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  Bound to Sarah

  By Craig Brennan

  “copyright 2011 Craig Brennan”

  Dedication

  For Lisa and Shea

  CONTENTS

  Banished from the Realm

  The Call of Fate

  A Friend in Need

  From Boy to Man

  Murder in the Slums

  A Desperate Cargo

  Typhus Fever

  Cold Blooded Murder

  Hobart Town

  Bound to Sarah

  The Female Factory

  The Bolter

  Ambushed

  A Turning Point

  The Terror Escapes

  The Hunt is On

  The Last of Van Dieman’s Land

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  BANISHED FROM THE REALM

  ‘Ger out of it!’ he bellowed taking an optimistic swipe at the pilferer, almost knocking himself off balance with the power of his hope. He missed. The feathered fiend took full advantage of the sudden breeze of stale hops and tobacco, taking flight on the breath of the aggressor. ‘Thievin’ wretch! I’ll snap ye bloody beak next time ye come near me.’ His sullen countenance increased the many folds of his aging weather beaten face. He quickly retrieved his biscuit bread from off the bulwarks. The scavenging seagull narrowly missed the burly arm, whining back in a hovering flutter of discontent before the wretched creature flew off, causing a sudden disturbance amongst the rest of its feathered companions and breaking the settled morning atmosphere. A frenzy of flapping wings and squealing beaks took to the air, spilling out all over the dock, before relocating themselves at various points around the dockside.

  Grumbling with irritation, the sailor tucked into his broth once again. He was a crew member of a vessel moored at St George Dock, in Liverpool. The rest of his shipmates were lazing around on the fo’c’s’le, awaiting their next cargo, some nursing hangovers from a night in a dockside tavern, others going about their duties. Their vessel, the Rupert, was the largest full-rigged ship in the dock; her masts and rigging so tall, they towered above the rooftops of many of the surrounding buildings. Her rigging was well stretched, and her canvas sails no longer gleamed brightly – more of a dirty dusty grey – and her once fine woodwork now dulled by salt water. She had been worn down by the ocean’s incessant pounding, the neglect of her owners and the afflictions of those who haunted her hulks. But she was never made to be pretty, only to serve a purpose; to be a workhorse and toil for the benefit of her makers.

  She had a long history and a great many tales to tell; a key witness to the heartless brutality of humanity. Below decks, her timbers were impregnated with the stains of fear, desperation and human suffering. She had been formerly used as a slave ship, cramming innocent African blood into her belly, until she was almost too bloated to float, then crossing the oceans of the triangular route to spew the petrified captive souls back out into England, the West Indies and America. With the eventual abolition of slavery, she had been given a reprieve, and had now served as a cargo ship for a number of years.

  The Rupert had gained a reputation for being a sturdy ship and now her owners were about to set her a new task, a task with close similarities to her slave days; her destiny once again to bring misery to her human cargo and to make a mockery of the engraving on her side, ‘God bless those who sail in her’. Built with good intentions, somewhere along the way financial benefit took precedence over the honourable. A merchant ship, with a merchant crew, but now under a military command for this journey, the crew were none too happy about the military authority taking over their ship, not least because they had been asked to give up their fo’c’s’le accommodation to house the soldiers of the Marine regiment and find berths for themselves down in the ‘tween decks, next to the prison hold.

  The new ‘cargo’ had to be escorted under armed guard and a regime of strict discipline, something the crew felt very uneasy about. There was no way they were going to sleep next to the prison section. The fo’c’s’le was their quarters and no army was going to usurp them. This journey would be bad enough, without having their living quarters rearranged.

  The Marines did not have much time for the crew either deeming them slovenly and unruly, with undisciplined manners. There was tension in the air, so the tendency was to keep themselves separate, in order to avoid conflict, and that was the atmosphere before the cargo was even brought on board; a cargo of human origin, snatched from the shores of Liverpool and forced to endure a treacherous, nine-month journey halfway across the world, to the shores of Van Dieman’s Land.

  It was 12 May, in the year 1823. A crisp morning, with a chill in the air, and a slight mist caressing the still waters of the dock, though the warmth of the rising sun would soon evaporate the vapours into the clear blue sky. Supplies had been loaded into every available space on board, a difficult task as the decks and walkways were to be kept clear at all times, and the crew were not used to such strict guidelines and resented the extra effort. The ship’s chandler made his final checks before leaving the ship, while one unfortunate crew member was ordered down the side of the ship on a rope swing to try to get rid of any crustaceans he could reach that clung to her underside. They could not afford to carry an ounce of extra weight and the Rupert had more barnacles on her than a pod of whales.

  The captain, officers, Marines and crew were now all prepared to set sail and awaited their final load. Amidst the usual sounds of the morning dockland, the busy port itself was now awakening. The town hall clock struck seven long slow chimes, which echoed over the musty rooftops, announcing the time that the convicts were due for arrival. Anxiety was mounting among the crew, as they waited for the prison carriages to appear, having spent the previous night listening to the locals telling exaggerated tales of these miserable felons who were about to step aboard their ship.

  Both ship and crew had arrived two days earlier from Bristol. The authorities could not afford to take on locals for fear of them having an association with the prisoners which may lead to collaboration and attempted mutiny on board. They had indeed enjoyed a drunken evening of hospitality, and been spun a few yarns by the inhabitants of ‘The Sailors Block’, a rowdy dockland public house, that was always wall-to-wall with sailors, foreign and local, drunken fishermen and dockworkers. The tavern was sought out by seamen for an inexpensive feed from the proprietors wife, a steaming bowl of Dotty’s famous hotpot, but they often ended up with a dose of something a little less savoury, from one of the other renowned, and very cheap, ladies of the night who quite often frequented the place. In an atmosphere thick and heavy with smoke and alcohol, they had listened to whispered fabrications of those with whom they were about to join company. The scare mongering had roused a certain amount of fear in some crew members, who were now quite anxious about having to spend the next nine months at sea with one hundred and fifty murderers, rapists, thieves and thugs.

  ‘D’ye s’pose we’ll be alright?’ asked one, his deep Bristol drawl wavering to reveal his edginess. ‘You ‘eard what folk said last night about ‘em.’ He waited uneasily for a reassuring response from the older crew members, who lay seemingly relaxed, with their caps over their faces, trying to catch a moment’s shuteye.

  ‘Don’t worry yeself, young ‘un. We’ve got armed guards to look after us,’ said the voice of experience.

  ‘Ye think they could ‘ave knives, ‘idden in their clothes?’

  ‘Well if they do’ came another, removing his cap from his face and sitting upright with a stark look in his eyes, he leaned closer to the young enquirer. ‘an’ some o’ ‘em set about ye, boy, an’
then ye get stabbed, not once mind, but at least twenty times, by a gang o’ mad murderers .…’

  The boy swallowed hard, listening intently taking in his every word.

  ‘Well,’ continued the old sailor, warming to his theme, ‘ye prob’ly wouldn’ feel it after the first couple o’ times.’ With that, the other crew members erupted into fits of laughter, while the young lad looked on unimpressed by their wicked sense of humour.

  ‘Hah! Hah! Ye wouldn’ be laughin’ if one of ‘em did ‘ave a knife,’ he replied, as the laughter died down.

  ‘Course we wouldn’ laugh… we’d be too busy swimmin’ for it, lad.’ This brought another roar of laughter at his expense.

  ‘Just be thankful we don’t ‘ave to share the ‘tween deck with ’em, lad. They’ve to get past the soldiers before they get to us,’ said another, sucking on a wick pipe.

  There it was the only reassuring words he was going to get. He had not thought of the Marines being their barrier of protection and now his mind was slightly eased.

  As it turned out, the situation was entirely different. Most of these apparent villains were, in fact, innocent victims of circumstance: petty thieves, sentenced for stealing a mere loaf of bread to feed their hunger; others sentenced for being drunk and lying helpless in the street, only to wake up the following morning in Kirkdale Prison, awaiting transportation. Indeed, by all accounts, it was these unfortunates who need be afraid, for it would be they who would share a cage with the few true villains amongst them. Desperate and fearful of what was to become of them, they had been snatched from their families and banished to the ends of the earth, to ‘The Fatal Shore’.

  The crew were woken from their idleness, as the lull of the morning was broken by the rumbling of the horse-drawn carts nearing the boarding point. Seagulls whined and took flight, as they rattled past their comfortable perches. The sound grew louder as the wheels rolled over the cobbles and the horses’ hooves thundered towards the quay.

  ‘Alert yourselves, men, here they come!’ shouted the officer on the quarterdeck to his troops. The crew sat up and watched as the Marines appeared from the ‘tween decks and took up their positions for the arrival of the convicts. Close to the gangway of the Rupert, the horses came to a dead stop and the bustle dispersed into shuffling hooves. One of the drivers passed a single iron key on a ring to a sentry guard, who in turn made his way to the back of the cart and unlocked and unbolted the chains that bound the miserable destitutes. The prisoners were sat in the back forcibly huddled together facing one another for maximum capacity, they stared in silent contemplation of where fate was about to take them. They were chained at their hands and feet with one lengthy heavy chain that locked them all together. The chain rattled as the guard pulled it through the iron links and scraped along the wooden floor of the cart, dropping onto the cobble stones, one by one, they were ordered out of the horse-drawn cart.

  ‘Right, out ye get, scum!’ shouted Sergeant Jacobs.

  The bare footed prisoners made up of men and boys poured out of the cart falling awkwardly onto the cobbled quay because their restricted movement. Most couldn’t afford shoes but for the few that had them on, they were queried by other prisoners on how they come to acquire them or how they had fallen into crime if they could afford to wear shoes. Once unloaded, the first cart left and another took its place, the routine would take up most of the morning; back and forth from the holding gaol where the prisoner’s had been taken and held overnight from Kirkdale prison. The quayside was soon a hive of activity, with convicts being herded like cattle into the ship, and the local fishermen and dockworkers arriving to start their day of drudgery, looking on as they went about their daily business.

  Disgruntled and muttering among themselves, the convicts were taken aback by the harshness of their treatment and muttered words of complaint under their breath.

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted a guard aggressively, hitting a young man, who was stood out of formation, in the arm with his musket butt, ‘Get back in line!’

  Herded up the gangway, they were met by more Marines and crew members as soon as they reached the deck. Sergeant Jacobs ticked off their names on his list then they were unchained at the wrists and ordered to remove their clothes. Most of them wore little more than rags, which had probably not been off their backs for a number of years. Torn, tattered and stinking, the ever growing mound made a pathetic sight. A bucket of water, ice cold and fresh from the Mersey, was thrown over their heads, soaking their naked bodies and stealing their breath away.

  ‘ ‘ere, put them on, then make your way down into the ‘old,’ barked the sergeant, throwing a set of prison issue clothes at a dripping wet naked lad who stood shaking violently on deck.

  ‘Probably the best set of clothes ye’ve ever ‘ad,’ said the guard, as he flung his old rags on top of the pile. Two prison grey coarse flannel tops, two prison grey coarse flannel bottoms and one cap, was the sum total of their clothing allowance. The lad quickly dressed and made his way down the hatchway into the hold, where another Marine gave him a prisoner number, then took him to a bunk in a berth of six. There were twenty-five berths altogether in the prison section, crammed with the wretched outcasts of the so-called civilised society.

  Next in line was a very sullen looking man, quite broad in shoulders and about average height.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Pat Roche,’ the man replied, miserably.

  The Marine looked down his list and ticked off his name. The prisoner was then unchained and got undressed. A bucket of water was thrown over his head, causing him to pant out his breath, then a gasp to regain it as the freezing cold water chilled his body. On hearing a screeching laugh behind him, Pat turned to see a little lad roaring with mirth as his chains were removed.

  Little Tommy Miller was no more than ten years old and a lively cheerful lad, considering his upbringing. He was the youngest person on board and certainly one of youngest ever to be convicted and transported. He was treating it all as a big adventure, getting on a ship bound for foreign lands, unlike a lot of the other younger prisoners and some of the adults for that matter, who feared for their lives and openly displayed their emotions. Tommy didn’t seem to give much thought to his fate, he was always too busy living his day. As Pat started to dress himself in his new clothes, Tommy was starting to undress.

  ‘Alright, mister? Was that freezin’?’ he asked with a chuckle.

  Pat’s stony face eventually broke into a smile, ignoring the sarcasm,

  ‘What’s a lad your age doing on board this ship?’ He asked quietly, aware of the guards were watching. He was surprised by the number of children and young boys sentenced to banishment.

  ‘I murdered a man wi’ me bare ‘ands,’ replied Tommy, inflating his chest in a show of innocent bravado. Then the bucket was emptied over his head, almost knocking him off his feet and immediately deflating his attempts at masculinity. Pat smirked as Tommy stood there shocked and shivering, shouting, ‘It’s freezin’! Quick! Get us some clothes.’

  Tommy had gained everyone’s attention in the immediate area, even some of the Marines and crew forced a laugh at the state of him. Sergeant Jacobs then took him by the shoulder joining in the fun.

  ‘So, you’re a murderer then, are ye, boy?’ he said menacingly, leaning down to meet him face to face. ‘Well, I best go and get the noose to ‘ang ye, lad.’ His words sent the poor little wretch into a panic.

  ‘No! No! I’s on’y kiddin’ really. I tried to pinch a crate o’ apples, honest, don’t ‘ang me, mister,’ he whimpered.

  There was another roar of laughter and the tension seemed to lessen between convict and soldier, even some of the crew from the fo’c’s’le looked across to see what the laughter was about.

  ‘Silence, you dogs!’ bawled a voice above their heads. Immediate silence fell over the deck, as they all turned to see where it had come from. Lieutenant Flynn, standing rigid in his gleaming uniform, had his arms locked on the quarter deck rail and a look
of disdain on his face. He stood tall and conceited with his athletic build and mousy hair. Certainly not the ugliest man, but not the most handsome either, just a grim presence. ‘Sergeant Jacobs! Discipline these scoundrels at once! What do you think this is a bloody tea party? Instil some order here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the sergeant, meekly, then turning to Pat, ‘You! Get down that ‘atchway. Now!’ Pat obeyed and made his way down the hatchway into the prison section. The sergeant’s muffled voice could still be heard down in the hold, ‘Get back in line! You ‘eard the Lieutenant! Now move yeselves!’

  At the bottom of the steps the wooden floorboards that ran the length of the decks came to an abrupt end. Just a few feet from the companionway stood an imposing partition wall, which cut off the once open deck below. This barricade stretched the whole width of the ship. Made of hardwood, square grated, with just enough space to squeeze a face into, it was plated with wrought iron for extra strength to form an impenetrable obstruction. Another redcoat stood in the doorway, the only entrance and exit into and out of the enclosure.

  ‘Right! Ye beds in there … third berth along.’ The redcoat pointed through the dark in the direction of the right side of the ‘tween deck, the partition end.

  This was to be Pat’s home for the next nine months. The prison hold was grim; dim and dismal, the only light filtering through the grated hatch cover on the main deck and the smaller companionway, beyond the partition from where he had just come. The thin shafts of light which pierced the gloom lit up the immediate deck in elongated squares, penetrating the darkness and catching on part of a bench and table that ran three quarters of the length of this floating dungeon; the place where they would sit for their meals, cramped together like pigs at a trough.

  Pat took his first glance at his new home, sharpening his eyes as he walked to his berth. Like the other prisoners, he would soon have to become accustomed to the stale muggy air, in which he would be spending twenty-three hours a day. Oil lanterns were only allowed outside the barricade, for fear of the prisoners starting a fire in order to create a mutiny. There was also the belief that the darkness would keep them subdued. What hadn’t been taken into account was that the darkness can also become a catalyst for affliction.