Morgan's Run Page 33

  “If they do that every day the place will stay clean,” said Connelly. “Oh, I do hope!”

  “Do not hope,” said Richard. “This is Balmain’s doing, not Shairp’s, but Balmain is not a methodical man. Luckily the food has already been puked up, so the worst we will have to cope with is shit. They will just lie there and shit themselves, and half of them at least have never had a wash in their lives. If we are clean and our cleanliness is spreading, it is because of my cousin James and the fact that I badger all within hailing distance so much that they fear me more than they do a wash.” He grinned. “Once they get used to washing, they start to like being clean.”

  “You,” said Will Connelly, “are a very strange man, Richard. Deny it as much as ye like, but ye’re definitely the head man on the larboard side.” He closed his eyes and concentrated upon his internal mechanisms. “I feel well, so I am going to try to read.” He sat on the bench along the central table right under the open hatch with the three volumes of Robinson Crusoe, found his place in the first and was soon absorbed in it, apparently quite oblivious to the ship’s motion.

  Richard joined him with his gazetteer of the world; the coats of whitewash had made all the difference.

  By the time Alexander passed well to the south of Plymouth most of the men had found their sea legs, though Ike Rogers and a handful of others had not. It was even possible to walk the aisles once a man got used to the way the deck rose to meet his feet, then fell away from beneath them. And thus it was that Richard, exercising, made the acquaintance of John Power, the forward head man.

  Power was a fine-looking young fellow, lithe and supple as a cat, with a fierce look in his dark eyes and a curious habit of making highly expressive gestures with his hands as he talked. Very Frog, very Italian, not at all English, Dutch or German. He had an air of someone under pressure, not with anxiety or ill temper but rather with colossal energies and enthusiasms. And his eyes said that he liked to take risks.

  “Richard Morgan!” he said as Richard passed by his cot, the top corner one where the forward bulkhead met the starboard hull. “I bid ye welcome to enemy territory.”

  “I am not your enemy, John Power. I am a quiet man who minds his own business.”

  “Which is the larboard side. Very neat and clean and tidy, I am told. Bristol fashion, real shipshape.”

  “I am indeed a Bristol man, but visit us and see for yourself. ’Tis true we keep ourselves to ourselves—but then, we none of us speak the flash lingo.”

  “My men like to talk flash, though I do not much care for it myself—sailors hate it.” Power slipped off his cot and joined Richard. “Ye’re an old man, Morgan, now I see ye close up.”

  “Eight-and-thirty last September, though so far I have not felt my years overmuch, Power. My strength is a little diminished after nigh five months of Alexander, but we did get some work to do in Portsmouth, which was a help. They always put Bristolians on bilge duty—our noses are immune to the foulest airs. Did ye go to the lighter, The Firm or Fortunee?”

  “The lighter. I get on well with Alexander’s crew, so my men never experienced Portsmouth’s hulks.” He heaved a great sigh, hands signaling exultation. “As soon as maybe I intend to work on Alexander as a seaman. Mr. Bones—he is third mate—promised. Then I will get my strength back.”

  “I had thought we would be below deck for the whole voyage.”

  “Not if Mr. Bones is right. Governor Phillip says we are not to be allowed to waste away, he needs us fit enough to work when we reach Botany Bay.”

  They reached the starboard bulkhead barrel of sea-water and turned to walk forward. Power glanced sideways at Will Connelly hunched over Mr. Daniel Defoe. “Do all of ye read?” he asked with a tinge of envy.

  “Six of us do, and five of us are Bristolians—Crowder, Davis, Connelly there, Perrott and me. The odd man out is Bill Whiting,” said Richard. “Bristol is full of charity schools.”

  “London has almost no charity schools. Though I always thought it a waste of time to read books when the signs above any sort of shop tell a man what is inside.” The hands waggled wryly. “Now I think it would be good to read books. It passes the time.”

  “When ye’re aloft ’twill not seem so dreadful. Are ye married?”

  “Not I!” Power turned his thumbs down. “Women are poison.”

  “Nay, they are just like us—some good, some bad, and some indifferent.”

  “How many of each kind have ye known?” asked Power, smiling to reveal strong white teeth—not a boozer, then.

  “More good than bad, and none indifferent.”

  “And wives?”

  “Two, according to my records.”

  “And of records, Lieutenant Johnstone tells me, there are none!” Power clenched his fists in glee. “Can ye imagine that? The Home Office never got around to sending Phillip a list of us, so no one knows what our crimes are, nor how long we have to serve. I intend to take advantage of that, Morgan, the moment I reach Botany Bay.”

  “The Home Office sounds as efficient as the Bristol Excise Office,” said Richard as they reached Power’s cot and he climbed into it without seeming to move at all. As graceful as Stephen Donovan, whose company Richard was missing now that they were below. A Miss Molly he might be, but he was well read and not a convict, so could talk of something other than prison.

  Richard walked back to his own cot in a thoughtful mood. An interesting snippet, that no one in authority had any idea of the nature of convict offenses, the time each still had to serve. . . . It might work as Power confidently expected it would, but there was also the possibility that the Governor might make an arbitrary decision to the effect that all convicts were to serve fourteen years. No one would want hordes of convicts claiming to have served their time within six months or a year of arriving. Which thought told Richard why they had been searched in Portsmouth. It cost money to buy passage home on a ship; they all knew that a return fare was not a part of the Parliament’s plan. Someone in Phillip’s retinue was shrewd enough to guess that there might be quite a lot of men and women concealing a nest egg aimed at buying passage home. Ye should have done a Mr. Sykes, Major Ross! But that brutish ye’re not, for all ye must have known. I have read ye aright: a man with a code of honor, a fierce partisan and protector of your men, a Scotch pessimist, violent-tempered, salty-tongued, not hugely ambitious, and prone to seasickness.

  On the 20th of May, while Alexander frisked into a strong swell and driving rain, the convicts were brought up on deck a few at a time to have their leg irons removed. The sick went up first, even including Ike Rogers, so bad that Surgeon Balmain had put him on a glass of potent Madeira wine twice a day.

  When Richard’s turn came he emerged into a minor gale; it was impossible to see anything beyond the ship and a few yards of white-capped ocean, but the skies wept fresh, wholesome, genuine, honest-to-goodness water. Someone thrust him down onto the deck with his legs extended in front of him. Two marines sat on stools side by side; one slid a broad smith’s chisel under the fetter to pin the cuff to a sheet of iron and the other smashed his hammer down on its butt. The pain was excruciating because the force of the blow was transmitted to his leg, but Richard didn’t care. He lifted his face to the rain and let it cascade over his skin, his liberated spirit soaring into the grey tatters of cloud. One more excruciating pain as his other leg came free and there he was light-footed, light-headed, soaking wet, and utterly, blissfully, perfectly happy.

  Someone, he had no idea who, gave him a hand to help him up. Dizzily he wavered on feathers to get himself out of the way and come to terms with the fact that he, who had been ironed for thirty-three months, was suddenly stripped of them.

  Once back in the prison he began to shiver, took his clothes off, wrung the sweet clean water out of them into his dripstone, draped them across a line between the sea-water barrel and a beam, dried his body with a rag and donned a brand-new outfit. It was that kind of day, a milestone.

  In the morn
ing he looked at his friends and tried to see each of them as he saw himself. How did they feel? What did they think about the enormity of this great experiment in human lives? Had any of them realized that home was probably gone forever? Did they dream? Did they hope? And if they did, what did they dream about, hope for? But he couldn’t know because none of them knew. If he had voiced those questions, asked them outright, they would have answered in the way men always did: money, property, comfort, sex, a wife and family, a long life, no more troubles. Well, he hoped and dreamed of all those things himself, yet they were not what he yearned to know.

  All of them looked at him with trust and affection, and that was somewhere to start, though nowhere to finish. Somehow each of them had to be made to see that his own fate was in his own hand, not in Richard Morgan’s. The head man on the larboard side was perhaps a father, but he could not be a mother.

  They were now allowed on deck provided that the whole prison did not appear there at one time, and provided that they kept out of the crew’s way. Though John Power, fizzing with joy, was let work as a seaman, as were Willy Dring and Joe Robinson. However peculiar Richard found it, by no means every convict wanted to go above. Those still seasick he could understand—the Bay of Biscay had felled some unaffected until then—but now that they were free of their irons others were content to lie about in their cots or congregate in groups around a table to play cards. Of course it was still squalling and blustering, but Alexander was not a hefty slaver for nothing. It would take bigger seas than she was ploughing through at the moment to swamp her decks and elicit the order to batten down the hatches.

  By the time that the command came from Lieutenant Johnstone that men might proceed on deck, the weather was clearing rapidly; they had been fed and watered with the inevitable hard bread, salt beef and horrible Portsmouth water. Six marine privates were delegated to tip buckets of salt water into the prison barrels, and stiff, proper Lieutenant Shairp stalked up and down the aisles commanding slack cots to clean their decks and platforms. Secure in the knowledge that Shairp would have no complaints about their area, nine of Richard’s eleven hauled themselves through the hatch with a wave for Ike and Joey Long.

  A rush to the rail, there to look at the ocean for the first time. Its grey was suffusing with a steely blue and still bore many white-caps, but the horizon was visible and so were other ships, some to larboard, some to starboard, and two so far astern that they were hull down, only their masts showing. Close by was the other big slaver, Scarborough, a magical sight with her sails filled, pennants flying in some unknown sea code, her blunt bows biting at the swell, which ran on her starboard stern beam in communion with the wind. She had a larger superstructure than Alexander, which perhaps was why Zachariah Clark, the contractor’s agent, had elected to sail in her instead. The naval agent, Lieutenant John Shortland, was another had defected; he was in Fishburn the storeship, though one of his two sons was second mate in Alexander. The other was aboard Sirius. Nepotism reigned.

  As at Tilbury, Richard’s six parted company the moment they smelled fresh air and a chance to be relatively alone. Richard hauled himself atop one of the two longboats tied upside down athwart the spare masts and counted ships. A brig about half the size of Alexander was at the head of the field, then came Scarborough and Alexander, after them the two-masted sloop Supply clinging to Sirius like a cub to its mother. Behind them was a ship he thought Lady Penrhyn, then the three storeships, and those two sets of masts on the horizon. Eleven vessels if none were out of sight.

  “Good day to you, Richard Morgan from Bristol,” said Stephen Donovan. “How do your legs feel?”

  Half of Richard wanted to be alone, but the other half was very glad to see Miss Molly Donovan, whom he read correctly enough to think was too intelligent not to know that his sexual inclinations were not shared. So he smiled and nodded with the correct degree of courtesy. “In regard to the sea or the irons?” he asked, liking the sensation of lifting and dropping.

  “The sea is no grief, that is evident. Irons.”

  “Ye would have to have worn them for three-and-thirty months to understand how I feel without them, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Three-and-thirty months! What did you do, Richard?”

  “I was found guilty of extorting five hundred pounds.”

  “How long did ye get?”

  “Seven years.”

  Donovan frowned. “That makes little sense to me. By rights ye should have hanged. Were you reprieved?”

  “No. My original sentence was seven years’ transportation.”

  “It sounds as if the jury was not very sure.”

  “The judge was. He refused to recommend mercy.”

  “Ye do not look resentful.”

  Richard shrugged. “Why should I be resentful? The fault was my own, nobody else’s.”

  “How did ye spend the five hundred pounds?”

  “I did not try to cash the note of hand, so I spent naught.”

  “I knew ye were an interesting man!”

  Disliking the memories this conversation provoked, Richard changed the subject. “Tell me which ship is which, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Scarborough keeping pace with us, Friendship in the lead—a snappy little sailer, that one! She will show the rest a clean pair of heels all the way.”

  “Why exactly? I am not a seafaring Bristolian.”

  “Because she is—shipshape. Her steering sails provide just the right proportionate area for holding in a zephyr or a gale.” He stretched out a long arm to point at Supply. “Yon sloop is rigged brig-fashion, which don’t suit her one wee bit. Since she has a second mast, Harry Ball would have done better to rig her as a snow. She’s a slug as soon as the seas turn heavy because she’s so low in the water and she cannot crowd on enough sail. Supply is a light-wind sailer, at home in the Channel, where she has had her career. Harry Ball must be praying for good weather.”

  “Is that Lady Penrhyn behind the Royal Navy pair?”

  “No. Prince of Wales, the additional transport. Then Golden Grove, Fishburn and Borrowdale. The two snails in the rear are Lady Penrhyn and Charlotte. Were it not for them we would be farther along, but the Commodore’s orders are specific. No ship is to be out of sight of the rest. So Friendship cannot set her topgallants and we cannot set our royals. Ah, ’tis good to be at sea again!” The brilliant blue eyes spotted Lieutenant John Johnstone emerging from the gentleman’s domain of the quarterdeck; Stephen Donovan leaped down with a laugh. “There is naught more certain, Richard, than that I will see ye some day soon.” And off he went to join the marine commanding officer, with whom he seemed on excellent terms.

  Two of a kind? Richard wondered, not moving from his perch. His belly rumbled; in all this wondrous air he needed more food, but more food he was not going to get. An underweight pound of hard bread and more like half than three-quarters of a pound of salt beef a day, plus two quarts of Portsmouth water. Not nearly enough. Oh, for the days of the Thames bum boats and a good lunch!

  All the convicts save the seasick or ill were conscious of perpetual, griping hunger. While he and the others from the larboard cots toward the stern were on deck, some of the starboard lazybones opposite them had manufactured a jimmy out of an iron bolt on the mainmast and levered up the hold hatches dotted at intervals along the aisles. They found no rum; they found a cache of bread sacks. But there was always a snitch somewhere. The next moment a dozen marines were piling down the after hatch to snabble the thieves as they feasted and threw the rock-hard little loaves blithely to any imploring hands or voices.

  Six men were hauled onto the deck, there to face Lieutenants Johnstone and Shairp.

  “Twenty lashes and back into irons,” said Johnstone tersely. He nodded to Corporal Sampson, who had appeared out of the after hatch house with his cat. Not, as Mr. Thistlethwaite had once put it, a four-legged creature that said meow. An instrument with a thick handle of rope coiled around a central core and nine thin hempen strings knotted at intervals
and ending in a bead of something lead-colored.

  Richard’s first impulse was to bolt back into the prison, only to find that everybody was being driven on deck to witness the floggings.

  The six men were stripped to the waist—twenty lashes were not considered sufficient to bare buttocks as well—and the first victim was tied over the curving roof of the after hatch house. The thing whistled, and it did not require much effort in the plying. A whip, a cane or a cudgel raised welts and a bludgeon one massive bruise; this vile implement broke the skin with its first stroke, and where the very small bulb of lead at the end of each of its nine tails struck the body, a great scarlet lump arose in the same instant. Corporal Sampson knew his job; the marines were flogged too, usually to the tune of twelve lashes but sometimes many more. Each stroke landed in a slightly different place, so that by the twentieth the man’s back was a grid of bloodied stripes and lumps the size of a baby’s fist. The victim got a bucket of salt water on the mess which set him to screaming thinly, then his place was taken by the next. While Corporal Sampson ploughed indifferently—he did not appear either to love or hate what he did—through the six, those he had finished with were fitted with locked fetters and a Ceres length of chain. No one sent them below; Lieutenant Johnstone simply nodded dismissal to his flogger and the dozen green-hued privates.

  Richard’s gorge rose. He jumped off the longboat and walked quickly to the rail, leaned over it and retched. But as he was too hungry to have anything to bring up, he contented himself with staring down into the water a scant ten feet below him. Water, he noticed as his eyes focused, so pure that the translucent jellyfish everywhere in it were like delicate ghosts, umbrellaed in sheerest silk, with long trails of lustrous frilly tentacles abandoned to the tug of ship and current.