The World Duology (World Odyssey / Fiji: A Novel) (11 page)

17

Atlantic Ocean, 1848

O
ne day out from England,
Minstrel
struck a mighty storm which, after one unrelenting week, was showing no signs of waning. All the passengers and most of the crew were continually seasick. Even the captain appeared to be under the weather, although in truth that had more to do with his heavy drinking.

Like many
on board, Susannah had hardly eaten since leaving Plymouth. What little food she had forced herself to eat, she’d quickly lost overboard. Drake Senior was faring a little better, although he, too, was decidedly off color.

As t
he storm continued to rage and
Minstrel
was tossed about like a cork in the mountainous seas, many of the passengers feared for their lives. Drake Senior led the brigantine’s God-fearing passengers in prayer, praying for a safe journey. Meanwhile, the roast lamb the captain had promised to celebrate his birthday never eventuated as no-one felt like eating or celebrating.

Fast though
Minstrel
was, she sat low in the sea and took on water whenever a high sea was running. The stench of bilgewater in her hold was evident from the second day and hadn’t let up since, adding to the feelings of nausea being experienced by those on board. None of the passengers realized they’d be living with that stench for the next six months.

One day rolled into another.
Though Susannah was ill, she still religiously attended to her diary entries. Perched on the edge of her bunk, rolling with the violent motion of the ship to keep her balance, she wrote in her diary.

April 26
th
, 1848

Yesterd
ay was a day to forget…and today is going the same way. The storm seems determined to finish us off. All but the hardiest passengers remain confined to their bunks. Seasickness has spread through Minstrel like some contagious disease. This has not been helped by the ever-present stench of bilgewater.

Our journey thus far has been miserable. It started out in the worst possible fashion with the Jensens losing their week-old baby. The poor little boy contracted pneumonia and received a burial at sea. It was the first such service funeral papa had conducted, and he hopes the last.

To make matters worse, Captain Mathers has been drinking steadily since the 22
nd
. He claims he’s under doctor’s orders to partake of a gram of whisky every hour on the hour. I believe he may be telling the truth for, regrettably, the ship’s doctor is an alcoholic himself and I have yet to see him sober.

Thank God the first mate, Cornishman Fred Paxton, is a sensible man and a moderate drinker by all accounts. He is constantly at loggerheads with the captain. If we survive this journey, I suspect it will be because of the sensibilities of Mr Paxton.

The one piece of good news is the wind is coming from the north, so we are hastening toward our first stopover. 8 knots. Bad storm. A curse on this seasickness.

Susannah closed her diary just as Drake Senior burst into the stateroom. He was drenched to the bone and looked wild-eyed.

“Papa, what is it?” Susannah asked.

Drake Senior removed his soaked jacket, hung it over a rail and sat down on his bunk, his head in his hands. “We have just lost a crewman overboard,” he mumbled, shaking.

“Oh, dear God.”

“I saw it happen and I was powerless to help him.”

Susannah climbed off her bunk and staggered unsteadily toward her father as the brigantine lurched over the crest of one wave and down into the trough of another. Drake Senior put out his hand to steady his daughter. She sat down next to him.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“It was one of the riggers. He fell from the foremast. The first mate threw a line to him, but he was swept away.”

They sat in silence for several long moments, thinking about the dangers the storm posed. Their journey had not started at all well.

“Two deaths and we have only been at sea a week,” Susannah said.

Drake Senior looked at her and managed a smile. “It can only get better,” he suggested hopefully.

Susannah managed a smile
, too. She knew there was some truth in what her father said.
Things can’t get much worse
.

“We should pray,” Drake Senior said.

Susannah nodded.

Father and daughter knelt down before Drake Senior’s bunk and bowed their heads. The clergyman prayed aloud for the lost rigger’s soul and for the safety of everyone on board.

#

One week later, as Drake Senior had promised, the storm abated; and a week after that, beneath gloriously sunny skies,
Minstrel
approached Santa Cruz de Tenerife, one of the largest towns in the Canary Islands and one of the most strategically important ports in the entire Atlantic Ocean.

The Drakes and all the other passengers crowded onto the brigantine’s deck to enjoy the occasion. All were impressed by the island’s beauty – in particular the majestic mountain range known as Macizo de
Anaga that dominated the north eastern side of Tenerife.

To everyone’s surprise, Captain Mathers emerged from below deck in time to take charge of the vessel’s arrival in port. Even more surprisingly, he was sober for once. In a quiet moment, the first mate confid
ed that was typical of Mathers. It seemed the captain had a habit of sobering up long enough to impress the authorities at any new port his ship entered before reverting to his old habits.

“We’ll be here twenty-
four hours,” Mathers announced gruffly. “That’ll be long enough to take on fresh water and stores. Departure time will be fourteen hundred hours tomorrow. Anyone not here by then will be left behind.”

The passengers suspected the captain wasn’t joking. The crew, or
at least those who had sailed with him before,
knew
he wasn’t joking. Only the previous year, he’d left a passenger marooned on an island stopover en route to India – all because the man hadn’t reported in on time; the irate passenger had been picked up on the return voyage by an unrepentant Mathers. The passenger had complained that he’d only been an hour late, but Mathers had remained unmoved.

The Drakes and most of the other passengers went ashore to sample the delights of
Santa Cruz de Tenerife. Susannah was intrigued by the exotic markets and the bargains on offer – many of them from the African continent whose western edge, she knew, lay over the eastern horizon. She was moved to comment also on the Spanish architecture that was so prominent.

Drake Senior was most intrigued by the island’s prosperity. Over the centuries, its inhabitants had clearly made the most of its location on the sailing route between the
Mediterranean and the Americas.

#

That night, after dining in a Berber restaurant, the Drakes returned to
Minstrel
well satisfied by their time ashore. As they stepped foot onto the brigantine in the company of other returning passengers, they were greeted by a commotion coming from below deck. The sounds of men swearing and shouting reached them.

Drake Senior turned to Susannah. “You stay here, my dear.” He walked toward the steerage to go below deck to investigate, but found his way barred by the Swedish second mate, Sven Svenson.

“It would not be wise to go below just now, Reverend,” Svenson said.

“What is the trouble?” Drake Senior asked.

“Some of the passengers have been drinking and there has been some fighting,” Svenson explained. “The captain and first mate are trying to sort it out now.”

“Oh, I see. Unfortunate business.”

#

Later, in their stateroom, the Drakes prepared to retire for the night. They were both somewhat shaken after seeing carnage left below deck following the brawl. One passenger had commented it were as though a mighty hurricane had swept through
Minstrel’s
interior.

Drake Senior bade Susannah a good night as he pulled th
e dividing curtain across, effectively splitting the room in half.

“Goodnight, papa,” Susannah said. Then, as she
’d done every night thus far, she entered the day’s main events into her diary.

May 10
th
, 1848

Today, we enjoyed two major milestones: our first sunny day and our first day ashore in three weeks. The sunshine was a treat after so many cold and stormy days.

The Canary Islands were a sight for sore eyes, and papa and I, and indeed, most of the other passengers enjoyed a delightful time ashore at Santa Cruz de Tenerife.

Unfortunately, the day was spoiled by an incident aboard ship as we returned. Apparently, the suspected felon, John Donovan, had clashed with a fellow Irishman, young Michael Kelleher.

Mr Kelleher is a Dublin journalist and, by all accounts, something of a prankster. They had both had too much alcohol and what started as a scuffle developed into an all out brawl as other passengers and even some crewmembers took sides. The fighting began in the saloon and spilled out into the passageway. It was quite vicious too with bottles and stools being used as weapons. Two men were knocked out and one poor crewman was stabbed in the face with a broken bottle.

I fear the infirmary will be busy for the next few days. I just hope our good doctor can remain sober long enough to treat his latest patients. Fortunately, there were no children around during the brawl. Those children still on board had wisely been confined to their cabins.

We heard the captain, first mate and three other crewmen were trying to restore order, but they were heavily outnumbered. Ultimately, they could do nothing but wait for the fighting to run its course, which it eventually did. When Mr Mathers considered it was safe for those of us waiting up top to proceed below deck, he sent word to us. On making our way to our respective quarters, we were alarmed by the carnage we found below deck. There was blood, broken bottles and upturned tables everywhere.

The main troublemakers, including both Irishmen, were locked in separate parts of the hold to sober up. We learned they will be tried on board when Minstrel sets sail tomorrow. Mr Kemp has threatened to put them ashore if they do not promise to behave for the remainder of our voyage.  I hope they are fined heavily at the very least.

Tomorrow we depart for Bata, in Equatorial Guinea.  I welcome the prospect of continuing warm temperatures although our captain warns we may be praying for cold weather before long.

18

Parramatta
, New South Wales, 1840

D
awn was breaking when Jack came round. He found he was draped over the back of a horse being ridden by one of two Red Coats who were escorting him back to Parramatta.

Along the way, they passed groups of convicts heading out
for another day’s hard work. Those who recognized Jack offered words of encouragement. The would-be escapee was too battered and bruised to respond.

At Parramatta
, Jack was frog-marched to the office of Henry Gallows, the settlement’s sadistic senior official. Here, while he waited for Gallows to finish breakfast, he was given a dressing down by a senior guard.

“If Mister Gallows spares your life, you’ll receive a flogging to remember, I can promise
ye that, Halliday,” the guard promised.

#

The sun was high in the morning sky before Gallows finally appeared. He used a napkin to wipe egg from his chin as he surveyed Jack in silence. Finally, he said, “Mister Halliday, you have given me a dilemma. Do you know what that dilemma is, Mister Halliday?”

Jack shook his head, indicating he didn’t.

“I should hang you for trying to escape, but my guards tell me you have a strong back and can do the work of two men,” Gallows continued. “Completing the road to Sydney Town is more important to me than sparing your worthless life, so I shall spare you…this time”

Jack didn’t react, but inwardly he felt immense relief. He was sure he’d be hung.

“However,” Gallows added, “I need to make an example of you, or the others will think I’ve gone soft.” He leaned closer to Jack. “I’m going to have you flogged to within an inch of your life.”

#

At dusk, as another working day ended, the other convicts returned to the settlement. They were ordered to assemble in the central courtyard where they were greeted by the sight of a naked Jack who was tied to a whipping post. He’d been there under the hot sun since early afternoon, and his back and buttocks were badly sunburned. The sunburn couldn’t hide the faded marks of previous floggings.

Gallows stood behind
Jack. He was flanked by senior Army officers, and behind them, the settlement’s official flogger waited with his trusty cat-o’-nine-tails in hand. The flogger was a bare-chested, muscular chap who relished his job and who had long-since lost count of the number of convicts he’d flogged. 

The convicts had had their working day curtailed so they could witness Jack’s punishment while it was still daylight. As soon as they were assembled, Gallows addressed them.

“This sorry individual,” Gallows said glancing at Jack, “tried to escape last night. As you can see, like all before him, he failed.” Gallows waited for his words to sink in. “For this transgression, he will receive three hundred lashes.”

Gasps c
ame from the convicts. It was common knowledge that three hundred lashes had finished off many a strong man.

On hearing his sentence, Jack didn’t
outwardly react, but inwardly he cringed.
Dear God have mercy on my soul
. Twice now he’d received two hundred lashes, and each time he’d taken weeks to fully recover. On both occasions, the flesh had been literally torn from his back, which remained scarred to this day. How he’d survive three hundred lashes he wasn’t quite sure.

Gallows nodded to the flogger who stepped forward and, as was his habit, cracked his whip to test it. Satisfied, he proceeded to deliver Jack’s punishment.

With each crack of the whip, a young, pasty-faced English soldier counted off the lashes. “One, two, three...” The young soldier, a new recruit and recent arrival in the colony, could hardly watch as the flogger went about his work. Having never witnessed a flogging before, he was perilously close to fainting and had to steel himself to remain upright.

As each lash was delivere
d, Jack flinched involuntarily – such was its impact. Determined to block out the pain, he conjured up a mental picture of past lovers, or those he could recall at least. Then he recounted the different sexual positions he’d enjoyed with them. Finally, he graded each lover from one to ten, giving points for good looks, shapely legs, kissing technique, inventiveness and, last but not least, breast size. The butcher’s wife won this little contest, but Mary O’Brien, with her large melons, was a close second.

When the soldier’s count reached one hundred, the pain left Jack incapable of rational thought. He let his mind go blank.   

#

Dusk was fading to night
as the count reached two hundred. Jack was barely conscious. His back was a bloody mess. Even the flogger was splattered in blood. Gallows had stepped back a few paces to avoid being splattered.

Still the count continued, “Two hundred and one, two hundred and two, two hundred and three...”
the pasty-faced young soldier recited hoarsely. By now he was so close to fainting, he visibly swayed on his feet.

Seeing his plight, a
senior officer standing close by dismissed the soldier and took over the count. In the change-over, he missed counting two lashes, thereby condemning Jack to an additional two.

#

By the time the count reached three hundred, Jack was unconscious and darkness had fallen. Despite the large gathering of men, the compound was deathly silent. No-one spoke or moved.

It was Gallows who finally broke the silence. “Take him to his quarters,” he ordered
.

Two soldiers untied Jack and dragged him away. Looking on, the assembled convicts couldn’t be sure whether he was alive or dead.