he bowed his head respectfully and moved away. Not a mere tub of lard, for all his size… Lazy to the point of inertia he may be, but when the Devil takes the reins and drives, I will warrant he can rise to the challenge. What a to-do there will be in Portsmouth when he and the Commandant of Marines clash over whereabouts the marine contingent will sling their hammocks! A pity that I will never know what passes between them, albeit I am bound to learn the outcome. Davy Evans and Tommy Green will be dying to tell me.
Toward the end of January two more ships hove to off Tilbury Fort, an oversized sixth-rater and a neat-looking sloop. When it came time for Richard’s turn on deck he went straight to the rail near the bows and stared at them intently; rumors of their advent had already spread around the prison. By mutual agreement Richard and his five companions separated the moment they emerged on deck, hugging a tiny span of freedom from proximity to each other. Since no one had yet tried to escape, the marines were more relaxed about their guard duty; provided that the convicts were quiet and orderly in their progress, no one bothered them. Thus Richard stood alone, his hands on the rail, gazing. And had no inkling that he was one of the human cargo the sharp eyes of the crew had singled out as interesting.
“They are our escort to Botany Bay,” said a voice in his ear. A pleasant voice containing a great deal of charm.
Richard turned his head to see the man who had been pointed out to him as Alexander’s fourth mate. She carried a very big crew for this mammoth voyage, hence four mates and four watches. Tall, willowy, with a handsomeness some would have called slightly pretty, and like Richard in coloring-very dark hair, light eyes with jet lashes. His eyes were the blue of cornflowers, however, and merry.
“Stephen Donovan from Belfast,” he said.
“Richard Morgan from Bristol.” Edging a little away from Mr. Donovan to make it appear as if they were not teamed up for a chat, Richard smiled. “What can ye tell me about them, Mr. Donovan?”
“The big one is an old Navy storeship, the Berwick. She has just undergone a refit to turn her into a sort of a ship of the line and she has been renamed Sirius, since that is a southern star of first magnitude. They have given her six carronades and four six-pounders as armament, though I hear that Governor Phillip is refusing to sail with less than fourteen six-pounders. I do not blame him, when ye think that Alexander has four
“Alexander,” said Richard deliberately, “is not only a slaver out of Bristol, but was once a privateer with sixteen twelve-pounders. Even with four she will outgun most of those who try to take her-if they can catch her, that is. She’s capable of near two hundred nautical miles a day in the right wind.”
“Ah, I do like a Bristol man!” said Mr. Donovan. “A seaman?”
“Nay, a tavern-keeper.”
The vivid blue eyes rested on Richard’s face with a caress in them. “Ye look like no tavern-keeper I have ever seen.”
Quite aware of the overture, Richard feigned bland ignorance. “It runs in the family,” he said easily. “My father is one too.”
“I know Bristol. Which tavern?”
“The Cooper’s Arms on Broad Street. My father still has it.”
“While his son is being transported to Botany Bay. For what, I wonder? There is no look of the booze bibber about ye and ye’re an educated man. Are ye
“Absolutely. Tell me more about yon two ships.”
“Sirius is about six hundred tons, a wee bit under, and she is carrying mostly people-wives of marines and the like. She has her own captain, one John Hunter, who is commanding her alone at the moment. Phillip is in London battling the Home Department and the Court of St. James. I hear her surgeon is the son of a doctor of music and takes his pianoforte with him. Yes, she is a good old girl, Sirius, but on the slow side.”
“And the sloop?”
“The tender Supply, a very old girl indeed-one might say, at near thirty, past her last prayers. Commander’s name is Lieutenant Harry Ball. This will be a cruel voyage for her-she has never been farther from the Thames than Plymouth.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr. Donovan.” Richard stood straight and saluted him in naval fashion before shuffling away.
And that is a kind of man loves being at sea, but never in the same vessel for more than two voyages. Loves come and go for Stephen Donovan, who is married to the sea.
Once back in the gloom of the prison Richard related his news about their naval escorts. “So I imagine we will be off any day now, at least to Portsmouth.”
Ike Rogers had his own item to impart. “We will have women at Botany Bay,” he said with great satisfaction. “Lady Penrhyn is carrying naught but women-a hundred of them, ’tis said.”
“Half a one for each Alexander man,” said Bill Whiting. “It would be my luck to get the half that talks, so I think I will stick to sheep.”
“There are more women going from Dunkirk in Plymouth.”
“Together with more sheep and maybe a heifer, eh, Taffy?”
On the first day of February the four ships finally sailed, having been delayed twenty-four hours by a merchant seaman pay dispute-very common.
It took four days of placid sailing to cover the 60 miles to Margate Sands; they had not yet rounded the North Foreland into the Straits of Dover, but a few men were seasick. In Richard’s cot all was well, but Ike Rogers became ill the moment Alexander felt a slight sea and continued very poorly until some hours after the anchor went down off Margate.
“Peculiar,” said Richard, giving him a little filtered water to drink. “I fancied that a horseman would not turn a hair at the sea-riding is perpetual motion.”
“Up and down, not side to side,” whispered Ike, grateful for the water, all he could keep down. “Christ, Richard, I will die!”
“Nonsense! Seasickness passes, it lasts only until ye get your sea legs.”
“I doubt I ever will. Not a Bristolian, I suppose.”
“There are many Bristolians like me who have never been aboard a ship afloat. I have no idea how I will fare when we get into real seas. Now try to eat this pap. I soaked some of the bread in water. It will stay down, I promise,” Richard coaxed.
But Ike turned his head away.
Neddy Perrott had come to an arrangement with Crowder and Davis in the cot below; in return for a loud warning whenever someone above was going to puke, William Stanley from Seend and Mikey Dennison would be delegated to clean the messes off the deck and empty the night buckets. Against the stern bulkhead on either aisle was a 200-gallon barrel full of sea-water which the convicts could use to wash themselves, their clothes and the premises. It had been a shock to discover that the night buckets had to be emptied into the lead-lined scuttles which ran below the bottom platform against larboard and starboard hulls; these drained into the bilges, which were supposed to be evacuated daily by means of two bilge pumps. But those with experience of ships like Mikey Dennison vowed that Alexander’s bilges were the foulest they had ever, ever encountered.
During January they had had to use the emptied night buckets to flush the excrement away down the scuttle drains, which meant they had nothing bigger than a two-quart dipper for all other sorts of washing. Inspecting at Margate and revolted by conditions in the prison, Lieutenant Shairp issued an extra bucket to each cot and also provided mops and scrubbing brushes. That meant a bucket for bodily waste and deck scrubbing and a second for washing clothes and persons.
“But that ain’t going to help the bilges,” said Mikey Dennison. “Bad!” Dring and Robinson from Hull agreed fervently.
While ever there was daylight outside, a few faint rays percolated through the iron grilles which closed off the hatches; at sea, said Lieutenant Shairp, no one would be allowed on deck for any reason. Which meant that in this winter season the 200 men in Alexander’s prison were far longer in utter blackness than in that comforting grey gloom, though sailing helped the monotony. Heeling into a bigger swell as Dover and Folkestone passed, they rounded Dungeness into the English Channel. Richard felt queasy for a day, dry-retched twice, then recovered feeling remarkably well for a man who had eaten naught except hard bread and salt beef for over a month. Bill and
