Bound to Sarah Page 2

  Arriving at his berth, Pat could just make out two other figures lying quietly in their bunks. Packed six to a berth, three high on either side, Pat took the middle right, the bottom bunk being at floor level. Their width allowance was a mere eighteen inches per person, with a two-foot height allowance, and each berth was barely six and a half feet high, six feet long and just over five feet wide. Only the smallest and youngest prisoners could fully stretch out their bodies. Six grown men had to exist in this confined space for the next nine months, and it only added to their despair. To make matters worse, along the deck ceiling, at intervals of six to eight feet, was an eight-inch beam cutting across the head space, reducing the height of the ‘tween deck to less than six foot.

  The thin mats were very coarse sacking material and provided no cushion against the hard wooden planks. But a lot of the prisoners had never had a bed, and to some of the young ones, like Tommy Miller, it was probably the most comfortable thing they had ever slept on. It was the same with the food; at least they were going to be fed regularly. Even though it was very poor fare, it would fill their stomachs. A diet of salt beef, or salt pork, with biscuit bread, very weak watery soup and a bowl of gruel in the morning, was their fixed menu. But such poor nutrition could put the prisoners at risk of scurvy, dysentery and typhus; something else to add torment to their racked and undernourished bodies.

  Another prisoner from the seemingly endless line presented himself to the sergeant at the gangway. Being only about fourteen, he was sobbing uncontrollably and finding it hard to come to terms with his harsh sentence.

  ‘Name?’ Asked the sergeant; not even raising his head from the list.

  ‘John … John Harper, sir,’ he stammered. ‘Please, sir, don’t take me away. Me Mam’s sick and she needs me ‘ere wif ‘er.’

  Sergeant Jacobs slowly raised his head to confront the sobbing lad.

  ‘Ye should’ve thought of that before you broke the law, lad. Now get over there and get undressed.’

  With tears still rolling down his face, the young lad moved on to the next redcoat, following the path of his fate.

  As the morning drew to a close, the last prisoner was despatched to his bunk. The air down in the ‘tween decks was already getting stuffy and the ship had not even left the dock. This was due to the fact that the scuttle holes had been blocked up during the building of the berths in the prison section, so there was little or no ventilation and it was suffocating.

  After receiving the relevant completed paperwork from the sergeant, Lieutenant Flynn made his way to the captain’s quarters. The captain was a portly fellow, with receding grey hair and a flushed complexion, like he had been caught in a blizzard. Flynn stood impatiently at the doorway for a moment, unnoticed by the captain, who was at his desk, leaning back in his chair engrossed in conversation with Lieutenant Gibson, the appointed surgeon on board. With a sharp knock at the door, the conversation ceased and the two men turned their heads to see who had disturbed them.

  ‘Ah, Flynn! Come in, come in,’ said the captain, enthusiastically. Flynn stepped over the threshold into the cosy finely furnished cabin, with its ornately framed windows and craftsman’s finish on the panelled walls. The captain held out his hand to receive the papers. ‘Are we all set to go?’ he asked. ‘Is it flood tide?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and all the men are settled in. The guards are at their posts, and I’m told by the Deck officers that the mast crew are in position.’

  ‘Good man, good man,’ said the captain. There was a moment of silence while the skipper rocked back in his chair, a habit he had acquired without really being aware of it. Flynn and Gibson stood motionless, anticipating some kind of response, or at least to be given the order to get under way. ‘Oh! Have you been acquainted with Lieutenant Gibson yet, Flynn? He’s to be our surgeon on board … a jolly good fellow.’

  ‘Yes, we met earlier this morning, didn’t we, Flynn?’

  ‘Yes, indeed we did. Welcome aboard again, sir,’ replied Flynn with a nod.

  ‘Right, let us make headway then, gentlemen … of course we shall all dine together this evening, I expect,’ said the captain standing up to reach for his hat and coat, to prepare himself to go on deck.

  Down below in the ‘tween decks, the main hatchway giving most of the light and ventilation was shut off, plunging the prison section into almost complete darkness while the ship left the dock. Perspiration from the sheer number of bodies crammed together made the humidity unbearable. There was a strong feeling of uncertainty in the air and the faint voices of some of the prisoners could be heard, getting to know their closest neighbours, as well as stifled sobs from those who could not hide their anguish. Pat was lying on his bunk, listening to the man above mumbling to himself and shuffling around, trying to get comfortable.

  Then the shouts of the landing crew were heard and all the ropes released, initiating the movement of the ship away from the dockside. Some of the prisoners struggled to find a peephole, whilst others peered through tiny gaps in the few scuttle holes that had not been completely blocked up. The dock gates were opened and they watched as the ship left the basin and drifted out into the flow of the River Mersey. Those who could, watched their homeland fade away, slowly diminishing on the hazy yonder. The conversation had dwindled to a dead silence, as the enormity of it all set in; only the faint sounds of snivelling could be still be heard. The stillness was soon rudely interrupted, when one prisoner shouted, ‘We’re off then?’ trying to keep his spirits up.

  ‘Bloody good riddance, that’s what I say!’

  ‘Farewell England and kiss me arse!’

  Some managed a subdued laugh, but the majority remained silent. Then a low trembling voice stammered, ‘Bye, Mam, bye, Dad … I’ll miss ye.’ The rest of the inmates thought of their loved ones, and they quietly whispered their goodbyes. An hour later the ship left the bottleneck of the Mersey, came around the Wirral peninsula, spilling into the open waters of the Irish Sea.

  After acquainting himself with the ship and inspecting the prison section earlier that morning, Father McBride, the missionary appointed to go and spread the word in the colonies, had kept himself locked away in his cabin. He knew he had a great challenge to face, as the new colonies were scrupulous in their Church of England faith. He knew all about the early years of the colony and how any child born into the Catholic faith, had been taken from their convict parents and adopted into the Protestant faith. So Father McBride knew that he had a mountain to climb, but before he could conquer that, he had to endure the arduous journey onboard a convict ship. He too was a little anxious about going to reside with England’s most incorrigible and spent his time settling in, conversing with the Lord.

  The priest was a distinguished looking gentleman in his late thirties. A devout Catholic, with a caring nature, he was deeply concerned about what was to become of the prisoners. He also had severe misgivings about their cramped living conditions, having already acquainted himself with the layout of the hulk. He had brought with him a number of extra copies of the Holy book hoping to encourage and teach some of them to read and repent for the salvation of their souls. Though most, he assumed, if not all of the inmates probably could not read a single word, never mind the bible. He sighed at the impossibility of trying to teach them all, let alone explain to them the meanings of the Holy Scriptures.

  He too felt apprehensive about even associating with the prisoners, for much the same reasons as the crew. There were so many stigmas attached to these convicts, whose reputation appeared to be one of notoriety. What was more, he had not exactly received a welcome greeting from the officers and soldiers on board, so why would a hold full of convicts be any different? Not that the Marines and crew were unfriendly towards him, it was just that they felt that the prisoners were little more than uncivilised savages, with no understanding of society, so how would they have any understanding of the word of God.

  Within a few hours of leaving port, trouble was already brewing. Some of the inmates
had succumbed to seasickness, whilst others were simply anxious about the journey, having never been on a ship before. Their feet had never left dry land, so most of them were unable to swim and in the event of a shipwreck, which was a common occurrence, they were bound to perish. The thought of being forever entombed in the ship’s belly down in Davy Jones’ locker, was enough to make them tremble with fear. As the hours rolled on, the stench of vomit and diarrhoea filled the prison section and the detestable smell, like the inmates, had nowhere to escape.

  They could only roam around their tiny section, as the barricade prevented them from going further, and they were constantly under the watchful eyes of two sentries, who also had to suffer the foul inhalation. Some of the inmates came up to the grated barricade complaining about the condition of the sick prisoners, but the guards just forced them back by fixing bayonets and poking their muskets into the grates with the warning, ‘Keep away from the barricade!’

  ‘But it bloody stinks in ‘ere. Can’t ye do somethin’ about it?’ became a common plea.

  The prisoners’ requests were ignored until Father McBride had built up the courage to come down to pay a visit. As soon as he lifted the hatchway he was hit by the awful stench. Disgusted at the prisoners’ treatment, he took his complaint straight to the captain, who reluctantly agreed to have the hatch covers removed, even at such an early stage of the journey. Lieutenant Gibson went to check on the sick, and a number of prisoners were ordered to clean out the ‘tween decks; a filthy job, requiring a strong stomach.

  The second day passed and the inmates had started to become more accustomed to their dismal quarters and the feeling of slow suffocation in the moist malodorous air had eased somewhat. The tense atmosphere became more relaxed, as the occupants mingled with their fellow inmates. They were separated into three groups of fifty, the port side, the starboard side, and the bow section. The main deck was not large enough, or safe enough, for a hundred and fifty convicted felons to roam around, so they were taken on deck in their groups for their daily exercise.

  Their exercise allowance was a mere one hour per day. For the other twenty-three they were locked away. The inmates cherished the time out on deck, filling their lungs with fresh air and stretching their stiff limbs. Down in the hold the reek was building up again, getting worse by the day, but with so many bodies forced into such a small area, with little fresh air, conditions were too unsuitable to keep control of the situation.

  The only relief from this nasal torment were on windy days, when fresh air would blow down into the companionway, through the prison section, and out of the main hatches, taking the fetid air with it. Although with the wind came the cold chills, so the prisoners could not win either way and life at sea soon became a living hell. Surgeon Gibson knew he would soon have to order a fumigation, but so early in the voyage it was a major inconvenience to clear out the prison in order to complete the task.

  Outside, Pat was leaning on the bulwarks staring vacantly out across the sea. So far he had kept himself to himself and tended not to talk much to anyone. Deeply troubled by his circumstances, he just wanted to be left alone, but eventually his solitude was disturbed by the deep but tender voice of a fellow convict.

  ‘’ello, I’m Joe.’

  Pat turned his head to see a big burly man with black hair towering over him. He acknowledged him with a nod and then looked back out to sea.

  ‘Ye in the bed below me, aren’t ye?’

  Pat turned his head again to catch another look at Joe, and recognised his face from Kirkdale Prison. Not that he had come across many other prisoners; as a convicted murderer he was kept separate from the main population. He had spent his days ferrying cannon balls from one end of the prison yard to the other, and stacking them in the shape of a pyramid. Once he had finished, he would have to start the whole futile process all over again. The punishment was known as the ‘Pyramid’, and it was gruelling, monotonous work. He had noticed Joe’s timid nature, like that of a child but in a man’s body. He had a habit of looking at the ground and only glancing up when speaking, or being spoken to, avoiding eye contact. For a man his size he looked so fearful. Pat wondered what his story was and how had he ended up on a convict ship? He softened and held out his hand.

  ‘I’m Pat.’ Joe shook it warmly,

  ‘They’re takin’ us away, aren’t they, Pat?’

  ‘Yeah, they are, and for no bloody good reason for some of us.’

  ‘I’m s’posed to be workin’ in me dad’s lumber yard … he wasn’t ‘appy, ye know, when they took me away … he was cryin’,’ said Joe sadly, his own eyes misting over.

  Pat immediately remembered a similar situation, about a month earlier, when he had watched his wife break down as he was taken from the courtroom. She was cradling their two-year-old son in her arms. He was too young to understand, but he cried because she was crying.

  Joe was clutching his cap nervously in both hands to his chest.

  ‘Can we be mates now, Pat?’ he asked hesitantly, his eyes cast down at the deck.

  The question had broken Pat’s thoughts of the past and brought him back to the present,

  ‘Course we can … a big lad like you can look after me, Joe.’

  The two exchanged smiles and stood side by side at the rail, comfortable in each other’s presence.

  For some of the convicts like Pat, they didn’t want to take part in the bravado that was taking over the prison section, though he was guarded and nervous about whom he could trust. He did wonder, like most of the others, who had been convicted of what, which made him wary of who to befriend. He already felt wronged by the world and now he was stuck onboard a ship with people he didn’t want to associate with. He didn’t care who was the toughest, or who had committed the worst crime, he didn’t want to be part of that world; he just wanted to be left alone to survive as best he could, although he appeared glad to have made his acquaintances with Joe.

  Joe Grimshaw had been brought up by his father, his mother having died giving birth to him. He was born with a mental deficiency, yet his father had a great love for Joe and worked hard to give him what he could. He ran a lumber yard, which became Joe’s second home. He did not possess the attention span to learn a great deal, so for all the years he worked there, his main job was carrying timber and loading carts for the customers, something he grew to love doing and he felt comfortable in a routine environment.

  Then one day a thief, who ran through the lumber yard with a parish constable in hot pursuit, disrupted his life forever. In the excitement, Joe lost his grip of a heavy plank he was carrying and accidentally dropped it on the parish constable’s head, knocking him out cold. He was arrested and charged with aiding a thief to escape capture. His father was devastated, having always protected him. It was a terrible injustice. He had never been in trouble with the law and would never harm a soul. He was a gentle giant, but the law thought otherwise. And so Joe had found himself on board the Rupert and, unbeknown to him, so was the thief who had put him there.

  It wasn’t long before Pat and Joe got to know the others in their berth. There was John Williams, whose bed was next to Pat’s, with a two-foot gap between them, middle left. John was a highwayman, who had been caught in the act at the Sefton crossroad. A bit of a charmer with the ladies, his adventures had come to an abrupt end when a courageous occupant of the carriage shot his horse. He had picked the wrong carriage that day and as the horse collapsed with a fatal head wound, John dropped his pistol and lay trapped between the ground and the corpse of his faithful companion. He was instantly pounced upon, tied up and taken into custody.

  Then there was Charlie Sullivan, a married man and father of three daughters who had stolen a loaf of bread to help feed his wife and children. He had injured his back twelve months earlier working on the docks and was laid up in bed for over two months, with his family looking after him as best they could. His wife took up odd jobs to try and earn some money for food, whilst his children were forced to beg and
did what they could to look after him. They adored their father, as he did them. They were a very close family and they struggled through, as always. Charlie’s only vice was drink, which he loved as much as he loved his family.

  Once back on his feet, though weak and unfit, Charlie had found it difficult to find work and their situation deteriorated and his need to drown it out in drink grew worse. He was an honest man who had never stolen anything before in his life, but he was arrested at a baker’s store on Moor Street, for trying to steal a loaf of bread. The courtroom was to be the last time his family would ever see him and they were heartbroken.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CALL OF FATE

  Evening had fallen on the dimly lit slum that was Byrom Street, on the outskirts of Liverpool, leading north from the town centre and running into Scotland Road; a mass of back-to-backs, one room on top of the other, built to re-house slum dwellers from the centre of Liverpool. But it soon became just another slum, where conditions were not much better. Liverpool was thriving and the authorities wanted the poor out of the way, to make way for the wealthy.

  It was a cold night, with a chilly gloom in the air. Spring was still enjoying dancing with the winter in the pale moonlight, but the charms of summer would soon seduce her, leaving winter behind for another year. The streets and courts had an eeriness hanging over them, but as the days rolled on, the lighter evenings would freshen the murky air.

  The inhabitants were all locked away in their dismal abodes; time for the rats to sneak out from the open drains and troughs and forage through the rubbish that clogged the stinking alleyways and thoroughfares. Once darkness had set in, it was not the safest place to be. The narrow streets of Sawney Pope, Milton and Addison were soulless and silent, except for the tired footsteps of people trudging home from a hard day of toil, and drunken shadows staggering through the dark, searching for a suitable corner in which to curl up their sickly bodies for the night.