Prison Ship (9 page)

‘Some of the transport ships, the women and men were packed in together. Only let them on deck for a few minutes a day. Even in the tropics, when the ship was becalmed they had to stay below and swelter. They called them hell ships, those. They reckon the Devil came to have a look at them to get a better idea of how to torment the damned.'

Swales struck me as someone who had fallen foul of the law through a moment's temptation and ill luck. He wasn't a dyed-in-the-wool villain. I was pleased to have him as part of our mess. His stories had frightened me, though.

‘And these ships, Mr Swales. Are they still like that now?'

‘Shouldn't think they've changed much. We'll find out soon enough.'

We ate our supper, then it was time to prepare for bed. A large wooden board that had acted as a partition during the day was laid flat against the wall, and a hay-filled mattress placed on top.

Vincent addressed us. ‘Now I'll tell you exactly how we're going to sleep. Joseph on the outside, then me, then Mr Updike, then Johnny, then you and Richard.'

‘Why's that?' I asked.

‘No one's going to stick a knife in Joseph because they know I'd kill them. If I'm on the end, they could get me while I'm asleep. You boys can stay well on the other side of us because that's where you'll be safest. It'll all make sense come bedtime.'

We did as Vincent said. There were lice in the blankets and rats scurried around our bodies. I jumped up the first few times I heard one, then I learned not to.

‘You can worry about them if they bite you,' said Vincent.

As night fell the sound of hatches being locked echoed around the interior. After a short while the guard and ship's officers retired to their cabins on the quarterdeck. Although barriers were placed on the stairways between the decks, the decks themselves were open, and the gangs began to roam. We saw very little, but heard screaming, whimpering and begging from the younger inmates. It was a terrifying place and I lay awake long into the night haunted by the thought of what
would happen to us if Vincent was not here to look after us.

The next morning we were taken from the ship and sent to work. Our shackles weighed heavy on our ankles as we spent the day clearing earth from the embankment by the harbour. The overseers stood by with drawn cutlasses, and beat with a stick any man they thought was slacking. Although the work on the embankment was hard, it was not exhausting, as everyone seemed to go at the pace of the most emaciated and weary convicts. There was no talking, and certainly no singing. I missed the rhythm of the sailor songs we used to sing to help us with our work on the
Elephant
. I realised how much they had assisted us in hauling up anchors and sails, and scrubbing wooden decks.

I was amazed to see a crowd of well-dressed men and women peering over the railings by the quayside to stare and point at us. ‘Worthless scum,' whispered one convict to me. ‘You'd think they'd have something better to do with their money. They can't go an' gawp at lunatics anymore, they put a stop to that, so they pay to come and gloat at us instead.'

Back on the hulk at the end of the day I asked Vincent how often people tried to escape.

‘Well, not much,' he said. ‘You get hung for it, see. Or flogged to death. Or put down in the hold in a dark
room for months on end. Or you get double-ironed for life. So, it's a bit of a risk.

‘There's enough to worry about already,' he went on, ‘so I'm sitting tight. That James Updike, he's got friends in high places. He's told me that if I look after him, he'll try and get me out of here. You won't be here long, Sam. You'll be off to New South Wales any day, so you don't go worrying yourself. But I hope Mr Updike gets me and him away before there's an outbreak of something. I don't want to waste away with typhus or dysentery in this stinking hell hole …' he tailed off. It wasn't like Vincent to admit to his worries.

I expected trouble from the inmates and it came soon enough. One ratty-looking thug cornered me with a knife soon after I arrived. ‘I know you got valuables, boy. Everyone has when they come aboard. Are you going to give them to me, or do I have to slice your guts open to get them?'

Vincent came up quietly behind him. Seizing his shirt he lifted him clean off the ground so that the man choked on his collar. The rotten fabric ripped within seconds and Vincent threw him to the deck in a heap. ‘This lad's a friend of mine,' he said quietly. ‘And you're making me angry.' That was enough. Word went round the worst of the prisoners and Richard and I were spared their bullying.

After a few days, we realised that if we kept our heads down and did as we were told, the guards were no worse than the Navy bosuns. What was worse than the Navy, though, was the food. If the inmates had not been starving, I doubt any man on board would have been able to eat it. The bread was always mouldy. On a ship at sea for several months this was unavoidable, but on a vessel moored offshore and visited daily by boats from the harbour it seemed a deliberate part of our cruel punishment.

‘Most of what we get here,' said Vincent, ‘is old bulls or cows that have died of age or famine.' One of our most frequent meals was something the men called ‘smiggins', a thin soup of water thickened with barley, in which beef was boiled. If it wasn't for Mr Updike's food deliveries, which were shared between the six of us messmates, we would have become weak from hunger and prey to disease.

What disgusted me most about the
St Louis
was how little the guards or convicts cared about the cleanliness of the ship. The stench near the ‘necessary', as the men called it, was enough to make your eyes water. ‘Surely they could put us lot to work cleaning the place to make it more bearable to live in,' I said to Vincent. ‘You're thinking like a sailor, Sam,' he said to me. ‘They're not concerned with our welfare. In fact if we die, it just means they don't have to cough up to feed us.'

Ever since Vincent had mentioned it, I worried constantly about disease sweeping us away. For even without epidemics, people died often on the
St Louis
. Usually it was the men who had been there for years. With no fever or other disorders upon them, they seemed to die merely from lowness of spirit. The doctor who worked the ship had an arrangement with the officer in charge. When his patients gave up the ghost, they were taken away. All of us believed they were destined for the dissection table at the local hospital. They certainly weren't going for a Christian burial in a leafy churchyard.

The weeks merged into one another. The threat of disease, murder or molestation hung over us like a shadow. I held my fear at bay by hoping every day would bring a reprieve. Vincent was our salvation. He could not have protected us better if we were his family. Everyone, it seemed, had a healthy respect for Vincent Thomas. His sheer size, and those vengeful tattoos, were enough to warn both the guards and inmates that anyone who crossed him, and his pals, was in trouble.

One Sunday morning, towards the end of May, I was washing my clothes up on the deck when the Bosun called over, ‘Oi Witchall, you got visitors.'

My spirits lifted at once. This must be the reprieve I had hoped for.

I was taken to a cabin on the quarterdeck with bare wooden benches. ‘Wait there,' said the Bosun, and the door was locked. I wondered with mounting excitement who was coming to see me. For the first time aboard the hulk I let myself believe it might be Lieutenant Middlewych or Robert Neville, come to tell me the villainy of the Pritchards had been revealed, and Richard and I were now free men. A minute later, there was a kerfuffle at the door and in came my father, mother and Rosie.

We hugged and cried and shrieked with delight. My father looked older – he was grey round the temples and his hands were shaking. My mother looked drawn. Rosie stood back from them, feeling out of place.

Then, after that first flurry of excitement, I felt a twinge of disappointment. Middlewych and Neville had let me down. As we settled I blurted out, ‘Do you have news of my reprieve?'

‘No son,' said my father softly. ‘We've come to say goodbye.'

‘What do you mean?' I said, suddenly alarmed.

‘Our news is that you're to be sent to New South Wales when the convoy sails in June.'

Tears of desperation streamed down my face. ‘But we didn't do it. Surely they would have found that out by now? We've been double-crossed. You know that, don't you? Please tell me you don't think we're cowards.' The
whole story came tumbling out – the overheard conversation, the business with Pritchard in the hold, the mock execution …

My father shook his head. ‘Of course I believe you, son. But even if you had hidden from the battle, no decent soul would blame you. It's a cruel world we live in, where boys as young as you are sent out to be killed for their country.'

‘It's like seeing a ghost, Sam,' said my mother. ‘We all got the letters you wrote before they were going to hang you. I felt too sad to cry. Then another letter arrived about a week after that, to say you'd had your sentence commuted. It's a right mess you've got yourself into, Samuel. You and your going away to sea. Why didn't you stay in the village? Now there's only Thomas left. Three children I've had taken from me. And what's this about New South Wales? They might as well be sending you to the Moon. We'll never see you again.' She started to sob.

Seeing them after so long, and after so much had happened, was strange. I had been their little boy when I went to sea. I still was, I suppose, but I didn't feel like it.

My father spoke. ‘Look, we've got this for you. Where you're going, you'll need influence. We don't know anyone of influence so you'll have to make do with valuables. Here's ten pounds. I'm sorry I can't give you more, but it will be of some use.'

Then my mother slipped off a ring my father had given her before they were married. It had been the most valuable thing his family possessed. ‘I can't take that,' I said, although I knew the sapphires and emeralds set in gold were worth a pretty penny.

‘It's all right,' she said. ‘Your father and I, we've discussed this. You need looking after, Sam. We're not here to look after you, and we won't be able to help you on the other side of the world. Wear it on a cord around your neck.' She fished out a thin silk ribbon. ‘If you don't have to trade it, then let it be a reminder of me and your father, and how much we love you.'

‘We're going to go for a breath of fresh air,' my father said, ushering my mother to the door. ‘Leave you two alone for a minute.' They banged on the door, waited for it to be unlocked, then went out on to the deck.

I turned to Rosie. I hadn't really looked at her until now, so taken up was I with my parents. She wasn't exactly as I had pictured her. Not quite the willowy, dark-haired beauty of my memory. She was now an inch or so taller than me, even though I had grown over the last year. Her hair was longer, and hung black and straight down past her shoulders, making her look even skinnier. Then she smiled, and I remembered at once why I had fallen for her. She was pretty when she smiled, and I felt so protective of her. This was my Rosie, who I had thought of every day at sea.

I suppose this was meant to be a great romantic moment. But it didn't feel right in this shabby little cabin. On the
St Louis
we had to wash in stagnant water and dry ourselves with a filthy towel. I felt like a dirty urchin in my prison clothes, irons on my ankles. I wanted Rosie to see me at my best – freshly scrubbed, with new clothes and money in my pocket.

‘There was talk of a midshipman post,' I said. ‘Before all this –'

She wasn't interested in that.

‘I haven't got a ring to give you, Sam,' she said, ‘haven't really got anything.' She seemed awkward, and her eyes would not meet mine. This wasn't how I'd imagined our meeting again.

‘I cried for a week when I heard they were going to hang you. They say you're a coward. I suppose I wanted you to be a hero. People have been saying such horrible things. And now you're telling us it's all lies. Well, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.'

I flushed red with anger. She could see, and quickly began to talk of something else.

‘I've thought of you so much since you went away. I read your letters so often I could tell you every word. You write a good letter, Sam.'

She was in tears now, and we hugged each other tight. She was so slight and frail. I could feel the bones of her back hard against my finger tips. My anger faded. She
held my face in her warm hands and kissed me softly on the lips.

Shy once again, she moved away.

‘Well look at you now, Sam.' She stood back, holding my left hand. ‘Even growing a little moustache, I see.' She giggled. ‘Doesn't really suit you.'

I blushed with embarrassment. I had not seen my reflection in a looking glass for many months. ‘They don't let us have razors,' I said. ‘I'll have to ask the barber to shave me when he visits.'

‘I like your hair though.' Like many tars, I had grown it long and wore it tied back.

At that moment I wished more than anything to be alone with her in the empty fields at Wroxham. Just us and a picnic on a warm summer day. Nestling miles from anyone else, in the dappled light of the riverbank trees.

‘You know I'll wait for you, Sam,' she said. ‘You're my sweetheart. I don't want anyone else.'

Before we could say anything more, the door opened with a rattle of the lock and my parents returned.

‘Bosun says we've got to go, Sam,' said my father, his voice stiff with regret.

It was a terrible farewell. ‘You may as well be dead, Sam,' my mother sobbed. ‘People say no one ever comes back from New South Wales. And you with your life sentence –'

I felt a rush of defiance. ‘I swear I'll be back. Even if I have to escape. I shall see you all again. I know it in my bones. I'll write to you as often as I can. If the letters stop, you'll know I'm coming home.'