I’ve finally started work on a sequel to Darkness Falling, my novel about the Irish famine. I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’ve also been doing a great deal of research so I can accurately frame the novel within an historical context. I also needed to find a way in before starting. So far I’ve completed just the first draft of the initial chapter but I’m happy with it and I’ve worked out how the novel will then progress. Here’s a sneak preview anyway…
And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
Raymond Carver (1938 – 1988)
Hope is optimism with a broken heart
Nick Cave
Hope is optimism with a broken heart
Chapter One
They had been at sea barely two weeks when the storm hit. On leaving Liverpool the sea had been unsettled but with calmer passages and although Mary, Sorcha, her sister-in-law, and Rian, Sorcha’s son, had all experienced mild sea sickness since their departure from Liverpool, only Simon, Mary’s partner had really suffered. During a particularly bad squall he had spent an entire night on deck, getting soaked by the sea spray spat on to the deck where he stood bowed over the rail. The sour taste of vomit in his mouth, he had wished only for death to end his misery. Still, he had felt marginally better there than down in the fetid atmosphere of the lower decks. At the best of times below decks where most of the passengers were housed was choked with the smell of excrement and urine, either from the fetid and unwashed bodies of the diseased or from the waste slop buckets which were only emptied in the mornings.
Hours before the storm struck the wind had suddenly dropped, the ship’s sails hanging limply, the sea’s surface a glassy stillness. It was now dark, visibility reduced by a hangnail moon and thick scudding clouds. The captain of the ship, James Attridge, was alarmed. The liquid in the spout of the weather-glass in his cabin had surged upwards, a sure indicator of fierce weather to come despite the deceptively placid nature of the sea and sky, It was as though the elements were quietly gathering their strength before launching a full assault.
The First Mate, Campion, stood beside him in the cramped wheelhouse as they surveyed the scene. Attridge was the older of the two by some fourteen years. Now in his mid-forties he was tall and powerfully built with a full head of reddish-brown hair and a beard. Campion was more slender with piercing blue eyes, an aquiline nose and a mane of blonde hair swept back from his forehead. In different ways though both were equally charismatic and natural leaders.
‘There’s a storm coming, I can feel it. It’s just too damned quiet,’ said Attridge.
‘How long d’you reckon?’ Campion asked.
Attridge gave an involuntary shrug. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Before it gets light anyway.’
‘Do you want me to get the men to take in some of the sails?
Attridge paused before answering. If it was going to be as bad as he anticipated, perhaps, they should reef the sails entirely. But what if he was wrong? It would be putting the men to a lot of work which would then need to be undone again. Sensing his hesitation, Campion spoke first.
‘Take in some of the canvas on the fore and mainmast maybe?
‘Aye,’ said Attridge. ‘That should do for now.’ He turned to look at Campion. ‘Who’s on watch?’
‘Simmons.’
Attridge grunted his approval. Still, an extra pair of eyes wouldn’t hurt. It would soon be dawn as well. He could already see a glimmer of light in the west. ‘Get young Harry up here. Let’s see what he can spot from the crosstrees on the mainmast.’
Campion nodded and turned to leave. Minutes later he returned, Harry Webb trailing behind him.
Attridge watched anxiously as Webb ascended the rigging of the mainmast. Still small and with a shock of dark unruly hair, Harry had signed on as an apprentice at fourteen and had been at sea just six months. Attridge had himself joined a ship’s crew at that age so he felt especially protective towards him. Harry was brave but he sometimes took unnecessary risks, blinded by the same youthful insouciance Attridge had also possessed at that age. Finally, he reached the topgallant, using the crosstrees to support his weight as he carefully sat down. He had a small brass telescope in a canvas holder strapped to his belt and he now eased this out, using it to scan the horizon in all directions. It was still dark but towards the east there was an increasing brightening, the whole of the sky flooded blood red, pierced with shafts of yellow and orange from below as the sun struggled to heave its way upwards. Harry was momentarily entranced by its beauty but then he noticed in horror a roiling dark cloud lifting up from the north which second by second became more intense, a black ink spilling in all directions across the sea. ‘Storm! Storm approaching from the West,’ he yelled and even as he spoke a powerful wind suddenly blew up, choking off his cries. The ship shook with the sudden onslaught almost dislodging Harry from the crosstrees. His heart hammering, he righted himself and clung more fiercely to the icy rigging. He needed to get down and fast.
As he reached the deck there was already a maelstrom of activity around him, Campion barking orders at the top of his lungs, men swarming up into the ship’s rigging to reduce canvas, others rushing to seal the hatches for the holds, still others stowing barrels below decks and lashing down anything loose which might become a hazard. As the wind grew fiercer it became impossible for the men to move around the deck without first making sure they were either gripping a rail or a secured rope. Some of the larger waves were also now swamping the ship, knocking men to their knees or forcing them to momentarily stagger waist deep in freezing seawater. Then the rain hit; a tsunami of water so intense the boundaries between the sea and the air ceased to exist, the crew moving as though underwater, already drowned.
In the hold below deck there was complete darkness, all naked flames having been extinguished because of the risk of fire. Such was the violence of the yawing of the ship it was impossible to stand so the passengers lay against each other in their cramped wooden bunks. The ship seemed to be breaking itself apart, the timbers howling in pain above the frightened moaning and sobbing of the passengers. Adding to the difficulties of moving around in the pitch-dark hold many of the slop pails had overturned spilling their contents, the metal pails sliding and banging against other detritus including fallen rice and porridge pots.
Sorcha was lying on her side in their bunk. Rian lay in her embrace, his eyes tight shut in terror. The bunks were in three tiers, each one with room for four people. Simon and Mary lay beside them in the cramped space, Mary occupying the space beside her sister-in-law, with Simon on the outside.
‘Ma? ‘asked Rian in a barely audible voice. ‘Are we going to die?’
‘Hush, Rian. Of course not,’ she whispered back, her breath soft against his neck. ‘It’s a bad storm is all; it will soon pass.’
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Sure, no-one’s dying. I know it’s hard but try and sleep. Then when you wake, this will all be gone, I promise.’
‘I can’t sleep, I can’t.’
She pulled him closer and kissed the nape of his neck. She could feel the tension in his small body. He was shivering with fear, a horrible trembling which was growing worse by the second.
‘Would it help if I told you a story? I could tell you the one about Oisin and Niamh? Would you like that?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
‘Good boy. I like this one too. Let’s start at the beginning shall we? She took a breath and started. ‘Once upon a time there was a beautiful land called Tir na nog and the only way to get there was across the sea.’
‘Is that where we’re going? To Tir na nog?’
‘Yes, we are darling.’
‘And is Oisin there? Will we meet him?’
‘Both Oisin and Daddy are there waiting for us.’
‘Are they friends then?’
‘Yes, they’re friends and love each other very much.’
‘If we had Niamh’s horse we could get there more quickly. We wouldn’t need this ship.’
Sorcha smiled to herself. We could indeed she thought. ‘Some people think there are horses in the waves. If you look hard enough you can see them, magical white horses dancing on the waves, carrying us over the sea.’
‘So, we won’t drown?’
Yes, so we won’t drown; the horses will save us.’
Rian’s shivering had stopped and she could feel him drifting off to sleep. Very gently, she stroked his brow.’
‘I like horses,’ he murmured.
‘So do I my love, so do I.’
Mary smiled to herself. Like Sorcha and Rian they were lying on their sides, Simon’s body curled around her own. All of them were fully dressed, the only concession being that they had removed their shoes which were tucked in at the end of the bunk. In the darkness the noises of the storm and the ship were even more frightening. In one of the bunks opposite she could hear old Ma Lacey whimpering and moaning to herself. Further down the hold several of the passengers were praying, a steady low chorus of voices, call and response as they intoned the Rosary. It was oddly soothing. ‘Are you alright?’ whispered Simon.
‘Yes.’ Are you?’ Mary whispered back.
‘I don’t feel sick if that’s what you mean, although, God knows why not. This is the worst yet.’
‘I feel sorry for the poor crew.’
‘I feel sorry for all of us.’
‘It will be over soon enough, blow itself out.’
‘I hope so, it’s suffocating down here, I can barely breathe.’
‘You’ve got breath enough to talk.’
Despite himself Simon gave a short bark of laughter which he quickly suppressed. ‘God, Mary, if you were any sharper I could use you as a knife. How did your parents put up with you all those years.’
‘Who said they did?’
Simon didn’t rise to this. Instead, he lay silent. I love this woman he thought. I’d follow her to the ends of the earth and sure, isn’t that exactly what I’m doing. And what will we find when we get there?
Attridge stared up at the sails of the mainmast. Near the top of the mast he could already see that some of the sails were being ripped apart by the wind, the canvas hanging in tatters. He turned to face Campion who was standing beside him on the deck and saw his own anxiety and fear mirrored in the First Mates’ features. ‘Campion,’ he roared. ‘Campion, we have to turn her windwards. Give the command. Reef the sails. All standing. All standing.
For a long moment Campion simply stood, his eyes boring into those of the captain. It was a dangerous manoeuvre born out of desperation and his instinct was to challenge the order as foolhardy. This was the first voyage in which he had sailed with Attridge. He had made enquiries before signing on though and had been told there was no better seaman. He made up his mind. ‘Aye, aye, captain’. He screamed at the two men nearest to them, his voice struggling to be heard in the wind and fury of the waves. ‘All standing. Reef the sales. Cox, get the men up. You,’ he said pointing to the other man, ‘tell the others.’ Then he started down the deck, clinging to a rail rope as he fought his way, roaring instructions to the crew.
Satisfied, Attridge made his own laboured way back to his cabin. His wife, Amelia, and his son, Charlie, had joined him on the voyage and he needed to make sure they were alright. He found them huddled together on the floor in one corner of the cabin. He looked in dismay at the chaos inside. Charts and books covered the floor, the weather-glass smashed against a wall, the small wooden table they ate at overturned, one of its legs broken in two. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. Amelia nodded and for the first time he noticed her hand had been hurriedly bandaged with cloth, blood still oozing through. ‘Your hand…what happened? How bad is it?’
‘I fell against the side of the cabin. It’s fine my love, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
‘You’re not fine. Let me see it.’ Kneeling down he gently unwrapped the bloodied cloth. Blood welled up from a two-inch gash on the back of her hand, the cut extending from the base of a finger to just under her thumb. He winced as he examined it; it was a deep cut and would need suturing. ‘This is bad love, I’ll need to get Henry to look at it.’
‘It can keep. Once the storm has passed—’
‘No, it can’t wait, you’re still bleeding. I’ll fetch him now.’
‘No, James, don’t. Look after the ship. I can manage this.’
‘Are you sure?
‘Yes, of course. This is just a scratch. Henry will have far worse to deal with I’m sure.’
He stared at her. She was frightened he knew and desperate as well to hide her fear from their young son. Her eyes though were entreating him to leave. ‘Keep pressure on it. It will stop the blood flow.’ He stroked his son’s hair. ‘Look after your mother.’
The storm raged throughout the day. Waves were topping twenty-five feet in height, crashing with a terrifying force against and over the ship. Dangerously chilled and exhausted the men laboured on until all of the sails had been furled. Towards the evening two lifeboats were sheared away. All of the sails had been furled and Attridge had allowed some of the crew to try and rest in their bunks whilst others continued to man the pumps. Then the wheelhouse and galley were crushed, the cookstore and two of the crew sucked into the ocean. Worse was to come. Minutes later a huge wave swamped the ship, destroying the main cabin and sending a torrent of water down into the hold. Attridge screamed at his men. ‘Unseal the hatches. Get the passengers out.’ Wheeling round he saw Campion, knee deep in water struggling towards him. Their eyes met. They both knew the ship was doomed. That this was the end.
‘Captain. There are only two lifeboats. We can’t—’
‘Tell everyone to grab what food they can. We’ll have to climb the rigging; it’s our only chance.’
‘Some of the passengers…’ His voice trailed off.
‘I know,’ said Attridge. He looked away to hide the shame in his eyes. ‘But we can’t risk using the lifeboats. If we launch they’ll drown in these seas.’
‘I’d best go down. If they try and move some of the sicker folk it will hold up the others.’
Attridge nodded. He needed to get back to his living quarters to prepare his wife and son. He felt a sudden sickening lurch in his stomach. His wife’s hand. How could she climb with that?
The hold was waist deep in water and it was still rising. The force of the waves had prised open the seams of the ship and the water pouring down through the planks above was a torrent. The lower berths were already under water, their occupants forced to stand. Mary and the others were in the berth above and had not yet moved. They heard the crash of the hatches as they were suddenly opened and the cries of the crew above urging them to get out. Simon was the first to ease himself down into the freezing water. ‘Sorcha,’ he yelled. ‘Help me get Rian out.’
Rian’s body was rigid and he was crying and whimpering with fear. Other passengers were also screaming and moaning as they fought their way to the ladders below the hatches.
‘Rian, Rian, calm down,’ urged his mother. ‘You need to calm down.’
They lifted him down, Simon then immediately lifting him onto his shoulders and starting to push slowly through the still rising water. Sorcha and Mary followed close behind. The ladder to the nearest hatch was twenty feet away but Simon saw with alarm that those nearest to it were already fighting with each other in their efforts to escape. A tall well-built man was trying to shepherd a young woman onto the ladder when he was punched in the side of the head by another man. He fell into the water, his assailant pushing the woman roughly aside as he grabbed the ladder. Simon had gripped Rian around his ankles to prevent him falling off and was helpless to intervene. The man who had been punched surfaced with a roar and yanked the hair of his attacker pulling him back off the ladder, the two men both falling into the water again where they continued to flail each other with blows and curses. Seeing his opportunity Simon pushed forward, reaching for the ladder’s side with one hand, the other still holding Rian. He started to climb. Behind him Mary had also pushed forward with Sorcha ahead of her. Because of her limp Sorcha had needed an almost superhuman effort to move through the water which was also clogged with debris; slop pails, bedding, items of clothing and worst of all, slicks of human excrement. Mary now shepherded her on to the ladder. Up above she could see that Simon and Rian had already reached the upper deck. Dragging one leg behind her Sorcha struggled upwards.
The fight between two men was reaching its climax; Mary saw with horror that the taller man had gained the upper hand. He had the other man by the throat, holding his head underwater, the man’s legs thrashing the water in a hopeless attempt to free himself. There was an explosion of bubbles then the water stilled. The taller man released his grip as his victim floated away from him, the head bobbing to the surface, the eyes vacant. He turned to face Mary. Their eyes met and the man gave a brief almost apologetic grimace before again looking away. The other passengers nearest the ladder shrunk back as he hastened towards it. He stood behind Mary as she started to ascend. No words were spoken.
Attridge was anxious the passengers and crew had ascended safely before he himself tried to climb the rigging but he was also anxious that Amelia and their son were safe so having fetched them from their cabin he tasked Campion with assisting them. There were just under 200 passengers on board including thirty-three children. The crew numbered eighteen with two apprentices, teenagers yet to see their fifteenth birthdays. They now encouraged the passengers to start climbing the icy rigging up into the topmasts. It was a perilous ascent but once the crew deemed them to have ascended sufficiently high they then helped them to tie themselves to the shrouds and spars with the torn sails. Two female passengers refused to climb and were arguing with the ship’s cook, Patrick O’Donovan, a grizzled veteran approaching fifty. Mary, now on deck, recognised one of them, an older widow, Catherine Tiddesley, but did not know the other. She moved closer to listen. ‘There are still people left in the hold. They’re too sick to move, they need help,’ said Catherine.
O’Donovan spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘There’s nothing to be done. We can’t save them; they need to be able to climb.’
‘There must be something, you can’t let them drown, you can’t.’
‘It’s impossible. You must save yourselves.’
The younger woman, tugged at her friend’s elbow. ‘Catherine, come on, he’s right. We must climb.’
Catherine was now crying, close to hysteria. ‘No, you can’t. We must help them.’ Another grey-haired elderly woman joined them, tugging at O’Donovan’s sleeve. ‘My husband is down there, you have to get him out.’
‘We can’t,’ said O’Donovan. ‘Now either I help you all to climb or I help others. Otherwise, you’ll all die here on this deck.’ He pointed down at the deck and glared at them He was ashamed and was covering it with anger. ‘Then we’ll die here,’ said Catherine. Mary stared up into the rigging. Simon was already sixty or seventy feet above the deck. Rian was strapped to his back where one of the other sailors had tied him on using ripped pieces of canvas. Sorcha was perhaps another twenty feet below making slow progress but nonetheless still climbing. She needed to join them, make sure Sorcha was alright. She moved closer, putting her hand on Catherine’s shoulder. ‘He’s right. You have to save yourselves. There’s nothing to be done.’
At that moment the ship gave a fierce groan and with a sudden shuddering lurch sank still lower in the water. The elderly woman lost her balance and fell to the deck where she lay moaning. O’Donovan quickly knelt beside her. ‘Are you alright?’ he said anxiously. ‘Can you stand?’ The woman shook her head. Her eyes were shut, her face twisted in agony. ‘My hip…I think it’s broken.’
A look passed between Mary and O’Donovan. Catherine saw it and immediately knelt down beside the woman, passing a soothing hand across her brow. ‘I’ll stay with her. Lynne,’ she said, addressing her friend, ‘You go with the others, save yourself.’ The younger woman started to protest but Mary seized her by the shoulders, staring hard into her eyes. ‘She’s right, we need to go.’
Lynne stared wildly around her for a moment and then looked back at Mary. Slowly, defeated, she nodded. O’Donovan, relieved, started to lead them away. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said to Lynne. He turned to Mary but before he could speak she responded. ‘I can manage. Look after her.’ Taking hold of the rigging she started to climb.
Chapter two
Michael woke with a start. He could still vividly remember the final fragments of his dream. He had been standing at the front of the ship at night his arm around his young son, Declan. As the ship ploughed through the waves he was pointing out the sparkling, liquid fire which danced around the bows. Declan was entranced; he had never seen anything so magical. ‘Phosphorescence,’ Michael had whispered to him. Even the word was magical, the soft sibilance of it. He tried saying it himself, ‘phosphor…phosphoresce…what did you say?’
Michael had repeated the word but as sometimes happens in a dream, in that blurred boundary between sleep and consciousness, he had spoken it aloud and it was this that had woken him up. In vain he struggled to recall the dream in full but it was already disappearing, smoke and embers. Declan…his eldest dearest son, now dead, killed by soldiers during the sacking of his village in Ireland. Pain gripped his stomach, a knife twisting in his gut. He had never known grief could affect you like this, physical pain on top of mental anguish. It had been weeks since Sorcha had told him of Declan’s death, in his cell whilst awaiting transportation as a convict. Yet the pain was as excruciating now as it had been then. When would it pass? he wondered. And how he yearned to die so he could join his son again.
The prisoner lying next to him in his bunk moved suddenly in his sleep, wrenching the heavy chain linking them together through their ankle bracelets. Michael gave an involuntary groan as the chain cut across a livid scar on his left ankle. Damn him. He glanced across at his companion, an Englishman from Durham, based in Limerick, who had been sentenced for habitual drunkenness and insubordination. The man was one of three former soldiers on board, the other two having been convicted of desertion. Beside him lay two others, a father and son, both convicted of stealing a sheep. Michael had grown fond of them both, the young boy in particular reminding him of his younger son, Rian.
The convicts had been confined in the hold whilst the ship waited to sail in the harbour at Cobh. They had been allowed though a brief daily period of exercise in a barricaded exercise pen on deck. It was possible to see the shore by craning over the high walls of the pen and the soldiers guarding them were not unfriendly. Michael could not help noticing though how rifle loops had been cut through the pen’s timber to enable the soldiers to fire into the crowd in the event of a riot. He envied the freedom of the seagulls wheeling above them in the air. It was late autumn and he shivered in the thin cotton shirt and smock which had been issued to him. A few sheep and goats were tethered in their own pen close to the exercise area, their bleating a painful reminder of his time spent tending them on his smallholding before the awful onset of the famine.
They had been just three days at sea when the decision was taken by the captain and surgeon-superintendent to remove the convicts’ leg irons. The scar on Michael’s ankle had been reopened by the constant chafing against it of the heavy iron so it was a considerable relief when they were finally struck off. The scar had been noted in the surgeon’s log when he had first been inspected on boarding the ship and he took care to examine the wound again now the irons were off. ‘This wound hasn’t healed at all has it?’ he murmured as he knelt over it.
‘No, still bad,’ replied Michael, ‘and painful with it. It’s woken me up a few times as I turned in my sleep.’
Lacey gently prodded the wound with his fingers and then reached across to a large canvas bag he had placed beside him. He tipped some liquid onto cotton batting. ‘This will sting a bit I’m afraid.’
Michael winced as Lacey applied it, finishing by wrapping the batting tightly around his ankle. ‘What is that?’ He asked.
‘Carbolic acid. Should help heal it. At least that’s the idea. ‘Keep it wrapped and I’ll look at it again in a day or two.’
‘Thank you,’ said Michael. ‘You’re a good man.’
‘It’s my job.’
‘Still…’ said Michael.
Lacey looked shrewdly at him. ‘I’ve got you down as someone who can read and write. I marked it in the log during our first interview.’
‘I have a fair hand,’ replied Michael carefully.
‘Very few can both read and write. You might be of use to me as an assistant. Would you be interested?’
Michael had been assigned to a gang of men responsible for cleaning the decks using pumice stones and had spent the previous two days on this task. It was gruelling back breaking work. Lacey’s offer was therefore especially welcome. ‘Yes, I would, very much so,’ he said.
‘Great. You can start tomorrow. Report to me at the sick bay once you’ve had your rations in the morning.’
It was during his final day’s work scrubbing the decks that the incident occurred. A pail of water was knocked over by the awkward movement of one of the men working alongside him, most of its contents spilling onto a man he had done his best to avoid, a huge brute of a fellow called O’Hare, one of three Dubliners on board. An angry scar ran from just above his brow down to below his mouth on one side which he had partly attempted to hide beneath an unkempt beard. There was obviously history between O’Hare and the unfortunate wretch who had upset the pail but Michael only learned of that later. O’Hare enraged leapt to his feet and drove the pumice stone he was holding down into the man’s head. Without a sound he collapsed unconscious to the floor, everyone staring in horror at the blood pooling around his head.
The two soldiers guarding the convicts as they worked immediately aimed their rifles at O’Hare who still stood holding the bloodied pumice stone. Even he seemed stunned by what he had just done. He dropped the stone and slowly raised his hands in surrender. One of the soldiers stepped forward and lifting his rifle cuffed him savagely with the stock. O’Hare staggered but did not drop and the soldier struck him again with the rifle this time with a blow to his stomach. He fell gasping to his knees. By this time four other soldiers had come running up together with the surgeon who immediately bent down to examine the wounded man on the deck. Michael caught his eye and Lacey gestured to him to kneel and join him. ‘He’s alive, thank God,’ Lacey murmured. ‘We’ll need to get him to the sick bay. Get three of the others to help you lift him.’
Michael rose, his knees of his trousers wet with a mixture of blood and the grimy water that had been spilled. The other convicts standing round had heard Lacey and two of them moved forward to join him. Michael’s eyes fell on the father of the boy who shared his bunk. Without a word he also joined them.
The flogging took place the following day. All of the convicts were assembled with O’Hare being brought up from his cell in irons. Michael watched as he was stripped to his waist by a soldier, his hands fastened above his head and tied to a bulkhead. O’Hare’s legs were then kicked apart and his ankles tied to a grating. A man emerged from amongst the soldiers carrying a thick cord of rope which ended in a spray of thinner ropes, each of which was heavily knotted. ‘Cat o’ nine tails,’ muttered a convict standing next to Michael. He had never had the expression before and stared in horrified fascination as the boatswain walked up to O’Hare and gently touched his back as though marking the spot where he would start. It was almost mocking in the tenderness with which it was done, a hideous parody of a lover’s caress. He moved back two steps from his victim and carefully combed out the thick ropes of the cat where they had become knotted together. He swung it back over his head, took a step forward and delivered the first stroke at the full stroke of his arm, giving an audible grunt as he did so.
There was a howl of pain from O’Hare, his body immediately slumping down. The boatswain struck again and again. Blood spurted out from O’Hare’s back on the sixth stroke as the cat split the skin. As the whipping continued gobbets of flesh were torn from his back, spattering the deck below him. His cries became one long continuous scream. Michael averted his gaze, too horrified to continue watching. He noticed several of those around him had done the same including some of the soldiers. ‘Three hundred,’ someone murmured behind him. He half turned to see who had said this but it was impossible to tell. Three hundred he thought. He tried to work out how many strokes had already been administered. A hundred? More? It was inhuman. The boatswain was beginning to tire, breathing heavily, dark patches of sweat staining his shirt on his chest and under his arms. He could see now why he had shed his heavy leather jerkin before starting the punishment despite the penetrating cold of the late afternoon. O’Hare’s screams stopped. He had fallen unconscious. Yet the cruel whipping continued, O’Hare’s back and sides a single bloodied mess, blood running in glistening trails down his thighs and legs and pooling on the ground beneath him. Finally, the poor man’s torment was over. The ropes above his head were unfastened and he fell to the ground. Four of the convicts were directed to lift and move him. Staring at him Michael was certain he was dead. No-one could have survived such a beating. Shortly after word was sent to him to join Lacey at the ship’s sick bay where he found he was wrong. O’Hare was alive, if barely.
Chapter three
The storm and high winds continued throughout the night as the crew and passengers clung to the rigging and spars high above the deck. The moaning and shrieking of the ship as it continued to sink was especially frightening in the darkness. No stars were visible, a sickle moon providing only occasional glimmers of light. Having climbed as high as she dared Mary was now only a few feet away from Simon, Sorcha and Rian. She was relieved to see that Simon had managed to wrap Rian in a torn length of sailcloth which he had secured to the spar they had reached; it protected him from the worst of the weather at least. The rain had stopped which was a small mercy but the wind was relentless. Mary was terrified that their mast would break and that they would either be hurled into the sea or fall from their dizzying height onto the deck below.
Dawn broke, a bleary sun appearing low on the horizon. At last the wind had died down and the sea was now much calmer. She glanced down. The deck was almost completely submerged. Anxiously she searched for Catherine and the old woman she had stayed with. There was no sign of them. At the front of the ship she could see a red distress flag slowly being hoisted. She looked across at Simon. Rian was sunk down within the nest of sailcloth Simon had fashioned for him so she was unable to see his face.
‘Simon, how’s Rian? Is he alright?’
It was Rian who answered. ‘I’m cold.’
Simon grimaced and gave Mary a weak smile. ‘I think we’re all cold.’
‘My feet are in agony stood on these ropes and my hands are numb,’ said Sorcha.
‘Mine are the same,’ said Mary.
‘I’m not sure how much longer I can bear this,’ said Sorcha. ‘My cam leg doesn’t help either. I’m having to rest most of my weight on the other one.’
Simon glanced upwards, studying the ripped canvas and rigging on the spars above them. ‘I could try and fashion a seat or hoist for you to take the weight off using some of the
canvas up there.’
Sorcha tilted her head, following the direction of his gaze. ‘No, it’s too much of a risk you could fall. I don’t want you leaving Rian either.’
Simon fell silent. He knew she was right but he was still anxious about her. He gazed at Mary, a look of helplessness in his eyes. Without a word she started to climb.
‘Mary—No…’
She ignored him and continued ascending. She reached a spar where a length of canvas hung which she thought might be suitable and hooking one arm around the rigging tried to wrest the sailcloth free with the other. A seaman close to where she stood saw her struggling and moved across to help. ‘Why do you want this?’ he asked.
‘My sister-in-law needs it—she’s struggling to stand. I need something for her to rest on.’
He nodded and taking a knife from a scabbard on his waist he quickly and expertly cut the canvas free from the spar. ‘I’ll help you,’ he said. Together they descended, the seaman dragging the length of canvas with him. Tying the canvas into the rigging behind Sorcha produced a stretch of sailcloth it was possible for her to sit back into which he first tested by pushing down hard against it with his fist. With trembling legs and encouraged by the crew member she sank back letting the canvas take her weight. ‘Thanks,’ she murmured. Mary also thanked him and then watched as he skilfully climbed back up to his former station above.
Late that afternoon, a cry came from a crew member sat high in the mainmast. ‘Ship to starboard! A sail—I can see a sail!’
Everyone craned to look. The sun sat low in the sky and it was difficult to see anything against the blinding light. Attridge stood with his own family high in the fore mast at the front of the ship. ‘Where?’ he called back, his voice hoarse with fatigue.
‘North-east, Captain,’ came the response, the seaman pointing frantically. Other crew members also spotted the ship and a general cry went up. Attridge finally saw it. Had it seen them though? It was too far away to hear their shouts and their own ship had by now sunk so low in the water only the masts and shrouds were visible. Agonising minutes passed, the initial volley of shouts gradually replaced by a resigned silence as the realisation grew that the ship had failed to see them. Its sails grew smaller and then disappeared. As though to mock them at the moment the ship finally vanished the sun also set, painting the ocean and clouds in brilliant orange and yellow washes of light as it dipped below the horizon. Darkness fell.
Attridge was worried about his wife. Although he had dressed her wound it was still bleeding through the bandage, the blood running down her arm and staining her clothes. It needed to be stitched and for that he needed the surgeon. Had he managed to save himself though? Was he even still alive? Attridge had not seen him since rescuing Amelia and his son. He looked down the length of the ship. It was a desperate sight. Dozens of people hung in the shrouds or clung to spars; it was impossible to see whether Blennerhassett stood amongst them. Assuming he had managed to ascend one of the other masts it would be madness for the surgeon to attempt the descent to the flooded deck and then try and reach them. It was hopeless. There was nothing he could do. Amelia had draped her wounded arm across the rigging above her head to try and stem the flow of blood.
‘How are you, my love? He murmured.
She gave him a weak smile. ‘I’m alright. My arm aches but I think the bleeding’s stopped.’
He gave her a searching look. He knew she was lying. ‘Good,’ he said simply and looked away to hide his tears. He knew it might be possible to use one of the lighter sailmaker’s needles to stitch the wound but it would still be a very painful procedure. Would it be better to wait? If there was a chance of a rescue then yes, but what if days passed before this happened? Amelia was becoming weaker by the hour and her wound was clearly not healing. He made up his mind, quickly explaining his decision to Amelia, who after a moment’s hesitation, nodded her agreement. An experienced seaman and sailmaker, Samuels, hung in the shrouds ten feet below them and he called down to him asking him to climb up.
‘Do you have your toolkit,’ Attridge asked.
‘Yes, Captain, never leaves my side.’
‘Good man, I need you to take your finest needle and stitch a wound in my wife’s hand. Can you do it?
‘I’ve never…’ said Samuels slowly, staring in disbelief at Attridge.
Attridge repeated himself. ‘Can you do it?’
‘I can,’ said Samuels reluctantly. ‘It will be painful though.’ He gave Amelia a quick nervous glance and looked away.
‘I’ll manage,’ said Amelia.
‘Can I see the wound first? Said Samuels.
Amelia carefully unwound her bandaged hand to reveal the gaping wound in her palm, blood immediately starting to ooze from it. Attridge had seen the surgeon apply alcohol to clean a wound before suturing but there was no possibility of that now. He had sometimes seen seawater used though and shouted down to another crew member. ‘We need seawater.’
Confusion passed across the seaman’s face but it was a command from his captain so he didn’t challenge it and instead hurried downwards, bringing up water scooped from the deck in a leather cap which he’d improvised as a container. ‘Is it enough?’ he said, as he came alongside them.
‘It will have to do,’ grunted Attridge. Removing the handkerchief from around his nick he carefully tipped some of the water onto it and started to dab the wound, finishing what was left in the cap by tipping it directly onto the gash. Amelia winced with the pain.
‘I’m so sorry my love, he said. ‘I only wish we didn’t have to do this.’
‘It’s fine,’ she murmured.
Samuels unrolled the cloth in which he stored his needles, selecting the smallest he could find and threaded it with twine.
‘Don’t look at your hand, Amelia, look at me,’ implored her husband.
She turned her head to look at him, her eyes filling with tears. Attridge was also crying, the tears falling silently down his cheeks. She gave a gasp of pain as the needle entered her flesh.
‘Sorry, my lady, I’m so sorry,’ said Samuels. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
‘No…no, it needs doing,’ she said, her voice high and light.
He pushed the needle in again, Amelia gritting her teeth, determined not to cry out again but her whole body rigid. Despite her resolved one of the stitches proved so painful she was unable to help herself. ‘Fuck,’ she screamed.
Samuels stopped, his hand trembling.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Finish it.’
Two more stitches and it was done. Attridge carefully rebandaged it, first using his own handkerchief, and then covering it again with unbloodied remnants of the original bandage. Adrenalin was still coursing through Amelia’s body and she was shaking violently. Attridge put an arm around her shoulders. ‘You were so brave…so very brave,’ he whispered. Shortly after, she fell asleep, still standing but slumped down, her weight supported by the ropes and the canvas sheeting he had tied around her.
The following day was hot and cloudless with a brilliant blue sky. By mid-day the heat was unbearable, beating down unmercifully on the passengers and crew. Mary and the others were tortured by thirst. There had been a fierce downpour during the night and she watched as one of the crew members near her sucked water from the saturated sail canvas. She nudged Simon next to her to make him aware of what he was doing. Simon found a pocket of water trapped in the sailcloth above Simon and Rian’s head and he lifted the child up towards it encouraging him to drink. There was barely enough for him so Simon Mary and Sorcha contented themselves by also sucking on the still wet canvas.
Later that afternoon, a cry went up again. Another ship had been spotted.
Chapter four
‘Will he survive? asked Michael.
‘I’ve given him morphine but no, I don’t think he will.’
Lacey had lain O’Hare on this stomach so he could better dress the wounds on his back. O’Hare was unconscious and Michael realised with horror that some of the lashes had cut so deeply he could see exposed bone.
‘Can you help me clean his back and sides?’ said Lacey, motioning to a pewter bowl of water and cloth he had placed on a low table beside O’Hare’s bed. Michael knelt and dipping the cloth into the water begin hesitantly to bathe O’Hare’s back, gently wiping the blood away from his wounds. The water in the bowl quickly turned red. ‘Empty it outside over the rail,’ said Lacey and then refill it from the barrel in the corner there.’
By the time he had finished Micheal had stopped counting the number of trips needed, Lacey also handing him new lengths of cloth as the they in turn became unusable. He stood up to leave, his knees aching from the rough flooring and looked. ‘Three hundred lashes…it’s monstrous,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve never seen a man treated that way. In truth, I’ve never seen someone whipped before.’
‘It’s cruel alright,’ said Lacey. ‘Fifty to a hundred lashes is the usual punishment but I think the captain wanted to make an example of him. O’Hare had killed before you see. He couldn’t let that stand. Without iron discipline on a ship all is lost and…’ He left the sentence unfinished but Michael had caught his meaning in any case. This was a convict ship.
O’Hare died that night and the following day all of the convicts and crew were assembled for the funeral. His body had been wrapped in sailcloth and a brief ceremony was held, the captain himself conducting proceedings and reading from the Book of Common Prayer. Since O’Hare was a Catholic who had hailed from Limerick the captain also invited prayers from Catholics present at the ceremony and after some hesitation one of the convicts began a halting recitation of the Lord’s Prayer, his voice gaining in confidence as others joined in. Michael studied the captain carefully; he was a tall, heavily built man with severe feature and lips so thin they looked as though they had been etched with a razor blade. Michael guessed he was in his early forties although given how arduous shipboard life was he could have been much younger. Michael’s conviction was also for supposedly killing a man although it had been a trumped-up charge and he had in fact been innocent. The captain would be aware of this. If Michael aroused his ire in any way would he suffer a similar fate to O’Hare?
As he lay in darkness in his bunk that night he reflected on what had led him to this sorry pass. The convict beside him was snoring heavily, the sound a dissonant accompaniment to the creaking of the ship’s timbers. There was a sour reek from the water in the bilges and the timbers above his head were also wet where water had seeped through the inadequate caulking. Sorcha and his sister, Mary, were making the same long journey but when would he see them again? He had been sentenced to seven years transportation. Would he have to wait seven long years before he saw them again? What would happen to him when he got to Australia? Assuming, he survived the journey which was by no means certain. He resolved to ask Lacey what fate awaited him; he seemed a fair man and for some reason, seemed to have taken a liking to him. Yes, he would know and even if his fate was a terrible one, it was better to know now than spend the voyage worrying about it. The horrors his imagination might conjure up were surely worse than the reality. Or so he hoped. The image of O’Hare’s flayed back kept returning, hard as he tried to push it away. After what seemed an eternity though, he finally fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
‘You were a farmer before, is that right?’ asked Lacey.
‘I worked the land, yes,’ said Michael.
‘Well, given that and your sentence of seven years, you’ll probably find yourself indentured to a settler, doing agricultural work.’
Michael’s spirits rose. He had heard terrible rumours from some of the other convicts of chain gangs and whippings and possible imprisonment. He had to know the worst though. ‘And if I’m unlucky, I mean, if that doesn’t happen?’
Lacey gave him a shrewd look. ‘You could become a labourer in the government’s employ, there’s a lot of building at the moment in the capital.’
‘And is there worse than that? Asked Michael.
‘Norfolk Island. It’s a penal colony just off the coast from Sidney; it’s supposed to be pretty savage but in truth, you would only end up there if you committed a further crime. You should be fine, Michael. With luck, once you’ve done four years you might also be issued with a ticket-of-leave.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Michael.
‘It means you’re free with certain restrictions. You can work on your own account, marry, bring your family across…’
‘My family is travelling across now.’
Lacey’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘Now, you say?’
‘Yes, God keep them safe,’ said Michael.
‘You have children? Are they with your wife?’
Michael felt a fresh stab of sorrow at the word ‘children.’
‘I have a boy, Rian, he would be nine now. My other son, Donal, died.’
‘I’m so sorry, Michael.’
Michael looked away. ‘So…with luck and God willing, I could work on a farm,’ he said finally. ‘Fresh air at least. What sort of farming, do you know?’
‘There’s wheat or sheep, there’s huge demand in Europe for Australian wool. It’s longer in length you see and lends itself better to the new looms that have been developed.’
Michael was curious. He had befriended two men on the ship who said they had been convicted of machine breaking in England, a desperate attempt to destroy the new mechanised looms which they claimed had stolen their jobs and reduced them to poverty. ‘Have you seen these new looms yourself?’
‘No. It’s the future though.’
‘There are men on board here who have been convicted of destroying them; they don’t see them as the future, they’re stealing their jobs.’
Lacey shrugged. ‘That’s as may be but you can’t argue with something that does what you do, only a hundred times better.’
‘No, I suppose not. What will become of the people who lose their jobs though?’
‘They’ll have to find other jobs.’
‘And if they can’t?’
‘Willing hands will always find work.’
Michael was not so sure though. Only desperate men would risk imprisonment or worse trying to destroy these machines. Still, he didn’t feel he could argue with Lacey who at the end of the day was his social superior. He sighed and turned to go but not before Lacey had placed a warning hand on his shoulder. ‘Michael, have a care with the captain. Mind, you never have cause to cross him.’
Michael stared back at Lacey, who obviously knew far more than he was saying.
‘Thanks, I will so.’