Bound to Sarah

by Craig Brennan

  ‘I know … I was convinced I was going die there, along with Joe and Charlie,’ sighed John, picking up Pats mood.

  ‘And look at me, a convict from the factory, drinkin’ from a glass. We’ve come a long way,’ said Sarah trying to inject a bit of humour back into the evening.

  ‘Hey! Come on now.’ John quickly snapped out it. ‘Let’s shift ourselves from the miseries of the past. Have you made any cheese from the goat’s milk yet, Pat?’

  ‘Well, it’s funny you should say that, we were only talking about it the other day, weren’t we, Sarah? And I said we should try it … Sarah could do it while I carry on with the rest of the plot.’

  Growing the plot and matters of farming dominated the conversation for the rest of the evening, and by the time they all retired to bed, the jovial mood had been restored.

  With the enforced assistance of an aborigine tracker, Turnbull and his squad were back out in the bush, on the orders of the commandant, having returned twice to Sarah Island for more provisions. The tracker had managed to find his trail and they were back on track. Silas Wilson was now the most wanted man in Van Dieman’s Land and a lot of the folk in the community were also on the hunt. The squad had covered a lot of ground and had been away from their post for a total of eighteen days.

  It was not looking good for the commandant at the Macquarie Harbour settlement. In fact, there was talk of another location being found south east of Hobart that would prove to be escape-proof. The place was known as Port Arthur, and would become the successor to Sarah Island, and supersede her reputation with its own. Sarah Island was becoming easier and easier to escape from and the authorities were losing faith in her. They could not afford to have maniacs like Wilson on the rampage every few months, so the plan was to abandon her.

  Silas Wilson had sparked this massive manhunt because of what he had done to a free settler. He had reached a farm – his first encounter with the outside world and free society for many years – as the owner was busy putting up a perimeter fence. He noticed Silas approaching and put down the sledge hammer that he was using to knock in the posts, and leant on the fence.

  ‘Hello there, are you lost, my friend? Ain’t nothing round here for miles,’ he said, in a friendly manner. Silas eyed him with contempt, but the trusting fellow didn’t notice, since the news had not got to him that Silas had escaped and should not be approached. ‘You look like you could do with some food and cup a tea … Come on, I’ll get the wife to rustle you something up. It won’t be much, mind.’

  Just then his wife appeared at the veranda of the house carrying their newborn child, looking a little wary of the stranger who had appeared from nowhere. As the kindly man turned towards the house and walked a few paces, giving his wife a wave from some fifty yards away, Silas took his axe to the back of his head. The poor fellow was dead before he even realised it. His wife couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed and ran screaming into the house, bolting all the doors. It meant nothing to Silas; he kicked in the door with one launch of his foot and entered like it was his own property. There he found the young woman struggling to load a musket, screaming in panic as her attempt was worthless. Silas whipped the weapon out of her hands, dragging her by the hair to the kitchen, where he dashed her to the floor, then took a seat at the table, throwing his blood-stained axe upon it.

  ‘Fix me up sumthin’ to eat and drink … and be quick …or else!’ demanded the brute.

  The woman picked herself up off the floor, overcome with shock. The power of this man had her carrying out his orders with such fear for her life, that she dared not refuse him anything. The baby, in an adjoining room lay in a chair screaming at the sudden disturbance and abandonment.

  ‘Ye betta shut that kid up before I do,’ growled Silas.

  He was like a cat with a mouse as he watched her. He had not been in the company of a woman for so long that he relished his tyranny over her, laughing at her distress.

  With his belly now full after a hearty stew of fresh mutton, potatoes and fresh vegetables – good food in comparison to the rotting human flesh he had grown used to – he relaxed as the young woman nursed her child, nervously anticipating his next command. She was his slave and she knew it. Only a miracle could stop this situation and she knew that, in that remote spot, she wouldn’t get one. She dared not even grieve for her husband, who lay slain in front of the house.

  ‘Ye can fix me a bath now, an’ I needs a shave too.’ Again she jumped to his orders, preparing a bath for him and fetching her husband’s razor. Could this be her moment? She could slit his throat from ear to ear as she shaved him. ‘If you so much as break my skin, I’ll cut you up into little pieces, d’ye ‘ear me?’ He said, as though reading her thoughts.

  Immediately expelling any thought of trying to kill him, she broke into a sweat at the mere thought of touching him.

  ‘I’ve never shaved a man before.’ she said innocently.

  ‘Well this’ll be ye first then, won’t it? And it could be ye last,’ he told her with a lopsided smirk.

  It was probably this last remark that made her decide to make a break for it, once Silas was in the tin bath. She would run for the wagon with the baby and make her escape. Once Silas was lying back, covered in suds, she ran out of the door grabbing the baby, who immediately started yelling. Then the spring door snapped back, rousing Silas. Like lightning, he jumped out of the bath and darted for the door naked and caught up with the poor woman as she tried to climb up on to the wagon. He dragged her screaming off it, still clutching her terrified baby, whom he snatched from her arms and threw against the house wall, silencing him forever. He then subjected the traumatised woman to a most violent rape before killing her.

  Morning had broken on the second day of the hunt – crisp, with almost clear skies, just the occasional elongated clouds hanging over Cradle Mountain. The night breeze had tried its best to blow them away, but they clung on, stretching thinly across the endless blue. Pat and John were slow to rise in the cold shadow of the mountain, the damp morning dew stiffening their limbs. A night of sampling quantities of the major’s own wine, that he had so generously offered for their hunting trip, had somewhat dulled their senses, but they were enjoying a little more comfort than the last time they had been together in those familiar parts. The central district was vast and rocky, and a popular place for escaped convicts to go to ground. They sensed that Wilson was probably hiding out there, as there was no shortage of places to make a den and the heavy vegetation made it extremely difficult to follow a trail.

  John was the first to make a move, by attempting to rekindle the dying embers of last night’s fire, while Pat lay with his hands behind his head staring into infinity. A Billy of tea motivated them to make a start, though they appeared quite content to stay where they were, enjoying the wilderness without pressure. It was not until the sun had risen over the peak of Cradle Mountain that the two lazy hunters began to make their way again. Once saddled up they headed west, around the side of the mountain, making their way through the dense woodland as best they could, becoming more alert as the day wore on. Not only did they have to look out for Silas, but they also had to be wary of other escapees, in an area that had become quite notorious for ambushes on free-settling explorers and hunters, not only by bolters, but also by the aboriginal tribes that had been driven from their homes and forced into hiding.

  They had to make their way on foot for a time, dragging the horses through dense woodland, much to the animals’ discomfort. They still had not come across a single sign that anyone had been there and had just decided to divert to a different area, on the west side of the Cradle, when a loud report rang out through the woods. The distant sound had bounced off so many trees that the hunters did not know which way to head. While they were still deciding whether it was from a shooting party, hunters, or a patrol after a convict, there came another one. This time, John was able to identify the area from which it came, so they headed in that direction.

&nb
sp; After about twenty minutes following the trail without another shot to help them, they came to a large clearing. It was about three hundred yards wide and half a mile in length, flanked on the right-hand side by a craggy area of huge rocks and boulders. The terrain was rough and jagged and the ground well hidden by long yellow sun-dried grasses and wild shrubs. They would have be careful crossing the horses over this, lest they got their hooves caught, or fell over. They debated whether it was wise to go on any further, and scanned the area on horseback. Then John spotted something over on the other side of the clearing, coming out of some woodland. It was a patrol of soldiers looking cautiously around, as if they were on a trail, then a native appeared, pointing over to the rocks.

  All of a sudden, as Pat and John watched, keeping out of sight, a figure appeared on the rocks. It turned to look at the hunters, making some sort of offensive gesture they could not make out, before disappearing behind a boulder. Shots ricocheted off the rocks, echoing over the clearing and mingling with the muffled voices of the red jacketed soldiers giving chase.

  ‘Come on, John, let’s follow ’em, it looks like it could be Wilson,’ said Pat jumping from his horse, and pulling his musket from its sheath.

  ‘It’s too far to tell, let’s just watch a while longer,’ replied John, the more cautious of the two.

  ‘I tell ye what. You stay ‘ere with the ‘orses and watch, an’ I’ll go an’ get a closer look.’ Without waiting for a reply, Pat disappeared into the long grass.

  John sat on his horse, keeping his head down, occasionally noticing Pat’s head popping up out of the grass, as he tried to find his way to the patrol. He couldn’t see where he was heading, so like a rabbit, he would keep stopping to check his direction above the grass. He had now drawn close enough to hear their voices, so he kept his distance and concealment. Then he caught a glimpse of the patrol, and to his surprise it was Sergeant Turnbull leading the way. It must be Silas they were after, for why else would a patrol from Sarah Island be in the area? He wanted to tell John, but had no way of letting him know without revealing his whereabouts. Pat then lost sight of the search party as they moved closer towards the rocks, but followed at the side of them, checking his distance whenever he could.

  Suddenly there was a commotion, voices shouting and shots going off. Pat was itching to stand up to find out what was happening, but would risk blowing his cover. He still was not close enough to make out what they were saying and shouting, but Pat’s initial thought was that they had caught Silas. The shouting died down and he tried to get closer, for a better look. The last thing he wanted was to find out that Turnbull had caught Silas and he had wasted his journey. Through the grass he saw that indeed it was Silas and he had one of his arms around Turnbull’s neck, and a large blade at his throat. Turnbull looked petrified, pleading for his life. Pat could not see where the other soldiers were without risking showing himself, but he felt sure this could be his chance to capture Silas himself. John had seen all this from a distance and decided to dismount, taking his musket and heading towards them, hoping to catch up with Pat.

  Silas had appeared from nowhere, pouncing on Turnbull from behind and causing him to drop his weapon. Two of the other soldiers had let off their weapons in panic, wasting their shot. Silas then ordered them to drop their weapons as he pulled out Turnbull’s pistol from his waist belt. As the soldiers disarmed, Silas took the pistol and discharged it at the native tracker’s head, sending him to the floor dead. This act shook Turnbull and the other soldiers rigid, demonstrating, as it did, that Wilson had no value for human life. The pistol was thrown at the soldiers, as Wilson pulled out his blade again, holding it at Turnbull’s neck.

  Pat had crawled as close as he could in order to get a good aim at Silas – about thirty yards to the side of him. He also knew that Silas would attempt to escape through the rocks, so he would have to try and steer him away, or get between him and the rocks. His aim was to take Silas in and nothing was going to stop him now. He wanted to watch him hang and delight in his slow death; have him suffer the pain of anticipation, waiting in that dark cell, knowing that it was all about to end. No matter how tough you are, or how stubborn, facing your own death is the ultimate torture. Unless of course you have lost the will go on, like so many of Wilson’s victims, after he had added so much misery to their already desperate lives.

  But he needed John’s assistance and the only way to get it was to shout him. Positioned below the grass, he took aim at Silas’s head, taking a few deep breaths to ready himself for the move. Wilson was now ordering the other soldiers to remove their clothes, or he would slit Turnbull’s throat. The soldiers obeyed, as Turnbull reiterated the order, despite being half choked. Suddenly Pat stood bolt upright, still aiming at Silas’s head, alerting all eyes to his position.

  ‘The game’s up, Silas! I’m takin’ you in!’ he shouted, as the others stood wondering where on earth he had appeared from. ‘Dead or alive, Silas … it’s up to you!’ he continued.

  Turnbull was unsure whether to feel relief or anguish, as he had delighted in flogging Pat on more than one occasion. Pat quickly and assuredly advanced from his thirty yards to fifteen, to secure his target, before shouting loudly for John to come and assist. Silas was showing signs of anxiety, which only boosted Pat’s confidence. Then John appeared from the bushes, a little breathless, also aiming his barrel at Silas. He had nowhere to turn and in desperation, tried to barter with them using his hostage.

  ‘Let me go, or I’ll slit ‘is bloody throat … I mean it!’ he threatened, his eyes darting from Pat to John to the soldiers.

  ‘He means nothin’ to us, Wilson. Kill ‘im if ye want,’ replied Pat calmly.

  ‘No! Please don’t kill me!’ shouted Turnbull frantically, expecting the blade to slice into his throat at any moment.

  Pat moved in closer, forcing Silas to back away into the clearing, too stupid to realise that he was doing exactly what he wanted. The other soldiers grabbed their clothes and hurriedly got dressed.

  ‘Don’t try me, Roche, I’ll kill ‘im if ye come any closer.’

  ‘Please, do what he says, Roche,’ pleaded Turnbull, half choking from the pressure of Wilson’s grip.

  Silas had instilled fear into the hearts of all the soldiers and if Pat and John had not turned up, who knows what might have happened. But Pat showed no fear of the burly terror, bent on revenge for all those he had tormented.

  ‘Too late for that, Turnbull, ye killed two of me mates and scarred me for life. I should kill ye meself,’ answered Pat bitterly, as he came to a stop.

  ‘Stop there, Wilson, or I’ll put a shot through that thick skull of yours,’ intervened John.

  But Wilson kept on slowly backing away, hoping to make a run for it. The concentration was written on Pat’s face, as he waited for him to make that first move. Silas could see that Pat was not going to give him an inch, but he was not one to give up easily. Time stood still as both he and John stopped to allow Silas to gain further ground. With every step, Silas expected a bullet to hit him, Turnbull feared for Silas’s blade to slip, and Pat expected Silas to bolt. Who would crack first?

  John turned his head for a split second, to make sure the soldiers had not raised their arms against them, but it was enough to make Silas react. With one swift slash, his blade cut deep into Turnbull’s throat. His eyes almost jumped out of their sockets at the realisation that death had finally arrived. Silas then thrust Turnbull towards Pat, in a desperate effort to distract his aim. It worked, Pat discharged his weapon and the bullet went into Turnbull’s shoulder. He fell to the ground holding his throat, as blood from the slit spurted out between his fingers. But John, who stood well apart from Pat, still had a clear aim and took a shot, hitting Silas in his right arm. Still running as fast as his legs would carry him, Silas let out a yelp of pain. Pat quickly reloaded, asking John for the use of his shoulder, as he rammed the shot home with his loading rod, then took aim at the rapidly disappearing villain.

 
‘Hold ye breath, John,’ he said. ‘Stay as still as ye can.’

  Silas was about fifty feet away, obscured by the grass and undergrowth. He took aim at his legs and let out the shot, sending Silas stumbling out of sight. They both made their way towards him, passing the dying Turnbull, who lay violently convulsing, choking on his blood. Silas stupidly showed himself again, limping awkwardly, as he tried his best to get away. Pat reloaded and again rested on John’s shoulder.

  ‘Ready? ‘old ye breath!’

  The shot rang out and Silas again fell to the ground. The two hunters, grinning with confidence, went to collect their wounded prize, which lay helpless on the ground with a shot in each leg and one in the arm. He was not going anywhere. He was defenceless, having dropped his knife at the first shot, so even if he had wanted to fight on, he could not. John put his musket butt to the brute’s head, knocking him clean out, before dragging him back towards the horses. They bound him up so tightly there was no way an able- bodied man could have escaped, never mind one so badly wounded. Turnbull’s body was wrapped up and tied to one of the horses and Silas to the other, his mouth stuffed with rags to silence him. Pat and John then buried the aborigine tracker close to the spot where he was killed, before heading back to Hobart.

  *

  Pat and John stood watching Silas’s body shake violently at the end of the rope, as he fought furiously against the inevitable. The massive crowd outside the gaol in Hobart town watched in silence, waiting for the infamous Terror to become motionless. He kicked and struggled to the very last, even jolting the scaffold. Some of the onlookers did not believe he would ever die, and expected him to escape by breaking down the scaffold. It was not to be. It took Silas over two minutes to die, and when the noose finally came to a standstill, the gathering erupted in elation. The beast that had reigned terror on the people of Van Dieman’s Land had finally been slain. Pat and John’s names were on everybody’s lips; they were heroes, having had the courage to bring Silas in alive.