water, which meant that apart from a couple of lanterns, we lived in perpetual darkness. Yet we could feel that at times we were teetering on the crests of high waves, and at other times, with a fearful rush, we were plunged into the abyss, much like the deep pit that Vain-Confidence fell into in Mr Bunyan’s book. In fact I could not help recalling the words of the pilgrim Christian to Simple, Sloth and Presumption that they were like ‘them that sleep on the top of the mast, for the Dead Sea is under you, a gulf that has no bottom’. On a number of occasions, as our little vessel seemed to plummet towards the depths of the sea, I feared that we had found the bottomless gulf and were about to be crushed by the dark ocean.
Judging by the cries and imprecations and prayers and predictions of disaster around me, I was not alone in my fears, as many times my compatriots gave themselves up for lost. So many of these men, like myself, had cheated the gallows, and thus it could be said that every day since had been a day spared from eternity, but that thought did not seem to occur to anyone other than myself, and I have to say it gave me small comfort. Wisely, considering my tender years, I refrained from pointing out the irony of the situation to the tormented souls around me.
The Frenchman, Pierre De Lafontaine, who up until then had been one of the calmer, more philosophical members of our company, roamed constantly from one end of the cabin to the other, weaving his way among the many obstacles, hugging himself and gabbling in his native tongue, with occasional bursts of English. He looked to be going mad with terror. I believe he did not sleep for th
e three days. At times, when the ship appeared to be almost lying on its side, he grabbed me, asking urgently: ‘Are we sinking, Barnaby? Is zis the end?’ I found this frightening. I had no answer of course, but although the same fears possessed me I tried to reassure him.
Surgeon Gossam visited three or four times a day, despite being badly affected by seasickness himself. I greatly admired his dedication to his profession. Of course there was little he could do to ease the chaos and distress which prevailed in every corner. He did administer coca wine to the worst cases, but to the rest had nothing to offer but ginger, which seemed to effect some benefit for a short time. He reassured us constantly, telling us of the skills of Master Marsh and the sturdiness and seaworthiness of the Admiral Barrington, and I found this comforting whilst he was among us, but as soon as he went away the fears returned.
Carmichael was as badly affected as anyone. Though he did not give way to the panic that reigned amidships, he was physically in a bad way, retching and vomiting for hour after hour. His stomach was soon emptied of its contents and hence little came out of his mouth. I was not spared, indeed no one was, but I was well enough to tender to Carmichael and a few others by bringing them water when possible and encouraging them to eat the dry biscuit, of which there was an abundance due to the fact that so many were unable to partake of food.
Surgeon Gossam dosed Carmichael quite a few times with coca wine, which enabled him to sleep more placidly. Carmichael developed a taste for it and was in the habit of asking Surgeon Gossam for more at every opportunity; the surgeon, however, was reluctant to dispense it too liberally, explaining that his stocks were limited.
In one of his few lucid moments, Carmichael quoted me a cure for seasickness from a Dr Samuel Johnson, which was ‘to find a good big oak tree and wrap your arms around it’. I appreciated the gentleman’s drollery, but resolved not to seek medical advice from Dr Samuel Johnson.
Our situation was not helped by the foul atmosphere that soon developed in our darkened quarters. Though never salubrious, except for a few hours each morning after the hold had been scrubbed out, conditions became grim indeed. The slops buckets were fastened to the walls, but the wild swings of the ship, coupled with the fact that the buckets were not emptied in the usual way, ensured that the floor, already awash with a soup of seawater and vomit, now had sewage added to the mixture. The smell became so rancid that the cook and steward, on their occasional visits with water and biscuits, wore on their faces cloths upon which they splashed scent of some kind. Even so, they were able to endure only a couple of minutes in our company before they had to flee.
Halfway through the days of storm, groping my way past the hammock I had first occupied upon boarding the Admiral Barrington, I became aware of a pathetic cry emanating from somewhere close by. ‘Mother, Mother,’ came the weak voice. ‘Mother, help me, I’m sick, Mother.’
Wondering to hear such a forlorn cry amid this band of desperados, I cautiously approached its source. Much to my astonishment my search took me to the hammock of none other than Holt, the man of whom I had been so afraid when we first boarded the ship. He lay curled like a baby, in a lather of sweat, whimpering and sobbing. I fetched him a pannikin of water, which, rancid though our water was becoming by that stage, seemed to do him some good. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ he murmured. ‘God bless you.’ To my embarrassment he seized my free hand and kissed it several times before releasing it again. I crept away, feeling that as long as I lived I would never understand the ways of men. I would have to leave that to the Creator.
I returned to him regularly after that incident, tending to him as best I could, which I have to confess did not amount to much. But he seemed gradually to improve, and the fever passed. The time came when he waved me away as I approached, indicating that he no longer required my help. I had the feeling he was embarrassed at the frailty he had displayed earlier, but to tell the truth I doubt he would have remembered the words he spoke in his delirium.
When the storm at last abated, and the hatches were opened, and we staggered up the ladders into the open air, covering our eyes from the bright light, three among our number lay motionless. Their eyes were forever closed, their torments ended, and they were shortly committed to the mercies of the very ocean that had ended their lives.
Chapter 26
In my ignorance I had no idea of our route, but the day came when we crossed the equator, and we were permitted on deck to take part in the ceremonies attendant thereupon. This was, I believe, forty days after leaving the Old Country, which was considered quite good time.
At noon of the day in question a booming voice was heard, which seemed to emanate from the ocean itself. ‘Ahoy there! Ahoy!’
A sailor positioned adjacent to the poop deck replied: ‘Ahoy!’
‘What ship is that?’ came the voice again.
‘The Admiral Barrington,’ the sailor replied.
‘The Admiral Barrington? I don’t recollect her passing this way before – I shall come on board and examine her.’
At that point an old man with a huge beard clambered on board the boat by means of a rope ladder which had been slung over the side. He was introduced to us as no less a personage than Neptune himself, though he seemed to bear a strange resemblance to one of the sailors who was known to all as a jovial fellow. With him was his wife, a particularly unattractive figure, also bearded, and of surprising muscularity, and two other attendants of similar appearance. They appeared to be wearing wigs made of some sort of spun yarn and were further disfigured with red ochre and robes. They were placed on a gun carriage, upon which they were conveyed aft, where they addressed themselves to the captain, claiming that he was carrying a number of Neptune’s subjects who must be handed over at once. Master Marsh confessed that such people were indeed aboard, and all those who had not previously Crossed the Line were then summoned.
I took my place among the crowd and because of my age was the first neophyte called forward. Neptune addressed me in gruff tones, asking about my health. When I said that it was tolerably good, he requested to examine my throat. I opened my mouth and he immediately stuffed a lump of something in it, which he bade me swallow. It tasted of treacle and soap and I don’t know what else, and was very foul. He then handed me a mug of water, so I could wash down his ‘medicine’. I took it gratefully, but found it to be salt water. As I choked on this, he passed me on to his wife, who offered to shave me with a razor made from an iron hoop. I was reluctant but did not want to seem a ‘bad sport’, so nodded my assent. He had lathered up a prodigious amount of foam, which he now proceeded to paint on my face, making sure that a goodly amount went into my mouth. He then pretended to shave me, before passing me to a group of sailors who threw me into a sail full of water that they had collected and rolled me around in it for a time.
All of this would have been tolerable enough had not Corporal Arnold joined in. The sailors had just lowered a corner of the sail, to allow me to crawl out, when I noticed a different coloured uniform among the group. Suddenly Corporal Arnold’s arm shot out and grabbed me around the neck. Laughing brutally, he pushed me back under the water without giving me time to take a proper breath. I choked, got a mouthful of water, panicked, and thrashed around, trying to break his grip or get my face clear, or both. His grip only tightened and he forced me down further. My head started to feel thick and heavy and seemed to fill with a kind of cloud. I continued to flail but could feel that my arms and legs were losing strength. I did not want to open my mouth again, knowing that to inhale more water would be fatal for me, but soon my need for air was so desperate that I could keep my mouth closed no longer. I opened my mouth. Water rushed in and I felt a terrible pain run through my whole body. And then I was pulled out of the water again, coughing and choking and gasping and spitting.
Corporal Arnold dropped me on the deck, where I landed hard indeed, then kicked me in the ribs for good measure, all the time laughing heartil
y. I lay there, sobbing and vomiting salt water. I could hear my lungs heaving and wheezing as I tried to get air into them. ‘Come on, get up you little scamp,’ Corporal Arnold shouted. ‘Leave the playacting to King Neptune.’
I staggered onto my hands and knees and, still gasping for breath, with long lines of spittle trailing from my mouth, crawled back to my companions. Carmichael helped me wash the foul taste out of my mouth with fresh water. Our tanks had been replenished with rainwater during the great storm and the drinking water was now quite sweet, so eventually I was recovered enough to watch the rest of the ceremony.
And in this merry way I was inducted into the select company of those who have Crossed the Line.
The goings-on that day afforded great amusement to many of the spectators, but watching the treatment meted out to others, I noticed that a number of sailors and soldiers took the opportunity to settle scores, real or imagined, with various of the convicts to whom they owed grievances. I am sorry to say that neither Master Marsh nor the bo’sun intervened, no matter how rough the horseplay. The captain’s only contribution was to order half a pint of wine to be served to each of us at the conclusion of the ceremony, which at least assisted to restore my body to a better state.
Some of the old salts aboard had been talking about us making landfall at the Cape of Good Hope, and so it proved. Before this, however, we replenished our fresh water again at the Isle of Ascension where, we were told by a sailor, a man named William Dampier had been marooned, with his crew, in 1701. ‘Some call him an explorer, others call him a buccaneer,’ the sailor said, adding darkly: ‘His boat was devoured by worms.’
Upon enquiry I learned that this was a common problem for wooden boats, with shipworms, known to sailors as the termites of the sea and growing up to a yard in length, eating their way through the hulls, with fatal consequences for the vessels.
