by John Marsden
Needless to say, and despite Surgeon Gossam’s injunctions when we first came on board, prisoners played games with dice and cards, and gambled on anything and everything. One young fellow had nothing to eat for three days because he bet his rations on the roll of the dice. Another lost his boots when he bet them on a race that had been organised between two cockroaches. Opposite me, early in the voyage, two men had bet on the number of fleas they could find and kill in a given time. They appointed me their umpire, and I had to count to one hundred slowly, by the end of which time one man was able to display forty-one bodies to his rival’s thirty-three.
Although vermin constantly irritated us, this at least was nothing new to me, as they had irritated me all my life. The care given by Surgeon Gossam on the Admiral Barrington was, however, superior to anything I had experienced previously. He strongly believed that most of the eruptions to which we were prone were owing to improper food and the neglect of cleanliness. When we came on board, I think it fair to say that most of us were swarming with vermin and were covered with the scab, itch and other maladies. The most stubborn of all the eruptions I suffered was scabbed head. Surgeon Gossam’s remedy was to have my head shaved once a week, and then washed daily with soap suds and anointed with liniment. This proved very effective.
I suffered also from threadworm and had probably done so all my life. For this, Surgeon Gossam prescribed a potion which he informed me was a mixture of apple cider vinegar, horseradish and glycerine. It tasted potent indeed, and was most unpleasant, but seemed to achieve some amelioration of my condition.
Fleas and lice, cockroaches and rats, infested our quarters in large numbers, and when our party arrived from Newgate, covered in vermin, we made the situation worse. However, the constant insistence by Surgeon Gossam on hygiene and cleanliness, the daily scrubbings, the frequent baths and the regular meals, monotonous though they were, slowly brought about a noticeable improvement in the health of most men aboard. For a time after Cape Town the situation deteriorated, but Surgeon Gossam did not relent in the assiduity of his application, and the parasites were once again forced into slow retreat.
For a number of our company, from the more remote parts of Britain such as Scotland and Ireland, notions of cleanliness were primitive indeed. Some men thought nothing of using their mess tins as privies when they passed a bowel motion. Quite frequently they were caught squatting wherever they found convenient, which was just as likely to be under the hammock of one of their neighbours. They avoided baths at all costs, which was understandable during cold weather, but on warm days I found it pleasant to jump into the tub on the deck, especially as, by virtue of my age, I was indulged by being one of the first invited to take advantage of the facility. I concede that it would not have been such an attractive prospect to be the last in the tub, as by then the water was the consistency of sludge.
I have set out in this chapter of my memoirs to make it clear that the voyage to Botany Bay was not, on the Admiral Barrington, the horrific experience that many on other vessels have described. Mine is not always a popular point of view, as there is, in my opinion, a certain class of convict who likes to exaggerate his trials and tribulations, and make great capital out of recounting his sufferings, in order to excite public sympathy and to incite hatred against the authorities. Many a time have I seen one of my fellows from the Admiral Barrington sitting in a tavern or a coffee shop earnestly reciting the tortures he endured, particularly when his audience is a member of the female sex on whom he evidently wishes to make an impression. When I see the lady leaning forward, her hand upon the sufferer’s knee as she expresses her sympathy with brimming eyes and consoling touch, I am tempted to say to her as I pass, ‘You know the greatest deprivation this old humbug endured was to spill his wine one night in a storm,’ but I am not one to queer another fellow’s pitch, as the saying goes, so I keep my counsel. And I am of course aware of the severe privations suffered on some ships. For example I have friends who came out on the Hillsborough, which docked in Sydney Harbour in July 1799, and which recorded ninety-five deaths from the three hundred convicts who had embarked in England. I believe they lost fifty in Cape Town alone, and the captain threw several of the bodies unceremoniously overboard, because the authorities on shore were becoming alarmed at the number of deaths and he wished the corpses to drift out to sea. However, his attempt at concealment did not work when they washed up on the beach the next day.
Yes, the prisoners on the Hillsborough have stories of neglect and ill treatment that would make a man envy an African on a slave ship as having the better passage, and which make me grateful I was spared that particular voyage, under an odious captain and a reckless surgeon.
The fact that we had nothing like such a dreadful toll must, I believe, be attributed to Surgeon Gossam, whose dedication was exceptional, and who would go to the captain if necessary to advocate on our behalf. And I pay tribute to Master Marsh, who had nothing of the sadist about him, unlike some captains, but who ran a fair ship and was greatly respected by crew and convicts alike.
Chapter 28
All of the foregoing is not to understate of course the general sense of dismay at the state in which we were kept, as well as fear and despair for the unknown dangers that awaited us in New South Wales. And it is not to deny that there were many unpleasant incidents. Not a day passed without arguments and fights, some of which, such as the stabbing I described earlier, had fatal consequences. Not a day passed that those noble representatives of His Majesty’s Forces, the members of the New South Wales Corps, did not come swaggering through our quarters, knocking aside anyone within their reach, knocking down anyone who showed insufficient respect and kicking mess tins and mugs out of their way. Chief among these was Corporal Arnold.
Carmichael said to me one day, as we were reading Pilgrim’s Progress again: ‘What do you think, Barnaby, are the greatest passions to be found in the bosoms of Man?’
After some thought, I ventured to suggest that love and hate might fit the bill.
He nodded. ‘Yes, I suggest that most of the population would give the same response. And I will grant you love. But hate – what is that? It is a word that is used too freely.’
I tried to look as though I was following what he said, although I had difficulty with much of his conversation, especially when he was in a reflective state of mind, as appeared to be the case on this occasion.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘I would say fear, anger and greed are at least equal with love, if they do not surpass it. I include greed for power and social station in that. And I would rank lethargy almost as highly.’
I did not even know what lethargy was, but Carmichael continued without noticing. I felt that sometimes when he was purportedly talking to me he was really talking to himself, trying to make sense of the nature of the world and of the human beings who dwelled in it. ‘Your friend Corporal Arnold,’ he said, ‘I would put him down as one who is driven by fear and anger above all else. And that makes him dangerous.’
‘But of what would he be fearful? And why would he be angry?’ I asked.
‘I think,’ said Carmichael, taking his time, ‘that he may well be fearful that he cannot assert enough authority over people like us. Such men as he are deathly afraid that if they cannot effectively wield the power that has been placed in their hands they may be overwhelmed by the rabble.’ He looked around him, at the men gambling, arguing, sleeping, singing, walking up and down or around and around in desperate response to our confinement. He looked at Chris Norfolk, idly engaged in his usual occupation. Carmichael sighed. ‘Yes, the rabble,’ he said again. ‘In my youth, a number of my schoolmasters at Mr Pine’s establishment were of similar disposition. And as for anger, I suspect that your friend has some inkling that he is right to hold the fears that he does. He is failing, he has failed, he will always fail. Nothing makes a man more angry than constant failure. No doubt Corporal Arnold believes he should be a gener
al, instead of which he will be fortunate if he is still a corporal at the end of this trip. In fact he will be lucky if he survives this trip.’
As soon as he said the last sentence his eyes flickered around to see if anyone had heard, but Carmichael always talked quietly, and no one was particularly close to us at the time.
‘What do you mean?’ I hissed, sitting up excitedly.
‘I should not have said that,’ Carmichael said. ‘You will oblige me by forgetting those words.’
We stared at each other. I did not want to leave it at that, but I knew Carmichael would not speak again of the matter if he did not wish to. I tried again anyhow. ‘What do you mean?’ I repeated.
He shook his head. Then he seemed to reconsider. He said flatly: ‘Do you know there have been five floggings since this voyage began, and four of them have been as a result of complaints laid by Corporal Arnold?’
It was my turn to shake my head. ‘It is unwise for an isolated man to make enemies,’ Carmichael said. ‘He is not popular with the other members of the Corps, and he is hated by some of our shipmates below decks here.’ He leaned forward and spoke with great intensity. ‘I tell you this for a reason, Barnaby Fletch. Keep well clear of Corporal Arnold when you can. If anything happens to him, you do not want to be in the vicinity.’
He sat back and resumed his customary appearance of indifference. I felt rather as I had done when Corporal Arnold held me by the neck and nearly drowned me in the sail filled with water. I found it difficult to get air, I felt pain through my body and a tingling in my extremities.
Unfortunately, however, I was not always able to follow Carmichael’s advice to stay clear of Corporal Arnold. One morning between Cape Town and Botany Bay we were on deck when a massive hailstorm broke over us. Within minutes the deck was covered to the depth of several inches by hailstones, some of which were the size of limes. Before the soldiers could get us down the hatch a hail fight had erupted and missiles were flying in every direction. Several of the less popular crew members and soldiers were heavily bombarded, to which they did not take kindly, but there was nothing they could do to prevent the assault. I participated with enthusiasm, but met my comeuppance when I threw a hailstone as hard as I could at Corporal Arnold and hit him in the left eye. Unfortunately for me, he saw that I was the perpetrator. Snarling, his face suffused with rage, he came at me like a mad bull, but he could not get traction on the slippery deck with his military boots. Suddenly his feet went from under him and he crashed heavily onto the deck, on his front. ‘Get down below quickly,’ Carmichael whispered to me, and I did not hesitate to obey, as the soldiers were now succeeding in marshalling my fellow prisoners.
My skin felt like ice, but when the coldness faded I found I had plenty of stinging red marks of my own. Still I feared for my fate when I next crossed paths with Corporal Arnold.
I did not see him again that day, but the following day I was one of those designated to take the slops buckets up on deck at first light and tip them over the rails into the ocean. It was, needless to say, of the utmost importance on these occasions to ascertain the direction in which the wind was blowing, and so we stood on deck for a few moments working out the best place to stand in order to deposit the contents of the buckets.
Just as we moved off again, towards the starboard rail, a stocky figure loomed out of the mist and, leading with his elbow, deliberately crashed into me, knocking me sideways onto the deck and, perforce, causing the ordure to spill. The figure moved away as quickly as it had arrived, but I recognised Corporal Arnold easily enough.
My first concern was with the mess. Nothing would offend a sailor more than to see such an unsightly stain on the deck. The only protection I had from the wrath of the crew was the mist, which might give me a few moments grace before a sailor stumbled upon the filth.
I had something else to protect me, though, something I had not counted upon: my fellow convicts. There were five other members of the group appointed to empty the buckets, but I knew none of them well, although Holt, my erstwhile neighbour, was one of them. For a few long moments they were as paralysed as I, staring in horror at the mess. Then Holt suddenly said, in his low, barking voice: ‘All right, look lively, men, you know where the mops are.’
I had rarely seen a convict move quickly or work hard since our vessel had left Portsmouth Harbour, but suddenly they sprang as one for the lockers in which the mops and scrubbing brushes and buckets were kept. We got in each other’s way trying to get the equipment out. Holt and one other began drawing up buckets of salt water from the sea, to wash down the decks. The rest of us mopped and mopped. The task seemed endless, but the mist remained our friend. A sailor went past, and scowled when he saw the slops on the deck, but the sight of us working so frantically might have placated him, because he said nothing and went on his way. Two more sailors loomed up. They looked, frowned, and one of them said: ‘You’d better get every last drop of that shit out of the timber, and quick smart too.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Holt said, and I think his deferential attitude impressed them, because they too went on their way.
We were almost done, rinsing the mops yet again, trying to remove the detritus caught in their strands, when two sergeants of the New South Wales Corps appeared, with a third man, whom I realised, to my apprehension, was Corporal Arnold. ‘Here you are, gentlemen,’ he said, in his usual bluff, loud voice as he approached. ‘Just as I told you. The pigs have fouled the trough. Or at least the little piglet has.’
I thought suddenly of Job, plagued without mercy or justice, subjected to endless cruel sufferings. All he could do was endure, and hope that one day a meaning or purpose to his privations might be revealed. For now, I could discern no greater power at work in my own destiny. We convicts stood there grimly, staring at the three men. I recognised the two sergeants of course. No doubt Corporal Arnold had chosen them carefully. They were known to all the prisoners as bullies and thugs.
Powerlessness was our daily experience, and the sensation of it was once again being strongly impressed upon us.
Yet all three of the soldiers, as they looked around, seemed a trifle disconcerted. One of them said to Corporal Arnold, in a low voice: ‘There’s not much here to go on.’ The other said in a sarcastic tone: ‘You woke us up for this?’
‘I’m telling you, I saw him do it,’ Arnold answered fiercely. ‘He just laughed and emptied the buckets right across the deck.’
I felt weak at the knees in the face of such a calumny. I could scarcely believe that a man would lie in such a cold-blooded manner. Although I had been exposed to a great deal of wickedness and depravity in my short life, I felt that this, in its cold-bloodedness, represented a new nadir.
Trying to formulate an answer, I could only stammer, but as my lips struggled to form the first syllable, Holt spoke. ‘You filthy cur,’ he growled at Arnold. ‘We all saw what happened. You ain’t worth swinging for, you ain’t.’
The corporal, red-faced, made as if to answer, but before he could say a word, Holt took a swing at him. If the punch had connected properly I do not doubt that Corporal Arnold would have been stretched unconscious on the deck. However, he avoided its full impact and caught only a glancing blow to the cheek and ear. It did knock him off balance; he went down on his haunches, shaking his head and putting a hand to the side of his mouth, as if his teeth had been loosened.
He did not have to do anything more. The sergeants leapt upon Holt and, assisted by Arnold as he recovered, pinioned him and wrestled him to the deck. It took all of their strength to do it. They knelt on him, panting and cursing, then one of them called for help. Sailors came and took over the task of holding my protector down, while the sergeants went for leg irons. We completed our task of emptying the slops buckets under the strictest supervision and were then escorted below.
At some stage during the furore the mist had cleared, suddenly and completely. I had not noticed
it at the time, but in the full bright light of the morning I saw Holt being dragged away by the sergeants, with Corporal Arnold following, still holding his jaw as though trying to keep it in one piece.
Chapter 29
I had by this time acquired sufficient understanding of the world to be reasonably sure that Holt had deliberately sacrificed himself for me. In the uproar created by his attack upon Corporal Arnold I had been overlooked, and my alleged sin forgotten.
Trembling with the shock of what I had seen, and my fear for Holt’s fate, I told Carmichael the story. He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right. He is a good man, Michael Holt. A simple man, but a good one. He would have done it with full awareness of the consequences.’
‘What will happen to him?’ I asked.
‘The captain will hold an inquiry. You may be called to give evidence. But at the end of it, Michael will be punished. The captain is no fool, and he will not take long to work out the rights of the matter, but it is the way of the world that men like him believe discipline is more important than justice, and they cannot see that the two are always compatible.’
Once again I was not sure of his meaning, but he was right about an inquiry being called, and right also about my having to give evidence. About three hours later, and for the third time in my brief life, I found myself facing a tribunal constituted to rule upon a matter of law. This was held in the crew’s mess room, a place I had, needless to say, never frequented before. Master Marsh sat at the head of the table, with Captain Phillips of the New South Wales Corps at his right-hand side, and slightly behind him. Holt, shackled, had been placed at the other end of the table. The corporal and the two sergeants were seated along the side of the table, facing me.
