by John Marsden
I have to confess I found this arrangement most confronting. Consider, a boy of thirteen facing three grown men, all of them in uniform, all of whom he knows to be aggressive and unpleasant, and knowing that if he speaks the truth it will be thoroughly and violently resented by all three soldiers . . . I broke out in a fit of trembling, and to try to calm myself turned my eyes to Michael Holt.
For a man who had cried out to his mother in the most piteous tones during the big storm, Holt looked remarkably composed. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the ship’s captain. He could have been carved from rock, so motionless was his form. Yet when I looked at him, his eyes flickered across to me and he gazed at me as steadily as he had surveyed Master Marsh. I had the sense that the two men at opposite ends of the table mirrored each other, and that no one else in the room mattered very much. I drew comfort from Holt’s strength.
Master Marsh ascertained from me my name and my age, then asked: ‘Do you know the difference between truth and lies, Barnaby?’
I was somewhat affronted by the question, but also disconcerted by his use of my Christian name. From persons in authority I was more accustomed to ‘Fletch’ or ‘Prisoner 227’.
‘Yes, sir, of course,’ I said.
‘What happens to people who tell lies, Barnaby?’
‘Why, sir, I believe they go to eternal damnation.’
He held up his notebook. ‘And if I say to you that this object is a piece of cheese, would you call that the truth or a lie?’
‘Sir, I would not believe you capable of telling a lie, so I would say, begging your pardon, that you had made an error.’
He smiled, rather grimly. I thought the questions were patronising, but they helped settle me down, because they were so easy to answer. He turned to Captain Phillips. ‘I find the witness capable of distinguishing between truth and lies, and therefore acceptable to this hearing,’ he said. I realised then that his questions had been a response to some objection expressed by Captain Phillips before I came into the room.
Captain Phillips did not answer, merely nodded, somewhat sulkily I thought. The master resumed his interrogation of me. ‘Now, at around five bells this morning, you were on the foredeck of this vessel, with a group of other prisoners, including this man here,’ he nodded at Holt, ‘engaged upon the task of emptying the slops buckets over the rail?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘And the contents of several buckets were spilled upon the deck?’
‘Yes, sir, the two buckets I was holding, sir,’ I said. Feeling the trembling begin again, and without looking at the three soldiers opposite me, I launched into a statement that I knew would spell huge trouble for me from Corporal Arnold. ‘The corporal here came . . .’
Captain Phillips cut me off quickly. ‘How the muck came to be spilled upon the deck is immaterial,’ he said.
Master Marsh considered this for a moment. ‘Aye, sir, I agree,’ he said.
I did not know whether to feel concerned for Michael Holt, because I felt that he had a better chance of getting off if the evidence about Corporal Arnold was admitted, or relieved that I would not have to confront the wrath of the corporal as soon as he had an opportunity to gain revenge upon me.
Master Marsh addressed me again. ‘You and the prisoners set about cleaning the deck? And then the three soldiers approached you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Corporal Arnold accused me of deliberately upending the buckets.’ I paused, confused. The two officers had just agreed that I was not to speak about how the buckets were spilled, but I could not see how I could answer Master Marsh’s question without revealing Corporal Arnold’s involvement. I decided that I had to go, like Christian, to a place where I greatly feared to go.
I took a deep breath and said, as steadily as I could, ‘But the corporal was lying. He had deliberately knocked me over . . .’
Before I could continue, Corporal Arnold was on his feet. ‘Sir! I protest! Am I to sit here and have my reputation impugned by this mere . . . this convicted thief and liar?’
Master Marsh looked at him steadily. ‘Sir, you will sit down. We are here to take evidence. It is my job, and that of Captain Phillips, to determine truth and falsehoods.’
Corporal Arnold looked like he had been hit by another hailstone, a huge one, and this time full in the face. He went red, blinked several times, and flopped down heavily in his chair. Then he seemed to gather himself and leaned forward, deliberately and cold-bloodedly glaring at me across the table with narrowed eyes.
‘Corporal, you will sit back in your chair,’ Master Marsh said. ‘If I believe you are attempting to intimidate the witness, I will send you from the room.’
There was an awful silence. Even Captain Phillips looked shaken. He opened his mouth, said, ‘I . . .’ but did not proceed any further. Corporal Arnold sat back as ordered, folded his arms and turned his gaze to a water jug which was held in a bracket affixed to the centre of the table.
Master Marsh said to Captain Phillips: ‘It seems that we will have to reverse our earlier ruling and hear evidence about the spillage of the slops buckets.’
I realised that, despite their abilities and experience, they were not at ease with legal matters. They were, I think, practical men, both no doubt more comfortable out of doors.
Captain Phillips did not respond, so Master Marsh turned back to me and asked: ‘I will put it to you this way, to save us the necessity of becoming becalmed on this issue. I take it that you would assert that Corporal Arnold pushed you, and this resulted in the buckets being spilled.’
I nodded dumbly, and he continued: ‘So when the corporal accused you of deliberately fouling the decks . . . what happened next? The man Holt became involved?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, sir. He told the corporal that we had all seen what happened. He sort of jumped at the corporal. I . . . I think he was trying to protect me.’
‘And he hit the corporal?’
‘I . . . Well, yes, he did, sir, but not very hard. I . . . He felt an injustice was being done.’
‘We are not interested in your opinion,’ Captain Phillips said smoothly.
‘Does anyone have any questions for the lad?’ Master Marsh asked.
Captain Phillips asked me: ‘For what crime are you being transported, Fletch?’
‘For theft, sir, of a purse and its contents.’
‘And I suppose you would say that you are innocent of the charge?’ he said in a tone that was unmistakably sneering.
‘No, sir, indeed, I did steal it.’
‘And what other crimes have you committed?’
I gulped. It was a big question, and an honest answer would reflect no credit on me. Thankfully I was saved by Master Marsh. ‘By your leave, sir, I will rephrase the question,’ he said. ‘My understanding is that at English law a man cannot be compelled to incriminate himself.’
‘You’re deuced sensitive to these scoundrels, sir,’ grumbled the captain, red-faced and staring up at the ceiling. I felt he did not have the courage to meet Master Marsh’s eyes as he criticised him. Master Marsh seemed unruffled. He asked me: ‘Have you been convicted of any other crimes, Barnaby, apart from the theft of the purse?’
‘And its contents. No, sir, none.’
There was a pause. It seemed that no one else had any questions. Master Marsh nodded at me. ‘You may leave, Barnaby. Can I trust you to return to your quarters unescorted?’
I suddenly felt a foot higher, that he would speak to me with such courtesy. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ I said as smartly as I could. He gave a little smile. I turned to go, deliberately catching Holt’s eye as I did. I nodded and smiled at him, but he did not respond as I quit the room.
Chapter 30
About two hours later all convicts were marshalled upon deck. Master Marsh addressed us, as he had done on
previous occasions, most notably upon the execution of Thomas Ffolkes. This time he was rather more peremptory in his remarks. He announced that the convict Holt had been found guilty by a properly constituted tribunal of striking a member of His Majesty’s Forces. ‘Such conduct cannot be tolerated, whatever the circumstances,’ Master Marsh said. ‘The prisoner is sentenced to forty lashes. Bo’sun, do your duty.’
I gasped in horror. Although this was the lowest number of strokes yet administered as a punishment during my time on the Admiral Barrington, I was overwhelmed by the injustice. My faith in Master Marsh was shattered. I gave a little sob as Holt was brought forward. He marched to the crosspiece which had been fastened to the mast. He looked more steady than I felt, even though I was not the one being punished. Upon his shirt being stripped from him and the order given, he stepped into the box which had been secured on the deck, and which was designed to keep his feet fixed and spread. His wrists were then fastened to the crossbar.
I have forborne in this narrative to describe a flogging, although I had already witnessed five on board the Admiral Barrington. They are vile affairs, and I am convinced that far from reforming a man, they are inclined to harden him and make him even more intractable. At any rate, this one disgusted every fair-minded prisoner on board, for by now all had heard the circumstances of Holt’s arrest.
The bo’sun took up his position, ran his fingers through the cats to separate them, and then laid on. By the fourth stroke bright blood was beading on Holt’s white skin, and by the seventh, trickles were running freely down his body. By the tenth his flesh was swollen and his back looked like a rack of lamb hanging in a butcher’s shop. With each succeeding stroke the bo’sun found it more difficult to separate his cats, because of the clots of bloodied flesh sticking them together.
Through all this, Michael Holt uttered not a sound. I marvelled at the contradictory nature of a man who sobbed for his mother when he was seasick but could take a flogging without so much as a whimper.
Somewhere between the tenth and fifteenth strokes, something strange and without precedent happened. Several men in the front row of the parade of convicts slowly turned their backs on the spectacle. Almost instantly a dozen more followed their lead. Then others too did likewise. I was bewildered, not understanding the significance of it, until Carmichael nudged me, as he too turned his back. Then I sensed the import of the action and followed suit. As I did, I glanced at the assembled members of the New South Wales Corps. They looked bewildered, and almost a little frightened.
Standing so, demonstrating our disgust at the injustice visited upon Holt, gave me the most powerful sensation I had ever experienced. At one point I stole a glance at Master Marsh. He looked calm and serious, as he always did. Captain Phillips was approaching him, his expression agitated, and obviously desirous of a conversation. I did not dare to keep looking, but wondered what the upshot of their exchange would be.
I was left wondering, because nothing more out of the ordinary happened. The flogging proceeded. I could hear the hiss of the cat tails between each stroke, and the dreadful thud as they landed. The sound came to acquire a greater deadness and dullness with each succeeding lash. A seaman was keeping count, and his voice continued to ring out loudly and steadily. As he reached the thirties, Holt began to grunt and groan at each fresh impact. I realised that he would not be aware of our silent protest. When the punishment was completed, he gave a series of loud, dry sobs and then fell silent.
Master Marsh’s voice, steady and strong as ever, gave the next order. ‘Bo’sun, cut down the prisoner and dismiss the men.’
He had courage, Master Marsh, I give him that. Ninety-nine ships’ captains out of a hundred would have been terrified of the situation that had developed, afraid that our behaviour presaged a mutiny, but I think somehow Master Marsh could read the mood of a mob. It takes a certain confidence to guide a ship halfway around the world, through storms and calms and rocks and reefs, with the constant threat of pirates, cannibals and rebellions, and I think this ship’s captain had our measure.
The convicts gave no trouble. Silently we filed back below decks. As I passed Holt, I could see that Surgeon Gossam was tending to him, for which I was grateful.
Back in my hammock, and talking to Carmichael, I gave full vent to my rage at the injustice meted out to Holt. I did so in whispers, however, for a strange mood reigned in our quarters. Most men lay in their hammocks, as if mulling over the afternoon’s events. A few were excited, talking wildly of overthrowing those in authority and seizing the vessel. I was alarmed at their impetuousness and expressed as much to Carmichael.
‘Those blowhards!’ he said. ‘Can’t you see how they are being ignored? They couldn’t take over a graveyard. You have nothing to fear from them.’
I switched tack and launched into an angry peroration about the injustice perpetrated on Holt. Again Carmichael disagreed. ‘But don’t you understand what happened up there?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean? Of course I understand what happened.’
‘Did you see Corporal Arnold’s face when the captain announced the sentence?’
‘No.’
Carmichael gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘It was a sight to behold. Forty lashes for striking a member of His Majesty’s Forces! Arnold knew what it meant.’
‘Do you mean it was a light punishment?’
‘Light! I know it seems a strange word to use for such a terrible ordeal as a flogging, but Michael should have hung for what he did. The best he could have hoped for was five hundred lashes.’
‘Five hundred!’ I exclaimed, thinking of the late Seamus O’Mahoney and his thousand lashes. ‘How does a man survive such numbers?’
‘He frequently doesn’t. But usually they deliver the sentence in instalments. A man gets a couple of hundred, until his back is torn to ribbons, and then when it is healed they begin again.’
I shuddered with horror at the bestiality of such a punishment, though I believe no beast would treat another creature so.
‘Then why did Holt get forty?’ I asked.
Carmichael propped himself up on one elbow. He gazed me full in the face. ‘You must have given good evidence,’ he said. ‘Master Marsh believed you. He knows what happened. He knows Arnold lied, that he deliberately provoked the whole thing. And Arnold knows that he knows. A sentence of forty lashes for such an offence is tantamount to an acquittal. It is a deep insult to Corporal Arnold. Any man of honour would seek leave to resign from the regiment in these circumstances. I doubt, however, if that thought would occur to Corporal Arnold.’
‘Then why was Holt punished at all?’ I asked. But I already knew the answer. Before Carmichael could say anything, I said hesitantly: ‘Is it because Master Marsh thinks it would be too dangerous to let a convict off when he strikes a soldier?’
‘Of course. He cannot risk this mob of desperados getting it into their thick heads that they can attack a soldier or sailor without fear of reprisal. He gave Holt the minimum punishment that he could safely give. Believe me, the only person angrier than Corporal Arnold today would be Captain Phillips. The reputation of his regiment has been impugned. No doubt when he gets to New South Wales he will fire off all sorts of official protests.’
‘What will happen then?’
He gave his dry laugh again. ‘Nothing, of course. A letter will go from Botany Bay to London, and it will sit there in an office for four or five months before a civil servant deigns to answer it. Then a few more letters will go back and forth and eventually the whole thing will wither on the vine like an unloved grape.’
It turned out that Carmichael was right about everything to do with the incident, as he generally was. Forty lashes was indeed, in judicial circles, deemed a light punishment. I was later to learn that some sailors on the First Fleet had been sentenced to as many as three hundred just for consorting with convict women who were on board their ves
sel. In 1799 Governor Hunter ordered fifty lashes as the standard punishment for any convict defaulting from divine service on the Sabbath, aye, and he had the constables search the convicts’ quarters every Sunday morning to seek them out.
Carmichael was right, too, about Captain Phillips. Upon our arrival in Botany Bay, as I found out much later, he went hotfoot to Government House to make his complaint about the contemptuous way in which Master Marsh had treated a member of the distinguished New South Wales Corps. An inquiry was held, statements taken, and the matter forwarded to London where it languished on a fine mahogany desk, no doubt, until it was long forgotten.
The urgency of Captain Phillips’s concern about the insult meted out to Corporal Arnold and the honour of the regiment was diminished somewhat by subsequent events aboard the Admiral Barrington. Nearly two weeks passed without further incident. Michael Holt’s back was gradually healing, although the scabs were awful to behold, and it was evident that he would bear the scars for life. Even I, at my tender age, had some inkling of what it meant to have a back crisscrossed by the cat-o’-nine-tails. A man might as well be branded ‘Recalcitrant Convict’. Any time he removed his shirt everyone would know that he was a convict who had been flogged, and it would be useless for him to attempt to explain the injustice of the case.
A strange consequence of the whole thing was that as well as a great increase in the popularity of Michael Holt, which was only to be expected, I too found myself held in higher regard. I can only put this down to Holt’s reporting of my testimony to my fellow prisoners. Although he was still, as ever, a man of few words, he evidently gave them to understand that I had declared before the tribunal that Corporal Arnold was a liar, and this was hailed as an act to be admired.
