Bitter Eden (45 page)

Tiny sparrow-sized petrels followed the wake of the George III feasting on crumbs and leavings from the galley. There wasn't a seaman aboard who didn't watch for the presence of the petrels. As long as they were about, the superstitious crew were happy and confident. The ship petrels followed was a ship with good wind to fill her sails. Legend had it that the birds, each representing the soul of a mariner, were under the protection of the Virgin Mary.

In October they were hit by their first storm. The George HI wallowed in the heavy seas, her timbers creaking so loudly the trapped prisoners feared each heave of the ship was the last they were to know. The candles were put out and the prisoners huddled, clinging to their bunks so as not to be tossed upon each other. The sounds of raging winds and the harsh crash of the green water sea on the George Ill's hull were magnified in the prison chamber. Mingled with the horrifying sounds of rampaging nature were the belly-twisting moans of men sick, sick with the rolling sea and sick with the fetid air and the poor grade of salt pork and water they subsisted on. The horrible odors emanating from the prison engulfed the ship. Alarmed and fearful of losing his half guineas, the ship's surgeon ordered the convicts taken to the cattle pen more frequently. Carefully counting as the ragged beasts were led from the prison barricade, the surgeon toted the guineas he'd receive from those still living at the end of the voyage.

The reason he was sent on deck did not matter to Peter. He threw his head back, his eyes and mouth open to the tumultuous sky, breathing as deeply and fully as he could. Then the sea itself caught his eye, and he stared in awe-filled fascination. The ocean was

alight with phosphorescent patches glowing eerily in evidence of nature's mysterious powers.

Though the sight of the ocean entranced Peter, this was one of the most dangerous parts of the voyage. Squalls were frequent and often followed by dead calms. In a powerless ship, sitting on an endless expanse with the pitch softening in the hull seams, and the ship creaking as though she must break apart at any moment, the crew's wjitch for the tiny wind-bearing petrels was conducted in earnest.

By the end of October, the heat and the stench preyed heavily on the tempers of the men cooped up in prison. Peter was in his hunched position, pacing the small room. His hands were across his stomach in an effort to alleviate the nauseating cramping that afflicted them all. He seemed better when he moved about. Taller than the cage, and not feeling well to start, he was tense and angry with frustration.

Jemmy Ripley, a wizened, mean little man transported for life for thievery, and for practicing a poor hand of forgery, had a quill he had sharpened to a needle-fine point. For the mean sport that boredom gives birth to, he jabbed the quill into Peter's ribs at each passing. With the fifth passage and unheeded warning, Peter grabbed the man by his ragged shirt-front, propelling him from his bunk. He shook the man furiously like a squalling pup, then took the quill, scratching Jemmy with it until he had raised bloody welts on the man's face and arms. He let the man go, dropping him to the planking in a screaming heap. Peter took the quill and returned to his bunk. Jemmy lay on the floor, a stream of sobbing curses coming from his thin lips. Peter shoved the quill into one of the cracks of the oak planks and closed his eyes and ears against the sight and sound of the wretched man.

Once Peter was safely tucked away and out of arm's

reach, Jemmy ran to the cage loop shouting and moaning for the sentry.

The sentry peeked into the cage to see what the commotion was. He had orders from the surgeon to take any man from the prison if he seemed too weak or ill, but it was difficult to tell which of the sly creatures was truly ill and which was feigning to get himself an easy stay in the ship's hospital. At first the sentry thought the babbling little man was just another malingerer.

"Thievery! There's been a thievery in here!" Jemmy cried.

The sentry gave him a baleful look and began to close the port. Jemmy let out a howl of pure agony. "Owww, sir! The bloody bastard has done me harm. Me arm. Don't think I can move it, sir. Help! He attacked me. Can't breathe, sir!"

The sentry turned away, but the port remained open. He stood immobile and silent outside the prison until a commissioned officer granted him permission to speak to the convict.

The wizened little Jemmy, his eyes sly and hateful, waited patiently, moaning pathetically on occasion to keep the sentry's attention. He knew his game; it was a brutal one the prisoners often played against one another. Finally the sentry received permission to speak to the convict, and the story he heard was a fantastic exaggeration of the truth. Without question the sentry accepted Jemmy's version of the brutish attack by the prisoner Berean, and the subsequent theft of the precious quill—Jemmy's only possession, a gift from his dear ailing father, no doubt the last gift he'd ever receive for the old man was not long for this earth.

Jemmy's friends laughingly confirmed his tale. Peter refused to speak. The quill was found where Jemmy said Peter had hidden it.

The sentry took the quill from the planking, then looked critically at the comparative size of Peter and Jemmy, who was hunched up to make himself look near to a dwarf. The sentry knew, as did all the soldiers and guards, that Peter was marked as a bad conduct man from the hulks. He had also been involved in several mass fights aboard ship, and had once struck at a sentry through a closed port.

The offense was considered serious, more so because of the man involved. Word was passed to the proper authorities. Both the ship's master and the surgeon agreed that Peter had committed a punishable crime that should be noted on his record. They also acknowledged, privately and to themselves, that he had committed it at the most propitious time. Due to the poor wind conditions and the tense atmosphere mutiny was a thing to be feared by the ship's master. It was time the crew, the convicts, and even the passengers were diverted from their fearful imaginings of being stuck forever upon a vast sea. It was particularly important that the convicts should see what could come to them should they be inclined to turn their brutish minds to riot or pirating of the ship.

On the advice of the ship's surgeon and the ship's mate—all that was required to have a man flogged— the punishment of Peter Berean was ordered.

All the convicts knew what was afoot long before it happened. The close-packed prison hummed with speculation as to what would be done with Peter. On deck during the exercise period men gathered in clusters, more animated than at any other time since they had boarded ship. Small wagers of tobacco and treasure they had managed to secure were placed. Others made tentative plans. Should the Berean man get off free for his offense, perhaps the captain was a man from whom privilege could be extracted. Some made

so bold as to suggest that he might be a man from whom a ship could be wrested. Ahead of them lay South America, a vast land in which to disappear provided one could land there.

Four mornings after the incident, Pete: was called from the prison and held in the ship's hospital as the other convicts were herded out on deck. His arms secured behind him, he stood waiting between two armed sentries. No one had told him what was going to be done to him, but from the talk in the prison he knew it could be anything from hanging to flogging. There were moments when he hoped it would be hanging. It would be over then. No more endless days. No more hoping for what could never be again. No more humiliation. No more fear.

Then, as if to mock himself, he began to shiver. Neither his pride nor his willpower could stem the quaking that shook him. He didn't want to die. He was young and strong and he loved life. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right that it should all be taken from him. He wanted to live with such a hunger that it shivered inside of him and made him cry at night for just one more day.

At a signal from the deck, the guards took his arms. Peter was surprised to find that they were dragging him. His body was no longer his own. He pulled back against the pressure of the guards, his mind telling him there was no point in fighting it; and yet his body fought on its own, detaching itself from good sense, recoiling from whatever abuse would soon befall it.

Peter was stood near the main mast facing the gathered assembly: the crew, the passengers, and the convicts. Above him the tropic sun blazed. The deck shimmered, and the faces he saw in the crowd glistened and swam before him. He heard the voice of the captain reading the accusation and the punishment,

and yet he didn't hear. It was all a buzz, loud and melting with the sensual impressions of the coarse rope around his wrists, and the hot fiery sun and the rocking motion of the deck beneath his feet.

One of the crewmen detached himself from the others. In his hand he held the cat-o'-nine-tails used for such punishments. He said something, and the sentries moved. One untied Peter's wrists and placed some new kind of attachment on them. Peter looked from one gawking face to another. Convicts he had known looked back at him, sympathy in their eyes. Others had smirks on their faces, pleased. Lacy kerchiefs daintily covered the noses and mouths of some of the gentlemen settlers. Women tittered, watching from the corners of their eyes, but watching nonetheless with an eagerness that was feral and primitive.

The other sentry walked around Peter, placed his hand on his shoulder indicating Peter should face the mast. Peter stood dumbly, staring at the sentry; then all of it came rushing together in one great, blinding rage—Rosalind's death, Natalie, the trial, Newgate, the hulks, the prison ship. In a quick reasonless flash he saw the similarity to the bear baitings at county fairs, the dancing, shouting revelers at the Tyburn Tree while men hanged, the greedy crowds who fought over the hanged man's clothes and bought pieces of the rope with which he was hanged. He jerked his arms tight against himself, breaking the guard's hold. He knew he was shouting, but he didn't know what words he said. He screamed at them, his anger ferocious and righteous although all but unintelligible.

The sentries were joined by several soldiers. They surrounded the single man in the middle, squared off by the main mast shouting that he was a man, made by God, not to be put on exhibition like a crazed animal. Yet to all he looked like a crazed animal. His eyes

were wild; his pale flaxen hair swirled like a battle flag around his head as he leapt and dodged, his fists swinging at any who came near him. His dark eyes were animal eyes, trapped and vicious, wanting to kill his pursuers.

The guards milled about, under orders not to shoot him, yet not knowing quite how to seize the flailing, angered man. Much as Peter did, they darted in and out, trying to grab hold of the ropes that flew wildly from his arms, and missing as he kicked them, or swung a huge fist with all the force of his body.

The passengers of the George III were vastly amused. They hadn't expected such a grand entertainment. The ladies squealed in prettily designed yelps of fear. The men puffed up their lace-bedecked chests ready to defend their women. The convicts whooped and hollered, some with encouragement, some with abuse at the ineffectual military, some at the world in general.

Finally it was a seaman who solved the problem. Quietly and with little ado he and the second mate took an old fishing net and slung it over Peter. Quickly other men grabbed the ends of the net and wound it around him. Peter was bound like a great fighting fish beached and struggling on the deck.

With a great deal more care this time, the guards held him hand and foot. They moved him back to the main mast. He was hauled to his feet, his arms stretched until he was standing on tiptoe; then he was secured to the mast. His feet were spread wide and fastened. Behind him he heard the whoops and catcalls of the convicts all but drowning out the bravos and polite clapping of the passengers.

And then there was quiet. Into the stillness came the captain's voice. Twenty lashes would be added to the twenty he had already prescribed for the theft of

the quill. Then the captain noted that he was being most lenient for he could easily have had Peter hanged, or given as many as four hundred lashes, which had been done often enough in the past. With relish and detail he told the convicts and the crew what came of a man after four hundred lashes. If he lived at all, he lived as a cripple, his back and muscle having been reduced to pulp. Last he reminded them that Peter could have been condemned for blasphemy. He had used God's name in his rantings.

Finally he gave the order to begin. The shirt was stripped from Peter's back. The crewman wielding the cat-o'-nine-tails drew back his arm. Peter didn't even hear the sound of the whip in the air. He hardly felt it until his body smashed up against the mast with the impact. And then he began to feel. His back was on fire. His mouth was bleeding where he had chewed it His face was battered and bleeding from being thrown against the mast with each blow. He couldn't hear the number of lashes being called out for his own screaming. He couldn't remember when it had begun and he didn't know when it ended. In his mind it went on and on. The voices changed. The sounds were different. But the lash stroke kept falling, and the screaming grew louder until finally that was all there was.

Peter was taken from the deck, carried by three guards to the ship's hospital. The convicts who watched were now quiet, their eyes downcast and docile. The ship's crew was silent; men returned to their duties with faces lined in thought. The punishment was successful. The passengers had something to talk of, the crew had something to think about, and the convicts had been shown again what came of even the strongest and most outspoken of them.

Chapter 32

Two months from the beginning of the voyage, they passed Martin Voz and the island of Trinidad. Peter's back was nearly healed and itching against the coarse irritating fabric of his prison shirt. He found he cared about very little now. Memories seemed like dreams, somehow real and yet not real. He looked out from the cattle pen at the continents and islands he had once exuberantly told Stephen they would one day travel, to decide at leisure if the Berean brothers approved or not. Those days of boyish daydreaming and bragging seemed so long ago, almost like a story he had read and couldn't quite remember. He had had the whole world then. It seemed that nothing could stop him. All he had had to do was put his hand at a task and it was successful before he had even begun. It was impossible to think that it was all gone, for he couldn't begin to comprehend how its loss had come about. One day he had been a prosperous hop farmer, his son born an American, and he and Rosalind . . . he and Rosalind. His mind slid to the bedroom, their bedroom from whose windows he could look out and