Morgan’s Run (33 page)

“I agree,” said Richard, having tasted it. “However, it is a change from bread, so I will eat it.”

After which, windowless, womanless and cheerless, they lay down on the floor, wrapped their greatcoats about them, used their hats as pillows, and let the gently moving river rock them to sleep.

The next
morning, amid a drizzling grey rain, they were taken off Reception and loaded into an open lighter. So far nothing hideously cruel had happened to them; the guards were surly brutes, but as long as the prisoners did as they were told at the pace demanded, they kept their bludgeons to themselves. The wooden boxes were a source of curiosity, obviously, yet why had no one inspected them? On the dock they learned why. A short, rotund gentleman in an old-fashioned wig and a fusty suit came hurrying down from the ship’s remnant of a poop, hands outstretched, beaming.

“Ah, the dozen from Gloucester!” he said brightly, with an accent they would discover later was Scotch. “Doctor Meadows said ye were fine specimens, and I see he was right. My name is Mr. Campbell, and this is my idea.” His hand swept the soft rain aside in a grand gesture. “Floating prisons! So much healthier than the Newgate—than any gaol, for that matter. Ye’ve your property, yes? Good, good. ’Tis a black mark for anybody does not respect a convict’s right to his property. Neil! Neil, where are ye?”

A person who appeared enough like him to be his twin rushed from the bows of Reception down onto the dock and came to a halt with a puff. “Here, Duncan.”

“Oh good! I did not want ye to miss setting eyes on these splendid fellows. My brother is my assistant,” he explained, just as if the prisoners were real people. “However, he is responsible for Justitia and Censor at the moment—I am too busy with my dear Ceres—she is superb! Brand new! Of course ye’re going to dear Ceres—so convenient that ye’re the round dozen and in such good condition. Two teams for the two new dredges.” He actually began to prance. “Splendid, splendid!” And off he galloped, his brother bleating in his wake like a lost lamb.

“Christ! What a quiz!” said Bill Whiting.

“Tace!” barked the overseeing guard, and brought his bludgeon down with a sickening thump on Whiting’s arm. “Nah
hike!
”

That they understood; with Ike Rogers unobtrusively supporting the half-conscious Whiting, the twelve men edged, hanging on to their goods, down a flight of slimy steps to the waiting lighter.

Stretches of a low, swampy shore and misty profiles of a few ships came and went through the ghostly grey rain; collars turned up, hats oriented to cascade water onto their shoulders rather than down their necks, they sat amid their boxes, sacks and bundles. A silent crew of twelve oarsmen, six to a side, pushed the lighter off, turned it, and stroked toward the middle of the great wide river with a long, easy motion that hardly disturbed the sliding water.

There were four ships sitting one behind the other like a line of cows about three hundred yards off this south or Kentish shore. Each was moored more thoroughly than Richard had ever seen a vessel moored, even in the Kingroad of the Severn Estuary. To fix them, he thought, too firmly to allow them to swing at anchor, of which each had many on chains rather than the normal rope cables. The smallest ship was farthest upriver in London’s direction and the largest brought up the rear, with perhaps a hundred yards separating each from its neighbors in the line.

“Hospital ship Guardian—then Censor, Justitia and Ceres,” said a guard, pointing.

The lighter struck for Censor, opposite the dock, then turned to run downriver with an ebbing tide to make life easier for the oarsmen. Thus they had the chance to look at each of the three prison hulks. Travesties of ships only, mizzens long gone, mainmasts broken off forty feet aloft in cracks and splinters, foremasts more or less intact but stripped of shrouds, clothing hanging limp and wet from lines strung between each fore and main, as well as on the stays connecting the fore with a stub of bowsprit. The decks sported a shambles of wooden huts and jutting penthouses with a forest of iron chimneys kinked at all angles; more of these stood atop quarterdecks, forecastles and roundhouses. Censor and Justitia looked old enough to have gone to sea with Good Queen Bess’s fleet against the Spanish Armada—no scrap of paint left, no copper nail ungreened, no strake unchipped.

By comparison Ceres looked a mere century old; its naval black-and-yellow paint still showed in places and it had the remnant of a figurehead beneath its bowsprit, some sort of wheaty bare-breasted female a wag had finished off with bright red nipples. The gun ports of Censor and Justitia were closed fast, but those of Ceres had been removed entirely and replaced by grilles of thick iron bars which led the Bristolians, experienced in such matters, to conclude that it had two decks below the upper or surface deck—a lower deck and an orlop deck. Once a second-rate ship of the line with 90 guns, then. No cargo vessel or slaver ever owned so many ports along her sides.

How, Richard wondered, are we going to manage to get ourselves and our belongings up a rope ladder? Our chains will be our undoing. However, the ebullient Mr. Duncan Campbell had fitted his pride and joy with a flight of wooden steps attached to a bobbing landing. Box in his arms, two sacks of additionals slung over his shoulders, Richard found himself first over the side of the lighter behind a bludgeon-bearing guard, and mounted the steps to an opening in the rail sixteen feet above. Ceres had been a big second-rater.

“Gigger dubber!” roared the overseeing guard.

An important-looking but slovenly fellow emerged from between two wooden shacks picking his teeth; in the background Richard saw an occasional flick of a skirt, heard women’s voices, and realized that most of the guards must live in these ramshackle quarters.

“Ah?” asked the important-looking individual.

“Twelve convicts from Gloucester Gaol, Mr. ’Anks. Ain’t flash so don’t know the lingo. Mr. Campbell says they are the two new teams for the new dredges. No hum durdgeons among ’em, Doc says.”

“More ’icks!” said Mr. Hanks in disgust. “Nigh ’alf aboard are ’icks now, Mr. Sykes.” He turned to the prisoners. “Me name is ’Erbert ’Anks an I am the gigger dubber—gaol keeper to youse. Into the orlop wiv ’em, Mr. Sykes. An ’ere ye ain’t prisoners, ye’re convicts. Got it?”

They nodded wordlessly, trying to sort out an English wherein the th’s were pronounced as v’s and the f’s as th’s. Sort of.

“Prisoners,” Mr. Hanks went on conversationally, “ ’ave a chance to get theirselves unsnabbled. Convicts is convicts, in for the ’ole duration. ’Ere are the rules, so put yer lugs to listening ’cos they will not be said again. Visitors allowed on Sundees after the autem bawler’s service—autem is compulsory—that’s church to youse—an ain’t no autem quavers nor dippers nor cacklers of any Dissenting sort allowed. Just the King’s autem ’ere. All visitors will be searched, ’ave to lodge their blunt wiv me, an any grub they got will be confiscated. Why? ’Cos flash coves smuggle files aboard in their cakes an puddens.”

He paused to eye his auditors with a curious mixture of glee and severity; he was enjoying this. “When ye’re aboard, the orlop is ’ome. I am the only one can dub the gigger—open the door—an that don’t ’appen hoften. Up to work, down to sleep, Mondees to Sattidees. Weather permitting, youse work, an I mean youse
work.
Today, frinstance, is not a day for work ’cos the rain is too fucken ’ard. Youse eat what ye’re fed an drink what I decide. Blue tape—gin—comes very dear, an I am the only purveyor of such delights. ’Alf a borde—sixpence—a ’alf-pint.”

Another pause ensued, this time to allow Mr. Hanks to hawk and spit at their feet. “Youse mess in sixes an get yer grub from the purser. Sundees, Mondees, Wensdees, Thursdees an Sattidees the following rations are issued to each six men—one ox cheek or ox shin, three pints of pease, three pounds of vegubbles, six pounds of bread an six quarts of small beer. On Tuesdees an Fridees it is burgoo—as much aqua Thames as ye want, three pints of oatmeal wiv simples, three pounds of cheese an six pounds of bread. That is
all
ye get. If ye eat it all up at supper, ye go ’ungry an thirsty of a morning, got it? Mr. Campbell says youse ’ave to wash every day an shave every Sundee before the autem bawler comes aboard. When youse come up for work or autem, ye’ll bring yer night buckets wiv youse an empty ’em over the side. One bucket each mess. Ye are locked in, me dimber cullies, so what youse do inside I do not care hany more than Mr. Campbell do.”

His pleasure increased. “But first,” he said, squatting down while Mr. Sykes and his minions remained standing behind him, “I ’ave to cast me ogles over them boxes an bags, so dub ’em—
now!
”

This lecture having informed them that to dub was to open, the convicts unlocked their boxes, spread open their additionals.

Mr. Herbert Hanks was very thorough. By chance he commenced with the belongings of Ike Rogers and his team, whose boxes were smaller, not uniform, and in the case of the two Wiltshire lads, nonexistent. Rags he discarded, clothing he discarded, but each and every rag and item of clothing was nonetheless passed up to Mr. Sykes, who ran them between his hands and squeezed at every tiny swelling. This yielded nothing. Nor did any of the other articles appeal, evidently.

“Where’s yer money?” he demanded.

Ike looked respectfully surprised. “Sir, we have none. We have been in Gloucester Gaol for a year. The blunt got spent.”

“Huh.” Mr. Hanks turned to Richard’s team, eyes glistening. “Rum coves, eh? A lot of loot.” Out of Richard’s box and sacks came the clothing, the bottles and jars, the framed dripstone and several spares, the rags used as packing, the books, the ream of paper, the pens—very curious objects!—and two spare pairs of shoes. He held the shoes up and studied them in disappointment, shrugged at the equally disappointed Mr. Sykes. “Ain’t for nothing ye’re called clodhoppers. No one here got feet that size, cully, even Long Joyce. What is this, then?” he asked, displaying a bottle.

“Oil of tar, Mr. Hanks.”

“An what is this contraption?”

“A dripstone, sir. I use it to filter my drinking water.”

“Water is already filtered in ’ere. Got a big strainer under every pump. What’s yer name, big feet?”

“Richard Morgan.”

He snatched a list from one of Mr. Sykes’s offsiders and cast his ogles over it; read he could, but painfully. “Not any more it ain’t. From now on, Morgan, ye’re convict number two ’unnerd an three.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A booky cove, I note.” Mr. Hanks riffled through the pages of a few in search of salacious etchings or erotic prose, then laid each one down with a frustrated slap. “An what’s this?”

“A tonic, sir, to cure boils.”

“An this?”

“A salve, sir, for cuts and ulcers.”

“Shite, ye’re an apothecary’s shop! Why’d ye bring all this clutter?” He removed the cork from the bottle of tonic and sniffed suspiciously. “Aaaaaagh!” He slammed it down on the deck and let its cork roll away. “Smells bad enough to come from the river.”

Expression unconcerned, Richard stood while the head gaoler picked up the empty box, shook it to hear if it rattled, rapped all four sides, top and bottom. After which he felt every seam of the sacks. Nothing. He appropriated Richard’s better razor, the strop and whetstone, and Richard’s best pair of stockings. Then he moved on to Will Connelly’s box and bag. Very quietly and unobtrusively Richard knelt to retrieve his tonic, cork it and put it to one side. A glance at Mr. Sykes told him that he was probably expected to repack his things at this juncture, so he nodded to the immobile Rogers and began his task. Rogers and the youngsters followed suit.

Finished with the twelve of them, Mr. Hanks exuded pleasure. “Right, now where’s yer coach wheels? Where’s yer blunt, cullies?”

“Sir, we have none,” said Neddy Perrott. “We have been in gaol for a year and there were women. . . .” He trailed off apologetically.

“Pockets inside out!”

Every coat pocket was empty save Richard’s, Bill’s, Neddy’s and Will’s, stuffed full of books.

“Dowse yer toges—take ’em off!” snapped Mr. Hanks.

Off came greatcoats and suit coats; Mr. Sykes felt over every inch of every one. “Nowt,” he said, grinning.

“Frisk ’em, Mr. Sykes.”

This they interpreted as an order to search their persons; Mr. Sykes proceeded to feel their bodies, with obvious enjoyment when he groped around genitals and buttocks. “Nowt,” he said, exchanging a look of keen anticipation with Mr. Hanks.

“Dowse yer kicks an bend over,” said Mr. Hanks in a resigned but quivering voice. “Though I am warning youse! If Mr. Sykes ’ere finds any coach wheels up yer arses, ye’ll wash ’em in yer blood.”

Mr. Sykes was brutally, lingeringly efficient. The four young men and Joey Long wept in pain and humiliation, the others endured it without exclamation or evident discomfort. “Nowt,” said Mr. Sykes. “Fucken nowt—not nuffink, Mr. ’Anks.”