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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504313742 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Balboa Press AU |
| Publication date: | 07/10/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 172 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
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CHAPTER 1
13th October 1803
Here I stand ... a whole world away from the place I call home, and though the sight of these tree-lined shores seem pleasant enough to the eye, they are not the cliffs of Dover. Having finally dropped anchor after many long months at sea, we are lying a quarter mile offshore alongside our sister ship, while I gaze at a shoreline of golden sand and upon hills of rolling green. As I was given the role of man-servant to the governor on the journey out from England, I am the only prisoner fortunate enough to be not currently locked below, while all other able-bodied men have been put to work unloading the ships until it is deemed safe to take the rest of us unwilling guests of His Majesty ashore. As I pause to reflect upon those past few months at sea - when I compare it to the months that I had previously spent in the disease-ridden hulk of the Portland (where many of the prisoners were dropping like flies) my journey down to this southern land has been more like a picnic. As far as my role as man-servant was concerned, I will let you in on a little secret - I was often given the liberty of assisting the crew with their chores up on deck whenever our commander had seen fit to entertain a certain lady (the wife of one of our fellow-prisoners) alone in his cabin.
And now that the governor has gone ashore to oversee the landing, I have been able to linger here alone and unattended, smelling the warm sea air and watching those on the beach busying themselves like ants upon a crust of bread. But please do not judge me as one unsympathetic to those poor wretched souls below, for I have shared their chains of iron and have also felt the lash, it's just that on this occasion I am the lucky one and have slipped through the net.
For the second day in a row I've seen them ferrying the stores to the beach. I saw them lower the wagons ... the cattle, the goats and the pigs, while I watched their tents of calico popping up along the sea strand like new-season's mushrooms in autumn.
So now I stand and I wait and I wonder and I watch as wisps of smoke billow and curl from the campfires lining the shore. I breathe a sigh as my lazy gaze follows the grey-green line of the land rolling mile upon mile for as far as the eye can see. But alas not for me the fields of England, not for me the hills of old. The whole morning long I've been hearing the axes' bite from yonder across bay. Heard the cannon roar up there on the bluff, and the drum for the start of day. Now it is a party of marines that catches my eye in their coats of blazing red, and as I watch them enter the longboat and steer toward where I stand, I take off my hat and I turn on my heels ... it is high time I went below.
A week has passed since we came ashore, and the settlement grows bigger by the day, nestled here as it is in this sheltered cove on a 400 yard ribbon of sand. Rumour has it that the parties sent out to explore for water have returned with nothing to report but disappointment, and that if it pleases the Almighty we will all be called upon to drink the salty brine from the wooden casks which they have sunk in the sand to filter the seawater. And I can assure you of one thing beyond any doubt ... I will not be the only one praying for rain.
Positioned out here as we are upon this ancient sea strand, the encampment lies between one sandstone bluff pointing out to sea at the eastern end of the beach, while another one just like it guards the west. Off to the south are the wilds of the bush, and beyond that ... who knows what? The aforementioned western bluff is where they have put up the hospital tent, while to the rear of that are the convict tents. And whilst on the subject of those convict tents, let me remind you that each and every one of those tents is a sad and silent keeper of a whole world of secrets. See over yonder the marines' tents? It goes without saying but I will say it nonetheless ... those rogues are little more than an odd assortment of scoundrels brought here to guard us so-called dregs of the earth. Or to put it in the more eloquent words of Mister Collins: "They who have been selected by their sovereign to compose the Garrison for the protection of this infant colony." They call the clearing over yonder the parade ground, though it is little more than a patch of sand. But far be it for the likes of me to offer views on military affairs ... opinions are little more than leaves before the wind when a man is not free to be heard.
Further along the shore are the storage tents, each one being guarded around the clock. The foundations for the munitions battery are beginning to take shape too, and please forgive my bragging, but my skills in the trade of bricks and mortar have been called upon to help with its construction. See those two big cooking caldrons simmering over a fire? One is being used as the military laundry.
And while on the subject of that laundry, allow me to quote Mister Collins again: "The Commanding Officer directs and appoints the following women to be employed in the following manner ... the wife of Private William Bean to wash for 15 persons. The wife of Private George Curley to wash for 15 persons, and the wife of Private James Spooner to wash for 14 persons." The enclosures off to the left are for the livestock - the cattle, the sheep and the pigs, while those yonder coops are for the housing of Reverend Knopwood's hens. As we approach the eastern headland, we come to the settlers' tents positioned close by to the officer's tents. And if we raise our gaze to the top of that eastern headland, we will see the largest tent of all ... for the housing of Mister Collins. And there at the crest of that rocky outcrop, sharing the bluff with that grand marquee stand two bold cannons pointing out to the sea while the Union Jack flutters in the breeze.
So that is the long and the short of this God-forsaken settlement ... some four hundred souls all cast ashore, here at the end of the earth.
Five weeks have passed since our arrival, with each day getting hotter than the last, while I wait and I watch and I listen and I toil and I dream my dreams of freedom till the sun comes up. Two more men fled into the bush today, and the marines are out in force trying to track them down. Although I am not the only one of the opinion that those half-witted redcoats could not so much as track an elephant through the snow, let alone two desperate men in an alien bush.
And speaking of that alien bush ... I and three other felons have been out quarrying sandstone, and the aforementioned munitions battery continues to grow as a result. Many rutted tracks run through the encampment now too, as the timber-cutters' wagons roll to and from the mountain. They refer to that mountain as Arthur's Seat, as Mister Collins told me on the day that we arrived:
"Do you see that hill through yonder cloud Mister Buckley? It is called 'Arthur's Seat'. Named thus by John Murray - the first British citizen to sail into this bay, for it reminded him of a hill just like it back home in his native Edinburgh."
Like we that are made to quarry the stone, the timber-cutters also have to toil out here till the sun goes down, but the bush gives a taste of freedom not found within four walls. And though we labour quite a distance away from the camp, we still manage to keep abreast of the news. Word will always find an ear, an ear that wants to listen, even in a place like this. And the word passing among the men is that Mister Collins wants to pack up the settlement and move it elsewhere. My own two eyes were given confirmation of this when I watched the boat leave for Sydney little more than two weeks ago. And it is a very long way to travel unless for a matter of great importance. The same word going around says that the boat was carrying a letter for the eyes of the Governor and his eyes only. My thoughts are that Mister Collins wants to move us all down to Van Diemen's Land, for I heard him speak of that place on the journey out, and I saw the fond look in his eyes.
It pains me to have to tell of three more absconders brought back in chains today, and how we were all mustered around the parade ground ... guards and felons alike, to watch the battle-hardened drummer swing the lash. I am not ashamed to admit that what those three men were made to endure one hundred times over, very nearly brought me to my knees. For to hear a man scream for mercy is not a thing you want to hear, and the smell of flesh hanging off a man's bare back will linger ever-present in my mind. Those poor souls were not the first to try and more are bound to try again, for I have heard men talk of China waiting there across the range, or Sydney town – that's even closer still. But I for one will sit and wait, my time will come I'm sure, death waits for those who flee when unprepared, but we who talk in whispers, we will know when it is time, and there'll be no man shirking it you wait and see.
We have not seen rain in weeks, and I have my suspicions that the brackish water we are being given to drink is the reason why the hospital tent is overflowing with the sick and the infirmed.
Even the marines are far from happy, compelled as they are to chase absconders through the bush, then to march out on parade two times a day. At least the redcoats get their daily half pint of spirits though, which is a half a pint more than the likes of us. Fear of the natives is ever-present too, with stories of skirmishes up on the mount and of blood spilled out in the bush.
As I suspected, news has arrived that the settlement is to be moved to Van Diemen's Land, and the task of building a wharf to load the ships is already getting underway. But of one thing I am certain and I will share it with you now ...
I will not be on that ship, you wait and see.
December 25th beckons, with talk of the move and of Christmas, and thoughts of families back home across the sea. But I will leave such thoughts of England to other souls I say, no Christmas cheer this year will be for me. The chance to flee to Sydney town, catch a ship that's bound for home, that's the sort of dream in such as we.
A man can keep no secrets when under lock and key. He cannot even break wind without half of the convict world listening in to adjudge its merit, and although it was with my old friend Bill Marmon that I first began to plan our escape ... our plans had become the plans of six before we knew it. Bill and I go way back to those happier days in England, and please allow me take time out to explain: Following my return to England after seeing active service, Bill and I had been enjoying an ale or two in the Lincoln Tavern one cold wintery night when by chance a sweet lady fair just happened to saunter in from the cold. I am no oil painting, plain and simple, but my heart skipped a beat when her eyes met mine and I fell head-over-heels most sure and true. Although I can no longer recollect all of the events that occurred on that fateful night, what I do recall is having felt more than a little emboldened by the effects of strong liquor, and as would come to be revealed under later interrogation ... Bill and I had undertaken to break and enter the premises of the local tailor, and make a gift to the lady of two handsome rolls of Irish cloth. Needless to say, when the deed was done and the good lady was all smiles and gratitude, the unexpected arrival of the local constabulary came to spoil the party, and the rest as they say, is history.
Bill and I were sent to the hulks at Langstone Harbour and we are now two years older but a whole lot wiser. But wiser or not, we are prisoners nonetheless ... down here at Sullivan Bay. As for the rest of our motley group, some of them go back to those earlier days at Langstone: Tom Page for example ... he was sentenced to death for the charge of highway robbery but like Bill and myself, had his sentence reprieved and has so far lived to tell the tale. Two less serious offenders are George Pye and Charlie Shore. Charlie was double-chained for insolence on the journey out and carries the scars to prove it. The last of our group is Dan Mcallenan. Though there is not much of him at a mere 5ft 4inches, what he lacks in size he more than makes up for with more than his share of rat cunning, and he is Irish through and through. Dan has been able to procure a Brown Bess musket and conceal it at the quarry, a tinder-box he has hidden there as well. The other items we'll be needing I will talk of soon enough. But for now, that is our group in a nutshell ... six miserable wretches sent down by the courts to rot upon this antipodean shore, and all of us far from home.
The word doing the rounds is that the guards are to be given a double ration of grog, starting from tomorrow up until the New Year, and judging by the manner in which they handle their current allocation, I doubt they'll be able to tell their arse from their elbow by the time that extra liquor starts to flow. Please allow me to give an example of what I mean ... although a hungry cat will be alert to its prey, on Christmas Eve, while the guard slept soundly with a belly full of ale, Dan was able to slip right under his nose into the supply tent, and a short time later, he concealed two bags of supplies in the trunk of a hollow tree.
So now we await tomorrow night, with plans to make our break in the camp dinghy, before rowing back to shore at a predetermined point just a few short miles down the coast. From there we intend to divest ourselves of the boat before trekking to the quarry for the musket. And with half an ounce of luck and the Good Lord's grace, by the time they discover we have gone overland, we hope to be miles in the clear and well on our way to Sydney town.
When the sun broke through on Christmas day we were primed and ready to go, biding our time as we awaited the coming of darkness. And while we did so, each and every one of us had sworn an oath: 'Whatever happens ... there will be no turning back.'
By 9:00 pm there was neither moon nor stars to light the way, and while a thunderstorm threatened from out at sea with its drum roll rumbling the sky, a bolt of lightning split the darkness, a thunderclap boomed and all the heavens opened up to join the scene. Then with a nod of the head, we were off and running to whatever fate might bring ... sprinting like the devil to the jetty.
Unless you've ever been close enough to danger to have felt its hot foul breath scorch the hairs on the back of your neck, it is hard to imagine what can go through a man's mind when at any given moment fate might strike him down. But be that as it may, what happened next was not what we had planned, nor what we could have foreseen. Although my feet seemed to grow wings and carried me on with a swiftness I had not known that I had possessed, it soon became apparent that we would be requiring a lot more than speed to succeed, for a voice called 'halt' then a musket fired, and Charlie was felled by a sentry's bullet while Tom Page made a dash for the trees.
Now the rest of us are here at the quarry a few miserable hours later, huddled up together 'neath an ancient eucalypt, trying in vain to shelter from the storm with each man clinging to his own dark thoughts, until all eyes turned in my direction when I opened up the bags. I found a piece of salted beef in one ... five or six pounds at my reckoning. And an old iron kettle had come along for the ride, so I took off the lid and placed it out in the rain to catch what we could of some drinking water. We have some flour and what appears to have been a block of oatmeal biscuit, but it has been turned into sop by the unforgiving elements. When I opened up the second sack I found some more biscuit; a quantity of bread and a good deal of flour, but the whole damn lot has been spoiled like the first. So that is the full extent of what we now possess ... barely enough food to last three or four days; a kettle; a musket; a small amount of ammunition and a tinderbox to help us light a fire.
It's just those few items and not a damn thing more, except for what we are wearing on our backs. I lean back against a tree to try and gather my thoughts, and though I do not at this moment speak of how things look, I am burdened by the notion of what a sad and sorry foursome we must seem, all soaked as we are to the skin. And as I sit here feeling like a half-drowned rat, the saying: 'out of the frying pan and into the fire,' drags its dark and gloomy countenance to my door. With my thoughts all scattered like leaves before the wind, there is no denying that the facts are as plain as can be ... a third of our men are gone, half of our food is spoiled, the weather gods are plotting against us and I doubt we'll be sleeping on a night like this.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "From Dreamtime to Armageddon"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Phillip Gray.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
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