With the last log finally placed in the slide, Peter and several other men were assigned to the log launch. Reluctantly they waded into the icy river, awkward in their chains. The water closed over knee, then thigh, creeping up to his waist, and finally Peter stood in the river, the water cold and tight across his chest. He looked up at the slide. From his new vantage point in the river, it appeared as tall as a mountain, its angle steep and precipitous like the side of a great pyramid.
His anxieties rose as he watched the men at the top of the slide put into position the first giant log to be sent careening down to the men in the river. Erratically the great trunk rolled downward, bouncing and bumping, sometimes catapulting off the uneven slide surface into the air. Peter and his crew scrambled frantically, their movements hampered by their leg irons, their footing uncertain on the slippery river bottom. Peter submerged, shoving himself away from the hurtling log. The crash of the log exploded the water around him. He came up blowing water and shouting imprecations at the grinning men at the top of the slide. His words were drowned out by the thunderous roll of the next log.
Hour after hour the logs tumbled into the water. The river crew maneuvered and shoved them into formation. Peter had never been so painfully cold in his life. The frigid water ate through his skin and muscle and bit deep into the bone. His feet were raw from the rocks in the river bottom. His hands and upper torso were cut and scraped and bruised from the logs.
At six o'clock that evening work ended at the wood station. In that instant when the river crew looked to the top of the slide and saw no more logs being positioned, their leaden arms dropped immobile. Peter looked longingly at the dry river bank and wondered if he'd be able to climb it. With the work stopped, he seemed to have no strength left
But only the logging had stopped. There was still the long rowing back to Sarah Island and the march to the barracks with their chains dragging, becoming heavier with each step. Peter set his mind on the food rations that awaited him in the barracks, not permitting himself to think of the pain in his back or the hot agony of his shoulders or his feet that looked like the Union Jack; white skin mottled with blue bruises and ragged streaks of blood.
He fell into his bunk, not even able to reach for the ration packet. His eyes shut, but he could only doze. The hunger cried and tormented him, yet the deep cold of the river was still in his bones and demanded he seek the warmth of unconsciousness.
Finally, unable to stand it any longer, he reached for his rations. He brought up the pouch from his hidey-hole. Empty. He stared at the pouch. There would be no more food for a week save his skilly in the morning. One day on Saxah Island and already Peter knew he'd die there. Most likely he couldn't last the week with no more to eat than skilly. He might survive if he could beg or steal or bargain for rations from the other convicts, but he'd never survive the cold of the river or have the agility to handle the deadly logs that hurtled down the slide to him. His mind clouded with quick visions of himself being crushed among the weighty lumber, being pressed beneath the foaming river, and then he was blank. Only a deep immovable sorrow worked up from his loins,
pressing through his stomach and chest and invading his throat and eyes.
He didn't notice the convict who sat on his bunk beside him, nor did he seem to understand or move when the man held out the contents of his looted ration pouch.
The man put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Cheer up, mate. I tol' you this morning not to be eatin' your rations too soon. But you didn't listen, so I thought I'd best show you what comes of a man who don't keep his ration pouch in sight." He pushed the rations into Peter's empty pouch. "I didn't take none. Damn if you didn't tempt me though, but I didn't touch a bloody crumb. Here—take it. Come on, now, mate—it ain't the end yet."
Peter's hand clenched the pouch. Suddenly he leapt from the bunk, wheeling to face the man. "You damned, bloody interfering bastard!" The man guffawed. "So you are still canny!" Peter charged at him, the pouch still clenched in one fist, the other doubled and poised to drive into the man's belly.
Darting lightly from side to side, the smaller man seemed to enjoy Peter's rage. "This be thanks? After I saved your dinner for you?"
Peter lunged at him, missed, and staggered forward on legs that were still numb with cold.
"Come on, mate, I did you a good turn. Don't make me lay you flat on your back for bein' a fool again." The man put his hands out.
Peter, his face twisted with anger, came at him once more.
The man shrugged. "Seems like you're determined to be a donkey's ass, mate." He shouted at another man. The convict met Peter's attack, butting him in
the diaphragm as his friend came from behind Peter hitting his legs.
In seconds Peter was flat on the floor, the small convict sitting on his belly, a knee firmly planted on each arm. His friend stood nearby.
"Quiet now, mate. We don't want the guards in on this. I'm John the Pocket. This is my friend Walter Wheeler. We mean you no harm."
"No harm? Never turn your back on me, bastard."
Wheeler's expression turned ugly. "Don't you talk to John like that. He. fought two men to save your bloody rations for you. I say he keeps 'em."
"Naww, we don't want 'em, Berean. They're yours, but you've got to learn, man, or you'll not survive the month on Sarah. Now, can I let you up without you comin' at me like a crazed bull?"
Peter did poorly with his rations that week and the next. Despite the lessons his two new friends had tried to teach him, the gnawing hunger drove him time and again to the pouch. He found it almost impossible to work as he did and live on the rations he was given. Too often he found himself with nothing to eat at the end of the week. He was constantly hungry, often dreaming of what one bite of fresh meat would taste like. He could hardly remember the taste, and now it seemed terribly important that he should, for he feared he would never taste it again. No fresh meat rations were permitted on Sarah Island. The craving for food became an obsession even greater than his longing to be free.
"By God, Wheeler, we must do something for this donkey's ass before he turns cannibal on us. Did you see how he looked at that plump-bottomed little minister today? I thought the commandant would be wri-tin' to the poor soul's mother tellin' her how her son was et by a vicious convict."
Wheeler and John the Pocket laughed, but it was not all in fun. Beneath their jokes was a serious concern. They stole for Peter and taught him to be one of the lightest-fingered men in the barracks. John bragged that he could steal a man's false teeth between the bites of an apple. That other men went hungry because their rations had been pilfered was no consideration. The three of them stuck together and took care of their own.
Peter didn't realize how important this was until one day in line when he saw a settler slip a piece of tobacco to a convict in front of him. That evening word spread that in exchange for a favor from a guard someone had reported the gift of tobacco. The convict was given fifty lashes and the settler fined.
For a month Peter enjoyed a friendship with John the Pocket and Walter Wheeler. John had told Peter of his life and bragged of being the best pickpocket London had ever known. Walter, the milder of the two, and a worshiper of John, had little to say. As far as Peter could tell, Walter had been a fence for Johns stolen goods, and the two of them had been caught trying to sell the engraved pocket watch of an important lord. Since neither of them could read, they had paid little attention to the inscription, taking only the precaution of trying to sell the jeweled watch to a Dutchman. They had been sentenced and transported together four years ago.
During the interval Peter told them of himself and even dared to tell them of Callie's scarf, and what it meant to him in his dreams. As he had hoped, neither of them laughed. In fact they had envied him the ownership of such a fine talisman.
In the midst of Sarah Island's bleak, brutal life it was good to have these two men to talk and occasionally laugh with. At first Peter listened, then began to
j
oin in, talking about women, places they had been, great exaggerated adventures they had had, successes they had known. To hear John, he had all but had Big Ben in his pocket when caught, and Walter had fenced a king's ransom in jewels. Peter's brewery had grown to the biggest and finest in the world. His fields stretched farther than a horse could walk in a fortnight. Callie became the most beautiful woman ever born, and as faithful as Penelope awaiting the return of Odysseus.
With the companionship of friends, talk of escape and return in triumph, dreams shared and magnified by hope, life on Sarah Island became at least tolerable. It eased the most unbearable ache of all: loneliness.
Peter, John, and Walter managed to get on the same river crew. They talked about it often and knew it was only a matter of time before someone on that crew would be hurt by one of the logs coming off the slide. But they were not prepared for it to happen to one of them.
The three of them stood in the cold river with the other men, shouting ribald remarks to the slide crew as they waited for the first log. The shouts changed from bantering ribaldry to frightened, angry screams as a man at the top slipped and released his log. Not one, but three logs, and the man, lunged down, jamming and tumbling over one another. The men in the water dived for safety. Walter seemed to be stunned, staring at the bloody pulp of the man hurtling down the slide, crushed by the logs. Peter grabbed him by the hair, dragging him away from the plunging logs. When they surfaced there was a telltale, expanding splotch of red staining the river. Peter dived and brought from under the floating logs the body of a convict who had been working the river crew for only
a week. His head and shoulder were crushed. Peter took the man to the river bank and laid him beside the body of the man who had come down the slide.
Walter covered his eyes, hiding the gratitude he felt that it hadn't been John the Pocket. Then he walked through the water hunting for sight of John. The convicts shouted their condition to the guards on shore. As Walter came toward Peter, standing on the shore, two men struggled to the bank further down river. One of them was John the Pocket, his left arm dangling useless and bloody,
John was taken to the prison hospital. His left hand was amputated and his broken arm and shoulder set. Walter cried like a baby, as though his life were over as well as John the left-handed pickpocket's. No dreams could come true if they were impossible. As long as John had his hand, escape from Sarah was something to talk about because John could take care of them in the world outside. Now he no longer could, and Sarah Island could no longer be escaped, even in dreams.
When John returned to the barracks, he was a different man. He was grim, determined to escape in a way Peter had never heard him speak of before. He asked for his old job on the river crew again, and took chances no man could rightly expect to survive. The logs, however, seemed perverse. If John stood directly in their path, the logs swerved, leaving him untouched.
Peter and Walter tried to cheer him up, make him laugh and plan and dream again. John merelv became quieter and more introspective. His one desire was to be released from Sarah Island. He looked lovingly and sorrowfully at the two friends he had already decided to leave behind. "Can't you find it in you to see I can't take no more? I want my Maker. He can be no
harsher than a man, and surely I think He'll judge me kinder."
Peter didn't understand. He still throbbed with life and though it was of a bitter sort, he had hope. Walter did understand. But for Walter, understanding wasn't necessary. He knew that where John went he would go too. John had always been the leader. He would remain so.
At the river the great logs tumbled down the slide. Peter, John, and Walter stood in the water waiting, their eyes fixed on the logs, their minds and hearts centered on God. Would He forgive? Was there truly a place on His right hand for the good thief?
As the log plunged deep into the river, the rushing swirl of water pounded against Peter's legs. John the Pocket went under without a struggle against the strong hand that held him down until the log had been pushed over him and replaced the hand. Shortly Peter shouted there was a man under.
John was replaced on the crew by a new convict. The following week another convict replaced Walter Wheeler, and Peter was once again alone on Sarah Island.
For two months Peter went out each morning, rowing to the woodcutting station, silent and ignoring the others around him. The less he had to do with anyone the better it seemed to be. At least that way he had only himself to fight and be responsible for, and not the kindness and hatred of others.
Because he caused no trouble, Peter was reclassified within the confines of Sarah. He was termed a good-conduct man within the sixth classification. At the end of June his job was changed. He would, starting in July, be sent to the island's sawmill. Each step in good conduct was a step up the classification. If it
continued, he would soon be classed as a fifth-level convict. It seemed a good thing as well as a relief to be sent to the sawmill. There was no icy water to stand in for twelve hours a day, and there would be no more of the backbreaking weight of the logs on his shoulders.
The mill stood in a large clearing, rolling scrub land around it. On the hillsides he saw guards, whips in hand, shouting and directing heavy sleds of wood being dragged toward the sawmill. They shouted, geeing and hawing as they would any horse or ox, except that there were no horses or oxen or asses on Sarah. No beast of burden was allowed.
The guard assigned to Peter took him to the sled he was to pull. The man reached to the top of the loaded wood stack, hauling down the harness thrown there. Peter stood straight and rigid as the guard came toward him.
"You're not putting that on me," he said in a low voice.
"Get over here. Raise your arms." The guard jabbed him with the whip handle. He took Peters arm, slipping the harness onto one shoulder.
"Get your bloody hands off me!" Peter grabbed the whip. He hurled it into the brush. As he stretched out, the guard hit him in the stomach, doubling him over, and quickly tossed the harness across Peter's back. Peter reared up, taking hold of the harness and the guard, shaking them both with a savage fury.
The other prisoners sat down on the ground, glad to be ignored. Other guards rushed over. The convicts watched as five guards closed in on Peter. It happened to them all at sometime, but they would enjov watching it now. It was quite a show to see the tall blond man in irons wildly swinging the harness like a weapon at all comers.
"A man is no beast, damn your
The guards formed a circle and began to move in. To whichever of the five Peter turned his attention, the other four flicked at him with their whips.
Slowly the circle closed. Peter lashed at them, his face and body covered with sweat, tears streaming down his cheeks. "A man is no beast! I am a man . . . a man." His voice was smothered with the scuffling and grunting of the guards as they bore down on him driving his face into the ground.
The other convicts got up, going back to work. It had been good while it lasted, but it was too short a test. They knew it was probably the last show of rebellion they would see from Peter Berean. Men who had not been to the triangles were always more outspoken than those who had. Those bearing the scars might be recklessly revengeful, but "A man is no beast" were the words of a newcomer.
The triangles, wooden staves fastened together to form a triangle, stood in an open area. They were constructed atop a wooden structure, making it easier for onlookers to view the punishment. The bell was rung and a crowd began to form. Peter stood on the platform, his shirt taken off him and tossed to the plank floor. A stir of interest rippled through the people at the sight of the brand on his chest.
'Who'd he murder?" one woman asked her neighbor.
"His wife, I heard, and the local magistrate . . . found them together and had done with them both. I heard tell he's a real brute, this one is."
The first woman shook her head. "A magistrate . . . well, it's often the way with these 'andsome ones. They don't have two corn kernels in their
heads to call brains."
More people trickled up to stand at the base of the triangles. Men and women from the settlement, some with their children, convicts, guards, and officers forming a waiting sea of eager, anticipatory faces all around him.
"What'd he do?" a man asked.
"Attacked a guard, they say."
"He's lucky they didn't hang him."
"Mmmm. They'll skin the back off 'im. You watch. He'll take at least a hundred."
His body was extended to full length as his hands were lashed to the apex of the triangle at the same time his legs were spread wide and lashed to the angular braces. He hung there naked to the waist, listening to the murmuring talk around him. The chaplain, probably a disgraced minister sent to Van Diemen's Land to rid himself of his own demons of drink or lust or hate, mounted the platform with Peter. He thrust the Bible into Peter's face. "Sin has a dreadful hold on your immortal soul. Keep your mind turned toward the Lord lest you be lost to the legions of evil."
The crowd mumbled amens piously, then raised their eyes to stare at the prisoner hanging half naked before them.
Peter hung his head, trying to avoid the sight of the minister, if not the sound of his voice.
"Repent, dear soul, that your depravity may not destroy all hope for the salvation of your soul. Repent! Lest you be cast into the everlasting sulphurous fires of Hell," he concluded, the spittle standing in white flecks on his lips. Ponderously, clutching the Bible to his breast, the minister left the platform to join the crowd below.
Another convict stepped forward. He took the cat-o'-nine-tails and stepped into position behind Peter.
Peter remembered the flogging he had received aboard the George HI and thought that with mercy he'd be unconscious before this one was half over. With the slow regularity of a metronome the lashes were called out. Peter hadn't reckoned with the thirty-second delay between strokes. The time seemed an eternity. His nerves were flayed raw along with his back. He was screaming long before the lash ever touched him, and when it came it thudded into his back driving the breath from his body, making him choke and strangle on his own saliva and blood as he bit through his lip and tongue. He was insensible to everything but terror and pain. There was no sound on heaven or earth but the swishing scream of the scourge and the dull impact on yielding flesh. The platform was lined with armies of red ants carrying off the torn slices of Peters back. At every stroke blood sprayed.
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