10
The Atlantic Ocean
May 1833
¶
The never-ending, undulating mountains of water rolled under the ship ceaselessly. All about her, Nathina could only see water. Water to the ends of the earth. She vomited over the gunwale once more. Would her stomach ever empty? She groaned inwardly. Like the waves, her malady never seemed to end.
‘It’s sea sickness child,’ ship surgeon Dr Byron Morrison said kindly. But she knew this. She had experienced its wrath on the first voyage. He put an arm of kindness about her but she shrugged it away. Her trust in men diminished of late. He understood and simply pulled her shawl up and over her shoulders as there was an increasing chill blowing off the sea.
‘How long?’ Nathina asked the doctor through red, teary eyes and her nose snotty from the sickness.
‘The voyage or your sickness?’ he answered.
‘The sea, how long on the sea?’
This was the surgeon’s third voyage on a convict transport. ‘One hundred and forty … maybe one hundred and fifty days.’ This was day three! Nathina held up her hands and the man understood immediately. He held up his own hands, clenched his knuckles then opened them while counting; ten, twenty … fifteen times. Nathina’s face grew even greyer.
‘But do not despair child, we sail under Captain James Mangles, he is a veteran of this route and has gained much experience in finding us favourable winds. His last voyage I am told was London to Hobart Town in one hundred and twenty-nine days.’
A stray wave exploded directly beneath the ship, up wind, blasting a shower of fine spray over them. Nathina was grateful for the cool shower but the surgeon chose to retire below deck.
‘I’ll check the prisoners,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you in the infirmary soon, all right.’ Nathina nodded. She was snatching a lungful of fresh wind when instantly, her attention was drawn to the loud snapping of canvas overhead as the temperamental wind changed direction. She gazed with awe up at the whitefella ship. The sight never ceased to amaze her. The privately contracted convict transport King George, Nathina was told, weighed 533 tons, whatever that meant. She — because whitefella always call a ship “she” — was carvel built, square rigged, standing bowsprit, square stern with quarter galleries and a shield bust figurehead of the great whitefella chief himself, King George III.
On board and chained below in irons, Dr Morrison had confirmed to Nathina, were 341 prisoners, as per the manifest; mostly men but twenty-seven were women. Nathina hated the whitefella for the way he treated his own kind. If blackfella did wrong, she often thought to herself, the blackfella spear blackfella. But incarcerating a man in irons and for long periods was wrong she thought. As she enjoyed the chill in the breeze combatting her sickness, she thought back to Dr James Quincy. Now he was a kind whitefella, a good man. Nathina enjoyed staying with the good doctor and his family, his kind wife Mrs Claire Quincy and his two daughters Charity and Christi. Three months living with them had been the happiest she had ever been with the whitefella and leaving them had been a sad time.
· · ·
Hobart Town May 1833
With the street wise and shrewd Irishman, William Dougherty, at the helm, Abbott’s nine pounds four shillings and nine pence had quadrupled in the first week. Everything from ladies’ silk undergarments to gentlemen’s boots, parasols from Paris to travellers’ pocket pistols, changed hands smartly. Life was looking up.
‘All I needed was the capital, we’ll be rich before we know it, Johnny my friend,’ William had told Abbott all those weeks earlier. But the old lag suspected that wasn’t his partner’s birth name. But who has a care, he told himself. Many men used an alias in this harsh land filled with villains. Respect was worth more than hard currency.
Both men had decamped to lodgings above the Shades Tavern on Old Wharf where they lived as uncle and nephew. They made a deal with the innkeeper and landlord for the whole attic, as small as it was. It had one window at the rear overlooking a barrel maker’s workshop. This cooper’s yard led to an estuary that led up into Wapping. But more importantly the window was the perfect escape route if need be; over the roofs of the neighbouring warehouses. The Shades Tavern had another advantage — the place had a reputation for deviants — it was wild and the taproom dangerous, which meant a visit from the constables, was rare. It also had its own stair from the rear of the taproom to the floor beneath the attic. With their profits accumulating nicely, from buying and selling anything stolen of value, they soon had a nice cache of coin and notes hidden securely under the floorboards. Life was good, for the moment.
Old Wharf, which was named thus as a New Wharf was being constructed across the cove, had grown from a small island and narrow isthmus — now a causeway. The island had been named Hunter Island by Colonel David Collins when he first arrived here on board the Ocean in 1804. Old Wharf was first port of call for all shipping to the fledgling colony. Before the warehouses were built in the early twenties, stores were kept here, hopefully safe from marauding Aborigines and thieving convicts.
Now, decades on, the wharf was still a hub of activity with shipping, immigrants landing and even a gibbet where criminal’s bodies were displayed after execution as a deterrent to other like-minded coves. Only two days earlier Abbott had taken no pleasure in watching the corpse of Thomas Murphy being secured in the body shaped cage. He had been hung by the neck for murdering an overseer on a chain gang with a sledgehammer. The riveted enclosure kept the cadaver in an erect position throughout the decomposing period while birds feasted and nature took its course. On a warm day the smell downwind could be horrendous.
Abbott swallowed a lump of meat and stared across the table at William. ‘Abbott Bragg,’ he said casually. They were sharing a generous breakfast of fried bread and fatty mutton. He had grown to trust this old rogue and he knew they both had too much to lose if caught. William Dougherty’s jaw stopped macerating. He had lost his last aching tooth to a backyard dentist only days earlier and now eating had become a chore.
‘Abbott Bragg?’ the old man looked up frowning. ‘So who be he? Should I be knowin’ ’im?’
‘’Tis me old man, Abbott Bragg …’
‘The ferkin’ bushranger!’ Dougherty suddenly, recognised the name from wanted posters and gossip. Abbott waved his fork about to silence the man.
‘Well, I’ll be buggered blind, ’tis really you?’
Abbott nodded, grinning with certain pride.
‘Why, I’ve been blind as a bat I ’as,’ Dougherty grinned back. ‘Ya look so ’airy ’n wild in them posters.’
Abbott stroked his clean-shaven chin. He had been proud of his disguise; walking free around Hobart Town, albeit only at night, drinking in the taverns and inns of the waterfront and building up a rapport with innkeepers and seafaring folk while fishing for the information he needed — namely a Yankee whaling captain with unscrupulous morals or one with sympathy for felons punished unfairly by the tyrannical British.
Abbott was known about the traps as Corwin Conway, a bookbinder and bookseller with a Welsh father and English mother who, he told anyone who bothered to ask, had no grasp of the Welsh language as he was brought up in Seven Oaks in Kent.
Wearing his wire rim glasses with their plain glass optics cut and ground especially for him by a jeweller acquaintance of William Dougherty’s, and his fine cut of clothes: imported beaver skin top hat — not too posh — carved whalebone cane and a new silver fob watch, Abbott could walk the street with confidence.
‘Abbott Bragg o’ the Bragg Gang,’ Dougherty went on, more than impressed. ‘Let the devil ’imself poke me in the arse with a fiery rod! There be ’undred guineas on ya ’ead now lad,’ and as if Abbott didn’t hear the first time, ‘one ferkin’ ’undred.’
‘Aye, so I believe. Ya ain’t goin’ ta shop me I ’ope,’ Abbott remonstrated with a smile.
‘As gawd’s me witness, never lad. You and me’s got a fortune to make yet.’ The old man coughed. A rattling cough that Abbott had noticed worsening the past weeks.
‘You should get to a doctor,’ he advised.
‘Argh, doctors!’ the old man spat the clotty glob onto his plate. ‘What them bastards know? But listen lad.’ The old lag was finally, piecing the puzzle together. ‘I ’eard talk that ya mate, ya partner in crime like, the frog cove … ah … Fran-swar somethin’ …’
‘Forboche? Frank?’
‘’Yeah that’s it.’
‘What of ’im?’
‘Well, ’e was nabbed months ago. In the gaol ’e is,’ the full facts suddenly, dawned on Dougherty. He lowered his head and voice. ‘And thars talk of a hangin’.’
‘Hanging! Frank! No!’
‘Sorry lad, but that’s what I ’ear.’
‘When?’
‘Soon, I never mentioned it b’fore. I didn’t know … didn’t know ’e was ya friend like.’
· · ·
Hobart Town Gaol Campbell Street May 1833
French Frank had never been a religious man. But if he ever felt he needed a god, now was the time. He had been transferred from the prisoners’ barracks — where he had spent some months — and placed in a condemned man’s cell. It had been two weeks now. Alone with his thoughts.
‘Why? Why do the bass-tards make me wait so?’ he asked himself. ‘C’est non huminataire.’
Memories of his short life as a free man occupied his time; his bonding with the Englishman Abb-ott. His stomach grumbled and he thought of the Aborigines cooking the potatoes and how delicious they tasted. Then his thoughts grew dark. He relived his capture. It had been so unnecessary, if only he had walked on towards the whaling stations. If only he had walked by the natives, for the troopers came to scatter the Aborigines from the field — the escaped convict and bushranger in their path was a bonus. A forty guinea bonus.
‘If only. C’est la vie!’ French Frank’s stomach knotted when he thought of meeting Governor George Arthur, the King’s representative and governor of Van Diemen’s Land, none the less. Frank was dragged into the interview room at the prison. He was chained in heavy twenty-pound leg irons secured to a chain about his waist and then to a neck ring. This was more like a clamp that encircled the neck with a lock at the side. He felt like a wild animal and was treated as such. Frank had to battle his demons, fight his claustrophobia. This was a grim place to be in at this moment.
‘You will tell me where we will find your accomplice, the outlaw Abbott Bragg,’ the governor’s eyes burnt through the stale air of the oppressive room. ‘“Bushranger” as my predecessor Governor Sorell termed the felonious employment. Bushranger indeed. I think the word glorifies the criminal behaviour, don’t you Captain Wickham?’
‘Most certainly your Excellency. Thieving scoundrels would be more suitable I should think.’
Governor George Arthur turned from the captain to French Frank.
‘Well?’ he snapped sourly.
‘Pardon monsieur, mon Anglais … ah … c’est pauvre … ah poor, oui?’
‘It’s Your Excellency to you, you wretched Frenchman,’ Captain Wickham spat his venom. Two soldiers guarding the door straightened their shoulders. Wickham looked back at the governor, ‘Oh he speaks English well enough sir. Speaks it well when he wants to.’
‘Then answer my question,’ Arthur ordered.
Silence.
If ever Frank felt alone, this was it.
‘Very well,’ the governor pushed his chair back from the desk with his short legs. It immediately, occurred to Frank that the man was no taller than Napoleon Bonaparte. He wanted to tell the man so, he wanted to burst out laughing.
‘He smiles, Captain Wickham, maybe the lash will swipe the grin off his face.’ The governor walked around the table and stood facing Frank, inches away. He smelt of lavender.
‘Do you want to live, or die on the gallows Monsieur Forboche?’ Frank was careful to answer. ‘Oh it’s not a trick question I assure you. I’ll repeat it more slowly in the chance that you are having difficulty with the translation.’ And the governor winked pertly at the Captain. ‘Monsieur Forboche. Do … you … want … to … live … or … die?’
‘Live. Oui … ah ….yes, sir, Your Excellency.’
‘I thought as much, what man wouldn’t. You see, this letter your accomplice, Abbott Bragg, sent to me. To me!’ he screamed in Frank’s face. ‘To me the governor and King’s representative on this damned island. This letter has angered me enough to want this man’s head instead of yours.’
Frank’s face twitched.
‘Yes Monsieur Forboche. Listen well you may. I am offering you a free pardon.’ And to make his point clear he repeated the offer. ‘A free-pardon, for your friend’s head on a spike in the gaol yard. Refuse me and I will recommend the judge hand you the death penalty.’
‘Soo-ree Excellency. I would love to ’elp you but Abb-ott, I know not where ’e ees.’
Governor Arthur anticipated this answer so his reply was measured. He sighed. ‘Do you not think he wouldn’t do the same for you if the roles be reversed? His life for yours? So I’m offering you your life for his. I believe you could be back in France for Christmas; that is, of course, if you troublesome French celebrate the birth of Christ.’
‘Oui. We do sir.’
‘So you don’t know where Abbott Bragg the braggart is to be found?’ The governor looked to the captain again for a congratulatory nod to his play on words.
‘Non.’
‘Maybe one hundred lashes will loosen the Frenchman’s tongue. Guard!’ The two soldiers at the door fell in either side of the prisoner. ‘Take this prisoner to the triangle. Hundred lashes.’
Frank bit his bottom lip. He bit down hard drawing blood. But anything was better than speaking his mind right now.
The lacerations and welts from the lash had healed. All three hundred of them! Administered as one hundred each week. But French Frank wouldn’t be broken. He would not doom his friend to the same fate. For what? A free pardon? He thought not. As Frank languished in his cell, the judge’s last words mulled over and over on his mind:
‘For your crimes as an escaped prisoner and of bushranging; stealing and molesting innocent settlers,’ Frank remembered the judge thundering as he passed sentence, with his ridiculous curled wig crowned with a black cap. ‘And for assaulting His Majesty’s soldiers and on occasion for attempted murder, I hereby sentence you, François Forboche, also known as French Frank, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead. So help you God.’
The key clanked in the lock. The cell door creaked open on unoiled hinges and the gaoler stood blocking the narrow exit. ‘You gotta visitor.’ The gaoler ushered an elderly man leaning on a crutch, into the cramped cell. He was in his late sixties Frank assessed. ‘You got five minutes.’ The door slammed shut and the key turned once more.
‘Frank. Nice ta meet ya.’ The old man leant on an angle uncomfortably, framed in the same doorway as the gaoler had been. ‘Me name’s Dougherty, William Dougherty.’ And then he dropped his voice to a bare whisper, ‘You and me got a friend what’s mutual like. ’is name is Abbott.’
· · ·
September 1833
‘Debtors,’ William Dougherty with mischievous grin on his weathered face told Abbott, ‘went to prison.’ In the eyes of the law it was an inexcusable crime.
‘And ’angman Magnus Roach is an inveterate gambler. ’e is under the devil’s spell o’ the dice. A victim of Madame Luck if ya like.’
Abbott listened to the old man in silence. He checked out the rear window of their attic, dusk was draping its blanket across the town and soon Abbott would feel safe to walk the streets, have a meal at his favourite chophouse and listen to some music at an inn or two — he loved the sound of a fiddle player and Van Diemen’s Land fiddlers were beginning to create their own style. Then, about midnight, he would meet up with William and together they would visit their various suppliers and under the cover of darkness they would move their ill-gotten gains to safe houses. These were paid caretakers who looked after the goods to be fenced. The smaller items, like jewellery, Abbott fenced about the inns and taverns and brothels. Larger items like crates of ‘misplaced’ spirits or stolen guns were moved by a network of contacts, all courtesy of William Dougherty.
‘’ow long ’ave we got?’
‘’ow long,’ the old man repeated sombrely. ‘Ten days. Then Frank is to swing with three other coves on Fridee mornin’, the twenty-ninth, at eight of the clock.’
‘Christ, we need to work fast. The Old Bell, ya say? Top o’ Liverpool Street.’
‘Aye. The Old Bell. The bastard lives up there aways. But there ain’t too many public ’ouses what ’e feels com-fort-able in, ’cos of ’is work like. No one likes the ’angman.’
‘’e also ’as a weakness for the ladies. A particular penchant for red’eads. Red’eads what got long legs that goes right up to their bum like. And ’e likes ’em young. Fithy ol’ codger that ’e is, ’e always ’as to pay for ’em and ’e gets a pimp to procure the young’uns. That, Abbott me lad, is ’ow we will get this bastard on our side.’
Magnus Roach was an ox of a man. His face looked chiselled in sandstone; square jawed, broad nosed, high forehead and sunken eyes under a symmetric, furrowed brow. For anyone who had seen the explorer Jacob Roggeveen’s etchings, he looked like an Easter Island statue. He stood six foot four and at fifty-three he still had a full head of straight brown hair. He sat alone, as was usual, in an ill lit corner of the Old Bell taproom and gazed into the tankard of his favourite ale. It was froth-less real ale, brewed by the innkeeper himself; a malted fermented barley ale blended with local hops to impart a bitter herbal flavour that balanced the malty sweetness. The innkeeper, Magnus decided, was a perfectionist at brewing his house ale. Just like Magnus Roach was a perfectionist at his own profession — hanging men by the neck until they were dead.
But it wasn’t as easy as that, he told the rare few who asked. He needed to assess the weight of the condemned man against the gauge, strength and length of his rope. If he made the length and the drop too long he ran the risk of ripping the head away from the body. Too low and the prisoner might take minutes, even longer, to choke to death. Neither were professional outcomes.
‘How’s the drop tonight?’ some wise-arse asked in passing. An old joke, Magnus had heard them all before. He ignored the man and took some pleasure in the thought that one day his noose might be tightening about that ferker’s neck.
Redheaded Tiffany was sixteen. She looked younger. Magnus drained his pewter tankard and let it down heavily onto his table to catch Tiffany’s attention. The innkeeper, an ex-Sarah Island man by the name Peter Ediker, tapped Tiffany on the shoulder.
‘Same again?’ Tiffany asked the hangman. She held her flirtatious green eyes on Magnus long enough to let him know she was available, on the market. He stared back at her wax smooth face and her freckles had his heart racing. He nodded and the corners of his mouth curled up in what some might acknowledge as a smile. Magnus felt his manhood firming. He hadn’t enjoyed the company of a woman for a week — no, two weeks — he told himself. Tonight he might treat himself. And this new wench was a porcelain doll, all cute and cuddly and ready to play.
‘Whiskey too,’ he said in a voice deep from his chest.
‘Ale and a whiskey. I’ll be right back Mr Roach,’ and she turned to leave. Magnus caught her arm.
‘You know me?’
‘Why o’ course I do, everyone know’s you Mr Roach.’
‘And it don’t bother you none, that I … ah …’
‘That ya hang people? Nar. Why should it? As Mr Ediker says, the bastards deserve it.’
Magnus leant back in his chair and watched Tiffany’s arse as she teased her way back to the bar. Mesmerised, he stripped her naked, head to toe. Her red hair was how he loved it; long curls spiralling half way down her back and her wench’s skirt was close cut enough for him to see she had long thin legs all the way up to her bum.
Tiffany returned with a large ale and a bottle of quality Irish whiskey. She poured a finger of the amber spirit into the tumbler, put the glass to her lips and tipped her head back draining the lot.
‘You like a whiskey I see,’ Magnus was impressed. Tiffany ran her tongue over her lips and refilled the glass for Magnus. Magnus couldn’t help himself, he took her by the arm once more and swung her down to sit on his lap.
‘Why, Mr Roach, you naughty boy,’ Tiffany giggled. Magnus took the opportunity to subtly grope her breasts. They were pint-sized but firm as melons. She felt his arousal beneath her.
‘Not now Mr Roach,’ Tiffany lifted herself free and straightened her skirt, looking about the taproom feigning modesty. ‘Mr Ediker told me to tell ya there’s a game o’ craps ’appening in the back room if’n ya feelin’ lucky.’
‘I’m feelin’ lucky with you my little peach.’ He put a half sovereign in her hand for the drinks. ‘’ow about you? You feelin’ lucky?’
‘Maybe, but I got work to do, as ya can see the taproom’s gettin’ busy.’
‘When are ya free?’
‘I ain’t free for anyone, Mr Roach.’
‘Please, call me Magnus.’
‘All right Magnus. I ain’t finished till nine. So you go ’ave a little game or two out the back and I’ll meet ya then, but I warn ya, ya better save a sov for Tiffany ’ere.’ And she walked back to the bar once more, sexier than ever.
‘She’s a wonder, ain’t she,’ Abbott told William as they discreetly watched Tiffany work on Magnus from the opposite end of the bar. When the opportunity rose, Tiffany sent William Dougherty a sly wink. The sting was in action.
‘Yeah, she’s a right minx that one,’ William sipped his whiskey, pleased the taproom was filling with punters.
‘Where’d ya find ’er?’ Abbott asked.
‘She’s a new girl. Came out as a free passenger wiv ’er mum who died during the passage. Died in childbirth I ’eard, mother and babe. Tiffany soon discovered the game was easier than workin’ as someone’s ’ousemaid — chargin’ a sov for what she was given’ away free. She works down at the Lord Nelson but I ’ad a chat to the landlord and ’e’s agreeable for me take ’er under me wing till we nail Magnus. For a fee o’ course.’
Abbott started. ‘He doesn’t know about …’
‘Nay, he thinks I ’ave a fascination for the young’un, and when I told ’im I wanted ’er for more than a week ’e reckoned I wouldn’t be able ta ’andle ’er longer ’n a day!’ They both had a laugh. ‘But ’e charged me ten quid none the less.’
Peter Ediker surreptitiously wiped the bar where Abbott and William leant and enjoyed a whiskey. The three men watched Magnus grab his bottle and drag himself to the craps game in a back room.
‘I trust ya using honest dice,’ William Dougherty said quietly to the innkeeper.
‘O’ course,’ he answered alluding to the fact that the dice were loaded in the house’s favour. ‘And you’ll be pleased to know, Mr Dougherty, that Harpoon Hector is running the game tonight.’
‘Excellent, good to ’ear.’ William saw Abbott’s blank expression. ‘’arpoon Hector, Mr Conway, is the best craps runner in the colonies. ’e’s a big bugger what won’t take no shite from anyone, even though ’e’s only got one wing ’cos ’e lost the other one to a whale, right out ’ere in the ’arbour it were, ten year ago now. But e’s a magician wiv them dice. Especially our landlord’s dice.’ And William shared a chuckle with the innkeeper.
‘Stay with me,’ Magnus voice had a tenderness to it that was foreign to the normal hardened façade he was forced to maintain. Truth was, he was infatuated with his new plaything. Tiffany pulled a blanket over her nakedness. The hangman’s cottage had a chill air to it, although he had lit a fire in the other room.
Tiffany was spent from their lovemaking as he called it. ‘Huh!’ she said to herself. ‘Fucking more like.’ She had earned her sov tonight that was certain. The man had pressed all his weight upon her tiny body and had drilled her with his oversized auger until she thought it best to fake her enjoyment. And she swore that, as the man climaxed, she saw his eyes roll to the back of his head. ‘Wait ’til I tell the girls at the Rodney that one,’ she smiled to herself.
He reached for his purse and took out a sovereign. Tiffany took the coin, and as was her habit she bit it to be certain the metal was really gold.
‘’ow much ya lose at the game?’ she asked.
‘Nine quid. I tell ya he’s a lucky bastard that Ediker. I was up fifteen quid at one stage then lost the lot an’ more.’
‘Sorry to ’ear it. Gotta go,’ she said abruptly and bounced onto her feet and started dressing. Magnus knew there was no point asking again. Sex was sex and her job was done.
‘You be at the Bell tomorra?’ he asked.
Tiffany quelled his doubts that he couldn’t have her again, by lying across him and forcing herself to kiss the man between the hairs on his giant chest. ‘Same place same time Mr Roach … Magnus.’
Eight days later
Keeper of The Old Bell, Peter Ediker, steered Abbott and William into the room behind the taproom and the three men sat quietly at a booth type table against one wall. The floor space was kept free for the craps game where the dice were thrown against a wall, or the game of pitch and toss which was becoming more and more popular and known in the colonies as two up.
‘He’s already up to sixty quid on me slate,’ Ediker spoke of Magnus Roach’s debt. ‘I’ve always given ’im credit but never has it got this ’igh. I’m a bit worried ’e might smell a rat.’
‘What of Tiffany?’ Abbott asked.
‘Jesus,’ the innkeeper shook his head. ‘The poor lass is takin’ it hard.’
‘I’ll say,’ William chuckled.
‘I ain’t jokin’. She reckons the man is insatiable.’
Dougherty lost the smile. ‘Well, as long as she’s getting’ the sovs.’
‘Well,’ Ediker said. ‘That’s on credit too, that’s another eight sovs there.’ Ediker looked at William Dougherty; he and William went back a long way, sharing nefarious activities of one thing or another. He knew William had fallen on hard times of late, living it tough in Wapping, but more recent times his friend seemed prosperous. All the same he felt compelled to ask. ‘You are good for the coin I ’ope Will.’
Unfazed and prepared, Dougherty withdrew his purse from the depths of his frock coat pocket. ‘Sixty-eight sovs, ya say.’
‘Aye.’
William unfolded a ten-pound sterling note drawn on the Bank of Van Diemen’s Land and counted out ten single sovereigns, passing them to the innkeeper. ‘’ere ya go Pete. Twenty now in good faith, ’ow ’bout that then.’
Ediker happily took the money and nodded his head silently with a smile.
‘Gentlemen,’ it was Abbott’s turn to smile, ‘I think it’s time to strike.’
With pardoned convicts signing up as constables to maintain the fragile law in the penal community, it wasn’t too difficult to bribe two soldiers — splendid in their red coats, white britches, shakos and knee-high boots — to pay a visit to the hangman at his Liverpool Street cottage. Abbott and William donned new frock coats, top hats and cream britches with boots from Ari Amnon, the Jewish draper in Elizabeth Street.
Magnus opened his cottage door to the thumping knock. Immediately, his chiselled face flushed with anxiety as he recognised the red-coats and then the official looking gentlemen standing directly behind them; one a man of around thirty and the other a poorly looking elderly man.
‘Mr Roach?’ Abbott asked in his most authoritative tone. ‘Mr Magnus Roach?’
‘Yes, whatd’ya want?’
‘May we come in sir?’
Magnus looked the men up and down. He didn’t feel as though he had a lot of choice. He pushed the door open.
William Dougherty spoke abruptly to the two soldiers. ‘Wait ’ere.’
Once inside Abbott did most of the talking. ‘It seems, sir, that you ’ave been keeping the promiscuous company of a fourteen year old child.’
‘Fourteen! She …’
‘So you are familiar with the lass I’m talkin’ about. Miss Tiffany.’
‘She be sixteen, she told me so,’ Magnus said with a cheeky confidence that immediately, riled Abbott.
‘Nay, sir, fourteen. She’s on the register. Governor George Arthur’s shipping register. And ’e don’t take too kind to old men what takes advantage of young’uns, especially orphaned young’uns.’
‘But … but … she said she was …’
‘It don’t matter what she said she was, Mr Roach, the fact o’ the matter is, you should ’ave known better. You ’ave been plantin’ your seed where it don’t belong.’
William decided to throw in a scenario not previously considered. ‘She may be with child.’
‘Then I will marry her, look after her, I …’
‘Christ man,’ Abbott yelled. ‘Do you not see the severity of your lecherous actions?’
‘We ’ave two soldiers outside what are ’ere to take ya to the lockup.’ Dougherty coughed and he felt a clot of blood rise to the back of his throat. He spat into a kerchief.
‘No! I’m innocent I tell ya.’ But the man’s tone now lacked conviction. ‘Ask the keeper at the Old Bell, he solicited her.’
‘We’ve already spoke to’ im. Mr Roach. It appears you owe ’im a lot of money also, fa soliciting this ’ere young’un.’
‘It were for craps I tell ya.’
‘Now now Mr Roach, we all in this ’ere room — that be Mr Smith and meself Mr Jones — know’s that the game o’ craps be an illegitimate and felonious act.’
Magnus Roach’s face was ashen. Abbott thought he even spotted a tear forming. It was time for the coup de grâce.
‘Sixty-eight quid you owes,’ Dougherty put on a sickened face. ‘And for doin’ somethin’ you ought not o’ done. What ’ave ya got to say for yourself?’
‘You know who I am,’ the hangman was now a nervous mess.
‘I can’t go to gaol,’ he panicked, ‘They’ll kill me.’
‘Well, ya should ’ave considered that Mr Roach, before ya unbuttoned ya britches like.’
‘What do you want, I’ll do anything.’
Abbott looked at William and the two men exchanged smiles.
‘Well,’ Abbott began. ‘There is something ya could do for us, actually. Isn’t there Mr Smith?’
‘Aye, there is Mr Jones.’
‘What is it, anything, I can’t be goin’ to gaol, not now, not never.’
‘You ’ave a hangin’ to perform in two days,’ Abbott continued. ‘One of the men is François Forboche, also known as French Frank.’
‘Aye, there’s four to swing, eight of the clock, Fridee.’
‘That is what we ’ave been told too.’
‘You see,’ Abbott went on, ‘Frank is a friend of ours. And we don’t want to see him swing.’
‘But ’e’s a bushranger, an outlaw,’ Magnus argued. ‘Gov Arthur wants ’im to swing. And that other cove Bragg if’n ’e can catch ’im. I can’t ’elp ya frog mate escape, the gaol is tighter than a fish’s arse.’
‘Aye, ’tis true. But ya can tamper wiv tha rope.’ Abbott waited a moment for the suggestion to sink in. ‘Frank, ya see, don’t weigh much, ’e’s a scrawny bastard. You can see it breaks like — the rope that is and not Frank’s neck.’
‘I can’t do that!’
Abbott pounced forward and he grabbed the huge man by the lapels. Frank’s life depended on it. ‘You will Magnus Roach, pervert and debtor. GUARD!’
‘No wait, wait!’ Beads of sweat trickled from his forehead. The two soldiers, with energy fuelled by greed, kicked the door open and pushed in.
‘Please,’ Magnus’ voice was strained, pathetic.
‘False alarm,’ Abbott told the guard. ‘As you were.’ The soldiers retreated and, as prearranged, closed the door. Abbott’s face reddened with pertinacity. This was their only hope of saving French Frank’s life. He held his face inches from the hangman’s.
‘You will weaken the rope in such a way for it not to hold,’ the hangman was terrified at his options shaking his head. He saw the destruction of his own sad life flash before his eyes. His bloodshot eyes widened.
Abbott articulated, ‘Do — you — understand?’
The man breathed heavily. He hyperventilated, his mouth dry.
‘Do — you — understand — me?’ Abbott repeated louder.
Magnus Roach licked his lips, trying to wet them. Finally, he nodded his head
Abbott smiled, not a friendly smile but that of a victor. ‘Use poor quality Indian hemp,’ he said quickly and smartly.
‘But it’s never ’appened in all me years as ’angman.’
‘That’s why we’ll get away with it,’ William smiled. ‘It’s ’appened before in England. More ’an once what’s more.’
‘But ’e won’t get a pardon outa it,’ Magnus persisted.
‘Nay. But ’e will get sent to Port Arthur and ’e’ll be alive, eh?’
Campbell Street Gaol September 1833
The wait in the holding cell had been painful, torturous. But despite French Frank’s shattered nerves, the diarrhoea and lack of appetite, there was the faintest glimmer of hope. He had had two visits from Abbott’s elderly companion, Mr William Dougherty, and on the second visit, two days earlier, he was assured all would go well.
‘The rope’s been tampered wiv matey. So ya won’t swing, it’ll snap, break, you’ll drop ’eavy like, but ya won’t swing.’
The old man had even organised food and wine to be sent from the Ocean Child Inn close by and he had bribed the guards to be helpful. But the thought of anything going wrong weighed heavily on French Frank. And the old man had looked ill, quite poorly and Frank had a fear that if anything happened between now and judgement day the hangman might not be party to their plot.
The days dragged by. Then the night before, the hangman peered at him through the cell door peep-hole. It was to gauge his weight, the guard had said later, matter-of-factly. Frank didn’t need to ask why. But the fact he wasn’t able to speak with the hangman un-nerved Frank.
Was the old man’s visit some supernatural illusion to torment him?
· · ·
D’Entrecasteaux Channel southern Tasmania
September 27th 1833
This was by no means Nathina’s first storm. She had experienced the beast of the ocean before. She knew what it was like to be wrecked; like that time off the land near her home in north-east Van Diemen’s Land, when she was with that good whitefella Abbott. But these mountains of foaming, frothing angry water seemed different; more determined to snatch the slave ship — for that’s what it was — and smash it into firewood against the jagged rocks of the southern coast of this land of demons.
The four and a half months at sea had been reasonably uneventful so why now, when they were only a day from Hobart Town, did the gods wreak such havoc?
‘Get below!’ A voice roared through a torrent of water.
The crash of waves exploding over the ship was deafening. Short, stocky bo’sun, Samuel Tibballs noticed Nathina through the deluge.
‘Now!’ he shouted. He appeared from behind a veil of exploding foam grasping Nathina by her shoulders and pushed her roughly towards one of the hatches yet to be battened down.
Nathina obeyed. It was dangerous on deck. But it was far more dangerous up the ratlines where she had watched men desperately trying to furl the last of the sails. Suddenly, Nathina heard a piecing scream, followed by another thunderous detonation of water. She watched a massive wave roll across the entire bow of the King George as the ship dipped into a valley-like trough. Nathina shot a glance skyward and caught a strange image in her peripheral vision. Horrified, she was just in time to see thrashing arms dropping into the sea. At the same moment she heard the dreaded words piercing through the mayhem — ‘Man overboard!’
The two terrifying words were immediately, lost to the tempest; as was the wretched creature who had the misfortune to slip from the yardarm. There was nothing anyone could do, for the great four-masted ship was also at the mercy of the storm, riding the undulating mountains like driftwood.
Below deck the stench was overpowering. King George had been riding the storm since dawn, eight hours earlier, and between decks stank of vomit and shit. To Nathina it smelt of death. Another horrendous wave had the ship rolling precariously on its port side, then it pitched the ship bow first into another prodigious trough.
‘Where have you been girl?’ Surgeon Morrison had come searching for her. Missing his footing he was thrown violently against the passage wall as he gripped a single candle within a glass lantern.
‘Deck.’ Nathina had to shout to be heard over the pandemonium.
‘That’s what I was afraid of! Come girl. We’ll go to the infirmary. There is nothing we can do until we ride out this storm.’
‘Nathina see big water,’ she cried out again as the surgeon took her by the arm. From the deck below them Nathina heard the prisoners crying out for help. They had been chained down for the night and under normal conditions they would have all had some time on deck by now, for fresh air and exercise. She imagined them swinging helplessly in their hammocks with their ankles chained with leg irons and wallowing in their own filth. Their cries were haunting, their terror real.
‘Whitefella bad to whitefella and blackfella,’ Nathina sat on the floor in the infirmary and pushed her back into a corner. She was scared but desperately trying to hide it. Surgeon Morrison busied himself keeping cabinet doors closed before all his medicine bottles were smashed.
‘I’m afraid to say you are correct Nathina,’ Dr Byron Morrison had to agree. ‘But there is nothing we can do about it. Not now in this storm.’
All about them the overwhelming stresses on the timber ship taunted them. The old oak groaned, wrenching at the very bolts holding her together, while timbers protested as the planks stretched and twisted.
Boom!
Another monumental wall of water collided with the side of the ship. This time King George listed perilously to starboard and the entire main deck was under a fathom of briny ocean. Water cascaded through unfastened hatches. On deck more chilling screams and men scrambling to survive. One of four cannon aboard broke its tethers. It careered across the deck slamming against the gunwale crushing a man in its path. Men rushed with ropes to resecure the two-thousand-pound gun. Without warning, the ship righted briefly, climbed a mountainous wave, rode over the crest and plummeted back into the next abyss like trough. The ship listed violently to port. The loose cannon rolled back across the deck. The crushed man’s body slid off the gunwale. Doll like, his body was limp with every bone pulverised. There was no mistaking he was dead. The ship nosed into the next of the endless waves, the deck awash yet again. The sea pooled about the man’s corpse then, almost remorsefully in its retreat, it swept the man overboard.
Instantly, a deafening splintering of timber had all below the mainmast jerking their heads skywards. The top yardarm broke away like matchwood. Men ducked and dived as the ton of wood came crashing onto the deck trailed by yards of rope and blocks that could crush a man’s skull like a melon.
Below deck Nathina and the surgeon gaped to the infirmary ceiling. They expected to see it crushed, terror clear in their eyes.
‘We die?’ Nathina said — her mouth dry with fear — yet so much water about her.
‘We are at the Lord’s mercy,’ the surgeon closed his eyes and muttered the Lord’s Prayer.
Below the convicts were petrified. Most were thrown from their hammocks and now cowered on the deck. They cried out to be unshackled. Soldiers who stood guard amongst them sought refuge on the deck above, battening down the hatches to the prison deck. Some soldiers had family on board and joined them in the small mess next to the galley where the cook had doused the fires because of the storm.
At the helm, Jonathon Black was strapped to the wheel. He did all he could to steer the great ship into the oncoming mountains of tempestuous water, but rogue waves aplenty came from port and starboard and all he could do was hold fast and pray.
His prayers weren’t answered.
The ocean gods were angry, they demanded a sacrifice to appease them.
Jonathon Black never saw the rock. King George dropped into yet another yawning trough and yet again climbed out from its cavernous grasp only to mount a submerged rock. The bow of the transport was ripped apart, like a ravenous dog would rip the throat out of a rabbit. The ship lurched, stopping dead, until another wave rolled over the deck and dragged the ship back into deep water.
Then pandemonium.
Nathina’s eyes burst open. She snapped her head to the surgeon who was already on his feet throwing the door open. The riled sea rushed in. The passageway filled with the screams of terrified people — women, children, panicked soldiers. Chaos all about them as every person unshackled made a dash for the main deck.
The moment Nathina followed surgeon Byron Morrison on deck she knew they were doomed. Already the only three jolly boats strapped to the deck had been cut loose and were being manhandled over the side.
‘Women and children only!’ She heard an officer scream through the mayhem. He drew his sword to hold back any man who dared try and board the boats. A wave crashed across the deck and Nathina watched in horror as a dozen people went over the side with the wash.
All about her was devastation. Madness.
The first boat ploughed nose first into the bubbling sea. Two sailors held ropes to hold it fast. But another wave ripped the ropes from them and the jolly boat slipped below the waves.
‘There!’ a sailor pointed into the maelstrom as the boat resurfaced ten yards away.
Karunch!
It too was splintered by the saw-edged rock. The next wall of water pushed King George back up onto the rock. The ship was stuck fast.
For the moment.
At least this would stop it from sinking straight away Nathina thought. Instantly, a commotion caught Nathina’s attention. Men were using belaying pins to lever the stern cabin door open. The captain was trapped in his cabin below the quarterdeck. Another wrenching sound. Rusted hinges squealing. Suddenly, amongst the pandemonium, Captain James Mangles managed to squeeze through a gap. He immediately, barked orders to officers. At last, Nathina thought, some sanity amongst the turmoil.
An evacuation plan.
A glint of hope.
But King George lurched violently once more as a rampant wall of water rolled under her. The stern tilted to thirty degrees. There followed a splintering crack overhead and a mizzen spar rammed into the deck. Captain Mangles dived aside but lost his footing. The captain fell heavily and Nathina watched the man slide across the deck. He spiralled from the bridge and dropped ten feet.
Head first, and smashed his skull against the solid iron of a cannon trunnion.
His skull opened like he’d been hit with a mace. The captain’s body rolled from the cannon. Nathina wanted to throw up. As she watched on, helpless, thick blood drained onto the deck.
And all hope drained away with it.
The remaining jolly boat was lowered. This time terrified women and screaming children were lowered into the boat. Two sailors were ordered in to row them to land, barely visible some miles away.
‘Nathina!’
Abruptly Nathina was aware someone, through the hue and cry had called her name. The surgeon stood amongst the bedlam at the gunwale frantically waving to her. Their eyes linked.
‘You’re next,’ he yelled at her. ‘Get in the next boat.’ She stood fast, clasped onto the mast. He dragged himself up the sloping deck to grab her hand. But she held tight to a masthead and seriously considered swimming.
‘They wait. Hurry lass. There is room for you.’
As the ship lurched Nathina could see the third jolly boat stuck fast to the rock. The two sailors delegated to row were trying desperately to float it from the merciless reef.
‘I swim,’ Nathina shouted back, her face awash with fear.
‘What? Are you mad?’ the surgeon threw his arms about her, more to secure himself from sliding back down the deck. If he slipped into the sea he would be crushed between the ship and rocks.
‘We close to land. My land!’ Nathina yelled.
Another resounding crash of water drowned her words. One more enormous wave. More cries for help from the doomed. Suddenly, another precipitous mound of frothing angry ocean rolled beneath the ship lifting her once more. Nathina watched in horror, her mouth agape, as the jolly boat full of women and children was sucked off the rocks with the backwash. It disappeared from sight under the bow of the ship. Then she heard the piecing screams once more. The King George slammed back onto the rocks and beneath the ship’s massive bow the victims in the jolly boat were mashed to death.
The wails of the dying would haunt Nathina the rest of her life.
Below deck the prisoners were like cornered rats. Some good conduct convicts, who were free of shackles, managed to set loose some of their comrades. They gathered at the foot of the steps to the upper decks.
The only escape.
But as ordered by the officers, they were held back at gunpoint by soldiers with their loaded muskets aimed down into the hold, aiming point blank at the panicking prisoners.
‘Let us up man, for the love of God,’ one convict screamed up the steps.
‘Do not mount those steps,’ a marine yelled back. ‘We will shoot, mark my words. We will shoot!’
The ship listed dramatically and the gathered convicts stumbled and fell against the wall in a crush.
Boom!
A tremendous force of water lifted the hull once more. There followed a rumbling, tearing of timbers, the sound of shredding wood. The ship plunged back onto the rocks and freezing water poured below decks.
The prisoners panicked.
A dozen men stampeded up the steps. Climbing over each other, clawing at the treads.
The armed soldiers caught unawares panicked.
Crack, crack!
The desperate prisoner nearest the marine lost the top off his head. The ball continued tearing through the shoulder of the man directly behind him.
‘Fuckers!’ another prisoner roared through lips sprayed with his mate’s guts. Another marine fired wildly. The musket ball punctured a prisoner’s chest and tore open his back as lead ripped through his body. One marine pulled his trigger but only heard the dull click as his saturated gun misfired. His powder was useless, drowned by the sea. At the same instant a cavernous hole appeared in the side of the ship. King George’s hull had succumbed to the ceaseless pounding. The ocean rushed in. It had no mercy. Hundreds drowned, trapped like vermin in the bowels of the floating prison.
With the captain dead and the few officers remaining disoriented by the furore, Nathina and the surgeon wedged themselves into the corner of a livestock pen jammed beneath the massive oak bowsprit. All they could do now was wait for the storm to subside. If there was one consolation Nathina knew, the storm must end. So they waited and the surgeon prayed once more. ‘Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …’
· · ·
Campbell Street Gaol Friday September 28th 1833 7.30am
French Frank stared at the huge plate of untouched boiled leg ham, fried eggs and fatty fried bacon just the way he loved it. There was even fresh baked bread. Not even the sugar sweetened scalded milk curd with raisins triggered his fancy.
‘Dear God,’ he prayed. ‘I hope mon ami Abb-ott knows what ’e is doing.’
7.45am
Frank’s cell door opened.
‘Time lad.’ The guard’s voice was croaky. Although he had delivered dozens of men to the gallows, it never became any easier. And besides he’d grown rather fond of the Frenchman. Frank had his hands tied behind him. He was walked to another holding cage almost under the gallows. He couldn’t see clearly, but he could hear his fellow victims in cages alongside. One prayed, one cursed and the other was silent with fear. The stink of fear hung heavy in the air. As pre-arranged by the hangman, Frank was to be first.
7.55am
French Frank stood, with his head covered by a hood, over what he knew could only be the trapdoor. His feet had trodden on the heavy hinges. Frank felt his heart thump. He could hear his heart thump. He felt it would burst from his chest. His head throbbed and his mouth was dry — so dry he couldn’t even manage enough spit to swallow. A calico bag had been pulled over his head and tied under the chin but it allowed a tiny amount of lantern light to filter through its threads. Frank felt the warmth from his own breath, trapped with him in the godforsaken sack.
Blinded, Frank’s other senses heightened. Frank smelt the hangman, a musky pheromone of excitement. He caught a whiff of port liqueur, which he had noted on the breath of the clergyman when he paid Frank a visit in his cell. Other odours challenged him but his ears identified several witnesses nearby. Then French Frank smelt the most distinctive scent of all. Lavender. The governor was present.
Bast-ard.
‘François Forboche,’ a powerful voice called his name. ‘You are here today to be punished for the crime of bushranging and causing harm to free settlers as convicted by His Majesty, King William IV’s judicial court. You are to be hanged by the neck until dead, have you any last words?’
Frank was hyperventilating. Mon dieu, he had never been so scared, so terrified in his entire miserable life. He swallowed hard, a dry, spit-less attempt. He felt his Adam’s apple rise and fall. Absurdly he had an urge to scratch the inside of his nose. His hands tied behind his back twitched. Then French Frank recognised the prison warden’s voice.
‘François Forboche, kindly answer the question. Do you have any last words?’
Frank shook his head slowly, in what he knew was a pathetic response. Frank heard Magnus Roach fumbling by the iron-handled lever that released the drop. The hangman grasped the handle firmly, spread his legs apart for balance and stance and looked to the chief gaoler for his signal.
‘Very well then.’ The gaoler looked at Magnus the hangman, and nodded silently. ‘May God bless your soul.’
French Frank clenched his jaws. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and snatched short gasps of air through grinding teeth. Later he would tell people he felt his heart stop beating as a hallucinatory euphoria washed over him.
Magnus yanked at the lever.
Instantly, the trapdoor clanked open and the world fell out from under the Frenchman’s feet. Within half a second Frank reached the end of his tether.
SNAP!
Frank’s head whiplashed back but the rope also snapped apart cleanly. Frank felt his legs swing upwards. He braced himself for the collision with the floor.
Smack!
He crashed heavily onto his back and his head cracked the timber floor. Gasps of shock from the gallery were followed by rushing footsteps hurrying down the wooden stairs leading to the base of the gallows. French Frank opened his eyes. Darkness.
Merde!
The hood held tight about Frank’s head. He gulped at the stifling stale air under its covering. He felt his heart pounding in his chest once more. He felt hands groping at the rope of the hood. He heard the surgeon’s voice, then another, more authoritative voice from above.
‘Is he alive?’
The hood was removed. The surgeon took his pulse. Franks eyes were wide in shock.
‘Yes, he’s alive,’ the surgeon answered to a gathering of the curious now peering down at him from the open trapdoor above. An element of disgust was evident in the good surgeon’s voice occasioned by the sickening act he had just witnessed.
‘Mr Roach!’
Magnus braced himself.
‘For God’s sake man what have you done?’
The hangman looked suitably surprised. He stood at the lever and scratched his head, mouth open and speechless.
‘Explain yourself.’
Magnus had committed a crime himself. He reminded himself not to be intimidated by authority, to hold it together. After all, that could be him at the end of the rope. Now it was his turn to be in the limelight and to convince these bastards that the whole kerfuffle was a huge accident.
· · ·
D’Entrecasteaux Channel Friday September 28th 7.50am
Any arrogance surgeon Byron Morrison harboured about the white man’s superiority to the black man diminished the moment Nathina dived head first from the disintegrating stern of the King George and into the terrifying sea. He crawled on his hands and knees to the angled gunwale with a dozen others to cheer her on.
The past sixteen hours had been harrowing. The trauma of watching one’s fellow men suffer horrific deaths all about them had taken its toll on the few survivors. The relentless waves eventually ripped the ship apart. Late afternoon saw a softening of the bite of the beast and by evening the wreckage was buffeted by a strong wind, no more, no less.
Then night came with an unexpected swiftness. The night brought with it stinging windswept rains as the miserable few hung onto the remaining wreckage as best they could.
By early dawn the next day the mid section and stern had been dragged back into deep water where it quickly sank — taking with it the souls of over two hundred people, most of them prisoners.
Fortunately for the blessed few, the bow section was wedged hard, caught between jagged claws of reef. Nathina wiped salt from her eyes. She strained to see into the rising sun in the direction she was certain she had seen land the day before.
‘Land!’ Nathina pointed.
Surgeon Byron Morrison could make it out also. ‘Mother Mary, it’s far. Too far to swim.’
‘Nathina swim now,’ Nathina said. She climbed onto the bowsprit, now a broken spa no more than three yards long.
‘That’s a mile, maybe more,’ the surgeon said. ‘It’s hard to tell.’
‘The tide’s comin’ in,’ a young marine noted. ‘This ’ere bow’s gunna float off, Jesus Lord help us.’ As he spoke an undulating swell gained momentum beneath them and threatened to rock the wreckage loose. The survivors held onto whatever was close.
‘Nathina,’ the surgeon said weakly. He was there to protect the girl, but truth was she was the only chance they had of survival. The chances of a passing ship were remote to say the least.
‘Fire,’ Nathina pointed once more towards the distance coast where smoke spiralled thinly from several camps.
‘Maybe whitefella,’ she nodded enthusiastically.
‘Aye,’ the marine agreed. ‘Thar be whalers all ’long this coast. They render the oil on shore. Me cousin’s seen ’em at it.’
‘Do ya reckon ya can make it?’ another voice asked Nathina hopefully.
‘Nathina swim like seal.’ Nathina shuffled her bare feet into position on the bowsprit.
‘Nathina!’ the surgeon called hopelessly. But his pathetic plea was lost as Nathina’s sleek young body sliced beneath the brooding inky water.
Nathina endured its chilly embrace about her near naked body. She swam under water several feet, and then rose to the surface for air where she broke the surface on the crest of a large swell. She gulped several mouthfuls of air and trod water looking all about her. Seaweed caressed her legs as she swam close to the reef where she had a fish-eye view of the jagged rock that had ripped King George apart. Nathina took one last look up at the surgeon and the other whitefellas. Their desperate faces were silhouetted by the morning light behind them and she reminded herself that their life was in her hands. Nathina twisted towards the coast. It looked further, much further away than it did from up on the wreck. She kicked at the water beneath her, aware that the seabed was far, far below. Then she saw seals playing. And where there are seals the sharks follow. Forcing the thought from her mind Nathina struck out for the coast; a mile away … so the whitefella guessed.
A sense of freedom immediately, overwhelmed Nathina. She felt as one with the land of her ancestors once more. She cleared her mind of the demons threatening to drag her under and pushed her fears aside; like the image of the shark that took One Eyed Ike. She took long slow strokes and kicked with her powerful legs sensing the tide was returning her towards the land. Her luck, at last, had changed.
Half an hour, one hour? Nathina didn’t understand whitefella passion for knowing the time. Blackfella, he look at the sky, she told herself. But whatever the time, she knew she was tiring. Another quarter hour transpired and finally, the shore loomed up ahead.
It was close now.
Nathina felt a relief. Soon, after nearly five months at sea, she would walk on land, her land, and away from this cold malevolent ocean. Suddenly, something brushed against her legs. Something bulky, too big for seaweed.
It struck her again. And again!
It was large. A shark! Nathina gasped in shock, sucking in water. She coughed violently. Her lungs ached and her throat burned. Nathina twisted in the water, ready to strike out. Her wide eyes darted about, expecting to see a fin. Maybe it was a dolphin. She looked towards the shore still ten yards further.
Maybe more.
Nearly there.
Another thud against her body. Whatever it was it was large. Nathina kicked off for the shore, with firm, determined, powerful strokes.
Again! This time she sensed arms reaching for her. She fought panic. The rocky coast was only a few yards away. Nathina swam with robust strokes, adrenalin pumping courage through her arteries. Abruptly something grabbed her leg. A hand! She thrashed the water about her. She felt her body being taken under. Suddenly, her feet touched rock.
Nearly there.
Nathina pushed with her feet towards shore. She was grabbed once more. This time she squealed. Not from fear but from anger. She punched the water about her with her chin barely above the surface. Spluttering, she snatched mouthfuls of air. She was groped once more. Nathina felt the creature against her. Slippery. Firm.
A hand broke the surface.
A large calloused hand. A blue hand.
Nathina pummelled the water preparing for the worst. But another hand appeared. Then the being wrapped itself about her. Nathina threw both hands beneath her. She snatched at an arm and pulled. The creature surfaced. She screamed. Looking her in the eye, face-to-face was the bloated naked body of a dead prisoner!
More tentacles rubbed against her. Nathina had swum over a kelp forest. Another dead body surfaced next to her, then another and another. It appeared dozens were caught in the kelp.
Nathina flailed about, shoving bodies aside. She felt her feet touch the bottom once more. Rocks! Nathina’s toes clawed at the slippery stones. Finally, they held and she used her sturdy legs to stride out for the shore.
A minute later and sapped of energy, Nathina dragged her body the last few feet and collapsed, enervated, onto the smooth lichen coated boulders of her island.
She had made it back home.
Eternally hungry and inquisitive gulls screeched close to Nathina. Too close. She woke with a start. Orange beaks snapped only inches from her face and eyes. Nathina sat up and shooed the birds away. Were they hungry or simply curious she wondered. Instantly, Nathina jumped to her feet. She had slept, but for how long she didn’t know. She looked to the sky. The sun was much higher than when she dragged her exhausted body ashore. She looked out to sea. Nathina could just make out the rock and movement on the ship’s remains. Energised she pushed off heading south down the coast where she had seen the whitefella smoke.
Hours later the young half naked Aboriginal girl, legs lacerated, bones aching and her throat screaming with thirst, burst into the whaler’s campsite. She staggered towards the first group of three men who stood about a smoking trypot, the stink of rendering whale blubber lost on the exhausted native. Delirious she tripped and fell into the arms of burly sailor.
‘King George fucked!’ she muttered. If the sad figure before the men had been anything besides wretched the men may have laughed.
‘King George fucked!’ she said once more.
‘I’m inclined to agree wiv ya lovey, that’s to be sure,’ a deep rich Irish accent spoke. Nathina gasped for air, she had run for several hours.
‘Get ’er water,’ someone else said.
Minutes later Nathina was able to sit upright.
‘King George …’ she started.
‘Is fucked! Yeah, we know thart lass. What’s the matter with ya?’
She was clearly distressed.
‘Ship,’ she coughed, spluttering water she had drunk greedily.
‘Ship?’
‘Whitefella ship, King George … fucked.’
‘She’s been in a shipwreck,’ another man suggested.
‘Yes, yes. King George. Ship. Rocks.’
The Irishman wasted no time. He took his spyglass from his tent and sprinted to the pinnacle of a small knoll at the edge of their camp. He panned the glass about the horizon. ‘I see it!’ he shouted. ‘There’s something on Bull Seal Rock.’
· · ·