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Title: Botany Bay
Coauthor: Nordhoff, Charles (1887-1947)
Coauthor: Hall, James Norman (1887-1951)
Date of first publication: 1941
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Stockholm: Continental Book Company AB, 1942
   [Clipper Books]
   [same number of pages (374) as the US first edition]
Date first posted: 7 September 2018
Date last updated: 7 September 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1562

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

The map of Australia in the printed edition could not be
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it, however, in the HTML and EPUB versions.






BOTANY BAY

by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall





DEDICATION

    George Mackaness, Esq., M.A., Litt.D., James Coutts
    Scholar, University of Sydney, Research Scholar, University of
    Melbourne, Sydney, Australia.


    DEAR DR. MACKANESS:--

    Permit us to dedicate this book to you as a small acknowledgment
    of the pleasure and profit we have derived from your researches
    in the field of early Australian history.

    As you will see, our story is what might be called a romance of
    the First Fleet, in which, for dramatic effect, we have been
    obliged to take certain liberties in the matter of dates,
    incidents, and the like; but our purpose throughout has been to
    keep close to fact with respect to First Fleet events.

    We hope that you may find some entertainment in following this
    furrow over an almost untilled field in the realm of historical
    fiction.

    Sincerely yours,
    J. N. H.      C. N.

    SAUSALITO, CALIFORNIA,
    _April 22nd, 1941_




TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I. Tom Oakley
  II. At Garth's Farm
  III. Newgate Prison
  IV. Transportation for Life
  V. Mortimer Thynne
  VI. Phoebe and Doris
  VII. The First Fleet
  VIII. Aboard the _Charlotte_
  IX. Botany Bay
  X. The Felon Pioneers
  XI. Sentenced to Pinchgut
  XII. Goodwin's Homecoming
  XIII. The Upper Hawkesbury
  XIV. Sally
  XV. The Second Fleet
  XVI. Garth's Vengeance
  XVII. The Riot at the Guardhouse
  XVIII. The American Brig
  XIX. Escape
  XX. A Thousand Leagues
  XXI. The Parting at Snapeness
  XXII. At Tower Hill Gardens
  XXIII. "To Be Hung on Monday"
  XXIV. The Hanging Chapel
  XXV. Newgate Street
  Epilogue




BOTANY BAY




CHAPTER I. TOM OAKLEY


It has been a glorious day of Australian spring, without a cloud in the
sky; the air cool enough to be bracing, yet warm enough in the afternoon
to permit taking my ease, here in the shade of my favourite tree. The
long, narrow lagoon is just below me, where I can watch the black swan
and other waterfowl moving about the wind-flawed surface, and Arthur's
cattle approaching in groups to quench their thirst, or to stand
knee-deep in the cool water they seem reluctant to quit. The sun is
halfway down; toward the west, the green, gently rolling downs stretch
away as far as the eye can reach.

For many miles in that direction the land is my son's. His house stands
on a knoll overlooking the still water and timbered bottom land. It is a
dwelling of the pioneer sort, such as my ancestors erected two hundred
years ago in Maryland. Rude the house is, but solid and comfortable,
with flower beds in front and a fine kitchen garden at the back which my
daughter-in-law has laid out with her own hands. Smoke is rising from
the chimney, for she and Sally are busy at their baking. The corn stands
tall and green in the fenced field below the house. This red soil,
blessed in normal years with an abundant rainfall, grows wheat as
bountifully as the best land on the Potomac, and when left untilled to
produce its native grasses it will support three hundred and fifty sheep
to the square mile. With limitless tracts of such land, the future of
New South Wales seems bright indeed, yet only forty-three years since
there was not a white man on the Australian Continent.

I can recollect, as though it had happened yesterday, how the convicts
were disembarked in Sydney Cove, and how a village of tents sprang up on
both shores of the little bay. Sydney is a thriving town in these days,
with busy streets, shops and warehouses of stone, and a forest of masts
along the waterfront. It is strange to reflect that I was one of the
first boatload of Englishmen to set foot on the shores of the cove. It
has been my misfortune, or good fortune perhaps, to live in an era of
mighty changes: the war which freed the American Colonies from British
rule, the revolution in France, the efforts of Napoleon Bonaparte to
make himself master of Europe, and the end of Spain's empire in the New
World. Though unimportant by comparison, the greatest event in which I
have played a part has been the settlement of New South Wales.

Australia has a character of its own and is beginning to breed a race of
men upon whom that character is stamped indelibly. Though first settled
by convicts, it is by nature a land of freedom, of bright sunlight and
vast plains and mountain ranges. Yet it is a harsh land, where only the
strong can survive. Our vegetation, inured to storm and drought, is the
hardiest in the world, and men must share this hardihood. The sons of
Australia are wanderers, adventurers, and pioneers.

My own children are widely scattered. One of my younger sons is a sea
captain and the other a farmer in Tasmania. My daughter, Sarah, is
married to the son of Tom Oakley and lives in Sydney, where her husband
is a partner in the prosperous firm of Thynne and Oakley, printers,
engravers, and stationers. My oldest boy, Arthur Phillip Tallant, named
for the governor whose memory all Australians revere, lives here at
Beaumont Downs, already spoken of as one of the most promising stations
in the Colony.

It is strange to contrast the life here with that I knew as a boy, on
the Potomac. Like the estates of the American planters, Arthur's home is
self-sufficing, though in a simpler and ruder way. Beef and mutton are
in abundance, and wild game; bread is baked from corn grown on my son's
land. Potatoes, onions, and cabbages flourish on the bottom land; good
cheer and hearty appetites make up for what we lack of the more refined
table, and polished manners, of Maryland. In place of Negro slaves, my
son's farmhands are assigned convicts and a few young men from our local
tribe of blackfellows.

Like his men, Arthur spends half of his life in the saddle, mustering
his cattle at the proper seasons, and waging warfare on those inveterate
fanciers of mutton, the dingoes. He contrives to keep order among his
somewhat turbulent men because he is the best of the lot. It is
remarkable to see what he has done for some of his assigned convicts:
what with firm but humane treatment, hard exercise in the open air, and
an abundance of wholesome food, their self-respect, if they have ever
possessed that quality, returns to them. Some become fine horsemen,
skilled at handling the stock; hearty, jovial fellows, from whose faces
the hangdog expression is banished, who look forward to the day when
they shall be free to farm, or to breed sheep or cattle for themselves.
You must recollect that many of these men have been transported for the
most trivial offenses, under the savage laws which are a disgrace to
England. Men have been transported to New South Wales--some of them boys
of fourteen or fifteen--for stealing a gamecock, two pounds of sugar, or
a pair of stockings. To treat such offenders as hardened criminals and
to consider them incapable of response to just and humane treatment are
crimes in themselves. If I speak for the convicts, and lay claim to some
understanding of their thoughts and character, it is because I myself
have been one of them.

The tutor Arthur has had assigned to instruct his four young children is
a case in point. He is an Irishman and a scholar, a witty, agreeable
fellow, whom every member of the family loves. For what offense he was
transported I have never inquired, nor do I wish to know. He may have
fought a duel and killed his man, or, like so many of his countrymen,
have become involved in seditious practices. Yet my grandchildren will
live to look back upon their mentor with deep gratitude. It is strange
that this scholar should love Beaumont Downs as I do. He knows every
bird and beast of the countryside, and the name of every tree and
wildflower; when we take the dogs out to hunt kangaroo, no man joins
more whole-heartedly in the chase. And Sally and I, in spite of our
years, still love to follow the hounds.

More than a month has passed since we drove out from the Hawkesbury,
over the remarkable road constructed by Surveyor Evans. We traversed the
region which baffled successive exploring parties until 1813, when
Blaxland, Lawson, and Wentworth crossed the Nepean River and ascended
the Dividing Range. On attaining the summit, they gazed with
astonishment and delight at the distant Fish River, and the wide, green
Bathurst Plains. They had discovered an Empire.

My son Arthur, then twenty years of age, was of their party and resolved
upon the spot to establish himself in this rich pastoral region as soon
as it should be opened to settlement. During the eighteen years which
have passed since that day, Arthur has proved that the pioneer strain in
our blood is far from extinct; he has made for himself, in what was a
wilderness, the home he now wishes his mother and me to share.

I have discussed the matter with Sally, my wife, and we shall comply
with Arthur's wishes. We have already chosen a site for the small house
we shall build, here beneath this great tree, on the high bank
overlooking the lagoon. It may seem odd that a man of seventy should be
planning a new home, but my back is still straight and I may be good for
another twenty years. As for my Sally, she might be forty, instead of
sixty-one. The truth is that we are weary of our farm and shall abandon
it to an overseer. The country thereabouts is becoming as tame as
England; we feel hemmed in by our neighbours and cannot breathe as
freely as in these incomparable solitudes.

Sally was reared among the lakes and forests of Canada, and I in
tidewater Maryland, yet we love Beaumont Downs as though born and bred
here, and hope that men of our name may live on the land for generations
to come. With our descendants in mind, wishing that they may know
something of their ancestry and of the early history of New South Wales,
in which my wife and I played humble parts, I have decided to set down
what I can recollect of my life, and of the beginnings of the settlement
at Sydney Cove. What I shall write will be of interest to my children,
at least, and the ransacking of memory will serve as a pastime for an
idle old man. Of the events which led to my transportation to New South
Wales, I shall write as briefly as possible.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The founder of our family in America, for whom I was christened, was
Hugh Tallant, from Bedfordshire, where the name has long been extinct.
In 1639 he crossed the Atlantic to settle in the newly founded colony of
Maryland, a vast domain granted to Cecilius Calvert, Lord Baltimore, by
King Charles the First. Baltimore's brother, Leonard Calvert, had
entered the Potomac River five years before, with two ships, the _Ark_
and the _Dove_,--Maryland's First Fleet,--and founded the town of St.
Mary's, at the head of an extensive inlet on the north shore of the
river, close to where it debouches into Chesapeake Bay.

Some fifteen miles inland from St. Mary's, a second large inlet, or
estuary, opens on the north shore. This is Bretton Bay, and on its east
side, on a considerable estate which was granted to him, together with
manorial rights, our ancestor established himself with his young wife
and the bondsmen he had fetched out from England. Here, close to the
water's edge, and commanding a fine prospect of the long, wooded
peninsula of Beggar's Neck and the shores of St. Clement's Bay beyond,
Hugh Tallant erected his first dwelling of logs. Nearly a century later,
on the same site, his grandson built the house called Beaumont Manor,
where I was born. I was twenty years old, and it was clear at last that
England had lost the American War, when our house was sacked and burned
to the ground by a mob, some of whose members I had known since
childhood. They did their work thoroughly and murdered those of our
servants who strove against them.

I have often thought that civil war, for all its cruelty, may have a
part to play in the universal design. The men of the losing side, their
estates forfeit and their lives in peril, have no choice but to uproot
themselves and emigrate to foreign lands, where they may prove vastly
useful in trade or manufacturing, as did the Huguenots in England after
the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, or become pioneers in the
wilderness as did the same Huguenots in Capetown and the Loyalists in
Canada.

The American War was a civil conflict as cruel as any in history, making
enemies of neighbours and brothers, and on the Potomac, at least,
uprooting families who had lived on their estates for nearly a century
and a half. Nothing could have been more shortsighted than England's
treatment of the Colonies; none of our neighbours was more keenly aware
of English injustice than my father, but when it was no longer possible
to remain neutral, he took up arms for the King. Both he and my elder
brother paid for their loyalty with their lives: they were killed early
in the war. When I was seventeen I was received into my father's
regiment with the rank of cornet, promoted lieutenant two years later,
and severely wounded in one of the last battles of the war. Some time
after our house was burned and our estate confiscated, my mother and I
were fortunate enough to make our way to one of the English vessels
anchored near the mouth of the Potomac, and to reach New York by sea,
with Mr. Robert Fleming, an old neighbour, my father's lawyer and
closest friend.

New York was already crowded with Loyalists, uprooted folk, bewildered,
penniless in many cases, and still mourning their dead. Some planned to
sail direct for England, where they would present their claims for
compensation from the Crown; others were going to Canada, to settle on
the land promised them there. My uncle, whose estate adjoined ours on
Bretton Bay, was for Canada, and we decided to accompany him. On Mr.
Fleming's advice, we pooled what we could spare from the few hundred
pounds remaining to the three families, signed the necessary petitions
and powers-of-attorney, and delegated him to go to London to lay our
claims before the committee appointed by Parliament. My mother and I
asked for ten thousand pounds, less than a quarter of what our estate
was worth.

Mr. Fleming was detained in New York until the city was evacuated and
General Washington's forces moved in to replace the King's troops. My
mother and I, with her brother and his family, had embarked several
months earlier for Nova Scotia, where we hoped to establish ourselves. I
shall not describe the hardships of our first winter. Though accustomed
to a gracious life in the genial climate of the Chesapeake, my mother
displayed great cheerfulness and fortitude in the Northern wilderness.
In summertime, and even in spring and autumn, Nova Scotia was a pleasant
land enough, with abundant game in the woods and trout and salmon
swarming in the streams. But the winters were of almost arctic severity,
the soil was poor, and the labour of clearing and planting our fields,
singlehanded, was more than disheartening. Nevertheless I might be in
Nova Scotia to-day had not a letter from Mr. Fleming reached us in the
fall of 1784 urging me to come to London as soon as possible.

I still have that old letter--it lies beside me as I write--and it is
strange to think that so perishable a reminder of past days should have
survived the vicissitudes of nearly half a century:--

                                           NEW ENGLAND COFFEE HOUSE
                                           THREADNEEDLE STREET
                                           LONDON, _November 12th, 1784_

    MY DEAR MRS. TALLANT AND HUGH:

    You will be eager to learn what I can tell you of our fortunes
    on this side of the water. I regret to say that they are in no
    forward state at the moment, and many here are beginning to
    despair of the Loyalist claims ever being met by His Majesty's
    Government. I am more hopeful. Parliamentary committees,
    particularly those concerned with money affairs, work with
    painful slowness, but I am convinced that England is mindful of
    us, and that, in the end, this business will be carried through.
    But every claim is scrutinized and verified by the Committee
    with minute care and thoroughness, which accounts, in part, for
    the little action taken thus far. The Tallant claims will, I
    feel certain, be allowed, and the more readily because they are
    so modest in comparison with the actual losses you have
    suffered.

    Meanwhile, let me speak of a matter of great importance and
    promise in connection with the Loyalists. The New England Coffee
    House, where this letter is being written, has become
    headquarters for the Loyalists here to press their claims. A few
    days ago I attended a meeting here, under the auspices of the
    President of the Royal Society, Sir Joseph Banks. He had with
    him a Mr. James Matra, who laid before us the heads of a most
    interesting plan. You may recollect that on one of Captain
    Cook's voyages, he skirted the eastern coast of New Holland, and
    dropped anchor in a harbour he named Botany Bay. This was in
    1770, and both Sir Joseph and Mr. Matra were with Captain Cook
    at the time. After giving us some account of the climate, which
    resembles that of Southern France, and of the country, said to
    be of immense extent and great promise, Sir Joseph introduced
    Mr. Matra, as the originator of a plan which might prove of
    interest to the American Loyalists.

    Mr. Matra then explained briefly what he had in mind. There were
    at present a great number of Americans in England, whose loyalty
    to the King had cost them everything they had possessed. They
    deserved well of England; they were of the best English stock,
    many of them skilled in pastoral and agricultural pursuits, and
    descended from men and women who had been pioneers in the New
    World. It would be a great pity if their country could not make
    use of these folk, at the same time offering them some
    compensation for what they had lost in the American War. Mr.
    Matra proposed, therefore, that such of the Loyalists as desired
    to emigrate might be sent out to Botany Bay at government
    expense, granted large tracts of land, and provided with food,
    clothing, implements, and livestock to tide them over until the
    new colony should be self-supporting. The Ministry had been
    appraised of the plan, and it was understood that it might be
    considered favourably if enough of the Loyalists would signify
    their desire to settle in Botany Bay.

    When the speaker sat down, Sir Joseph assured us that, if we so
    desired, he would exert his influence to further the idea. I
    hasten to write of this matter because I believe that it may
    offer a splendid opportunity, particularly to young men like
    Hugh. Botany Bay may prove another Maryland, and its settlers
    may prosper as our ancestors did. But Mr. Matra's plan needs the
    hearty support of all who desire to emigrate, and for this
    reason I advise Hugh, if money can be found for his passage, to
    come to London as soon as possible, that he may acquaint himself
    with the details at first hand, and be prepared to enroll when
    the time comes.

I scarcely need to say that Mr. Fleming's letter stirred my imagination
and set me longing to be off. My mother gave me every encouragement,
saying that I should go to England, and that if all turned out as we
hoped, she would remain with her brother until I wrote her to join me in
Botany Bay. We had settled accounts with my father's agent in London,
and the balance he forwarded made us considerably better off than when
we had left New York. I parted from my mother with mingled anticipation
and regret, but I had her blessing, and funds enough to keep me in
England for a year or more.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Reaching London in the spring of 1785, I took lodgings with Mr. Fleming
and was introduced to the Loyalists who met at the New England Coffee
House. A few of the claims for compensation had been settled, but so
tedious was the process and so long the delay in considering each case
that many despaired of the business ever reaching a final settlement. We
discussed the Matra plan frequently, read Captain Cook's account of
Botany Bay, and learned the little we could of New Holland, or New South
Wales, as the eastern half of Australia was then beginning to be called.
Sir Joseph Banks, whom I had the honour of meeting on several occasions,
was enthusiastic about the proposed colony, and informed us that he
hoped the Government would give favourable consideration to the project.
We were even asked to submit estimates of what each settler would
require, and the tonnage of shipping that would be needed to transport
us to Botany Bay, in order that the total expense of our establishment
might be made known to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But our hopes,
which had seemed so bright at first, were tarnished by interminable
delays. The summer passed, and the autumn; when the new year began, our
ten thousand pounds' compensation and my prospects of emigration to
Botany Bay seemed as remote as on the day of my arrival in England.

Waiting is the hardest of all tasks for a young man. I lived in a
constant state of suspense, watching my small hoard of shillings dwindle
at an alarming rate, and hoping from one day to the next that the
Government might act on Mr. Matra's proposal, or that our petition for
compensation might be granted. Of London, I had long since had enough,
for no young man can enjoy life, however rich and varied, as a mere
spectator. Mr. Fleming was different; he had visited London many times
in the past, and loved his cozy lodgings, the evenings with his cronies
at the Coffee House, and the noise and bustle of the streets. As bad
luck would have it, I was the one to stop and he to go, for he informed
me, early in the summer of the new year, that he was obliged to join one
of his nephews in Canada, where he would remain until his compensation
had been granted.

Some little time after my old friend's departure, I learned to my great
regret and disappointment that Mr. Matra's plan had been set aside. No
explanation was given, but we were told that our hopes of emigration to
Botany Bay must be abandoned. Had I possessed the means of paying my
passage to Nova Scotia at this time, I would have returned at once, but
my money was nearly gone, and idle seamen so numerous about the docks
that it was impossible to work my passage. So many ships had been paid
off at the conclusion of peace, and so many regiments disbanded, that
hundreds of seamen and soldiers were begging on the streets.

In comparing England with the various nations of Europe, I had often
heard it stated that no industrious Englishman could starve. Nothing
could have been further from the truth. The Enclosure Acts, which had
begun to depopulate the countryside as far back as the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, were now culminating in a state of affairs shocking to every
true Englishman. They had made homeless, and driven to London, thousands
of men, women, and children of the sturdy country stock which has ever
been the backbone of the nation. Most of these unfortunates asked
nothing more than the chance to earn an honest livelihood, however hard
the work or scanty the wage. Yet for a large proportion the chances of
this were slight indeed. It was well known that there were more than
twenty thousand homeless in the great city: folk forced to live like
animals, or worse, with no shelter from the weather, and no caves or
hedgerows into which they might crawl at night. And for each of the
homeless there were certainly ten other poor wretches, able to obtain
only the miserable daily pittance required for a bed in some crowded and
filthy doss house. Begging, theft, robbery, and prostitution would at
least lift a man or woman out of the ranks of the homeless, and these
occupations were followed by many thousands of London's inhabitants. Of
beggars alone, there were more than fifteen thousand at this time, and
it was said that they lived better than honest men. If I write with some
assurance of London's poor, it is because I have lived and worked among
them, been confined with them in gaol, and know them better than any
other class of English folk.

There was nothing I could do but seek employment, and attempt to save
enough to pay my passage back to Canada. Without influence, it was
useless to hope for dignified or well-paid work. There were scores of
applicants for every place of this kind, whether in the countinghouses
of the City, the East India Company, or in Government employ. I tried my
hand at a dozen humble occupations and lost employment time after time
because I could not learn to swallow my pride. The poor man who wishes
to pick up a living in London must above all be obsequious; the bow, the
servile smile, the hat in the hand, the "Yes, my lady," and "Your
Honour's too kind"--these are the touchstones which transmute copper
pennies into silver sixpences. I held horses, swept crossings,
frequented the courtyards of inns in hopes of earning a few coppers as a
porter, carried a sedan chair, and worked as a lumper, unloading the
cargoes of ships at anchor in the river. In this latter occupation I
might have enjoyed a modest prosperity had I been willing to steal, as
did my fellow workers, almost without exception, every day of their
lives. At last, by a stroke of good luck, I obtained steady work, at a
wage which enabled me to save a few shillings a month.

During my first summer in England, Mr. Fleming and I had often visited
the Black Swan, in Holborn, whence the York coaches left three times
each week. The landlord was a pleasant, jovial fellow, for whom we both
felt a hearty liking. One day in the late autumn, when I had pawned
everything I could spare and was nearly at my wit's end, I decided to
renew my acquaintance with the man I had known in better days. He proved
a friend indeed, questioning me in a manner so kindly that I opened my
heart to him, and was soon installed as a night hostler, with a warm bed
in the straw and a bellyful of good food twice each day.

It was here that I met Tom Oakley. He was a horse dealer, as I supposed,
and since, like all Maryland men, I love a fine horse, we were drawn
together by my admiration of his mare, Rosamond. Oakley came frequently
to the Black Swan; when our acquaintance had ripened into friendship, he
often invited me to his room upstairs, to talk of horses and share a
bowl of punch or a bottle of claret. Tom was a strong-made, smallish man
of twenty-five, with a weatherbeaten, ruddy face and bright blue eyes;
he went plainly dressed, in breeches and a long, square-cut coat, but
his waistcoats were of satin and there was always fine lace at his
throat and wrists. I put him down as the son of a wealthy yeoman farmer,
or even of some squire in a distant county.

I was thinking of Tom as I trudged homeward one wintry afternoon. It was
my custom to inquire at the New England Coffee House for letters from
Nova Scotia. On this occasion I found a letter from my uncle, informing
me that my mother had fallen ill of a wasting consumption, and was not
likely to live through the winter. He urged me to sail for Nova Scotia
at once, since my mother longed to see me once more before she died. The
news placed me in a cruel position. Ships bound for Canada were few; the
cheapest passage I had been offered cost thirty pounds, which might as
well have been three hundred, and of working my way there was still not
the slightest hope. Mr. Fleming was gone, and I knew no one from whom I
might borrow more than a few shillings. Tom Oakley was my only hope. I
doubted that I could bring myself to borrow from him, but hoped that he
might be at the Black Swan on my return. The landlord had been so kind
to me that I would as soon have spat in his face as asked him to lend me
thirty pounds.

I found the pair of them in the court of the inn. Oakley was showing the
landlord a strong sorrel gelding he had fetched from the country. I took
Rosamond from one of the other hostlers, rubbed her down well, blanketed
her, and walked her for a time before I led her inside. Oakley came into
the stall where I was stroking the mare's neck as she munched her oats.

"How fares it, Hugh?" he asked. "Come, dine with me; I've a leash of
wild duck and two bottles of the best."

It had been a lonely and depressing day; I was glad to join Oakley in
his cozy chamber upstairs. He was in a gay mood and began to entertain
me with droll stories of his trading in horseflesh, and the trickery and
subterfuge employed by the horse copers of Southern England. Presently
he broke off and glanced at me keenly.

"Ye've a face to curdle milk," he said. "What ails ye? Come, out with
it!"

"I'm in the dumps," I admitted, with a wry smile; "but naught's so bad
it can't be mended."

"True enough, but there's times when a friend comes in handy. Ye're in
trouble, that's clear. Make a clean breast of it; two heads are better
than one."

His glance was so friendly, and his interest so genuine, that I found
myself explaining my sorry situation and the events that had led up to
it, while he put in a question now and then. I said nothing of my mother
or her illness, but made it clear that my uncle required me in Nova
Scotia, and that I had no means of getting there. When I had finished,
he sat silent for a time.

"Ye've had a rough hard time of it," said he. "So ye fought for the King
in the American War? There's aplenty here in England would say ye chose
the wrong side. Where's all the redcoats and jack-tars now? Begging in
the streets and sleeping in hedgerows! England's no place for a man of
spirit these days. No... It's every man for himself, by fair means or
foul!"

I nodded, somewhat glumly, for he had done no more than put my own
thoughts into words.

"We were small farmers in the North of England," he went on; "my father,
and grandfather, and his father before him. Our village and its common
lands went back to Norman times. We was poor, but we lacked naught
needful, and we was free men, by God! Then Parliament passed another
Enclosure Act, and the land we'd ploughed and planted for seven hundred
years went into pasture for His Grace's sheep. My father had hopes for
me, before we was enclosed. He gave me more schooling than our station
warranted. What for? And what's one deserted village, out of a thousand,
when ye come to think of it? The others crawled away to take service, or
beg, or walk the streets of London, if they was females, and young. But
not Tom Oakley!"

He took a long pull at his glass and grinned at me suddenly. "Enough o'
that! One Friday face'll do the pair of us.... See here,
Hugh--England owes 'ee a debt, there's no question of that. Why not take
the collectin' of it into yer own hands?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He looked at me shrewdly. "What I say--no more and no less."

He rose, glanced up and down the passageway, and closed the door again.
After a moment of striding back and forth in thought, he went on,
lowering his voice: "I've not known ye long," he said, "but I know a man
I can trust when I see him. How far would ye go for a double fistful of
guineas? I've jobs now and again, too risky to tackle singlehanded.
Would ye join forces with me, for to see how ye'll thrive at my trade?
'Tis a good one, I promise."

His eyes met mine in a clear, straightforward glance. "Ye don't take my
meaning? Damme, I'll out with it! I'm a highwayman. And what of that?
I'm only getting my own back, and I've the right, by God! The fact is
I'm a kind of chirurgeon for your lords and ladies, and purse-proud
citizens. I slit their purses and save 'em from a congestion of gold."

"More power to you!" said I.

"Think it over. There's risks in my work, but well worth the taking. I
just saw my cruiser. There's a horse load of guineas comin' our way!
It's as sure as rain at a review, or ladies at a rape trial! But think
it over. I'll not press ye for aye or nay on the dot."

Before I left Oakley, I had agreed to become a highwayman. And although
the admission may seem strange, coming from a man brought up as I had
been, I can affirm that I did not then, and do not now, feel shame at
having turned to such desperate work. I was destined to feel bitter
regret, when it was too late to mend matters, but nothing more. Oakley
directed me how to find the farm of a certain Mrs. Nellie Garth,
northwest of London, where his horses were kept, and when I spoke to the
landlord of the Black Swan, next day, he tipped me a wink that was like
a nudge in the ribs as he informed me that he knew of another man who
would take my place.




CHAPTER II. AT GARTH'S FARM


There had been a heavy frost during the night, and the sun shone in a
pale-blue wintry sky. It was bitter cold, but I walked briskly through
the squalor and misery of St. Giles, along Oxford Street to the frozen
stillness of Hyde Park, where patches of snow lay on the grass, and the
trees stood gaunt and half-dead in the grip of the frost. The long,
narrow lake, ice-covered, glittered in the sunlight; the waterfowl had
taken refuge in their little ornamental houses, and sat with feet tucked
under them on beds of straw. Leaving London behind, I followed the
Uxbridge Road, through Ealing, and came at last to Southall, where
Oakley had directed me to turn north.

A narrow lane, deep-rutted and hard as iron under the frost, led me
through the village of Northolt, and I was tempted to stop for dinner at
the inn where several carriers' wagons were drawn up. Since all the folk
were indoors and no one had noticed me, it seemed best to continue on to
Wood End, a village of no more than half a dozen houses, where I was to
turn west and make my way across country to Mrs. Garth's place. The lane
I now followed, bordered by hedges of thorn, was scarcely more than a
cart track, so narrow that two wagons could not have passed. I followed
it for half a mile without passing a single house, and the sun was in my
eyes when I came to the gateway Oakley had described, between two fir
trees that gleamed with ice crystals in the level light.

The farm was as small as it was lonely, and I could see that it was an
orderly, well-kept place. A hundred paces back from the lane was a stone
cottage with a low, thatched roof, and the farm buildings beyond looked
as neat and substantial as the dwelling.

I knocked, and waited for some little time before the door was opened by
a woman who stood in the entry way eyeing me coldly. She might have been
in her late twenties, or early thirties. Her eyes were dark blue, under
level brows, her colour fresh and glowing, and her figure, considerably
above the average height, would have served as a model for a statuary.

"Mrs. Garth?" I asked, raising my hat.

"Aye," said she, regarding me with the same frosty look. "What d'ye
wish?"

"I was directed to you by Tom Oakley. He asked me to meet him here."

"I know no Tom Oakley."

"But he told me to come to your house," I replied.

"What he may have told ye is your affair, and his. It's none of mine,"
said she.

She stepped back, ready to close the door, eyeing me in the same hostile
manner. There was nothing for it but retreat.

"Then I wish you good evening," I said.

Her only reply was to shut the door and slide the bolt.

The moon, round, yellow, and at the full, was rising as I retraced my
steps in the narrow lane. I had a couple of shillings in my pocket, but
it would be a weary walk back to Northolt, where I planned to spend the
night. If Oakley were hereabout, he would guess, perhaps, where
necessity had taken me. I was puzzled by the woman at the farmhouse and
wondered if I could have mistaken the name given me by Oakley. What an
Amazon, I thought, as suspicious as she was strong and handsome.

I had gone no great distance when I heard the sound of a horse's frost
nails ringing on the frozen road. It was Oakley's mare, coming on at a
fast easy canter. He pulled up at sight of me.

"What the devil!" he said. "Where bound, Hugh?"

"Where bound? From Mrs. Garth's, to be sure! She's never heard of you.
She looked ready to set the dog on me!"

Tom laughed heartily. "Staunch old Nellie! Cautious is the word with
her. Ye might have been a constable for aught she knew. About-face, lad!
Ye look half-froze."

He dismounted stiffly and walked at my side, leading the mare. When we
turned in at the gate, Mrs. Garth gave the pair of us a welcome as warm
as mine had been cold half an hour before.

"Tom," said she, "when ye wish to meet friends at my house, I'll thank
ye for word in advance."

"I thought to be here before him, Nellie. Would there be a bite of
supper for a pair of starved travelers?"

"There might," said Garth, with a smile. She ushered us into her warm
kitchen, and a quarter of an hour later we tucked into a hearty meal, a
cold joint with bread and cheese and home-brewed ale to go with it. I
felt more at home in this place than I had since leaving America. It was
just such a kitchen as one finds among the farmers and small planters of
Maryland: clean, cozy, glowing with comfort and good cheer. The great
spit in the fireplace, on which fifty pounds weight of beef might have
turned, the spotless floor, the shining pots and pans, the hams, sides
of bacon, and strings of onions hanging from the beams, all showed the
well-managed farm and household where thrift and simple abundance were
matters of course.

While we were at table the door opened, and the lad who had taken
Oakley's mare came in. He looked at me with shy wondering eyes as he
went to the fireplace to warm his hands.

"Ye've rubbed her down well, Nat?" asked Tom.

The boy nodded.

"And put the heavy blanket on her?"

"Aye."

"Ye can trust him with the horses," said Garth. "They know him as well
as yourself."

Nat was a waif of fourteen, whom Garth had found starving in Covent
Garden Market, some years before. A widow, with no child of her own, she
centred all the love of her generous heart upon this boy, who, though
not precisely simple-minded, had the trustful, confiding nature of a
child of five. When Mrs. Garth rescued him from the London streets, Nat
had been cuffed from pillar to post for as long as he could remember,
but under her cherishing care he had forgotten that evil existed in the
world. He worshiped his foster mother, followed her about with his soft
brown eyes, and would spring to do her bidding almost before her wish
was expressed.

Not a word was said during the evening of the purpose of my coming here.
Presently Mrs. Garth went to her own chamber; Oakley lighted a candle
and led the way up a steep flight of stairs, to a garret under the
thatch. There were two narrow beds in the place, some articles of
clothing hanging on pegs, and a chest of drawers. Oakley seated himself
on one of the beds.

"Well, Hugh, how do ye like my countryseat?" he asked.

"A snug spot," I replied. "Do you come here often?"

"Whenever I'm working this side of London." He gave me a steady
searching look. "Now that ye've had time to sleep on the matter, how
does it strike ye? There's no call for haste, if ye wish to weigh it
further...?"

"I made my decision at the Black Swan. I'm your man, if you'll have me."

"Have 'ee? That I will!" he replied heartily. "Call it settled, then."
He paused. "Here's what I've in mind: ye've heard, maybe, of a young Mr.
Baxter, him that won the ten thousand pounds in a night, at Brooks's."

"I can't say I have."

"No matter for that. He's at Bath at this present moment, taking the
waters by day, and all the rhino in the place by night. My scout tells
me he's like to leave for London around this day week. So far he's won a
bag of guineas would break a horse's back. If his luck holds, we'll ease
him of it as sure as my name's Oakley."

"How'll we know when he's to leave Bath?"

"Trust my cruiser for that. I'll have word, with all the particulars,
well in advance." He drew out a handsome watch, in a gold hunting case,
and wound it slowly. "Now, lad, I'm for bed. I've ridden a good thirty
miles since morning." He pressed the stem of the watch, and it sounded
ten soft, clear chimes. "Have a look, Hugh. I took that, with a bonus of
fifty guineas, from the biggest thief in the Kingdom."

"A thief?"

"Aye," said Oakley with a grin. "But he robs by law, from inside the
Admiralty Victualing Board. How the rogue hated to part with his watch!"

"You don't fear to carry it?"

"Not now. I've had it christened. Look!"

I glanced at the maker's name: "Ducour Frres, Paris."

"It strikes the French chimes now," Tom remarked. "But Basset & Harvey
made it. Their name's off as clean as ye wipe a slate.... Well, lad,
I'm for bed," and a moment later he was fast asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

After my wretched hand-to-mouth existence in London, the peace and
homely comfort of Garth's farm made the place a haven indeed to me.
Oakley was away a good part of the week, and I returned to the life of a
countryman with a keenness of interest and pleasure that won me Mrs.
Garth's friendship from the first day. I took over the outside chores,
milking the cow, feeding the pigs, cutting firewood and the like, and
ate Garth's excellent meals with the appetite of a harvest hand. She was
no woman to pour out her history to a stranger, but I learned a good
deal about her life during the days that followed. She came of farming
folk in the West of England, and had lived there until the time of her
marriage. Since her husband's death, some years before, she had managed
this farm herself, going twice a week with her horse and cart to carry
produce to Covent Garden Market. She asked nothing of her neighbours
save to be left in peace, and I gathered that she had but one close
friend in this part of the country, a Mrs. Windle who lived half a mile
distant, and whom I once saw for a moment. It was plain that she had a
hearty liking for Mrs. Windle, as warmly returned by her neighbour. For
the most part, Nat was her only companion. The relationship between the
boy and his foster mother was something to touch the heart of a
looker-on. Few words passed between them in the course of a day: they
seemed to have no need for much speaking. To be together was all either
needed for that content which is something deeper than happiness.

One evening when Oakley was absent and Nat had gone to bed, Nellie
opened her mind to me freely about Tom. He had first come to her place
two years before, she said, with three horses he wished to put out to
grass.

"I struck a bargain with him, Tallant, for I was willing enough to put
by a bit of extra money. I boarded and cared for the horses, and let him
the garret at five shillings a week, for the times he said he'd be
coming this way on his business. He'd be in and out of the place,
sometimes a day or two in the week, and again we'd not see him for a
fortnight; but it came to be a kind of home to him in the end. We took
to him, Nat and me, straight off, and looked forrard to his coming. I
never doubted he was a dealer in fine horses, for they was the main part
of his talk and I could see the love he had for 'em, but one day he says
to me: 'Nellie, ye're an honest law-abiding woman, and I can't abide to
carry false colours in this house. Ye'd best know the truth about me.
I'm a highwayman, and I think shame to myself for not having spoke
before. Say the word and I'll take my nags and clear out.'

"'I esteem ye none the less for that,' said I, 'but if I'd known when ye
first came here, I'd not have harboured ye for so much as a day.'

"'Then ye wish me to go?' said he.

"'I haven't said it yet,' I told him. 'I'll think about it and let ye
know for certain when ye next come.'

"And so I did, and the more I thought, the less I liked the notion of
sendin' him about his business. Nat thought the world and all of him; I
knew the lad would miss him sore, and so would I, for the matter of
that. Afore I was married I'd lost a brother as like Tom as two men
could be, not of the same blood. Well, I thought and I pondered, and the
end of it was that, when he came again, I said: 'Tom, bide here and
welcome as long as ye please, but Nat's never to know the trade ye're
in, and I wish to know no more of it than ye've told me already.' And
that's how it's been since. There's times I've been worried and anxious,
as though he was my own kin, for fear he was catched; and I've worried
more for Nat's sake, for if Tom was took, they'd have me up for
harbouring, and where would the lad be then?"

I had thought of the same thing more than once. Though I knew that Mrs.
Garth received nothing from Oakley save the money for rent and pasturage
and feed, I had little doubt as to how she would stand in the eyes of
the law.

She regarded me with a grim, anxious smile. "And now I've a pair of ye
to harbour! And what'll come of it, in the end... Tallant, I don't
doubt but ye'll make the best of companions for Tom; he needs just such
a man as yerself to stand back to back with him. But mind what ye do! Ye
don't belong in that trade, and Tom knows it as well as myself. Whatever
have ye took to it for?"

"It's not one I mean to follow for long," I replied, and then I told her
something of my life up to this time, of my miserable existence in
London, and of my plans for a return to Canada as soon as I had money
enough for a passage. "That's understood between us," I added. "Tom has
taken me in, not so much because he needs me, but to help me over a bad
stretch of road."

"Mind it's not the end of the road, young man! I wish ye was well beyond
it, on the kind of road ye should be traveling."

"Never fear. I shall be, before many weeks."

"And ye're for America again? Sometimes I've teased myself with the
notion of going there. What like of a country will it be where ye came
from--all wilderness and savage Indians?"

"Far from it," I replied. "You'd see fine settled valleys, the land
cleared long since, with fat cattle and sheep grazing in the pastures,
and arable land richer than could be found in the whole of England. You
could buy a farm five times the size of yours for a fifth of what would
be paid for this. I'd like well to coax Tom to come, for he'd thrive
there, on his own fine acres, as a breeder of horses. There's no great
towns and no miserable starved creatures such as you see everywhere in
England. The black slaves fare better than the half of London."

"I'd like well to go there," said Garth, musingly, "and who knows? Mebbe
I will, some day. But egg Tom into it if ye can. 'Twould be a heavy load
from the heart to know him safe, and settled into an honest life. If he
stays in England, I see the end as plain as I see his mare yonder in the
pasture."

Tom came back on the Saturday noon with the news we'd been waiting for.
Mr. Baxter was London bound from Bath and had spent the previous night
at Reading. He was not traveling by post chaise but in his own carriage,
with his own horses, and making a leisurely journey of it. Oakley had
learned from his cruiser that Baxter would leave Reading about two
o'clock this same afternoon.

"Reading is forty miles from London," he said, "and I know exactly how
he means to come. We'll be off, Hugh, when we've polished off Nellie's
dinner, comfortable-like, and jog south-along to Heston. It's thereabout
we'll meet him, and, by the Lord, he'll be well worth waiting for!"

"His luck's held, then?" I asked.

"No, but ours has, or call me out. This I know: He dropped all but three
hundred guineas before he left Bath, and he'll drop what's left afore
ever his horses' hoofs touch pavement. My cruiser has spied out his
company. There'll be none but himself inside, with the coachman and a
third on the box beside him. Hugh, if ye're set for Canada, ye can go to
London to-morrow to take passage, though I'll be the last to urge haste
upon ye."

The winter afternoon was half spent when Oakley and I set out. He rode
his favourite mare, Rosamond, and my mount was a spirited sorrel. It was
a delight to be on a horse's back once more. Garth stood in the doorway,
looking glumly after us as we cantered down the lane leading to the
highway. Little I dreamed, then, where that road was to take us. It was
the first leg of a journey of better than fourteen thousand miles, that
was to fetch us up at Botany Bay.

I felt no prickings of conscience, no misgivings, as we rode on at a
smart pace through the gathering winter dusk. I was reminded of raids I
had made, with Loyalist comrades, into enemy territory during the
American War: there was the same heightened sense of expectancy, of
adventure with risk attached, the same quickening of the blood. As for
Tom, I could see how keenly he relished the prospect of the work before
us: it was like food and drink to a man of his spirit.

Night had fallen by the time we reached the place where we were to wait:
a small thicket thirty paces from the highroad, two miles to the west of
Heston. The air was crisp and bracing and the winter stars sparkled in a
cloudless sky. Here we dismounted, looked to the priming of our pistols,
and fastened handkerchiefs over the lower part of our faces.

"Lad, how's the pulse?" asked Tom.

"Steady," said I, "but racing a bit."

"And that's just as it should be," said Tom. "There's times when I
relish the waiting, with action just to come, as the best part of it--if
the waiting's not too long," he added, with a grin.

"They couldn't have passed?" I said.

"Never ye fret for that; we're in good time.... Now, Hugh, all's
clear?"

"Yes. I'm to handle the coachman and anyone with him on the box."

"Right. And I'll attend to Mr. Baxter and the company inside, if he has
company. Mind ye this! We must be prepared for what we find. The best of
cruisers may be wrong in the advance tips. There's three we know of to
come, but Baxter may have changed his companions on the way."

We had waited about twenty minutes when we heard the clatter of a heavy
coach which had just breasted the rise, a quarter of a mile distant.

"By God! Here they are!" said Tom, gleefully. "Mark ye, Hugh! Spare to
shoot if ye can, but take no chances. It's us or them."

We mounted and stood fast. The coach was coming on at a brisk eight-mile
clip, but it was drawn by four horses instead of the two expected, and
we made out a postboy riding the off horse of the leading pair.

"Now!" said Tom, and we spurred for the road.

"Stand for your lives!" Tom called, and there was no nonsense in the
quality of that clear hard voice. We were alongside in five seconds. The
coachman stood and hauled back with all his strength on the reins. The
postboy was a lad of fourteen or thereabout. I seized him by the collar
and yanked him from his horse, covering the coachman at the same time.
The boy cowered on the ground, without an ounce of spirit in him; no
more had the coachman, for he yelled, "Never shoot, sir! I yield!"
Meanwhile Tom was at the window of the coach. "One here, lad," he called
to me. "Hold fast as ye are, and it's done in three minutes!"

We had not looked for such luck as this. In a wink, Tom had the one
fellow inside standing in the road with his arms raised. Meanwhile, I
had the coachman and the post boy standing beside him, covering the
three whilst Tom sprang into the coach. He leaped out a moment later
with a heavy bag of soft leather which he quickly attached to Rosamond's
saddle. "Look sharp! Watch the road!" he called whilst he was at this
work. By this time I was convinced that the fellow from inside was not
Baxter, but his servant, perhaps, for the man put up not even a show of
resistance. What neither of us knew, then, was that Baxter, with a
friend, had hired saddle horses in Reading for the last part of the
journey. They had halted briefly somewhere on the way, but came
galloping up just as Tom was ready to mount. In the exchange of shots
that followed, I downed Baxter's horse, and he was thrown headlong, but
the half-ounce ball from his companion's pistol caught me full in the
left shoulder and all but unseated me. Tom saw I was hit and was
alongside in three seconds, steadying me in the saddle as he turned and
fired at Baxter's companion. Then it was a hard gallop for home, and
with Baxter wanting a mount, his friend made no attempt to follow us. We
rode fast for a matter of three miles, going by a roundabout way, and at
last halted in a thicket of firs where Tom bound up my wound and
staunched the flow of blood as best he could. The ball had missed the
bone, but had torn loose the muscles under my left arm. We reached
Garth's place in the small hours, and while she washed and dressed the
wound, Oakley spilled out young Baxter's winnings on the bed and counted
it back into a canvas bag. We had taken three hundred and twenty-two
guineas, in gold coin. Tom hid the bag under his shirts in the wardrobe,
and, as we had not been followed, and were a good twelve miles from the
scene of the holdup, we slept soundly.

Garth kept her misgivings to herself, but I could see that she was more
than uneasy during the week that followed. Young Baxter came of a
notable family; furthermore, he was a proud determined fellow, and the
fact that two men had gotten the better of his party of five rankled
with him. A hue and cry was raised and a reward of five hundred pounds
offered for the capture of the highwaymen. After lying low for three
days, Tom was bound to go to London for news. He returned early in the
evening, and he and Nellie came up to the attic where I lay.

"How goes it, Hugh?" he asked. "No fever, eh?"

"None," I replied. "Nellie is the best of nurses, but she won't let me
go downstairs."

"Ye'll rest where ye are, young man, till I give the word," she said.
"Now, Tom, what have ye heard?"

"We've slit a hot haggis, as the Sawneys say," Tom replied. "Young
Baxter swears he'll not touch cards again till the pair of us are
stretched. He's out with a party of his own raising, and there's
handbills posted in all the taverns. Hugh, d'ye wish to hear what
fashion of man ye are?"

He drew one of the bills from his pocket and read: "'Tall,
wide-shouldered fellow, probably in his early twenties. Would weigh
around fourteen stone. Almost certainly wounded as he was seen to reel
in the saddle when Mr. Baxter's pistol was fired. Riding a sorrel horse
with four white stockings.'"

"What of yourself?" I asked.

"'Smallish, strong-made man, with a North Country accent, quick and
active in his movements. Might be thirty years old. Riding a handsome
bay mare.'"

Oakley smiled as he put the bill back in his pocket.

"Save for the wound, there's men by the dozen, by the score, will answer
both descriptions. No, we're safe enough. 'Twas the devil's own luck
that Baxter winged ye, but the price is small to pay for the taking.
Better than three hundred guineas for five minutes' work! Beats groomin'
nags, don't it?"

"Ye's best find a safer place to hide it in than the wardrobe," said
Garth.

"Pooh, Nellie! Where's the need? We're as safe here as in a church.
Baxter's men are chasing their noses through the country in every
direction but this. Some say we're in town; some think we've a hideout
down Wiltshire way. Trust my cruiser. He'll know in good time if ever
they get on the scent."

One morning, when my wound was nearly healed, I rose to find Tom
saddling one of his horses to ride in for a day with some of his cronies
who gathered at the Black Swan. Nellie had left at dawn for Covent
Garden Market with two hundredweight of potatoes and a fat hog to sell.

The day was warm and fine; when I had eaten my breakfast, which Nellie
had set out on the kitchen table, I went about the chores. I opened the
fowl house and sprinkled corn for the birds in the barnyard. The ducks
made for the horse pond, trotting in single file, increasing their pace
comically as they neared the water. The turkey cock lowered his wings,
strutted for a moment while they trailed the ground, and gobbled
defiantly. The sound carried me back to the forests of Maryland, where I
had stalked many a wild gobbler.

The chores finished, I went for a walk, returning just as Garth and Nat
drove in, an hour before noon. She handed me the _Morning Herald_ I had
asked her to buy, and I went to the kitchen to read it. Nat was leading
old Davy away for his bait of oats when his mother called to him.

"Come into the house, Nat, when ye've fed Davy; I'll have ye take a
basket of eggs down to the inn. Tell Mr. Judd I want a shilling's worth
of salt."

The lad set off a few moments later, and a fateful errand it was for the
members of the Garth household. I will now speak of what happened at the
Wood End Inn, asking leave to describe an event I did not witness, but
learned of, later, from Nellie and poor Nat, who played, in all
innocence, a most tragic part.

Arriving at the inn, Nat went into the taproom where the landlord's
assistant was drawing ale for half a dozen travelers whose horses stood
outside. They were dressed like countrymen, but all were armed with
pistols, under their coats. Their leader, a man of about twenty-five,
paid the score, and, on second thought, ordered the pots to be filled
again. Nat set down his basket and stood looking on. His small figure
caught the young man's eye.

"Come here, lad," he said.

Nat went to him readily.

"You live hereabouts?"

"Yes, sir. My mother's farm is just up the lane."

"What's your name?"

"Nat, sir, Nat Garth."

"And a fine lad you are, Nat. Now then, maybe you can help me. Come,
think hard: have you heard no one speak of a wounded man here in the
countryside?"

"Oh yes, sir," said Nat, eagerly, happy to be of service. "Mr. Tallant
was hurt. He's lying at our cottage."

"You don't tell me! And who's Mr. Tallant?"

"He's a friend of Tom Oakley's, sir."

"Well, now, think of that! And what like of a man is Mr. Tallant--a big,
tall, strapping fellow?"

Nat nodded, vigorously. "He's that tall he has to duck his head to come
in at the door."

"There! I'll be bound he's the man I'm looking for, Nat. I've the best
of news for him. Mr. Tallant will call it lucky that I found you. He's
at your mother's house, you say?"

"Yes, sir. He was in the kitchen readin' the paper when I left the
house."

"Then here's a shilling for you, to show us the way there."

Meanwhile, at Garth's house I had taken my newspaper and climbed the
stairs to our attic room, now warmed a little by the midday sun. Lying
on my bed, I glanced idly through the news. Presently I laid the paper
aside and fell into a doze.

                 *        *        *        *        *

I was awakened from my nap by the sound of loud voices and of a violent
struggle in the room below. For a moment I lay bewildered; then I heard
heavy footsteps coming up the stairs at a run. I started up, still half
asleep, as the door burst open and three men rushed into the room,
pistols in their hands. One of them, I felt pretty sure, was Baxter.

"Surrender, in the King's name!" he ordered.

One of his companions seized my useless arm and gave it such a wrench
that, heedless of the pistols, I swung about and gave him a heavy blow
on the jaw. He went down with a crash; the pistol flew out of his hand
and was discharged as it struck the floor. At the same instant I
received such a blow on the head, from behind, that I was knocked
senseless; when I came round I was lying on my bed, bound hand and foot.
The sunlight of midafternoon streamed into the small window. Baxter was
sitting on Tom's bed, a pistol in his hand, his bag of guineas beside
him, and two of his men stood in the doorway.

"Headache, Tallant?" he asked. "They'll cure that for you in Newgate."




CHAPTER III. NEWGATE PRISON


Tom was caught all too neatly in the trap set for him when he rode home
at dusk, and we were held at Garth's house till late on the following
afternoon. A long day it was for me, for I was alone in my upstairs
room, with the guard at the door outside. His companions were below, and
I could hear their voices and the coming and going of men on horseback
in the stable yard and the lane beyond. For all the loneliness of
Garth's farm, the news of our arrest had spread and by midday there was
a crowd of farmers and farm labourers gathered outside in the hope of
seeing the highwaymen. Among others who came early in the day was
Nellie's friend and neighbour, Mrs. Windle. I have no doubt that she
knew all about Oakley and that Nellie harboured him with a full
knowledge of his profession; but, like most humble folk, whether living
in towns or the open country, she had no love for officers of the law. I
heard her lashing out shrilly at our guards for taking a poor
hard-working woman into custody, and "two honest gentlemen, as anyone
could see," who chanced to be stopping at her house for the good of the
country air. She remained at the house throughout the day and took
charge of the kitchen in our behalf. Food for the guards was brought
from the inn on the main road, but there was none for us, and it was
thanks to Mrs. Windle that we did not set out for London with empty
stomachs.

The winter afternoon was drawing to a close when I was ordered down to
the kitchen. There was Nellie on a settle by the wall, with young Nat
beside her, a look of terror and bewilderment on his face as he gazed at
his foster mother. The lad, in his simplicity, had betrayed us, but
Nellie's reproaches were, as I knew, all for herself. Her face was hard
set and there was a great bluish bruise on one cheek, received in her
struggle with the constables. She gave me a quick glance as I came down
the stairway, but said nothing. Mrs. Windle stood by the fireplace, her
fists on her hips, glaring defiance at the constables. A moment later
Oakley was brought in from the stable where they had kept him overnight.
He had a horse blanket over his shoulders, and from his condition I
could picture the fight they had had to subdue him. His jacket and
waistcoat were gone and he had only the half of a shirt to his body. One
arm was covered with dried blood and there was a welt on his forehead
the size of a hen's egg. One of the guards had an eye swelled shut and
the head of another was bound round with a dirty napkin. Three of these
fellows had rolled on the stable floor in subduing Oakley, but they had
had time to clean themselves whilst Tom had been left as he was when the
struggle ended. He was at his lowest at such a moment, for if ever there
was a man who loved cleanliness and something approaching splendour in
his dress, it was Tom. Nellie's eyes blazed as she saw him in this
bedraggled condition. She turned to the fellow in charge of the guards.

"Ye've left the man, the day long, in such a state as this?" said she.

"No matter for that. He'll have time and to spare to wash himself at the
pump in Newgate," said the guard.

"Was ye brought up in a pigsty?" said Garth. "There's none of us leaves
this house till he's made decent."

She spoke with so determined an air that the man gave a surly consent.
Oakley was taken to the wash house at one side of the yard, where he
enjoyed a complete scrub. Meanwhile, Mrs. Windle, at Garth's direction,
had fetched him clean clothing, and when he reappeared he had put on
with it his old assured and carefree manner. He was now dressed in a
suit of blue broadcloth with silver buttons, white silk stockings, and
black shoes, and this transformation had its immediate effect upon the
guards, who were more civil to him.

I had wondered at the long delay at Garth's house; the reason was that
the men who had taken us were not of the regular constabulary, but had
been hired privately to search for us. When they had found us, or at
least men answering to the description of those wanted, warrants had to
be procured for our proper arrest. This had now been done and the sun
was just setting when an old country coach drawn by two horses was
brought to carry us to London. Nat was in despair and clung desperately
to his mother, who tried to console him.

"There, Nat," said she. "Never fret, laddie; it's all right. I'll be
home within the week--see if I don't, and till then you're to stay with
Mrs. Windle."

"To be sure he is!" said Mrs. Windle. "Why, Nat, where's your spirit?
Hush, now! Mercy me! A boy of fourteen and crying the like of this!"

"You'll look out for the place, Mrs. Windle?" Garth asked.

"Trust me for that," the latter replied. "I've daughters and sons to
spare, Nellie, and with Nat here to help, we'll keep all shipshape,
won't we, Nat?"

The boy nodded, miserably, and a moment later we were led out of the
house, through the crowd of gaping, staring countrymen, to the coach.
The guards mounted their horses, and with two in front and four riding
behind, we proceeded toward London.

I shall try to recollect what I can of the young man I then was, and
what he felt and thought as he sat bound in a lumbering old country
coach on the way to Newgate prison. For the feelings, there was no
shame--none: not a shred or an atom, except for being caught, and that
was chance and no fault of ours. I had tried every honest means of
earning a living open to a young man without friends, in a strange
country, and when I was in desperate need I took the chance Oakley
offered without two thoughts about the right or the wrong of it. Beside
this, my heart was sore at the way the Loyalists had been used by
Government, and I'd lost all hope of the promised compensation ever
coming to anything. After three years of waiting not one penny had we
received. I was none too happy, of course, about the future. I had not
lived in England this while without having seen the bodies of highwaymen
swinging in chains from gibbets at lonely crossroads, and I well knew
that these were but a small part of the number who met their end at
Newgate. For all that, I was in no mood of despair, for I had a power of
life in me, and it is next to impossible for a young man to imagine the
worst that can happen. What worried me most was that young Nat, in his
innocence, had betrayed my name to the men who caught us. At first, I
was minded to deny stoutly that my name was Tallant, but they had found
it written in a pocketbook I carried, and since they had this double
confirmation, I decided to let matters take their course. My mother
would never know, and the only other person I cared deeply for was Mr.
Fleming, and he was still in Canada. As for the other Loyalists, I had
dropped all connection with them long since, and it was far from likely
that they would ever learn what had become of me.

I was blessed in my companions in misery, but I didn't know then how
great was my fortune in having such friends, nor how events to come were
to draw us together. Garth said little as the coach rolled and jolted
over the uneven road. She was worried about Nat, for the lad was as
dependent upon her as a babe in arms; she loved him the more because of
his simple mind and his need for her. She wondered how he'd fare with
Mrs. Windle, who was a good woman but sharp of temper and likely to hurt
the boy without meaning to. Tom distracted her thoughts by singing songs
all the way along, for there was never such a man to face a dark
prospect with a blithe spirit. As I write these lines I hear the fine
tenor voice he was so proud of ringing out as clearly as I heard it
then. You would have thought that he had not a care in the world and
that we were bound for London on a pleasure jaunt. Presently he broke
off and said: "Hugh, have ye ever been to Newgate?"

"Never," said I, "but I've passed the place a time or two."

"Then I'd best prepare ye," said Tom, "for if a man is to be chucked
into a laystall, the shock will be the less for knowing it before he
finds himself there. It'll be worst for you, Nellie."

"Never ye fret about me," said Garth. "I'll fend for myself."

"Aye, you're a woman of courage; I grant that, and yon's the place ye'll
need the whole of it."

"I've seen the inside," said Garth.

"What! Newgate?"

"'Twas before ever I knew ye, Tom--five years back. My husband--as
honest a man as ever lived--was took for stealing some fowls at Covent
Garden Market. The wretch that did it was caught later and my man was
cleared when it was too late. He died of the gaol fever the week I got
him home. Four Sabbaths I spent with him in Newgate before that
happened. Sabbaths in hell ye might well say."

"Nellie, ye never told me this!"

"And why should I? But I know the place."

"There's a hundredweight lifted off my mind on your account," said
Oakley, in a relieved voice. "Knowing the worst afore it comes is half
the bearing of it."

"And what is the worst?" I asked.

"The whole of it, but there's shades of worst, even in Newgate, and the
Felons' Common Side, as they call it, is the bottom of the black. With
only ten shillings amongst us, it's to the Common Side we'll have to go.
We'll be for it at the start, till I can reach some of my friends
outside, but that'll be soon, I promise."

He then went on to speak of the different wards in that home of misery
and of the hierarchies of felons who lived there. The lowest was the
Common Side, one ward for men and one for women, where those convicted
or awaiting trial, and having neither friends nor money, were kept. Next
above this was that part called the Masters' Side where those with money
could buy themselves in and away from the misery of the Common Side.

"And how much is needed?" I asked.

"Thirteen-and-six a head for the entering," said Tom, "with half a crown
a week more for a bed and bedding. Then there's ten shillings' garnish
collected by the steward for coals, candles, plates, knives and forks,
and the like. And beyond all this is the food ye must buy, for ye get no
victuals in Newgate save a penny loaf a day and pump water to wash it
down with."

But the best accommodation was on the State Side, open to all who could
pay, no matter what their crimes. Here the fee for admission was three
guineas, and ten-and-sixpence a week more was charged for the rent of a
single bed. Prisoners who could afford it sometimes paid for the extra
beds and so secured for themselves the luxury of a private room.

"And to the State Side we'll go," Oakley went on, "the minute I can get
word to my friends outside. And Nellie shall have her own good quarters
near by, trust me for that. We'll do far from bad once we're settled in
the place. But for a night or two we must take the luck of beggars."

"You speak with a wide knowledge of the place, Tom," said I.

"And why not? I've had friends in the cursed hole, and I've done for
them what they'll do for me, for the three of us, now. If ever a man
wants friends, it's there. Shall we fight for our coats, lad?"

"Fight for them? Why?"

"There's the matter of garnish, or footing, demanded by the felons of
the Common Side of every newcomer the instant he comes in: It'll be pay
or strip for the three of us."

"Speak for yourself," said Nellie, grimly. "They'll take naught of mine,
I promise ye."

"No, Nellie, it's best to pay; the garnish is but two-and-six. That's
seven-and-six for the three: we'll have half a crown to spare."

"Ye'll pay naught for me," said Garth. "I won't have it."

"God bless ye, Nellie! Ye've a fist like the Rock of Ages and the weight
of a draught horse to drive it with. But mind this! They'll be twenty to
one against ye--aye, fifty to one. Ye'll be lucky to get off with your
shift."

"Never ye mind."

"Ye'll be alone amongst the harridans in the women's part. Hugh and I
will be wards away."

"I want no help."

"Ye mean to fight, then?"

"I do if needful," Garth replied, with the same confident grimness.

"There, Hugh," said Oakley; "Nellie's decided all for us. We'll not be
shamed by a woman."

"What are ye saying?" said Garth. "Will ye have Hugh fight with but the
one arm and the flesh already torn apart a second time?"

"God's truth!" said Oakley. "I'd clean forgot his wound."

"I'll not have you held up on my account," said I. "I can favour the
wound and my right arm's as good as ever. You mind the old saying? 'A
good brawl cheers all.' We'll be the better for it."

"So we would, but it can't be," said Tom. "Ye'd lame yourself for months
to come. No, we'll pay, and so will Nellie, if she'll take counsel."

"I pay _naught_," said she, with such emphasis that Tom shook his head
with a give-it-up expression. "Well, Mrs. Garth," he said with a grin,
"more power to ye! We'll see who's naked the morn."

London was now at hand; we passed the scattered houses of the outskirts
and from the open road to the cobbled streets, the coach and our guards
on horseback making a great clatter over the uneven stones. The clocks
were striking eight as we came along Holborn in a thin wintry fog that
blurred the scant lights and made going slow. The air was harsh and raw;
it was a night for indoors by a snug fire and none were abroad save the
homeless. A few hackney coachmen stood at the corners, by lampposts or
in entryways, and their poor nags, with their heads hanging low, looked
the very picture of outdoor misery. We were miserable enough, ourselves,
and all but perished with cold when we drew up before the gloomy front
of Newgate prison.

Of all the horrors of Newgate, the smell of the place was, I think, the
worst. I was no squeamish fellow; in my wanderings about London, I had
walked the filthiest courts and alleys of St. Giles, Spitalfields,
Lock's Fields, and elsewhere, but in these places the air was abroad: in
Newgate it was the confined stench of ages that had simmered and
thickened and slimed the walls since the place was a gaol, long before
the time of Henry the Third. As the ponderous iron-and-oaken door was
pushed ajar to admit us, the cold smell of human misery and hopelessness
struck me like a blow in the face, or, better, in the pit of the
stomach. I gasped and glanced at Tom, and for all that he knew what to
expect, he was as hard hit for the moment as myself. He gave me a sickly
grin and said, "Draw it in and be done with it, for it'll never be done
with you. There's no other way: ye must conquer or be conquered by it."
Garth's courage in meeting it was a help. If a woman used to clean sweet
country air could suffer the change without wincing, it was not for us
to quail before it.

We had not been shackled for the journey to London for the reason that
no shackles were to be had. In lieu of them we had been roped together
by the leg, with our hands tied behind us, but the guards had had the
decency to leave my left arm free because of my wound. We were now
unbound and a blessed relief it was to have the cords removed. They gave
us a minute or two to stamp our feet and to beat our numbed arms across
our breasts to start the blood flowing once more; then we were marshaled
down a passageway that looked like an entrance to the infernal
regions,--as it was, in fact,--and into a room to the right, down a
flight of steps. It was a place about a dozen feet square, furnished
with a table, some shelves for prison records, and two settles on either
side of the fireplace. The smell here was no different from that in the
passageway except for the warmth from the fire which seemed to stir and
liven it. Three as mean-looking rogues as ever I'd set eyes on occupied
one of the settles. An honest constable mindful of his duty, if you can
imagine so great a rarity, meeting them in the street would have taken
them up at once, on suspicion. They were turnkeys of the prison, and
none but rogues can be found to accept such a position. These three eyed
us up and down; they reminded me of so many mongrel dogs sniffing up
from afar the knowledge of how to behave toward strangers. Oakley paid
no attention to them, but Garth turned and stared them out of
countenance. Their smiles and winks seemed to indicate that they
expected a rich harvest from our coming. I was decently dressed, and
Oakley's costume was only a little this side of elegance. Garth, in her
stout shoes, grey flannel petticoat, shawl and bonnet, made a handsome
picture of a decent countrywoman who had gotten into the place by
mistake.

The man seated at the table pushed aside the candlestick and peered at
us over a pair of spectacles with an air of benevolent interest, as
though he had been a superannuated schoolmaster welcoming new scholars
to his establishment. There's no place like London for queer specimens
of humanity, and this strange little fellow took the eye at once. His
name was Tillot, as I afterward learned, and he had been keeper of the
records at Newgate for close to fifty years. His complexion was like
that of a resurrected mummy and he couldn't have weighed above six
stone. He was nothing but skin and bones, with a head so large that you
wondered how he managed to support it. And within that massive head,
completely tabulated and ready for instant reference, were records of
crime and human misery that dated back over a half-century.

Tillot booked us with an air of quiet satisfaction, as though he were a
merchant setting down items in a valuable bill of goods. Newgate was
home to him, and he must have thought that the wretches who were brought
there regarded it in the same light. Beginning with Oakley, he wrote
into his great ledger our names, ages, occupations, places of residence,
and in the column to the right he set down the charge--highway robbery.
Garth was booked as an accessory.

An assistant keeper who had received us from the guards at the door now
returned and took us in charge. He was a greasy wretch with a nose like
a beetroot, and small piglike eyes under bushy brows. All the grime of
Newgate seemed to cling to his person like mildew, and his oily smile
was meant, perhaps, to be ingratiating. He had guessed, from our decent
appearance, that we were well provided with money. He went before us
like the landlord of some low tavern prepared to show distinguished
guests his best accommodations. One of the turnkeys followed. We were
led, first, along the main passageway to a room bare of furnishings save
for two candles burning in an iron sconce fixed to the wall. Heavy
locked doors opened from this in three directions. The keeper halted
here.

"And now," said he, "we come to the parting of the ways." He turned to
Oakley. "Ye and your friends will be wishing the best we have to offer,
sir?" he asked.

Oakley looked at him in silence.

"What do ye mean by that?" said Garth.

"Ye've never been here before, ma'am, that's plain," said he. "There's
degrees of comfort in this inn, and ye must pay for the best or be
lodged with the sluts."

"We've no money," said Garth, shortly.

The fawning smile vanished at once. "No money?" said the keeper, as
though not sure he heard aright.

"No," said Garth, "and I'll thank ye to show me at once to the females'
apartments. The worst slut in the place, I'll warrant, would be too good
for the likes of yourself."

The fellow gave her a black look.

"Ye'll gain nothing by that, mistress, I promise ye," he said.

"Pah!" said Garth. "Keep yer threats for them that fears 'em. I'd scorn
to wipe my feet on such a thing as you be."

She waited with her arms folded while the man unlocked the door to the
passage leading to the women's quarters; then, with a curt nod to us,
she followed him out and the door was closed behind her. We were left
with the other turnkey, and whatever bully and tyrant he may have been
with scared and humble prisoners, he seemed to be at a loss for the line
to take with us. Neither of us paid the slightest attention as he
fumbled with his keys and unlocked the door to the passage we were to
take. We stood looking through the barred door that had closed behind
Nellie.

"Yon's a grand woman, Hugh," said Tom. "It makes me fair sick to think
it's us that brought her here."

"You've seen the quarters she'll be sent to?" I asked.

Tom nodded glumly. Suddenly he turned his head toward the turnkey who
was waiting by the other door. "See here, corny-face," he called.

"Ye'd best come along now," said the fellow, sullenly. "Ye'll have me in
trouble, else."

"Ye've a thirsty look," said Tom, "and we're not as stony as we said
just now." He took some coins from his pocket and jingled them in one
hand, eyeing the wardsman appraisingly. "Would two shillings wet down
such a gullet as yours?"

"Aye, it might," said the fellow, perking up. "What do ye wish?"

"Have ye the keys to the women's court?" Oakley asked.

The man shook his head.

"Then can ye take us where we can see the place?"

"Aye," said the man. "There's a room that looks into it from above the
wall. I could take ye there, but not for long, mind!"

"Lead on," said Oakley, "for there's to be the battle of the ages
directly."

"If it's your friend you're thinking of, there's naught ye can do to
help her," said the wardsman. "She'd best pay her garnish else they'll
not leave a rag to her back."

"That's as it falls out," said Oakley. "Make haste now, for we wish to
be there at the start."

It was the custom at Newgate to lock the felons into their wards at
nightfall, and from then on until day there were no keepers amongst
them. The man led us through a maze of passages and up a stairway to a
miserable room about eight by ten feet with a wooden barrack bed against
the wall. This was one of the supposedly luxurious apartments reserved
to female prisoners with money, but the place was empty now. In one wall
was a barred window looking directly into the women's court, a
stone-paved area as dank and dismal as some underground dungeon. It was
the common court for the lowest, poorest class of women, and was lighted
by a few candles stuck into blackened niches in the walls. Leading off
from it were passages to their sleeping quarters if ever sleep could be
possible in so frightful a place. For all that it was now past nine
o'clock, the din that rose from the court was worse than Bartholomew
Fair, and it was given back redoubled in volume from the walls. As my
eyes became accustomed to the dim light I saw children, like the
offspring of famine, amongst the adults, and slatterns with infants in
their arms sitting against the walls. Many of the women were barefoot,
and others were shod in rags they had tied about their feet. Here and
there I saw groups huddled together for warmth, for they had no fires.
Nothing I had seen in the most wretched quarters of London had prepared
me for the sight of the women's court at Newgate. Here, surely, was the
"bottom of the black," as Oakley had called it.

Then we spied Garth. She was standing with her back to the gate she had
been let in by, and in front of her was at least a score of the vilest
creatures in the place all yelling "Garnish! Garnish!"

"God help her!" said Oakley with a groan. "Nellie, Nellie! Pay and be
done with it!"

He said that not for Garth's hearing but as a kind of prayerful
entreaty; indeed, Garth could scarcely have heard him had he shouted at
the top of his voice. "She's a grand woman," he added. "I see how it is
with her; she wishes to be roused; there'll be no bearing the place
unless her blood is up."

A striking figure she made in that dismal setting, her shadow towering
behind her on the wall. Mrs. Garth was just under six feet and weighed
better than twelve stone, and there was that in her bearing to make any
woman think twice about attacking her. The harridans that ringed her on
three sides kept their distance at first; then one made a rush in an
attempt to snatch her bonnet. Garth met her with a powerful open-handed
slap that sent the woman sprawling.

Yells of delight followed this resolute action, for, in that pitiful
hopeless place where the women had nothing to do from day's end to day's
end, they became desperate for some diversion, some bit of excitement to
make them forget their miserable lot. There was a rush to the side of
the court where Garth stood, and those who had been baiting her now
crowded closer, reviling her in terms so foul that I must omit them
here. They were out to conquer her now; they could see that she was a
decent woman, and they may have thought to subdue her with abuse alone,
for none of them ventured to step forward to receive what she had given
the first of their number. A semblance of quiet followed as Garth untied
the strings of her bonnet. She held it for a moment, then tossed it
amongst them. "That ye may have," she announced. A score of hands
clutched wildly at it, and in their greed they tore it to bits. Whilst
this was happening a huge woman appeared from the rear of the court and
shoved the others aside till she stood before Garth. She glared right
and left at her companions.

"What are ye about, ye bitches!" said she. "Do ye fight and send no word
to me?"

"The fine lady is only just come, Moll," said one, "and she'll pay no
garnish."

"Won't she so?" said the other. She turned to Garth and gave her a mock
courtsey. "Well, me handsome duchess! Do ye think to buy us off with the
bunnit? Stand against us, would ye?" In half a minute she had worked
herself into such an appalling tantrum that she had to pause for breath.
"We'll have every rag to yer body, ye milk-fed trollop, and yer blood
with it! Strip!"

This woman was a horror to see. Her name was Moll Cudlip and she was the
bully of the female side. She had a hoarse voice, and had she been
dressed as a man you would never have guessed her sex. Her hair was
cropped short, making the egg-shaped head appear small and out of place
on shoulders which were as broad as those of a Thames bargeman. Her only
garment was a quilted petticoat black with age and grime, reaching to
her knees. Her arms, legs, and feet were bare, but she seemed
indifferent to the cold.

"Stand back!" she said to her companions. "I'll handle her!"

The others made room amid cries of, "Go it, Moll! Christen her! Paint
her red! We'll show her who's mistress here!"

Oakley gripped my shoulder in his anxiety. "Nellie, Nellie, if only ye'd
listened to me!" he groaned, in a low voice. I was as worried as
himself, for this Cudlip would have weighed a good two stone above
Garth. But Nellie stood her ground, her eye fixed upon her opponent as
she quietly unpinned the brooch that held her shawl in place. She then
folded the garment as neatly as though she were about to lay it in the
drawer of her wardrobe at home. Cudlip watched her with an air of
triumph, but instead of passing over the shawl, Nellie thrust it quickly
into the bosom of her dress. Then she stepped back until she was braced
against the gate.

Cudlip had not expected this. With a bellow she rushed at Garth, who
raised her foot and shoved it with terrific force full into Cudlip's
stomach. The latter doubled up and fell in a heap, gasping for breath.
Garth leaped upon her and, seizing her by the ears, bashed her head
again and again against the stone floor. The others might have
overpowered her then by sheer weight of numbers, but they were so taken
by surprise that instead of rushing her they fell back. Now Garth's
blood was up. She seemed to have been gifted with the strength of all
the furies, and with her eyes alight and her strong fists clenched, she
laid into those nearest with rights and lefts straight to eyes and
noses, using her feet at the same time. I've seen battles now and again,
but never one so hopeless-seeming at the start that ended so quickly.
With their leader conquered, Cudlip's followers showed the craven spirit
that was native to them, and within three minutes Garth was mistress of
the ward. There must have been well over a hundred women in the place
but not above a dozen had taken an active part against her. At the end
she stood in the midst of the yard, scarce breathed by the encounter and
looking as though she could have battled the night through had there
been any with the courage to meet her. Then her eye fell upon a woman
crouched by the wall with a sickly half-naked child huddled in her arms
for warmth. Garth stepped over to her; we could not hear what was said,
but she drew forth her warm shawl and wrapped it about the child as
gently as though it had been her own.

"There," said Tom, "Nellie's paid her garnish in the only way she'd ever
consent to pay it. God bless her! They'll meddle with her no more,
that's certain."

Cudlip lay where she had fallen, but a moment later she lifted herself
slowly to a sitting position and stared about her. At our last glimpse
she was still here, with such an ache, I'll warrant, in that egg-shaped
head as had knocked the conceit out of her for days to come.




CHAPTER IV. TRANSPORTATION FOR LIFE


Tom and I were taken to the men's Common Side, which was worse, if
possible, than the dismal hole for the women. We paid our garnish and
then were double-ironed and triple-ironed. Our decent clothing stood us
in bad stead here, for we were judged to be men with money, or who would
have money later, when we could send to friends outside. And so we were
loaded with three sets of shackles to our feet so that we could be
forced to buy easement of irons when, and if, our funds came in. It was
past midnight when we were shown into a cell room that was no more than
a corridor eight feet wide and three times as long, filled to
suffocation with sleeping men. The door and two small barred windows
high in the wall offered all the ventilation there was. A whale-oil lamp
burned in this place, and by its light I could dimly see the inmates,
old men, young men, and mere boys, huddled on a wooden platform raised
about six inches from the stone floor. This was the common bed with
nothing but the bare boards to sleep on. Some had pieces of filthy
canvas for covering, but most of them only the clothes they lay in.
Along the narrow passage at the foot stood the slop tubs.

At first Oakley and I stood by the wall, resolved to wear out the night
in that position. It required something beyond mere fortitude to stretch
out in that huddle of human beings. Nevertheless, we were forced to it
in the end. There was no place else to go and we couldn't sleep on our
feet. So we shoved our way into the mass of snoring, groaning, cursing
prisoners, and before day came we slept as soundly as the others.

We spent three days in the men's Common Side, and hour by hour Tom
became more restless and impatient for news from outside. On the first
morning he had sent word to one Nick Sabb, who, Tom said, was his fence.
Sabb was a man of great influence, not only in the underworld of London,
but among the police as well. He had been in and out of prison a dozen
times, but never for long. He was, ostensibly, a pawnbroker, with a shop
in Cloak Lane, off the Poultry, but this was merely the front behind
which he carried on his various activities. Aside from his business as a
receiver of stolen goods, he was a great vender of counterfeit money,
the real source of his wealth. Sabb was far too astute to coin on his
own, for the penalty, on conviction, was certain death. But by one of
the many inconsistencies of criminal law, the buying and selling of base
money was ranked only as a misdemeanour and the punishment for it light.
Sabb, said Oakley, was the most prosperous merchant in this line in the
whole of London.

"Nick never fails a friend," Oakley was saying as we paced the court on
the afternoon of our third day. "I love the old rogue like a father;
there never was a man with a kinder heart, and why the devil I've not
heard from him afore this... My note's not reached him, that's sure.
The cursed wardsman has pocketed my shilling and spared himself the
trouble of sending it out."

I was as much in the dumps over this miscarriage of plan as Oakley
himself, for I do not believe there is a human situation more truly
miserable than that of men without money in Newgate prison. Heaven be
thanked, we did not have to suffer it for long. It was getting on for
dusk that same afternoon when a turnkey, the fellow who had first
brought us here, came into the court and bustled up the moment he spied
us.

"I'm to fetch ye out o' this, masters," he said with a grin. "Why
couldn't ye a told me in the first place ye're friends o' Nick Sabb's?
He's here, in quod himself."

"What!" said Tom.

"Aye," said the man; "on the State Side. Ye're to come with me directly
ye've had easement of irons, for he's paid for that in advance."

With that the turnkey gave him a note scribbled on a bit of grimy paper.
Tom read it eagerly; then passed it to me:--

    Tom:

    The note went to Cloak Lane and back here. I've had it only this
    minute. Welcome to Newgate. You and your friend are to lodge
    next to Ned Inching and me.

"All's well now," said Oakley, "but what Ned Inching's doing in Newgate
is more than I can guess."

"Who is he?" I asked.

"The cleverest pickpocket in the Kingdom, bar none. He's been at that
game since babyhood, ye might say, but I've never known of his being in
quod before."

"Now, gents, if ye'll step along," said the turnkey.

Hard stepping it was with three sets of irons to our legs, but the two
extra sets were struck off in a little room close by; we then followed
the turnkey through a labyrinth of passages leading to the State Side.
As the man was unlocking a door, Oakley regarded me with a faint smile,
and I could detect a glint of anxiety in his eye.

"Has it come home to ye, this place?" he asked.

"It's beginning to," I replied; "all but the irons."

Tom nodded. "They're a cursed nuisance and no mistake, but there's no
buying easement of the one pair. We'll be obliged to wear 'em to the
end, whichever way it goes with us. We've an anxious time to come, but
never lose heart. We're not turned off yet. But what I would say is
this: here we are, two honest highwaymen, set down amongst thieves,
pickpockets, forgers, coiners, housebreakers, and the Lord knows what
all. Can ye take 'em as they come?"

"Of course. Why not?" I replied.

Oakley gave me a hearty slap on the back. "Forgive me, lad, I might ha'
known ye're not the man to sit on a high horse. And I want ye to take to
Sabb. As he stands, I'd choose him for a friend above many that sits in
the seats of Parliament."

The turnkey opened a last door leading to the State Side Court. Compared
with the place we had left, it seemed to embody the height of comfort
and luxurious ease. Money, as I was to learn, could do anything at
Newgate, save open the door to freedom or banish the cold prison stench.
It was now the shank of the evening for Newgate's nobility and gentry.
The court was thronged with them, some as well dressed as respectable
citizens on 'Change. There were candles and spermaceti lamps a-plenty:
the brisk stir and bustle, the laughter and loud talk, the running about
of waiters with trays of ale, grog, and hot food brought in from the
cookshops outside, put me in mind of some London tavern when the evening
coaches come in, and the passengers, after their long journeys, are in
the best of spirits, thinking of the good cheer at hand.

I would not go so far as to say that the State Side at Newgate resembled
any of the London inns for homely comfort. Far from it. The place was
mean and dingy; but there were fires going in the various rooms off the
court, beds to sleep on, and some, at least, of the comforts and
conveniences of life. We looked into rooms where men were sitting at
cards; in others they were making merry over bowls of hot punch, for
prisoners with money could send out for what they pleased in the way of
food, ale, or spirits. Only the occasional clank of fetters reminded me
that these men were felons.

We crossed the court and entered the room which Nicholas Sabb shared
with his friend Inching. Sabb waved his hand at sight of Oakley.

"What cheer, Tom?" he called. "Here's a stout heart! He lets himself get
nabbed to keep an old friend company!"

Sabb was a man of middle age, and his belly alone would have made three
Ned Inchings. His round, high-coloured face gleamed in the lamplight,
and he wore his own hair, an untidy shock that stood out in all
directions. Inching looked to be around fifty. His face was the colour
of old untanned leather and seamed with a thousand wrinkles, and his
ears stood out from his head like the handles of an urn. His hands were
no larger than those of a boy. There was a third man present, Mr.
Mortimer Thynne, and he looked strangely out of place in a prison. He
was a little under middle height, slender of build, with a pale face of
considerable refinement. His expression changed from moment to moment
according to his mood, but for the most part, gayety shone from his grey
eyes as though it came from an inexhaustible fund within.

There was no mistaking the sincerity of Sabb's welcome, and he received
me with the same cordiality. The introductions over, places were made
for us at the table. There was a good fire burning at one end of the
room, and on the opposite side were two beds furnished with comfortable
mattresses, pillows, and coverlets. A wash-hand stand stood by the wall
with a small mirror over it. On the table itself were two bottles of
Canary wine, and Sabb immediately ordered in two more for our benefit.

"Lads, sluice your gobs," he said, heartily. "We'll sup directly, but
now's the hour for a whet. Wonders will never cease! Here's a merry
party of friends and to-be-friends to meet up in the shade of the Old
Bailey!"

"Is it not, Nick?" said Thynne. "Mr. Oakley, Mr. Tallant, here's to our
better acquaintance."

The conversation that followed was kept going at a lively pace by Sabb
and Thynne, with Oakley putting in a word now and again. Inching's
comments comprised a series of grunts, and squeaks like the rasping of a
saw or file, and an occasional shrill chortle that always seemed to be
cut off in the middle with a sharp "ik!" Not a word was said as to why
any of us was in Newgate, nor was the least curiosity shown in the
matter (though we learned later that Sabb, for all his wealth and
influence, and for all his cleverness in keeping clear of the harder
clutches of the law, had at last run afoul of it in such a manner that
he had been tried and convicted as a receiver of stolen goods and
sentenced to seven years' transportation). We might have been a group
sitting in a coffeehouse, as free of the law as so many respectable
citizens. The talk was mostly of places, people, and events I knew
nothing about, but I pricked up my ears when Thynne referred to his
wife, who was with him in Newgate. He spoke of her with great respect,
in a frank easy manner, as though it were perfectly natural and in the
course of events that she too should be an inmate of Newgate. Presently
he rose.

"Nick, my thanks and compliments. Better Purl Royal I've never tasted.
And now I must be going."

"But why not stop with us?" said Sabb. "There's a hamper of vittles on
the way; enough for a half a dozen."

Thynne smiled. "Another time, Nick. Mrs. Thynne and I are dining _en
famille_. As you know, I cultivate the domestic virtues. Gentlemen, good
evening, and _bon apptit_!"

Sabb had said no more than the truth about the coming supper. A waiter,
himself a needy prisoner in Sabb's hire, brought it. He laid out the
tableware and then set before us dishes of sliced turkey's gizzard,
pickled oysters, cold pickled tongue with West Indian potargo,
veal-and-ham pies, an excellent joint of beef, a bean tansey piping hot,
in a huge earthenware dish, and another dish of boiled, creamed onions.
And there was ale in plenty to wash all down. Tom and I needed no urging
to do full justice to the meal, for we were all but starved after the
miserable pickings of the penniless on the Common Side.

When the meal was over, Inching left us to join the crowd in the court,
and Tom then spoke of Nellie Garth. He was telling Sabb who she was and
what she was, and where she was now lodged, when Nick halted him.

"Say no more," he said. "I'll have the good woman out of that before the
hour strikes."

He sent his lackey to fetch the wardsman, and in five minutes' time he
had arranged that Mrs. Garth was to have a room to herself,--the one we
had looked out from when we watched her battle,--with coals, candles,
bedding, food, and everything needful for her comfort.

"God bless ye, Nick," said Oakley. "Ye've never served a better turn to
a better woman."

"And why shouldn't I?" said Sabb. "But Tom, how come's it ye're as stony
as all this?"

Tom then related our story, explaining my part in it, and how we had
been taken by Baxter's men. "And the worst of it was, Nick," he added,
"that they got the whole of the money, save for a couple of guineas
spent, and the fault for this is mine. Worse still, there was French and
Spanish pieces amongst the English guineas, the same young Baxter had
won at Bath."

"There's no great danger in that," said Sabb, "for there might well be
foreign coins in any bag of guineas." He was silent for some little
time; then he added, "But that's evidence, of course, and there's this
beside: the pistol wound of your friend, here; your mare and Tallant's
recognized, or thought to be recognized.... What else? They can't
swear to your faces?"

"They was covered," said Tom.

"Was anything took off ye to tell against ye?"

"Aye, my striking-watch, mebbe," said Tom. "Ye've seen it, but that was
christened."

Sabb was again silent, and at last Oakley said: "Well, Nick, out with
it. How do we stand, think ye?"

"Not bad, mebbe... and none so good, neither. Have ye a weatherproof
story to account for Tallant's shoulder?"

"Aye, that's ready," said Tom.

"Ye was a fool to keep the watch," said Sabb. "Christened or not, it may
do ye harm, for there's none cleverer than watchmakers for knowing their
own handiwork. If they do, there's a piece of circumstantial evidence
that'll tell.... Well, Tom, ye're far from being hung. But I'll say
this: I'd sooner have my head on Tallant's neck than yours."

Sabb was no comforter; he had too much good sense to play that role.
Late that night, a good two hours after Oakley and I had gone to bed in
the adjoining room, Tom called, "Hugh, are ye sleeping?" and I knew that
he was thinking as soberly as myself.

                 *        *        *        *        *

We had been some days in Newgate when the Governor himself came into
court one morning, and inquired for Oakley and me by name. He was a
tall, lean, middle-aged man, with a face that glowed like a sea-coal
fire, noted for having a thirstier gullet than any of his pensioners,
and for his favours to some of the younger, more personable female
prisoners, several of whom were always employed as servants in his
bachelor establishment. A turnkey followed with a bundle of clothing,
and another fellow with a hammer and chisel. The Governor glanced at us
incuriously when we had answered to our names. Our irons were then
struck off and we were ordered to dress in our boots and riding clothes,
fetched for the purpose from Garth's place. Presently we were handcuffed
and led by two guards to the street in front of the prison. I was
surprised to find that Tom and I held the centre of the stage for the
crowd gathered there; furthermore, Tom's mare and the sorrel I had
ridden on the night of the robbery were awaiting us. Oakley forgot the
crowd when he saw Rosamond, and the mare laid her head on his shoulder,
fondling him with her lips.

We were ordered to mount, and then the horses were led back and forth in
front of the gate while the crowd looked us over. Notice had been
printed in the papers and elsewhere that the two highwaymen, suspected
of having robbed the coach of Reginald Baxter, Esq., on the Bath Road on
the night of December eighth, would be exhibited before the main gate at
Newgate, and that any gentlemen having been robbed in recent months were
requested to be present to view these men.

It was a trying ordeal, and I all but sweat blood lest I should chance
to be seen by some of my Loyalist acquaintances. However, nothing of the
sort happened, and when we had been viewed by a crowd of, I dare say,
five hundred people, from first to last, we were ordered to dismount and
led back into the prison.

And now, if anyone wishes to hear the whole story of the trial and
conviction of Messrs. Hugh Tallant and Thomas Oakley, he can whistle for
it, so far as I am concerned, or go to the records, for the year 1787,
kept at the Old Bailey Sessions House. We were tried at the January
assizes--tried, convicted, and condemned to death, and the weeks that
followed I have spent forty-five years of my life trying to forget.
Oakley and I both had reason to thank God for that quality in our race
which forbids an Englishman, not wholly sure of his ground, to swear
away the life of another man. Nevertheless, the evidence pointed so
strongly to our guilt that a verdict was found against us, but with it
went a recommendation of clemency. It was not until early in March that
we learned that our sentences had been commuted by His Majesty's Privy
Council to transportation for life. Poor Nellie Garth was given seven
years' transportation for being an accessory.




CHAPTER V. MORTIMER THYNNE


It was late in December, 1786, when Mrs. Garth, Oakley, and I entered
Newgate prison. On the fifth of May in the year following, we left the
forbidding place as convicted felons bound for Botany Bay, in New South
Wales.

Botany Bay--how the name rang in my ears! It became more and more
familiar to all Newgate prisoners as the weeks and months passed. We
heard it from the lips of officers of the Court, of keepers and
turnkeys, of visitors from the outside who came to see friends and
relatives in the gaol; for, at about the time we had been taken into
custody, His Majesty's Government, after years of delay, had decided to
establish a penal colony in New South Wales. Botany Bay was the place
fixed upon. For more than a century and a half, England had emptied her
gaols into the American Colonies, but the outbreak of the Revolution had
put an end for all time to this practice: America wanted no more
settlers of this kind. And so, for ten years, from the beginning of the
war until 1786, England's convicted felons had been accumulating
throughout the country. Conditions in the gaols and hulks had become so
desperate, from overcrowding and disease, that the Government was at
last forced to take action, and in the summer of '86, orders were given
for the outfitting of a fleet of transports which were to carry to an
unknown continent more than halfway around the world as many convicts as
could be crowded aboard. I understood now why His Majesty's Home Office
had ignored Mr. James Matra's petition for colonizing American Loyalists
at Botany Bay. They had New South Wales in mind as a penal settlement
and, as the need to empty the gaols and hulks was greater than their
sense of obligation to the Loyalists, the decision was made. It was, to
me, a bitter reflection that, of all the American refugees in London who
had dreamed of New South Wales as a future home, I alone was to have
that dream fulfilled, and with a vengeance.

Thanks to Nick Sabb, Oakley and I had been spared the greater miseries
of Newgate life, and he had opened his wallet as generously for Nellie
Garth. In comparison with the friendless, penniless convicts, we lived
like nabobs, and when our turn came, Sabb, Mortimer Thynne, Oakley, Ned
Inching, and I, in a coach of Nick's hiring, made the journey to
Portsmouth, where the transports lay, ready for their cargo. We had
hoped that Garth and Mrs. Thynne could go with us, but women were kept
separate from the men on these journeys, and all the influence of
Messrs. Sabb and Thynne had not succeeded in gaining for these two the
privacy of our coach. They were compelled to go in a great wagon drawn
by four horses, and filled with Newgate's worst--shameless creatures who
hooted and yelled as they set out for Portsmouth, whilst some of the
more brazen lay in the straw and waved their shackled legs in the air.
It was a wagonful of bawdiness and no mistake.

Our own party set out like so many respectable citizens off for a day of
pleasure in the country. To be sure, we were in shackles and under
guard, but folk in the streets could not see the irons. We left the
women's wagon far behind before we had reached the open country. Every
mile put between us and the miseries of Newgate was like a load lifted
from the heart. It was glorious spring weather, with the birds singing,
the trees in new leaf, and the meadows so fresh and green that I could
have looked at them forever. Merely to draw in the clean rain-washed air
was a joy past measuring; it was worth all we had suffered to have this
heightened pleasure in the simple act of breathing. Tom was as
lighthearted as myself; he sang, he whistled, and thrust his head out
the window every other moment to call or wave to countryfolk in the
lanes and fields. Ned Inching sat glum in his corner, and Sabb seemed in
no better spirits.

"Aye, Tom," Nick remarked presently, "it's well enough for a pair of
country louts like yourself and Tallant to take joy in the fields, but
what about us?"

"Why, ye moon-faced gallows-load," said Tom, "d'ye mean to say ye're not
glad to be quit of Newgate? God's truth! Here's the greatest rogue in
London that's missed dangling in the sheriff's picture frame by the
width of an eyebrow, and he finds nothing to be merry about!"

"Be damned to ye," said Sabb. "I was never in finger-post distance of
the gallows, but I'd take the risk willing enough to bide in London." He
shook his head with a heavy sigh. "When will I ever see it again?"

"When? Why, seven years from now, old guts-and-garbage! What's seven
years to a man can live on his own fat the whole of the time if it comes
to that? Shame to ye, Nick! Here's Hugh and me as lively as new fleas,
and we've got life to serve. Cheer up, old cock! And ye too, Ned
Inching, else I'll give ye a footing! Ye look as doleful as a pair of
Scotch alley cats!... Look yonder," he added, as a handsome carriage
drawn by four horses approached down the drive of a great park we were
passing. "I'll take oath there's one of His Majesty's privy councillors
inside that coach, and if he had his deserts he'd be riding with us.

      "The little rogue the Law's last tribute pays,
       While crowns around the great one's chariot blaze...

Call me cut if that ain't sober truth, though who wrote the lines I
couldn't say."

"Never call me a little rogue," said Sabb.

"Haven't I said ye was the greatest in London," said Tom with a grin,
"save fellows like His Lordship yonder?"

"I can enlighten you as to the author of the quotation, Mr. Oakley,"
said Thynne. "It is no other than our distinguished poet laureate, Mr.
Whitehead."

"Is it so, Mr. Thynne? Well, here's another to cap the first, and damme
if I don't think it's the better of the two:--

             "The law doth punish man or woman
              That steals a goose from off the common,
              But lets the greater villain loose
              That steals the common from off the goose."

"Excellent, Tom, excellent!" said Thynne, with a chuckle. "More truth
than poetry there."

"Aye, it holds a mort of truth," said Oakley. "The greatest villains in
the Kingdom are the nabobs that go to His Majesty's levees. They've
stole nine tenths of the country from the rest of us, and they covet the
other tenth. It's them that take the people's commons and they do it by
acts of Parliament. And if some poor lad poaches a rabbit in His
Lordship's park, where does he land?... Hugh, d'ye mind the redhaired
boy sent along to the transports last week? What was his name...
Dugan, if I recollect."

"What of him?" asked Thynne.

"The lad might be fifteen, though he looked younger. _He_ stole a goose,
or was it a hen? What does he get? Seven years' transportation! There's
the King's justice for ye! I mind another sample of it I saw when
passing through Covent Garden Market, not a fortnight before Tallant and
me was caught: there was two men being flogged through the streets,
taking their air and exercise at the same cart's tail. For what, would
ye say?"

"Misdemeanours, certainly, else we might have had the pleasure of their
company to Botany Bay," said Thynne.

"So they call 'em, Thynne, and one was a small thing. The man had stole
a bunch of radishes, valued at sixpence. But the fellow beside him,
taking the same punishment, had raped a girl of fifteen, his own niece.
Is that justice?"

"I know a pair of brisk young highwaymen with no call to complain on the
score of justice," said Sabb.

"Aye, we was lucky," said Oakley. "I'll warrant Tallant's neck is as
sore as me own at thinking how close we was to wearing a hempen
stock.... Ned Inching, brisk up, me lad! Look at him, Nick! He's got
the pride of Satan and thought never to be nabbed."

This was, indeed, a sore point with Ned Inching, alias Tim Sidewise, and
I don't know how many others, though Inching was the handle he went by
in Newgate. He was as proud of his trade as though it had been the most
honourable, as it was among the most ancient, in the land. According to
Sabb, Inching had started picking pockets as soon as he was tall enough
to reach them, and in forty years he had been caught but once before.
Now he was for seven years' transportation.

He gave Oakley a sour look. "How far will it be, this Botany Bay?" he
asked.

"Hugh, you're a scholar," said Oakley. "Where is the bloody place?"

"A matter of halfway around the world," I replied.

"Right, Mr. Tallant," said Thynne. "According to my computations, we
will cover on the voyage a distance in the very near neighbourhood of
fourteen thousand miles."

"Fourteen thousand miles!" Sabb exclaimed. Oakley laughed heartily at
his doleful expression.

"So it is, Nick. Trust Mr. Thynne to know his geography, for he's been
to Oxford, and Cambridge too, I shouldn't wonder. Now tell us, Thynne,
what like of a land is it?"

"A very unpromising one, I fear, Tom."

"With naught but rocks and sand and the bush filled with wild beasts and
naked savages?"

"Something of the kind, certainly."

"Good! Hugh and me will thrive there. But poor Nick! His guts will cry
cupboard from morn till night; and what Ned will do is more than I can
guess, for the wild men will have never a pocket amongst 'em. Never
mind--hearts of oak, lads, hearts of oak!"

Little any of us knew about New South Wales, but Thynne had a copy of
the _Morning Chronicle_ of the day before, in which was a brief account
of transports which were to take us there. He drew out the paper and
read us the following:--

    "It is now expected that the fleet for Botany Bay will sail
    within the week. The expedition is under the command of Captain
    Arthur Phillip, R. N., who will remain in New South Wales as
    first Governor of the colony. He will sail in H.M.S. _Sirius_,
    with H.M. armed tender _Supply_ as an auxiliary vessel. The
    following transports will carry the felons:

              1. _Alexander_--213 male convicts
              2. _Scarborough_--208 male convicts
              3. _Friendship_--77 male and 20 female convicts
              4. _Charlotte_--88 male and 20 female convicts
              5. _Prince of Wales_--100 female convicts
              6. _Lady Penrhyn_--102 female convicts

    Three store-ships, the _Golden Grove_, _Fishburn_, and
    _Borrowdale_, will carry most of the supplies for the colony. A
    company of marines, under command of Major Robert Ross, to form
    the military establishment, is already at Portsmouth, and it is
    expected that the last of the convicts will be embarked by
    Saturday next."

This notice, bald and dry as it was, gave us matter for discussion
during the next hour; then we fell silent, and one by one my companions
dropped off to sleep. As I looked from one to another of them, I thought
of the strangeness of my fortunes in being of that company. Inching
alone excepted, none of them bore the stamp of the underworld upon him.
For all that he was a highwayman, Tom Oakley did not belong to that
world, though he knew it well enough. Sabb knew no other, but he would
have passed anywhere as a respectable merchant, rather too fond of good
living. As for Mortimer Thynne, he might have been a schoolmaster, a
parson, a barrister, a banker, for he could have fitted himself to any
of these professions insofar as appearance went. Of all the convicts I
had met in Newgate, Mr. and Mrs. Thynne had most interested and puzzled
me. To see them in fetters was a shock to one's sense of probability;
indeed, of possibility. Mrs. Thynne was a handsome woman of forty, half
a head taller than her husband, with fine dark eyes and thick brown
hair, and a complexion that needed no aid from art. Her manners were
most correct, and her speech as genteel as though she had graced in her
youth one of the most elegant of young ladies' finishing schools. She
gave an appearance of delicacy in constitution, and yet she had borne
the unspeakable conditions of Newgate with no appearance of sinking
under them. To be sure, she had enjoyed there, with her husband, the
best quarters and all the comforts that money could procure, for Mr.
Thynne was as well provided with funds as Nick Sabb himself. Even so, it
was a horrible place, and there was no paying for a single breath of
pure air. I admired Mrs. Thynne's courage, and her gift for carrying her
gentility with her. She was always handsomely dressed, and spent most of
her time in Newgate in making her toilet for the appearance in the State
Side court, late in the afternoon, and a veritable triumph she made of
it. Thynne's own costume was always of the best materials, though more
sober in taste, and I shouldn't wonder if it were not designed to set
off to greater advantage the elegance of his wife. He looked like an
Oxford don who had married a comfortable fortune, and for all I know
that may have been the case. Husband and wife were, by profession, what
is known as "gate-crashers." With spurious cards of admission to routs,
balls, masquerades, and other assemblies of the fashionable world, they
would lift jewelry, silverware, watches, diamond-studded snuffboxes,
whatever of value came to hand. They were such accomplished thieves that
they had practised their profession successfully for years, in both
London and provincial towns. Aiming at ever higher game, they had
finally been caught at one of the King's levees. Their case at the Old
Bailey Sessions House caused a stir and there was a great deal about it
in the newspapers. Upon conviction, both were sentenced to fourteen
years' transportation. They were completely lacking in any appearance of
hurt pride and accepted their changed condition with as much ease and
self-possession as though they were going to New South Wales as free and
prosperous settlers. As I looked at Mr. Thynne, opposite me in the
coach, and sleeping like an honest gentleman bound to Portsmouth on
business, it was hard to believe in our forlorn condition and the fate
in store for the five of us.

To distract my thoughts I took up the newspaper and read again the item
about Botany Bay. If the figures given were correct, 586 men were being
sent out and but 242 women. Some Grub Street wag had noticed these
figures, for there was a bit of verse below the news item, with one
stanza reading:--

       Three husbands at once, Mr. Gaoler, you say,
       We females shall have when at Botany Bay?
       Punishment, this, to be sought after, courted?
       Before they transport us we're more than transported!

Oakley, who had been snoring loudly, awoke.

"What are ye about, Hugh?" he asked.

"There's eight hundred and twenty-eight of us for New South Wales if
this tally is right," I said. "Have you thought of it? Except for a few
stout fellows like ourselves, here's a cargo of misery that will be as
helpless where we're going as babes in the wood."

"You're right; I was thinking the same thing myself. There never was
such a crackbrained expedition as this sent out since England was a
nation. But they get rid of us, and that's the main thing. I shouldn't
wonder if the hope is they'll never see hide nor hair of us again. We're
none so lucky, but I'd sooner be in my own shoes than in his that's to
govern us. What's his name again?"

"Phillip."

Tom shook his head. "God help him! A merry time he'll have trying to
make a settlement on the ends of the earth with eight hundred convicts!
There'll not be above a score that knows any trade save that of knavery.
But let him and them that's sent him worry about that." He glanced
cautiously at the coachmen on the box and the guard beside him; then he
added, in a low voice: "I'm thinking of ourselves. Transportation for
life--it's just beginning to come in to me what that means. 'Tis a huge
land, ain't it, this New South Wales?"

"No one knows the extent of it, but you could put a score of Englands in
it, that's certain."

Tom stretched out his legs, regarding his shackles with a mingled air of
disgust and contempt; then he gave me a hearty smack on the knee. "Man,
it's good to be alive and fit for anything!"

I felt the same way about it, and as the coach rolled and jolted on its
way to Portsmouth, we talked of the future as though we were free men
and Botany Bay a promised bed of roses rather than a penal settlement.

We reached Portsmouth too late to be taken aboard one of the transports.
Instead, we were carried to the town gaol for the night, and found it
crowded to suffocation with others waiting to be embarked. It was an
ancient three-story building of brick, more foul than Newgate itself.
The keeper, a sergeant-at-mace, was one of those gaolers who serve
without pay for the sake of the perquisites extorted from the inmates,
but what he had provided in return for his fees I couldn't see, for the
room into which he attempted to squeeze us had neither beds nor bedding;
there was scarcely space to set foot between the men lying or sitting on
the bare floor. The guards who had brought us from London were a pair of
typical Newgate flunkeys, accustomed, for a suitable reward, to looking
out for the welfare of their "gentlemen lodgers." Judging by their
indignation as they peered into this crowded ward, you might have
thought that they and not ourselves were to sleep there.

"Look ye, Master," said one, "this 'ere's a genteel party we've brought,
and we'll not have 'em pigged in the like o' this. Have ye no better
quarters?"

"I might have," said the warden.

"And what d'ye ask?" said Sabb.

"Ten shillings the night, gentlemen, with hot food at five shillings,
and good ale at ninepence the quart."

"Then take us there," said Sabb.

"Ye must pay on the nail," said the warden. He led us to a dingy narrow
room lighted by two small windows, and stood with his hands on his hips
while Sabb drew out the great leather pouch I knew well by this time. I
will not venture to say how many guineas, half crowns, and shilling
pieces I had seen paid out of it, but there seemed to be no bottom to
the pouch, the reason being that Sabb's nephew, in London, his
right-hand man in business, kept him well supplied.

"Nick," said Oakley, when the money had been paid and the door locked
behind the guards, "d'ye know how deep Tallant and me are in your debt?"

"Shut up or I'll wring your necks," said Sabb. "What's that to me?"

"Nothing, I know it well, but we're not the men to forget an obligation.
Hugh, ye've kept tally. What's it come to?"

I consulted my pocketbook. "Not counting to-night, the total is
forty-one pounds, seven and fourpence," I replied; "and how we're ever
to get square with you, Nick, is more than I can see."

"Hush, now," said Sabb. "Who's said anything about payments? I've done
naught ye wouldn't do for me in the same pinch, and where'll be the good
of money in the place we're going?"

"Ha, ha, ha! Just so," laughed Thynne. "We shall be true children of
nature in Botany Bay."

"It's good coin, Nick?" Tom asked, with a wink at me, as Sabb was about
to return the pouch to his pocket.

"Good!" said Sabb, bristling up. He drew forth a half crown and dropped
it to the stone floor. "Is that the ring of true sweet silver? Is it,
Tom Oakley?"

"Aye, Nick--sweet as a bell's tone. I was wrong to question it."

Sabb's great belly shook with a silent chuckle.

"Lads, as ye know, I'm all but master of one of the King's mints, but
since His Majesty don't know it, I take heed to carry with me none but
coin that has his own approval."

"And a very sound practice that is," said Thynne.

Then, over a gallon of ale ordered up by our two benefactors, we fell to
discussing our immediate prospects, and our chances of being embarked
together, on the same transport. Thynne surprised us all by saying that
he had two daughters, one of whom was to accompany her parents to Botany
Bay.

"Thynne, I've known ye, off and on, these five years," said Sabb, "but
this is the first I've heard of the daughters."

"Mrs. Thynne and I make no parade of the domestic affections, Mr. Sabb.
They are charming girls, both, though I do say it. It is Phoebe, our
baby, who is to go with us."

Barbarous as England's treatment was of her convicts, it was made
somewhat less so by the provision that a father, or mother, or both,
sentenced to transportation, could apply to have one or more of their
free children sent with them. Permission was granted or not, according
to circumstances, and whether or no room could be found in the
transports. Thynne told us that permission for his daughter Phoebe had
already been granted and that she and her elder sister, Doris, were to
meet their parents in Portsmouth. Garth, as I knew, had applied for
permission to take Nat and had been refused.

"And your eldest is not to go?" Sabb was saying.

"Doris? No, no," said Thynne. "She is adequately--I might say,
splendidly provided for."

Sabb gave him a shrewd look. "There's a blessing," he said.

"Is it not? Dear Doris! She is Mrs.... ah... Mrs. Livingstone now.
We had hoped to have our chick, our Phoebe, as well settled, and she
might have been, there's no doubt of it. But... dear me, when it came
to the thought of separation, it was not to be borne. Phoebe wished to
come with us, and I can't say that we regret the decision. She'll be a
great comfort to us.... My poor wife! What a day she will have had in
the wagon, and Mrs. Garth as well!"

The women arrived at about eight in the evening. Somewhere on the way
the more abandoned females had laid in a supply of gin, and the half of
them were now howling drunk. Some stood in the wagon, clinging to one
another for support while they yelled and jeered at the townsfolk and
exchanged obscenities with bystanders no better than themselves. We
first heard them from afar and stood at our upstairs windows overlooking
the street to watch the arrival. The clear cold light of the May evening
brought out every detail of the scene: the mean houses, for it was a
wretched quarter of the town, crowded with drabs and slatterns; the
shackled women, some with faces that seemed scarcely human, their hair
hanging in tangled mops about their shoulders, posturing in lewd
attitudes to the delight of the mob of hoodlums that followed them. It
was a picture that Hogarth might have painted, and even he would not
have dared to present it in its naked truth; only the well-fed, sweating
horses could have been depicted as they were. We caught sight of Nellie
Garth and Mrs. Thynne seated in one corner of the wagon, gazing straight
before them, with stony faces.

"God help 'em!" Oakley exclaimed. "Sabb, we must get 'em out of that
company if we have to wreck the gaol!"

A request was sent to the warden, and in return for a handsome fee he
consented that Garth and Mrs. Thynne should come into our room. It was a
long narrow chamber, and a piece of dirty sailcloth was stretched across
one end to make an apartment for them. They were brought in a few
moments later. Garth halted at the door and looked about her with a
glint of humour in her eyes.

"What's this?" said she. "Mrs. Thynne, do they take us for a pair of
trollops that they put us amongst the men?"

"God love ye, Nellie!" said Tom. "Ye look as happy as Hunt's dog! The
beast of a time ye and Mrs. Thynne will have had since the morning!"

"Nothing of the sort, Mr. Oakley," said Mrs. Thynne. "Mrs. Garth and I
did very well."

"My love," said her husband, "you're a woman of courage: I've always
said it. But... dear me, this goes beyond my expectations. Mrs.
Garth, my compliments and respects. You both look as cool and fresh as
Roman matrons at the blush of a new day."

"And why not?" said Garth. "'Twas a lovely day indeed as to weather, and
we took the full good of it."

"But how could ye, with such shameless creatures for company?" asked
Oakley.

Mrs. Thynne laughed. "They sang the most shocking songs!"

"There, my love, we'll speak of them no more. We'll hear songs and to
spare, no doubt, before the night is done."

Mr. Thynne's prediction was more than fulfilled, for the women were
lodged directly below us, and they made night hideous until the small
hours. But Newgate experiences had inured us all to bedlam, and the
Thynnes, with Sabb and Inching, played cribbage with as much pleasure
and as strict attention to the game as though they were in some quiet
country tavern. Nellie Garth sat apart, by the window, speaking to no
one. She was thinking of Nat, of course. A bitter prospect it was to
her, setting off without him. Oakley and I made no attempt to comfort
her. We talked of the long voyage ahead, trying to form some picture of
the land of our exile, and wondering where we would be that day ten
years hence.

Some time after midnight Mrs. Thynne joined Nellie in their apartment
behind the canvas curtain, and the rest of us prepared for bed by the
simple act of taking off our shoes.




CHAPTER VI. PHOEBE AND DORIS


I had thought Newgate a foul place, but the conditions in the Portsmouth
gaol were even worse. There was but one pump for the whole of the
prison, in a brick-walled yard at the back. Oakley and I had tried to
get a wash there when we first came in, but the crowd was so great we
could not get near it. Early the next morning before the others were
stirring we went down again and found the yard empty.

"The Lord be thanked!" Tom exclaimed. "Now, if only we could strip and
have a proper scrub! The filthy beasts, to grudge us that small
comfort!"

The irons we wore comprised a length of chain linked through collars
about three inches wide which were fixed above the ankles with iron pins
riveted in place, and they could be struck off only by a blacksmith. We
had worn the cursed things since our arrival in Newgate, and only twice
in all those many weeks had we been freed from them so that we could
wash without being hampered by clothing. But we could have a bath of a
kind by dropping our breeches whilst we soaped and scrubbed our bodies;
then we would wash the breeches as well as we could, wring them out and
let them dry on our bodies.

We were hard at this task when a strong-made fellow of about thirty
crossed the yard leading a small boy by the hand. He stood looking on
whilst we soaped and scrubbed our soiled shirts and put on fresh ones.
Tom was humming to himself in the joy of being clean once more. The
newcomer smiled.

"Aye, it's a rare treat, is water," he remarked.

"Ye wish to freshen the lad?" asked Oakley. "Come along; I'll pump."

The father removed the boy's clothes and stood him in the tub beneath
the spout. Oakley pumped vigorously, and the lad jumped up and down for
the pleasure he took, throwing back his head to catch the stream of
water full in his face. He was about eight years old, a handsome little
fellow, but with a delicate look about him.

"There, Tommy, ye shine like a new penny," his father said as he lifted
him out and tossed him in the air at arm's length.

"Tommy, is it?" said Oakley. "Would ye believe it, now! There's two of
us with that same uncommon handle!"

"I'm Tom Goodwin," said the boy.

"And a good name _that_ is. Ye'll win through to anything, I'll be
bound, when ye've growed a bit."

When his father had toweled and dressed him in fresh clothing, he said,
"Run along now to yer ma whilst I have a scrub."

For the next five minutes the father thought of nothing but the treat of
clean water. It was as good as having a wash all over again to see the
delight he took in his own. He was powerfully built, his arms and
shoulders knotted with muscle. His head, covered with short curly brown
hair, was set on a short muscular neck.

"Dan Goodwin's my name," he said.

When we had given our own, Oakley said: "Ye don't look to have been in
long."

"Long enough," said Goodwin. "Better than five years--in the hulks on
the Thames. But I've kept my health, being abroad by day, working on the
stone barges."

"And where away now? Botany Bay?"

"Aye." An expression of grimness passed over Goodwin's face. "And with
scarce a year left to serve of the seven given. I'd hoped to finish it
out here."

"Man, ye're lucky for all that, alongside of us. We're sent for life."

Goodwin made no comment for a moment; then he asked: "D'ye know the
transport ye're booked for?" We shook our heads. "I'm for the
_Charlotte_. We're to go aboard to-day."

"The lad goes with you?" I asked.

"Aye, and his mother, though she's a free woman. But she would come and
bring the boy, for all I could say against it. She got the permit
unbeknownst to me."

Goodwin put out his hand. "Well, lads, the best of luck! Mebbe we'll go
in the same ship; but we'll meet down yonder, if not afore." Then, with
a nod, he left us.

Oakley stood looking after him, thoughtfully.

"What d'ye think of him, Hugh?" he asked.

"The salt of the earth, if I'm a judge of men," I replied.

"Ye can lay to that," said Oakley. "No flaw in the metal there, whatever
he's done. Let's hope we're sent in the _Charlotte_. We'll do well with
a two-three like Goodwin for friends."

Upon returning to our quarters we found our companions gathered around
Sabb, who was seated at the table, gazing dolefully at a sheet of paper
he held in his hand.

"What's amiss, Nick?" said Tom. "Will there be nothing for breakfast?"

Sabb peered at us over the top of his spectacles, which he wore, I
think, not so much for use as because they gave him so perfect an
appearance of respectability. Seeing him now, you might have thought he
was some honest merchant who had received news of a fall in stocks.

"The food's to come directly," he said, "but Tom, it looks to be the
last meal you'll take with some of us for many a long day."

The warden had come in our absence, leaving the orders received for our
going aboard the transports. The Thynnes, with Oakley, were down for the
_Friendship_; the rest of us were to go in the _Charlotte_. This was sad
news for all, for we had hoped to go in the same ship.

"Curse ye, Nick!" said Tom. "Didn't ye draw the pouch and jingle it
about? 'Twould be worth a guinea or two, surely, to have us all
together."

Sabb shook his head. "Money will mend nothing here. The orders came from
above--the Home Office like as not. We must go as ordered."

"So be it," said Tom, cheerfully. "What can't be helped must be endured.
Liven up, old pinch-guts! Mr. Thynne and I will have ye nightly in our
prayers. Now then, where's breakfast?"

"Coming, Tom, coming," said Thynne, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
"And _such_ a breakfast!"

"As what?"

"Eggs, just minted, warm from the hens--let us hope. And rashers, and
pig's liver, and grilled kidneys, and veal-and-ham pie. Is there
something more you might fancy? There's still time to send out."

"Can we manage, Hugh, with what's ordered?" said Tom.

"We can try," I replied. "Mr. Sabb, Mr. Thynne, our hearty thanks.
You've done more than well by us these many months. We'll do as well by
you at Botany Bay, if there's fish and game to be caught."

"Just what Thynne and I was thinking," said Sabb, his eyes twinkling.
"We're not so simple as we look, may be. Payment, with interest, at
Botany Bay, eh, Thynne?"

"Precisely," said Thynne, with a laugh. "Fish and fowls and beasts of
the forest, brought daily to our doorsteps, if doorsteps there will
be.... What is it, my love?"

Mrs. Thynne, who was standing at the window, gave a little shriek of
pleasure. "The girls, Mortimer! Here they are!"

Ever since Thynne had first spoken of them, I had been wondering what
kind of daughters such a pair would have. We hurried to the window to
see an elegant coach, drawn by two horses in shining harness, pull up
before the entrance to the prison. There were a coachman and a footman
in tawny-coloured livery with gold braid to match the trimmings of the
carriage.

Oakley, who was beside me, gave a gasp of astonishment as the girls got
down; and well he might have, for they were lovely creatures as
elegantly dressed as though on their way to take the air in St. James's
Park. A striking contrast they and their equipage made in those wretched
surroundings.

"Here we are, my loves!" Thynne called, thrusting a hand through the
bars of the window and waving to them. "Tell the keeper to fetch you up
directly."

In his excitement Oakley had pushed me to one side, so that I could not
see them as they glanced up, but I heard one reply, with a merry laugh:
"Gracious, Papa! Where's your wig? You haven't lost it?"

"No, no! Of course I've not lost it. Make haste! We're about to sit down
to breakfast."

"Poor dears," said Mrs. Thynne. "I fancy they've only just come. They
look dreadfully disheveled."

"Disheveled? Nonsense, Florentia! They're as fresh as rosebuds."

Sabb stood back, hands on his hips, gazing at Thynne with an air of
wonderment and unbelief. "Thynne, they're your daughters?" he asked.

"Dear me! Whose else would they be? It's no great compliment you pay
Mrs. Thynne, sir, to doubt it."

"I crave pardon, ma'am," said Sabb. "So handsome a mother would be bound
to have daughters to match... but... well, I'm beat to think of
their coming here."

"Where else would they go?" asked Thynne. "Phoebe is to share the exile
of her unfortunate parents, and Doris wishes to bid us good-bye. You
would not deprive us of a last reunion, Mr. Sabb?"

The Thynnes understood Sabb's bewilderment well enough, I think. At any
rate, Mrs. Thynne smiled with a little air of triumph and flattered
vanity. The lovely apparitions did not, certainly, fit the setting, yet
neither of the parents appeared to think there was anything remarkable
in their coming here. Oakley and I hastened to put on our neckcloths,
waistcoats, and coats, and Tom stood waiting with an air of intense
expectancy. I knew as well as though he had told me that he would have
given the world and all to be dressed at the top of his bent at that
moment.

A moment later the door was unlocked and the young ladies entered.
Phoebe, the smaller of the two, was dressed in a little bonnet and a
gown of pale blue silk that suited her to perfection. She had thick
corn-coloured hair, meticulously dressed, and her eyes, of a deep blue,
would have sent a flutter into the heart of any young man. She rushed to
her mother's arms, and then kissed her father lightly on both cheeks.
Doris had the brown hair and fine dark eyes of her mother and would have
been about twenty-one or twenty-two at this time. Her mother held her at
arm's length for a moment, regarding her critically; then she gave a
little nod.

"You'll do quite well, my dear," she said; "quite well indeed."

"I'm so glad you think so, Mama. Heavens! What a place!"

"The 'Thynne's Arms,' my love," said her father with a gay laugh. "We've
only just moved in, and the comforts are not yet all that could be
wished."

"And Doris, love, I'd have you notice the Thynne's feet," said her
mother. With a dainty movement she lifted her frock a little and thrust
out her legs, stretching them apart to the length of the chain that
shackled them, making the links rattle at a great rate. Doris's eyes
widened, then she and Phoebe burst out laughing, their parents joining
heartily, as though it were the greatest joke in the world.

"Now you must look at mine," said Thynne, and he did a little caper that
made them laugh even more. "I've a set of little bells ordered for your
mama's, and I shall have mine handsomely gilded before we reach Botany
Bay."

"What do you think of my bonnet, Papa?" Phoebe asked.

"Perfect, perfect. I could not have made a better choice for you
myself."

"There, Doris!" said Phoebe, wrinkling her nose and thrusting her tongue
out at her sister. "She called it hideous, Papa."

"It doesn't suit her at all," said Doris.

"Jealous thing!" said Phoebe. "She's eaten up with envy because she
didn't see it first."

"There, my loves, no quarreling. You're both perfect. Now tell us: when
did you come?"

The Thynnes, parents and daughters, seemed for the moment to have
forgotten the presence of the rest of us. They had eyes only for one
another, and seemed as carefree as though sitting cozily at home, the
world shut out. Presently Phoebe raised her eyes for the most demure and
winning glance at Tom and me. "Papa, aren't you forgetting yourself?"
she asked. "You've not introduced your friends."

"Bless me, so I haven't!" Thynne exclaimed. "Mrs. Garth, ma'am--my
daughters. Messrs. Sabb, Oakley, Tallant, and Inching--my daughters. The
world at large--my daughters."

Nellie Garth was as taken by the strangeness of this domestic scene as
ourselves. She greeted the girls very civilly, and the rest of us bowed
with our best manners, Phoebe and Doris glancing from one to another of
us with a slight inclination of their comely heads. Phoebe had the
practice of looking at you, shyly and trustfully, then dropping her
glance in a most demure and engaging way. Doris had the manners, at
least, and the self-possession of a lady. Both daughters had their
mother's fine complexion and teeth as white as milk. I was young and
vain enough to feel a little stir of envy at the very particular, though
discreet, regard Phoebe bestowed upon Oakley. As for Tom, he had been
hard hit from the moment of her coming and had eyes for no one else.

One of the turnkeys now appeared, followed by two female prisoners
bringing our breakfast, in two large baskets. Places were made for the
daughters, and Mr. Thynne, in honour of the occasion, took his seat at
the head of the table, with his wife opposite. Phoebe sat across from
Tom, and besieged him with such skill that the poor fellow scarcely
noticed his food; but there was nothing forward or bold in Phoebe's
glances. Instead, she gave the impression of a modest young girl whose
heart had been caught for the first time, and who is all wonder and
confusion at the strangeness of the experience. And for all I knew then,
or know now, that may have been true.

Mr. and Mrs. Thynne were in their gayest mood. What always impressed me
about them was their self-possession, their lack of any sense of
strangeness or incongruity upon whatever occasion, in whatever company.
Their daughters had it as well. On the present occasion they ignored the
miserable room with its bare brick walls and iron-barred windows. They
ignored the shouts and oaths and bawdy talk we could hear only too
plainly, coming from the room below where the female felons were
confined. Only once was notice taken of the latter. In a brief pause in
our conversation, we heard one of the trollops, with a voice like a
fishwife, yell to another: "Is it so, ye ha'penny upright! Ye've a Jack
in the cellar at the very moment and well ye know it, but who was so
daft as to board an old fire-ship like yerself is more than I could
say!"

Mr. Thynne raised his eyebrows with an air of mild concern.

"Dear me!" he said. "The language is allusive, yet scarcely so veiled as
might be wished."

"What creatures," Doris remarked, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders.
"Mama, I hope you won't have to associate with them on the voyage."

Mrs. Thynne gave a little sigh. "I'm afraid I shall," she replied, "and
Phoebe with me. Your father will be in the same ship with us, of course,
but they tell us we shall be lodged in different parts. There's no
avoiding it."

"Alas, no," said Mr. Thynne. "The orders are very strict, but I shall,
of course, try what money can do, once we are embarked."

"How awful!" said Doris. "Papa, can't you _make_ Phoebe stay behind? Her
wanting to go is perfectly ridiculous!"

"It is, my love: your mama and I are of the same opinion."

"It really is absurd, Phoebe," said Mrs. Thynne. "You don't know how
foolish you are. Why, there isn't even a town in Botany Bay. Nothing, I
believe, but the empty land."

"I'm going," said Phoebe, quietly. "Doris may do as she pleases, but _I_
love my parents, and I mean to share their hardships."

"You see?" said Doris. "Phoebe would have you think me a heartless,
selfish creature, but I'm not, Papa, you know I'm not. I can do far more
for you in London than ever I could in that wretched Botany Bay."

"You can, my dear child," said her father, patting her hand. "There,
we'll call the matter settled and say no more about it. Doris shall be
our urban goddess of plenty, mindful always of her dear parents in the
wilderness, and sending us news from afar of the gayeties and splendours
of London. Mind that you write whenever occasion offers!"

"Papa! To be sure I shall!"

"_If_ ever occasion offers, which I doubt... And Phoebe shall be our
nymph of the glades and forests. Even now, Phoebe my love, I see thee,
the spirit of delight and youthful grace, in thy little kirtle of
grasses..."

"That will do, you wretch!" said Mrs. Thynne, with a faint smile. "Would
you trick us into thinking we are bound for a very Eden?"

"No, Florentia! But, Botany Bay... the mere name is a promise. Doris,
you have brought, I hope, your mother's things and mine, our poor
trifles and oddments for the voyage?"

"Yes, Papa. Three huge boxes, with Mama's things in two of them and
yours in one. Phoebe has her own in a fourth."

"Four boxes! My loves, I doubt if we shall be permitted to carry so
many."

"Oh, but you will. They are already aboard the _Friendship_."

Her father gazed at her admiringly.

"Doris, I have always known your capabilities, but this surpasses
expectation. How did you know that we are to embark in the
_Friendship_?"

"I inquired, of course. Phoebe and I met a very agreeable young officer
in the company of marines who are to guard you. He took us directly to a
Major Ross, in charge of all the soldiers: such a nice man..."

"Oh, Doris!" Phoebe exclaimed, with a little laugh.

"But he is, Phoebe, you know he is." She smiled. "He was very obliging,
at least. He gave orders for the boxes to be sent out immediately and we
saw them go."

"You have done us a great service, my loves," said Thynne. "Now your
mama and I can face the future in better heart. It is indeed gratifying
to find benevolence amongst the military."

"She's to have supper with him to-night, Papa. At the Golden Cross. She
promised," said Phoebe.

"Doris! Was it necessary?" her mother asked, reproachfully.

"Yes, Mama; but what does it matter? I know very well how to take care
of myself."

Directly the meal was finished the girls hastened away to lay in an
additional supply of comforts for their parents' and Phoebe's use during
the voyage. No restrictions had been placed by Government upon what the
convicts could carry with them in the way of extra food, clothing, and
the like, and all but the friendless and penniless brought with them
parcels, bundles, and boxes filled with articles to the limit of their
means. The larger of these, too heavy to be carried by hand, were marked
and taken in charge by the agent for the transports, to be delivered
aboard ship. Sabb doubted whether their owners would ever see them
again, but the chance of that had to be taken.

Mr. and Mrs. Thynne bustled about the room, busy with their own
preparations. They must have felt as low-spirited as the rest of us but
were resolved not to show it. Thynne was urging his wife to don her
plainest, meanest gown, but she would not hear to the proposal.

"No, Mortimer. If the monsters have the inhumanity to lead a lady
through the streets, the townspeople shall know, at least, that I _am_ a
lady. I will not shame my husband and my daughters on our last day in
England."

"And quite right, ma'am," said Sabb, who failed to notice the odd nature
of this display of pride. He stopped short to stare at Ned Inching, who
was gathering his scanty belongings into a bundle. "Ned, what have ye
there?" he exclaimed.

Inching glanced warily at the door, then turned his head toward Sabb.

"Bit o' luck on the way down from Lunnon," he said, and with that he
displayed a fine gold watch and chain and an enameled snuffbox.

Sabb slapped his thigh and Mr. Thynne halted in the middle of the floor.

"Thynne, had I told ye he was clever?" Nick asked, proudly. "Let's have
a look at 'em, Ned."

Inching laid the articles in his hand, standing by with a grin on his
face while Sabb opened the case of the watch and examined the works with
a practised eye.

"Wuth twenty guineas if it's wuth sixpence," he said. He beamed at the
pickpocket like a schoolmaster commending a promising scholar. "Ned,
where and when could ye have nabbed 'em?"

"Four Crowns, in Petersfield, w'en we stopped to bait," said Inching.
"Party in the blue velveteen coat, standin' by the pump."

Thynne paid his fellow artist the tribute of an admiring glance; then he
turned to his wife, shaking his head wistfully. "Thynne, Inching, and
Thynne--what a firm for business they would make, my love!"

"I fear it's a little late to suggest it," said Mrs. Thynne.

"Dear me, dear me!" her husband added, in the same wistful voice. "And
with you, Nick, for the fence..." He became almost melancholy as he
thought of this splendid combination of talent in the light of the
present situation, but a moment later he was speaking eagerly and
hopefully of the future, as though they were all at the close instead of
at the threshold of their terms. Upon returning from transportation they
would form such a combination, and draw in with them half a dozen more,
the most gifted pickpockets in London. Sabb loved a discussion of this
kind: he would forget time and place while laying plans for action
against the movable property of London's more prosperous inhabitants. In
the present case, he saw, in fancy, the firm of Thynne, Inching, and
Thynne already at work, and a rich stream of watches, gold snuffboxes,
jewelry, and such disposable treasure passing through his hands on the
way to merchants in his own line of business in Amsterdam, Antwerp, and
other Continental cities.

The dream was rudely broken in upon. The bolts of the door were shot
back and the warden appeared with an officer of marines who held a sheaf
of papers in his hand.

"All ready here?" said the warden. "Look alive then!"

We were taken down to the street where some fifty convicts were already
lined up two and two, with a file of soldiers on either side of them.
Directly in front of us were the females who had come with us from
Newgate. They were of all ages, from women of seventy to girls in their
teens, clad in the same filthy rags in which they had entered the prison
months before. A few had shawls and bonnets that looked as though they
had been salvaged from dustbins, but most of them were bareheaded and
wearing for their one garment the quilted petticoat, of cotton or
flannel, fastened high under their arms, the common article of dress for
women of Wapping, St. Giles, and other miserable quarters of London.
Several had infants in their arms and I noticed one big with child.
These women had been culled out at Newgate as the lowest and vilest
there and so to be gotten rid of first, and yet the sight of them would
have stirred to pity the heart of any thoughtful observer. Their
laughter, oaths, and shameless talk offered them the only means of
defense they could find against a savage pitiless world that cared
nothing whether they lived or died.

In our company behind were Mr. and Mrs. Thynne, Sabb, Oakley, Inching,
and myself, with about a dozen other convicts, both men and women. Among
the latter were Daniel Goodwin and his little boy, and a small, decently
dressed woman with a sallow, sharp-featured face, whom I took to be
Goodwin's wife. With this company he moved off toward Portsmouth
Harbour. Although we proceeded slowly, the march was a torture to Nick
Sabb, who weighed well over sixteen stone. Sweat streamed down his fat
face, his lips were tightly set, and he stared glassily ahead. The
rattle and chink of fetters made a dismal music for a fine May morning,
but mingled with it, half drowning it came the yells and hoots of the
women in front. I could see Moll Cudlip's shaven head well above those
of her companions, and her screaming voice dominated all others as she
shot taunting remarks right and left, giving back with interest what was
sent by the crowds along the shop fronts, in entryways, or leaning on
their elbows from first-floor windows. For there are always people to
make sport of human misery, human degradation, and these Portsmouth
crowds were no exception; but it would not be true to say that such folk
were in the majority. On the contrary, most of the spectators stood in
silence as we passed, and their pitying glances and whispered comments
were harder to bear than taunts and abuse.

Nellie Garth was walking stolidly on, her gaze straight ahead. Of a
sudden I heard a cry of "Nellie! Nellie!" from the crowd lining the
footway. Garth stopped short, and turned with an expression on her face
that I can see to this day. The voice was that of Mrs. Windle, her
friend and neighbour at Wood End, but before the little woman could push
her way through the crowd, Nat was in his mother's arms, clinging to her
without a word, his face pressed against her bosom. Garth lifted the
boy, holding him close, and walked on with him held so.

"There, Nat," she said, in a trembling voice. "All's mended now. You're
here... God bless ye, Sarah Windle! I might ha' knowed ye'd find me,
soon or late."

Mrs. Windle was laughing and crying in the same breath.

"I was bound ye shouldn't miss him, but oh, Nellie, my heart's sick to
see chains to the feet of as honest and decent a woman as ever drew
breath! He's all right, is Nat, though he's been to the point of death
through grievin' for ye. Set the lad down now and I'll tell ye the whole
of it from the day your letter came."

We moved on, Nat clinging to his mother's hand, and Mrs. Windle talking
as fast as her tongue could move. She began with the day when we had
left Garth's farm, but the sum of the matter was that Nat had grieved
his heart out during the whole of the time he had been absent from
Nellie. But I could see that Mrs. Windle was holding back what she
wished Garth to understand but could not tell her in Nat's presence. She
tried to convey the information with nods and woebegone shakes of the
head and piteous glances at the boy, who seemed conscious only of the
fact that he held his mother's hand once more. Then Garth understood,
and a look of profound despair came into her eyes. Nat believed that he
was going with his mother. Mrs. Windle had not had the courage to tell
him the truth.




CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST FLEET


We turned into a lane leading to Point Beach, the last bit of English
ground our feet were to tread, and glad I was of that. Before us we
could see the harbour sparkling in the morning sunlight, with pinnaces
and barges plying back and forth, for many ships-of-war were lying
there. Our transports were far out, on the Motherbank at Spithead. Some
had already taken in convicts in the Thames and at Plymouth, and those
of us now to be embarked were the last parties the ships would receive.
We had walked better than a mile from Portsmouth gaol; Sabb was puffing
and groaning, but bound he should make it to the beach without help. I
doubt whether he had ever before traveled so far on his own feet. He had
arranged in advance with his nephew, Timothy Sabb, and some of his old
London cronies that they should come down by hired coach to see him off,
and he kept looking from side to side, becoming more and more worried
lest they should fail to appear.

A great crowd was gathered at the beach, surging against a double line
of marines that had been thrown around the landing stairs. They were,
mostly, friends and relatives of convicts already embarked, and many
were half frantic with rage and grief because they had been given no
opportunity to take leave of them. A marine officer was trying to pacify
them, but his voice was lost in the uproar.

"Hush, good people," he shouted. "Let me speak..."

"Hush is it?" one woman screamed. "Ye've snatched my man for the term of
his life! I'll see him once more afore he goes!"

The clamour was renewed from all sides, and the officer stood with his
arms folded, grimly waiting for silence. At last the crowd, seeing that
nothing was to be gained by shouting, gave him leave to speak.

"You'll see your folk, I tell you," he said. "Boats will be here at
midday to take you off to the transports."

"It's no lie, sir? Ye'll not deceive us?" someone asked.

"You can go at midday but not a moment before."

"But how can we know what ships our folk is on?" another woman asked.

"Officers will be here with the lists, to direct you. Now fall back and
be quiet, else there'll none of you go."

The crowd had to be satisfied with this assurance, and the work of
embarkation proceeded. While we awaited our turn, a dozen great wagons,
filled with convicts collected from gaols all through the southern
counties, arrived at the beach. The condition of these poor creatures
was appalling. With few exceptions they were clad in rags that barely
covered their nakedness. There were old men and women amongst them so
wasted by disease and starvation that they could scarce stand, and girls
and boys in their early teens. As I watched these miserable creatures
being herded onto the barges, I wondered whether there was any other
nation in the so-called Christian world so barbarous in their social
relationships as the English. Ever since entering Newgate, being
powerless to lighten such misery, I had tried to harden my heart and to
close my eyes to the sight of it; but I was seized at times by such
hatred toward those responsible that, even now, as an old man, my blood
surges hot at the thought of it.

I had hoped until the last moment that Oakley and I would be in the same
transport, but he and the Thynnes were called to the boat for the
_Friendship_. We had time only for a handclasp and a hasty word of
farewell.

"'Tis cursed luck," said Tom, "but pills are to be swallowed, not
chewed, and there's an end of it. We'll meet yonder, Hugh."

"To be sure we shall," said Thynne, gayly, "in the floral meadows of our
wished-for haven, Botany Bay. Mr. Tallant, I am more and more firmly
convinced that the name is one of good omen. I can scarce wait till we
arrive there, to roam the dells and the lawny champaigns like children
in the days of the world's innocence."

"Where's the daughters, Mr. Thynne?" Garth asked.

"They will come, ma'am. I have no uneasiness on their account."

"I would if they was my girls," said Garth.

"They will meet us on the ship, Mortimer," said Mrs. Thynne. "Doris told
me as much."

"To be sure they will... Alas, my friends, we are called. Away, away,
to Botany Bay; to the woods and fields away! Mr. Tallant, I'll thank you
to have an eye on Nick Sabb during the voyage. See that he has his eggs
and rashers every morning, else he'll fall away from a horse load to a
cart load."

We watched them go with sad hearts. Thynne stood in the boat waving his
handkerchief like some prosperous citizen off for a holiday in France.
Sabb turned away with a sigh.

"There goes as honest a man as any in the cards when the four kings are
out," he said, with a glum smile. "We'll miss him sore on the voyage."

The convicts for the _Charlotte_ were embarked a few moments later, and
a pitiful scene followed when Nat had to be told that he could not go
with his mother. Not that he made an outcry; on the contrary, he merely
looked at Nellie while she comforted him, explaining that he was to come
to say good-bye with Mrs. Windle, later in the day. Of all the ordeals
Garth had endured since leaving home, this was, certainly, the worst,
but she kept herself well in hand and spoke quietly and cheerfully to
the lad. He clung tightly to his mother for a moment; then Mrs. Windle
led him away while we were marshaled down to the boats. Sabb, Goodwin,
Inching, and I were the only men amongst twenty women, the same lot that
had come with us from Newgate. Moll Cudlip was there, and while she was
the unholy terror she had always been, she had learned to beware of
Garth. There was one, a girl of sixteen, Mary Doyle by name, who
belonged to that company no more than did Garth herself. I remembered
having seen her in Newgate when we first entered the place, but she was
now so wasted with grief and despair that I scarcely recognized her. We
four men sat on a thwart facing Garth, Mary Doyle, and Mrs. Goodwin, who
held their boy Tommy asleep in her arms. Mary Doyle seemed far past the
comfort of tears, but Mrs. Goodwin was crying bitterly as she looked
back at the widening stretch of water between the boat and the shore.

"Now, Bella, bear up," said Goodwin. "We'll be home again afore ye know
it, comin' ashore at this very place, like as not. There's near six of
my seven years gone afore we start: think of that!"

"Home? We'll never see home or England again," she sobbed. "God forgive
ye, Dan Goodwin, for tearing me apart from all I love and cherish!"

"Ye're a free woman, Bella. Ye needn't have come. 'Twas not me that
wished it."

"Free? With a convict for a husband? What can I do but come?"

Mrs. Goodwin was to be excused, perhaps, under the circumstances, but
she made a sorry spectacle of herself, heaping reproaches upon her
husband with such bitterness that Garth was led to say: "Hush, ma'am!
Have ye no pride, that ye carry on so? Ye should be a help to your good
man, not a hindrance.... Ye're sent for smuggling?" she asked,
turning to Goodwin.

He nodded.

"Then ye'd best honour and not abuse him, ma'am, for there's no shame in
what he's done. Where would the poor be without the smugglers?"

Mrs. Goodwin raised her head to give her a resentful glance, but she was
silent after that.

We were soon beyond the harbour and approaching Spithead, where we could
see the transports, small ships of between three and four hundred tons
burthen, anchored in a line, about a cable's length apart. Beyond them
lay the three store ships, and this side the two ships-of-war, the
_Sirius_ and _Supply_. The _Sirius_ was a vessel of 600 tons, painted a
dull yellow, with a broad black band at the waterline. The _Supply_,
which would serve as a tender to the _Sirius_, was an old naval
transport, a brig of 170 tons: she looked small indeed for the voyage
ahead. We passed near the _Sirius_ and could see the people on her deck.
One of the seamen said: "Yon's Captain Phillip on the quarter-deck," and
all turned to stare, but we were too far off for a clear view. It was
not until we were well on our way that I saw, close at hand, the man who
was to be Governor over us, with the power of life and death in his
hands.

There was no wind that morning, but the swell in the roadstead made it
no easy matter for the women to manage the ladder up the _Charlotte's_
side. For Sabb, the attempt was hopeless, and when the others had been
gotten aboard, a boatswain's chair was let down and he was hoisted up
and swung inboard amidst the cheers and laughter of the seamen.

The deck was all confusion and cluttered with last-minute stores brought
off in lighters. No time was allowed us to enjoy the air and sunshine.
The moment we had been checked off, the women were separated from the
men and we were herded down to our quarters.

Before going further I had best describe, once and for all, how the
transports were fitted out for convicts, for the manner of it in the
_Charlotte_ was the same as in all the others. On the upper deck, abaft
the mainmast, and running from larboard to starboard bulwarks, was a
barricade of thick oak plank, three feet high and topped with iron
spikes. A second barricade crossed the deck abaft the foremast. The
space between was for the use of the convicts in the hours they were
permitted on deck, and gates, with a guard at each, led through them for
the use of the seamen. All the hatches were strongly secured with
crossbars, bolts, and locks, and railed round from deck to deck with oak
stanchions. Sentinels stood at each of the hatchways, and a guard of
marines overlooked us at all times from the quarter-deck.

We had no reason to hope that we were to make this voyage to New South
Wales in any comfort, and I had prepared myself in advance for the
trials to come; but as I halted at the foot of the ladder and peered
into the semi-darkness of the 'tween-decks, my heart sank at thought of
the weeks and months of confinement in store for us in that stifling
hole. The men's quarters ran the width of the ship, with bulkheads fore
and aft, separating us from the quarters of the women on one side and
from the cabins of the marines on the other. It was like a narrow hall
running athwartships, with double tiers of bunks divided by wooden
partitions into sections seven feet six inches in width. These sections
were to furnish sleeping accommodations for five men, giving each an
eighteen-inch allowance of space. The bulkheads were provided with small
ports through which the guards could overlook the place and fire amongst
us in case of an attempt at mutiny or other trouble, but the openings
were covered now with heavy lids and bolted shut. There were no outside
ports to this dungeon; what light and air we received came through a
single hatchway. Next to the hatchway was a cleared strip running the
width of the vessel and eight feet wide, and this, with the narrow
passages between the rows of bunks, was supposed to serve one hundred
men with what room they needed for eating, recreation, and movement.

We were only a little more crowded, perhaps, than the guards themselves
and the ship's company, for the _Charlotte_, a vessel of but 335 tons,
had to provide room for 100 male and 24 female convicts, 40 marines and
31 seamen, counting their officers. In addition, three marines had their
wives, with five children amongst them, so that 203 persons in all were
crowded into a ship with room for scarcely half the number.

The light of a few candles in iron lanterns fixed to the beams seemed to
make the gloom the deeper; it was reflected from the gleaming eyeballs
of men lying half-naked in their bed places, gasping for air. The
passageways were crowded as Sabb, Goodwin, Inching, and I pushed our way
along to the single section of bunk space not yet occupied. This was at
the end of a passage and against the bulkhead separating ours from the
women's quarters. Glad we were that a fifth man was wanting for our
section, for Sabb could never have fitted himself into eighteen inches
of sleeping space, and had Ned Inching not been a mere sliver of a man,
there would have been no squeezing even the four of us into so cramped a
place.

Sabb stripped to the waist and slumped down on the bunk, puffing and
panting, the sweat streaming down his huge legs and making little
puddles on the floor.

"Ye mean to drown us, Nick?" said Inching. "I'd best fetch a slop tub
for ye to run off in."

"Bear with me, lads," said Sabb. "At this rate I'll melt down to common
size in a fortnight. Goodwin, how is this alongside the hulks--worse or
better?"

"No worse," said Goodwin, "but in the hulks we was off to work the day
long and had but the nights to suffer." He glanced at a cadaverous,
hollow-eyed fellow lying head out in a bunk opposite.

"Ye've been long aboard?" he asked.

"Eight weeks," the man replied.

"Eight _weeks!_" Sabb exclaimed. "Ye tell us they've been filling the
ship as long as that?"

The other nodded. "Longer. There's some here since February, and not an
ounce of fresh food in the whole of the time."

"What hours do we have on deck?" Goodwin asked.

"There's been no order to it so far," the man replied, "but as a usual
thing they give us an hour in the morning and again in the afternoon.
They say we'll be better served once we get to sea."

Presently I walked through the passageways to get a view of the place
and of the men we were to be cooped up with for the long voyage. The
space between the lower and upper tiers of bunks was just enough to
allow about six inches of head-room to those sitting in them. In some of
the sections men were playing cards with candles stuck in bottlenecks
for light, gambling for money if they had it, or for rations, articles
of clothing, tobacco, or whatever had an exchange value. In others, men
lay head out, their chins propped on their hands, in a kind of waking
stupor. The place was so hot and the air so foul that I soon felt
drugged and heavy-headed. I crawled into my bunk place and, despite the
noise, fell asleep within five minutes.

I was awakened by someone shaking me by the shoulder, and found Goodwin
standing in the passage.

"I'd not known ye was here," he said. "We've all been on deck this hour
past. The friends and kinsfolk have come off to say good-bye. There's
another half hour permitted if ye wish a breath of air."

I hastened after him up the ladder and was so blinded by the sunlight
that I could scarcely see, at first. The deck was filled with people,
wives and parents and friends who had come to make their farewells and
to bring parting gifts to the convicts. The scene was one I shall never
forget: pitiable, moving, sordid, comic, all at once. Gin, the one
consolation of the poor and wretched of England, was flowing freely, and
many of the people were now either maudlin or hilariously drunk. There
was little to choose, in the state of the ship's company, between the
convicts and their friends, and the marines and seamen with theirs,
beyond the barriers. All discipline had been relaxed, according to the
common practice in English ships ready for sea, whether navy or merchant
vessel. Now and then, in moments of comparative lull in the uproar, I
could hear faintly a band of music which was playing on the quarter-deck
of the _Sirius_, but the only music in the _Charlotte_ came in bursts of
discordant song whose words left something to be wanted in point of
elegance.

I found Sabb seated on a chest against the forward barricade. His
friends from London had found him at last, Sabb's nephew among them. The
nephew was as lean as the uncle was fat, dressed in a green coat with
silver buttons. He had a sallow leathery face pitted by smallpox, and
the only resemblance I could see in him to Nick was a pair of shrewd,
intelligent grey eyes. Sabb had a bottle in one hand and a pork pie in
the other and he was eating and drinking with a kind of fierce
eagerness, as though convinced that he must store up provender inside
him to last the whole of the voyage. Upon catching sight of me he rose
unsteadily, waving his pie in a gesture of invitation.

"Come, Tallant," he called genially. "Fire a slug with us! Good cheer
and good company! Strip-me-naked go down, and sorrow go drown, and be
damned to Botany Bay!" His cronies, six of them, sat on the deck around
him like the satellites of a bloated Bacchus, drinking slightly watered
gin. I had no wish to disturb these old friends at such a moment, and
so, after shaking hands all round, I moved on.

I spied Garth sitting on a coil of rope, with Nat in her lap and Mrs.
Windle standing beside her. I knew from afar that Nat had been told that
he was not to go. Mrs. Windle had come with one of the last boats from
shore, and was still breathless with the excitement of getting aboard.
She was showing Garth the contents of a large canvas bag she carried,
filled with things she had bought for her in Portsmouth. "And, Nellie,
'tis naught to all it was my heart's wish to bring; but there's tea
here, and sugar, and two dozen of the best candles, and a dozen lemons
and a smoked shoulder of mutton..."

"There, ye good soul," said Garth, close to the point of tears. "Ye
should never have done it. Ye'll be going hungry the long road home,
that's certain, without sixpence left in your pocket."

"The coach hire is paid, Nellie. God bless ye, never ye fret for me! How
could I be hungry? I'm that heartsick I'll have no wish to eat for a
fortnight. But I've some nice cold vittles for Nat, packed up for the
journey home. Mr. Tallant, it's a comfort to know she'll not be
friendless in a far land, with yourself and Mr. Oakley there, though a
better-handed woman to do for herself I've never known."

"Never fear; we'll take care of her," I said.

"Will ye listen to the man!" said Garth. "Take my word for it, 'tis they
will be coming to me when the pinch comes."

"They may so," said Mrs. Windle. "Ye'll be at no loss, that's sure, in a
land where delving and planting and the like is wanted."

Nellie turned to her boy.

"Nat, look yonder at the great ships! Go stand by the rail for a bit
where ye can see 'em better."

Without a word, Nat rose and obeyed.

"Now, Sarah, whilst there's time, I'd speak of my place," said Garth.
"The rent is paid to next quarter day, and then it must go back to him
that owns it. Will ye clear my house before then, and take my bits of
things to your own?"

"That I will, and cherish 'em as you would, against the day ye come
home."

"If ever we do come," said Garth.

Mrs. Windle laid a hand on her arm. "Never doubt it, Nellie," she said,
earnestly. "Have patience equal to your pluck, and, God willing, we'll
have ye back in His good time."

"Leave that," said Garth. "There's my horse and cow and the pigs. Has
the sow farrowed?"

"She has, and oh, Nellie, two was et by the boar, but there's eight
saved."

"They're yours, all," said Garth. "I wish ye to have 'em, Sarah, and
small the payment is for the good friend and neighbour ye've been to
me."

Mrs. Windle was so overwhelmed by the gift that she was speechless for a
moment; then she protested against accepting it; but Garth was bound she
should have the animals and so the matter was settled.

While we were standing there, a gaunt, sheep-nosed man dressed in
threadbare black approached us, and, without waiting to be invited,
raised a bony hand in a gesture of benediction.

"My poor brother, and sisters," he said, in a hollow voice, "are you
able to read?"

Nellie gave him a cool glance.

"We can manage to spell out print of a large size," she said. "What d'ye
wish?"

Garth and I, at least, guessed his errand in advance, having seen others
like him at Newgate of a Sunday, laying up edification for themselves on
Earth and treasures in Heaven by distributing tracts and pious
exhortations to the inmates there. They were well-meaning people, no
doubt, but their condescending manners and their assumption that all
convicts were lost souls made them anything but welcome visitors. The
fellow addressed himself first to me, saying how grateful I should be
for the benevolence of a government that was sending me to a new land
where I would be blessedly deprived of the temptations that had beset me
in the old. He hoped that, by cheerful and humble submission to those
set over me, who were earnestly solicitous for my correction and
redemption, I would yet prove to be a useful member of society. With
that, he thrust a packet of tracts into my hand and turned to Mrs.
Windle, not having noticed that she had no irons to her feet. There was
a glint of mischief in Garth's eyes as she waited to see what her friend
would do. Mrs. Windle was torn between indignation at being taken for a
convict and the need to say nothing that would hurt Garth's feelings,
but she handled the matter very well.

"I'll have ye know, sir, that I'm a free woman, and whether bond or free
there's none of us here in chapel to sing psalms through our noses, so
we'll thank ye to go where your company is desired."

The man wished to say more, but both women turned their backs upon him,
and after a last glance, filled with sorrowful unction, at myself, he
was obliged to follow Mrs. Windle's advice.

"What has he left with ye, Hugh?" Garth asked.

I passed her the bundle of tracts, and she glanced at the titles,
reading them aloud to us:--

"_Dissuasions from Stealing_, by Reverend Eben White. _Cautions to
Swearers_, by Mrs. Matilda Blodgett.... Hugh, ye'd best carry these
for reading amongst the men, though I'll not say it's where they're most
needed." Her eyes twinkled as she glanced at the next. "_One Hundred
Exhortations to Chastity_.... Aye, this was meant for us ladies, past
doubt, but whether a hundred will be enough I'd not be able to guess."

"Bless ye, Nellie," said Mrs. Windle, with a sudden gust of feeling.
"Ye've a brave heart and a merry one in your quiet way, but can ye abide
the company you're with?"

Garth glanced across the crowded deck and her eye fell upon a group of
half a dozen women, among the worst in the ship, lying or squatting on
the deck with an equal number of men who had come to see them off. One
of them sat with her legs stretched apart, her arms braced behind her
and her head thrown back whilst another held a bottle to her lips as she
drank.

"It looks as if I'm obliged to, Sarah. But never fret. There's a few
decent women amongst the rest as I've found already. We'll manage."

A few moments later the sound of a bugle cut through the air and the
command: "Clear ship! All visitors ashore!" was shouted from the
quarter-deck. Immediately the tumult rose to a higher pitch. A squad of
marines, all of them far gone in liquor, was sent amongst us. Wives
clung desperately to their husbands and had to be torn from their arms
by main force. Several women fainted and were handed down insensible to
the boats. Others, crazed by grief and gin together, fought like furies,
scratching and tearing at the soldiers who sought to drag them to the
gangway. One woman fell in a fit and lay writhing and twisting on the
deck, her teeth clenched and her eyes staring blindly while others stood
round her, looking on with blear-eyed interest, as though this had been
a spectacle arranged for their benefit.

Of a sudden a chorus of yells and shrieks was heard from the far side of
the deck, but in the confusion they were not heard by many of the
company. Garth, having caught the name Mary Doyle, quickly pushed
through the crowd to the bulwark. She came back a moment later, her face
grimly set.

"There's one of us that won't see Botany Bay," she said. "Poor Mary!
Poor lass! She's thrown herself overboard."

A boat was immediately rowed round to that side of the ship, but the
girl's irons had helped to drag her down, and the seamen, after rowing
aimlessly here and there for a quarter of an hour, abandoned the search.

Meanwhile, the convicts on the port side, ignorant of or indifferent to
what had just happened, lined the bulwark as their friends and kinsfolk
were herded down the side and into the boats. The grief and despair of
some was pitiable to see, making the greater contrast to others, too
drunk or too callous to be affected by this final separation. These
latter, and their friends in the boats, called back and forth to one
another.

"Blubber away, Doll!" one voice shouted. "The more ye cry the less ye'll
sweat!"

"Joe! Have ye a drop left in the bottle? Give 'er a kick in the guts!
That's all the comfort she's wantin'!"

His friend, in one of the boats, waved a bottle in reply and held it to
the lips of the weeping woman, who accepted it willingly, while those
along the bulwark yelled with delight.

"Ain't it so?" laughed another. "'Tis as great a pity to see a woman cry
as to see a goose walk barefoot!"

"Good-bye, Mag!"

"Good-bye, Dickie! I'll meet ye at Peg Tantrum's!"

I stood by the bulwark amongst the most hardened and indifferent of the
convicts during those last moments of contact between the ship and the
shore. I had no wish to look on while Nellie was parting from her boy.
When I saw her again she was standing alone, gazing stonily after the
last boat to leave. A moment later all the convicts were herded down to
their quarters.




CHAPTER VIII. ABOARD THE _CHARLOTTE_


On May 13, 1787, the eleven ships of the fleet for Botany Bay stood out
through The Needles with the _Sirius_ and _Supply_ in the van. We were
accompanied by yet another ship-of-war, H.M.S. _Hyena_, a 24-gun frigate
which was to convoy us some two hundred miles on our way and return to
Portsmouth with Governor Phillip's last despatches to the Admiralty and
the Home Office. I doubt whether a greater load of human misery--or, as
some would say, of human villainy--had ever before left the shores of
England at one time. Thousands of convicts had, of course, been carried
to the American Colonies in times past, but they had rarely gone in
shiploads, and never, I believe, in fleets. In this first expedition for
New South Wales, there were 756 convicts in all, and I have little doubt
that His Majesty's Government wished that we might have been five times
as many, for the gaols and hulks, filled with the accumulation of ten
years, were far from having been emptied at our departure.

It had been Government's wish to send out in the First Fleet for Botany
Bay strong young men and women fit for the hard labour of establishing a
colony in a new land, but what happened was far otherwise. There were,
to be sure, young people amongst us, but in many cases the wardens of
the gaols and the superintendents of the hulks had selected for their
quotas feeble old men and women, and with these, the greatest villains
and trouble-makers whom they were only too glad to be rid of. In the
_Charlotte's_ company were folk in their sixties and seventies, and boys
and girls of fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen. Some might well have been
called human sacrifices to the savage penal laws of England, which
condemned them to seven years' transportation for such offenses as
stealing a petticoat valued at four shillings, stealing a teakettle,
poaching a hare in a gentleman's park, cutting down a tree for firewood,
and the like. But it would not be true to say that most of the convicts
were exiled for offenses of this nature. There were murderers amongst
us, footpads, housebreakers, coiners, and river thieves, many of whom
had missed hanging by a hair's breadth. During the long voyage I came to
know most of the _Charlotte's_ company, and I am obliged to say that a
good half of them were as complete villains as could have been found in
the whole of Europe.

We had no final glimpse of the shores of old England, which mattered
little in my own case, for I was glad to be quit of a land which had
given me few but sad or bitter memories. The weather turned cold and
stormy before we left the Channel, and for a full week we were kept
below. The hatches were removed from time to time, else we should have
smothered there, but when the ship was rolling, in heavy weather, the
seamen were obliged to batten down, and we had to breathe the same air
over and over again. Many of the convicts were seasick and the pleasures
of their near company in that confined place can well be imagined. But
it is surprising what miseries human beings can endure, and how quickly
they can harden themselves to the most abominable conditions when
circumstances force them to do so. Once we knew what we were in for, we
set ourselves to meet it with as good heart as possible.

On a never-to-be-forgotten morning we were ordered on deck, in batches
of twenty, to have our irons struck off. The sky was clear once more,
and the wind fresh and abeam. Goodwin and I were sent up in the same
lot, and we filled our lungs with the pure sweet air, too content to
waste any of it in speech. The _Supply_ and one other ship were far
ahead, hull-down on the horizon, but the rest of the fleet were well
within view, the _Sirius_ not more than a mile astern of all, like an
old hen worrying her brood on before her. The _Friendship_ was just
abeam, but too far off for us to see any of her people. I thought of Tom
Oakley and the Thynnes, who might well have been thinking of us at the
same moment, and wishing that we might close in to waving distance, at
least.

The sharp clinking as our fetters were struck off was a sweet sound
indeed to men so long burdened with the cursed things; and more went
with the chains than their weight: something of the shame and ignominy
they had fastened upon us was lifted from our hearts, and the good of
that release was even greater than the other.

To be quit of them was blessing enough for one day, but Goodwin and I
seemed to have been marked out for a second stroke of luck. When our
fetters had been removed, we were lined up along the after barrier, and
the _Charlotte's_ boatswain and his mate went slowly along, scanning us
critically. When they had passed down the line they returned to where
Goodwin and I stood.

"Here's the liveliest pair," said the boatswain. He turned to Goodwin.
"Been to sea afore this, ain't ye?"

"Times enough," said Goodwin. "It's my trade."

"Smuggling?"

"Aye."

"He'll do," said the boatswain. "And what of you?" he asked, turning to
me. "Can ye reef and hand?"

"Yes," I replied promptly, for all my life, before leaving home, had
been spent on or near salt water, and I had made a voyage or two to
Boston.

The end of it was that Goodwin and I were chosen for duty with the
_Charlotte's_ company to replace two seamen missing when the ship
sailed. We continued to mess with our fellow prisoners, and were locked
in with them at night, but we had the great privilege of the upper deck
through the daylight hours.

We began our duties on a day when there was little to do but stand by.
The women convicts were brought up last to have their irons struck off
and were permitted to remain on deck for two hours, after which the men
came, fifty at a time, for the same period. I am obliged to say that the
men were, generally, much better behaved than the women, for these
latter took advantage of their sex--at least the younger ones did--and
became increasingly bold and insolent. They taunted and tempted both
seamen and marines, and, as some of them were far from ill-favoured,
they played ducks and drakes with ship's discipline. At last their
behaviour became so outrageous that Mr. Gilbert, captain of the
_Charlotte_, was obliged to take notice of it. Captain Gilbert was an
excellent seaman, quiet, even shy in manner, with a homely face and
brick-red hair. Up to this time he had never appeared amongst the women,
for the reason, doubtless, that he had never before carried such a cargo
of depravity, and was at a loss how to act in the situation. But when,
one morning, a good half of the women were found to be drunk upon being
brought up for their two hours on deck, the captain came forward to
inquire into the matter. No spirits of any kind were given the convicts,
and the drunken women could only have gotten into that condition through
the connivance of either the seamen or the marines.

They were separated from the sober ones, and these latter were first
questioned, without result. Nellie Garth and Mrs. Goodwin, because of
their respectable appearance and actions, were particularly questioned,
but Nellie was no telltale, and Mrs. Goodwin, much as she despised the
company she was in, had too much sense to draw upon herself the abuse
and persecution that would have been her lot had she informed upon the
others. Furthermore, she was so incensed that she, a free woman, had
been forced to lodge with convicts that she was resolved to be of no
service to those who had placed her in that situation.

The tipsy women were then questioned. They were scarce able to stand,
but all stoutly denied that they had tasted so much as a drop of
spirits, and were not in the least awed at being questioned by the
captain himself. They sized him up at once as a man of mild disposition,
shy of women, and made such sport of him that he became more and more
confused and ill-at-ease.

One bold-looking wench had been fighting, for her face was scratched and
bruised and one eye swelled shut.

"Now then," said Captain Gilbert, with an attempt at an authoritative
manner, "what does this mean?"

"I ain't been fightin', Captain. Oh, no!" said the woman, with a leer at
the others. "Ye see, I was standin' bitch to some of me lady companions
in our handsome saloon, and just as I was dishin' out the tea, the
bloody ship rolled, and I had the cursed luck to go arsy-varsy and tread
upon me eye."

Yells of delight from the others greeted this bit of repartee.

"'Tis the God's truth, Captain," one of them shouted.

"Never believe 'er, sir," yelled another. "She's a bawdy-house bottle
got cracked for bein' empty!"

"Silence!" said Captain Gilbert, his face as red as his hair.

"Hip, Michael! Yer head's on fire!"

The captain again shouted for silence, but the women were all at him at
once, now, seeing how vulnerable he was.

"Ye'd best come down and play rantum-scantum with us, old chicken-hams!
There's many a good penny'orth amongst us."

"Ain't it so!"

"I'll have 'im first!"

"I'd fall on me back if he was to look at me!"

"Never heed that one, sir! She's a fire-ship!"

At this the woman so accused fired up in all truth, and before a hand
could be lifted to prevent them, the two were at one another's throats,
clawing and scratching as they rolled on the deck. The others joined in,
and a squad of marines was needed to separate them. Six were again put
in irons and sentenced to spend the next fortnight below.

One night shortly after this, a search was made of the women's quarters
and four marine privates were discovered there, disguised in petticoats.
They were kept in that garb until the following morning when they were
ordered up for punishment--four dozen lashes each, laid on with such
vigour by the boatswain's mates that the backs of all were flayed raw.
Their companions amongst the women then received a dozen lashes each on
the bare breech, in the presence of the whole ship's company, but they
were such brazen hussies that so light a punishment served only to make
them the more outrageous in their behaviour. Not a week passed before
they were again caught, this time with some of the seamen who had bribed
the men on guard. On this occasion the women, instead of being flogged,
were made to "wear a keg," as it was called. Small casks with the heads
knocked out were fitted over them with holes cut for their arms, and
this contrivance was attached to them, with a harness of ropes; they
could not sit down in it. The effectiveness of this punishment was
slight, however. The women paraded the deck in so comic a way that the
officers themselves could not keep from laughing, and presently all
five, regardless of the risk to themselves, toppled over and rolled
about the decks with the rolling of the ship, upsetting seamen and
convicts alike, until the casks were staved in against the bulwarks. So
rebellious were these women that, as a last resort, Captain Gilbert
decided that all should have their heads shaved. This punishment was
effective, and thereafter the ship was much quieter.

Day after day we proceeded southward, the fleet keeping well together,
and on the third of June all came safely to an anchorage off Santa Cruz,
the capital of Teneriffe. Here a week was spent while supplies were
replenished, and during this time Captain Phillip refreshed the ships'
companies, seamen, marines, and convicts alike, with liberal supplies of
fruit, fresh meat, and vegetables. He inspected every ship of the fleet,
and I well remember the occasion when I had my first near view of the
man destined to lay the foundations of a new commonwealth. He was slight
in stature, with dark eyes, a high-bridged nose, and a severe expression
upon his lined, sallow face. He spent an hour aboard the _Charlotte_,
and examined every quarter of the ship with a thoroughness that showed
how much he had the well-being of the convicts as well as the freemen at
heart. I have little doubt that, had Captain Phillip been given the
charge of fitting the transports for the voyage, we would have been
better accommodated. It was not his fault that we were so inhumanly
crowded and starved for air below decks.

It was not until we were again at sea that I learned of two passengers
transferred to the _Charlotte_ at Teneriffe from the _Scarborough_. One
was a convict, but in a different category from the rest of us. He was a
political prisoner, David Munro, the only one carried out from England
by the First Fleet. With him was his daughter, Sally, who had chosen to
share her father's exile.

Mr. Munro received vastly better treatment than that accorded to the
rest of the convicts. He shared a cabin with the master's mate of the
_Charlotte_, and his daughter was berthed with the wife of one of the
marine officers. Every day Mr. Munro and his daughter walked the
quarter-deck, and I could see from afar how devoted they were to one
another. The father was a frail man, in contrast to his daughter, who
was in the very flower of youth and health. She read to him for hours at
a time, but I had no close view of them until we were well on our way
toward Rio de Janeiro.

We were lying becalmed on a day so windless that the reflections of a
few fleecy clouds lay on the sea as in a slightly flawed mirror. Because
of the stifling heat, the convicts were all on deck, the men on one
side, the women on the other. I was standing alone by the bulwark,
behind one of the boats, when I felt a hand laid on my shoulder, and
there was Mr. Munro.

"Well, young man," he said with a smile, "you'll never get us to Botany
Bay at this rate. I thought you seamen were skilled to whistle for a
breeze?"

"They've tried it, sir," I replied, "but we seem to be holding to the
slack, for all that."

I knew at once, by a kind of instinct, that here was a thoroughly good
man, one for whom the distinctions made between different classes of
society did not exist. I was pleased and flattered to have been mistaken
for one of the ship's company, but I could not leave him under this
impression. I told him that I was a convict, merely detailed for ship's
duty during the daytime.

"Well, and so am I," he replied. "Where is your home? In England?"

When I explained that I was an American, his interest was immediately
aroused and he plied me with questions, in so friendly a manner that I
soon found myself opening my heart to him as freely as though he had
been an old friend. I told him of my family's Loyalist sympathies, of my
service in the American War, and of my unhappy experiences in England,
which led to my being taken as a highwayman. When I had finished, he
said: "Young man, what a mistake you made!"

"I realize that now, sir," I replied, "but I was desperately anxious to
leave England, and I had long tried without success to earn the money
for a passage home. I couldn't get a seaman's job; there were scores of
men offering for every one available."

"I'm not speaking of that," said Mr. Munro. "I mean, what a mistake it
was to side with the King against your own countrymen. Would you make
the same choice again?"

"No, sir," I replied, promptly. "England herself has taught me better."

"Aye. The hope of the world, of all freedom-loving men, is in
America.... Was it known by the judges at your trial that you are an
American Loyalist?"

"No, sir. You will understand that I had no wish to bring shame upon my
family, or upon the other Loyalists in England."

"And none of them learned of your arrest?"

"I believe not. The only close friend I had in England returned to
Canada before my trouble came. My mother is there, but she will never
know what happened to me. I wrote her that I was about to sail for
Bombay, for service with the East India Company."

Mr. Munro then told me that he himself was an American. He had left
England, with his parents, when a small boy, and most of his life since
that time had been spent in Canada, in or near Montreal. He was a fiery
Republican, with deep sympathy for all underdogs, whether politically or
socially oppressed. His enthusiasm for the revolutionaries of the
American War had brought him many enemies amongst the official classes
in Canada, but he cared nothing for that. He organized a Society for the
Advancement of Political Liberty, whose purpose was to work for the
emancipation of Canada, with the idea of forming a sister republic in
the North. His labours on behalf of this society had taken him to
England, some time after the close of the American War, where, at last,
he was arrested for seditious practices. It was a near thing that he was
not tried for high treason. The result of his trial was that he received
a sentence to fourteen years' transportation.

This was the first of many talks with Mr. Munro as we proceeded toward
Rio de Janeiro, and I believe he enjoyed our companionship almost as
much as I did. We talked of America and made one another homesick by
doing so. He hoped to return to Canada when his sentence had expired and
was full of dreams and plans for that time, but I wondered, sadly
enough, whether he would live to fulfill them. His body was not equal to
the demands his eager, active spirit made upon it; the hardships of the
voyage had told heavily upon him, but he seemed never to give a thought
to his health. Munro was fifty years old at this time and looked forward
confidently to his freedom and future work as though assured that he had
another fifty years to come. I wondered what would happen to his
daughter in case of his death in New South Wales. A strange and lonely
situation it would be for her. I learned that her mother, who was of
French Huguenot blood, had died when Sally was ten, and that her only
living relative beside her father was an aunt on her mother's side,
living in Quebec.

And then came my first meeting with her. It was another of those
windless days when the _Charlotte_ lay all but on the Equator. The sky
was covered with a thin veil of cloud, tempering a little the heat of
the tropical sun, and the deep silence of the sea lay over the ship as
well. The convicts were sprawled about like dead men. Most of them were
asleep; others lay with their heads pillowed on their arms, gazing at
vacancy. Sabb and Inching had found a bit of shade beneath one of the
boats and were playing cards with two cronies, without a word, as though
the game were a part of some solemn religious rite.

Turning my head presently, I saw Mr. Munro and his daughter approaching
the barrier that separated the convicts from the ship's company, aft. He
spoke to the guard standing there, who let them pass.

So imbued was I, by this time, with the convict point of view that it
had not occurred to me that I would ever meet and talk with Miss Munro.
Though her father was himself a prisoner, he was set apart from us by
the political nature of his offense, and I quite understood, without his
speaking of the matter, that he would wish to keep his daughter free
from any contact with the felons. I was so taken aback by his action in
bringing her to our part of the ship that I stood like a lout as they
approached.

"Tallant," said Mr. Munro, "my daughter has grown weary of being cooped
up on the quarter-deck." Then, turning to her: "Sally, this is the young
man I spoke of, an American like ourselves."

Miss Munro gave me her hand with a frank grave glance, but I thought I
could detect a twinkle of mischief in her eyes, as though she were quite
aware of my embarrassment and my awkward effort to appear at ease. And
an effort it was, in all truth. Since leaving Canada and my own people
there, with the exception of Mrs. Garth my companions had been
exclusively male and I had all but forgotten how to behave in the
presence of a well-bred young woman. I was so foolish and proud as to
imagine that Sally was dissembling her feelings about me and my status
in an effort to put me more at ease. Mr. Munro had given me Dr.
Goldsmith's "Deserted Village" to read, and, seeing my embarrassment, he
began to speak of it, but I was no better than a miserable combination
of Silence and Justice Shallow. Never, surely, could a young man, eager
to make a good impression, have made a more dismal failure, and when
they left me I suffered one of the bitterest hours I had ever known. It
was not so much because of hurt pride for the poor impression made. I
was thinking, rather, of the gulf that lay between me and such a girl as
Sally Munro. With the stigma of convict upon me forever, with a life
sentence to serve in a penal colony, what did the future have in store?
Some day, no doubt, impelled by need and loneliness, I would seek what
Botany Bay could offer in the way of a wife.

I looked about me at the convict women sprawled on the decks, horrible
creatures, most of them, learned in every kind of vice known to the
underworld of London. And some woman of this kind I would have to choose
as the mother of my children.

One brazen young trollop turned her head and caught my gaze. For all
that it was forbidden, the women never lost an opportunity to speak with
seamen, marines, or male convicts. This one, leaning back against the
bulwark with her feet outspread, gave me a knowing leer.

"How d'ye do, Conkey Beau?" she said.

"Ain't he a proper Duke o' Limbs?" said another. "He'll make us some
feet fer children's stockings at Botany Bay, eh, Cully?"

                 *        *        *        *        *

Once we were out of the doldrums and in the region of the southeast
trades, we made excellent progress, and on August the sixth, a light
breeze from the sea carried us within the islands that lie off Rio de
Janeiro, where we anchored for the night, sailing into the harbour next
day. A reshuffling of the convicts was ordered by Captain Phillip here;
the rowdiest of our women were sent out of the _Charlotte_ to the
_Prince of Wales_, and six of our most villainous men were transferred
to the _Alexander_. Among those sent to take their places were Mr. and
Mrs. Thynne, Phoebe, and Tom Oakley. Not since leaving Portsmouth had we
seen them or had news of them, and the pleasure of having our small
Newgate company of friends together once more can well be imagined.

I noticed a change in Tom from the moment of his coming aboard the
_Charlotte_, and the reason for it was clear almost at once: he had
fallen head over heels in love with Phoebe Thynne. He made no secret of
the matter when, later in the afternoon, the two of us were talking
apart from the others, with Garth. Nellie charged him with having lost
his heart and something of his wits.

"D'ye blame me for that?" Oakley asked.

"There's no matter of blame," said Garth. "Ye mean to marry her?"

"Why not? Phoebe wishes it as much as myself. Nellie, she's a girl in
ten thousand! Little I thought Tom Oakley would ever be touched here,"
and he struck his breast, "but... well, I'm fair daft about her, and
that's putting it small."

"There's no need to tell us," said Garth, quietly. "Have ye thought of
this, Tom? She's come with her parents on a mere girl's whim, ye might
say. Will she be content to bide in Botany Bay her life long?"

"Aye, if it should come to that," said Tom. "She's told me as much; but
look ye, Nellie! For all I'm sent for life, I've no mind to die in the
cursed place. Soon or late we'll find a way to leave, eh, Hugh?"

"That's as may be," said Garth. "'Tis a long way from England. My belief
is there's none of us will see home again."

"Come, come, Nellie," said Tom, clapping her on the shoulder. "Ye was
never one to take the dismal side."

"Dismal or not, I'll look at facts broadside on," said Garth. "My
belief--and I say this to the pair of ye though I'll not speak so to the
others--is that there's no thought in England that any of us shall ever
go home. Those sent for seven years are no better off than yourselves,
with life to serve. We'll be free in the colony, it may be, when our
time is done, but England? Never hope it."

"What d'ye think, Hugh?" Oakley asked.

"That Nellie may be right. But whether or no, we'll have something to
say about settling for life in New South Wales."

"There, Nellie, hearten up," said Tom. "Ye'll not see the end of your
own time if Hugh and me has our way. We'll pay our Botany Bay debts with
a loose foretopsail. Will ye come along if the chance offers?"

"Would I not!" said Garth. "But I'll tell ye when that will be, Tom
Oakley: to-morrow come never, when two Sundays come together."

We sailed from Rio on September the fourth, in a far healthier state
than when we left England. For, at home, many of the convicts had been
put aboard the transports weeks, even months, before they were ready to
sail, and fed upon nothing but salt provisions. Scurvy had made its
appearance even before we left Portsmouth, and had greatly increased on
the voyage; but the abundance of fresh fruit and vegetables given us at
Rio had restored all but a few of the worst cases. There had been
sixteen deaths on the voyage thus far, which was considered a small
number in so great a fleet of convict ships.

With westerly winds to speed us on our way, we sailed toward the Cape of
Good Hope. This time was made memorable to me by the further talks I had
with Mr. Munro. I was now on terms of real friendship with him, and,
although I had come to think of his daughter as "Sally," I had the
discretion never to address her in this familiar way on the occasions
when he brought her to our part of the deck. Indeed, in my desire not to
presume upon an acquaintance so generously permitted by her father, I
went beyond reason in my attitude. When she was present I became so
stiff and formal in manner that her father once remarked, after she had
left us: "Mr. Tallant, you behave strangely for a young man. Does my
daughter displease you?"

I was so taken aback by the question that I could only mumble, "No,
sir," and fall silent again; but I thought--at least, I hoped--that he
would understand how matters stood with me.

The days and the weeks passed, miserably enough for the most part, in a
ship so desperately crowded, and the other transports were in even worse
condition than ours in this respect. For all the favouring winds we made
but slow progress, for none of the ships were good sailers, and it was
necessary for the fleet to keep together, setting pace by the slowest
amongst them, which was the _Charlotte_ herself.

We reached Capetown on October 13, five months out from Portsmouth, and
here a full month was spent in preparation for the last long leg of the
voyage to Botany Bay. No doubt the time passed pleasantly enough for the
officers of the fleet, lodged comfortably ashore, but for the convicts
that month was weariness itself. The transports lay a mile and a half
from the town, too far for us to see any of the life of the place, but
we could, at least, watch the boats coming and going between the ships
and the shore. The Cape being the last outpost of the civilized world,
we took in, here, everything in the way of livestock and provisions that
could be of use in establishing the new colony. In every ship the
carpenters were making pens and stalls for cattle, goats, sheep, and
swine, and crates for fowls. No inch of room that could be spared was
wasted. Most of the animals had to be carried in the _Sirius_, the
_Supply_, and the three store-ships, but the transports took the
overplus, leaving only room on deck for working the vessels.

Nellie Garth was, I believe, the only convict in the entire fleet who
either wished to, or did, buy an animal on her own account. She wanted a
pig, and Captain Gilbert was so surprised and gratified to learn of a
convict with such good sense that he informed Governor Phillip himself
of the matter. Evidently Governor Phillip was no less pleased, for
permission was readily granted. Nick Sabb furnished the money for the
purchase, and Nellie insisted upon buying a sow big with young. A proud
and happy woman she was on the day when her sow, in a strong crate, was
hoisted aboard the _Charlotte_. "A body's the better for having a dumb
beast to fend for," said she, "and there's none will be more useful
where we're going than a pig."

"Nellie," said Oakley, "you're a forehanded, forethoughted woman, and I
wish ye luck with the sow; but my belief is ye'll have your labour for
your pains. She'll not survive the voyage."

"Won't she, now?" said Garth. "Tell me that at the end, Tom Oakley. I've
a way with pigs. She'll have her feed, morning and night, if I must
stint myself to give it."

A week later the _Charlotte_ and her sister transports were crawling
eastward, far beyond Capetown. There were days when men and animals
alike suffered all the miseries which tempestuous weather can furnish.
The ships, heavily laden, wallowed through the great seas, and many a
time tons of water came pouring inboard, half drowning us. As I think of
those wretched days and nights, I hear again the confused uproar of wind
and sea, the bellowing of the cattle, and the faint plaintive cries of
the terrified sheep and goats. And they were no more terrified than many
of the ship's human freight, particularly those with no knowledge of
ships or the sea, who believed, often enough, that their last hour had
come. The pitiless majesty of the sea was brought home to them for the
first time in their lives, and it appeared the more awful in that great
waste of waters, so empty, and grey and lonely, that seemed to stretch
on and on to infinity.

In view of the size of our convoy--eleven ships, all varying in
seaworthiness and sailing qualities--our success in keeping together, in
all kinds of weather, during so great a voyage, seemed no less than a
miracle. Never since leaving England had any ship been separated from
the others, but when we were six weeks out from Capetown, four of the
ships parted company by design. Governor Phillip was anxious to arrive
at Botany Bay in advance of the main body, that he might look out the
best site for the future settlement and get the work of clearing and
preparing the land under way, and he transferred from the _Sirius_ to
the _Supply_, which was considered the faster ship. Three of the better
sailing transports, the _Friendship_, _Scarborough_, and _Alexander_,
were ordered to accompany him, and on the twenty-fifth of November,
1787, the two sections of the fleet parted company. Many were the
forebodings of those in the following ships as they watched the others
drawing slowly away from us. We were far out on an ocean but little
known at that time, with the hazards and dangers of six thousand watery
miles still before us. Would we meet again? That thought was in
everyone's mind as we watched the dwindling sails catching the gleams of
sunshine far in the distance. By late afternoon all were hull-down on
the horizon and at sunset they were lost to view.

Thereafter came the most miserable part of a voyage that seemed destined
never to have an end. Conditions were bad enough for the people aft, but
infinitely worse for the convicts. We had been seven months in the
_Charlotte_, with never a chance to set foot on land, confined for the
greater part of the time in a foul hole not fit for the habitation of
pigs, to say nothing of human beings. In the storms met with as we
crossed the vast southern expanse of the Indian Ocean, the seams of the
upper deck opened up, and sea water trickled upon us night and day until
there was not a dry spot in the place, nor a dry garment to wear. Scurvy
made its appearance once more, followed by dysentery, until more than
half our number were too weak and ill to stir from their bunks. Most of
the convicts were far sunk in a kind of hopeless apathy, careless as to
whether they lived or died. Goodwin and I were grateful indeed for the
blessed boon of hard work--we had scarcely a moment of leisure the day
long; the others, with few exceptions, had only their misery for
company.

Many were the talks I heard at night, in our quarters, as we pushed
farther and farther away from England. Even the most degraded of the
convicts, whose life there had been wretched enough, looked back upon it
with pleasure in the light of present circumstances. Some thought only
of food, and they would speak of the fine feasts of tripe and pig's
knuckles and cabbage they had enjoyed at the threepenny ordinaries.
Others, who had had no taste of ale or spirits in all these months, were
half-crazed for the want of it. They remembered the gin shops of St.
Giles, Spitalfields, Clerkenwell, and Wapping, where a man could get
blind drunk for twopence, sleep it off under shelter, start the round
again the next day, and so live, stupefied for a week, on a capital of
one shilling. They would talk of their Dolls, Mags, and Lizzies with
details as to their qualities as doss house companions for cold winter
nights. As I listened to the talk that went on interminably in our
bunkhouse where the few candles would scarce burn in the foul air, I
came to think of London as one vast warren of filthy courts and alleys,
lined with gin shops, farthing fries, rag-and-bottle shops and penny
lodginghouses, swarming with petty thieves, footpads, beggars, and
prostitutes.

And I would think of the difficult, thankless, heartbreaking task that
lay ahead of Governor Phillip. Could he ever succeed in founding a
colony? Even though New South Wales should prove a very paradise, such a
company as ours might well starve there. Many were scarcely above the
brutes in intelligence. They had none of the qualities needed for
colonists, and neither the will nor the capacity to acquire them.

And now I come to an event that stunned and saddened me for many a day
to come. Mr. Munro, whose health was delicate at the best of times, was
taken with a slow fever shortly after we left the Cape, and confined to
his cabin. I little thought, at first, that the illness was grave, but
as day followed day and he made no appearance on deck, my anxiety
increased, and I made bold to ask Surgeon White for news of his
condition. The surgeon told me he was sinking fast, and that he had
little hope of his recovery. I was deeply anxious, then, and watched
from afar, hoping to have word with Sally, but she rarely appeared on
the quarter-deck, and then only for a moment. I could see--at least, I
felt--that she had forgotten my existence, and a kind of bitterness
filled my heart at the thought that she could consider me so indifferent
to her father's welfare that it was not worth while to give me word of
his condition. This was a most ungenerous thought, but in my
sensitiveness it was, perhaps, a natural one to hold. But I quickly
forgot my hurt pride in my pity and sympathy for herself, watching day
and night in her father's cabin, with the shadow of death creeping ever
closer.

I hoped against hope that her father would rally, but it was not to be.
When the end came, Sally herself informed me of it. It was a still day,
with the sky heavily overcast. We lay becalmed, fore and main courses
clewed up, and all of our gear creaking faintly as we rode the long
swell rolling eastward. A blood-red dawn had warned us that the swell
was, probably, the forerunner of another gale. I had finished some small
task when I looked up to find Sally standing beside me. Her face told me
all I needed to know. As I think of that moment, I am again conscious of
my feeling of despair, wanting to comfort her and finding nothing to
say. I took her hand, then quickly released it, taken aback at my own
presumption. She told me that her father had died in the night. It was
the first time I had ever spoken with Sally alone. Not more than a dozen
words were exchanged between us, but I have never forgotten that brief
meeting, nor the desolate look she gave me as she turned and went back
to her cabin.

Mr. Munro was buried the same afternoon. The wind had come up meanwhile
and was gathering strength from moment to moment. Squalls of rain
continually drenched the decks and the convicts were battened down
below, but Goodwin and I were about our seamen's duties.

We watched the group of seamen and marines gathered at the gangway where
Captain Gilbert, one of his officers shielding the book from the rain,
read the burial service. A single albatross hovered over the ship on
great motionless wings, gliding deeply down to pass astern, rising
swiftly again as he turned to breast the wind. In all the world's
oceans, there was no region more lonely, more remote from the world of
men.

Sally stood by Captain Gilbert, heedless of the rain, not looking at the
body of her father which lay at their feet, sewn up in a canvas shroud.
I thought of her aloneness, her friendlessness, her only relative
thousands of miles distant, on the other side of the world. What could
she do now? What would she wish to do? Perhaps she would return to
London, with one of the transports, and go from there to Canada--a
formidable voyage for a young girl to make alone.

She turned quickly and gazed out to sea as the men stooped to lift her
father's body to the plank. When she turned again it was gone.




CHAPTER IX. BOTANY BAY


On the morning of the nineteenth of January, we sighted the coast of New
South Wales, nearly twenty miles distant. We sailed northward throughout
the day, with a fresh breeze at E.N.E., drawing in ever closer to the
land. There was a stir in the ship, and all on board were heartened by
the happiest anticipations. Even among the convicts, who could hope for
nothing better than a life of forced labour under severe discipline, I
was aware of a new spirit of content, at the conclusion of our long
voyage, and the thought of setting foot on land once more.

Just before nightfall, when we were pretty close in, and could make out
clearly the whitish cliffs to the south of Botany Bay, the _Sirius_ made
a signal for the convoy to pass one by one under her stern, and each
ship was ordered to work offshore under easy sail until daybreak. The
sea was calm and the summer night warm and cloudless; I would have given
much to have been allowed to remain on deck. But all of the convicts
were ordered below and the gratings made fast over our hatches.

I lay with my bundle for a pillow, with Tom Oakley stretched out beside
me. Some of the men sat in groups in the passageway, speaking eagerly of
New South Wales and the relief of going on shore. Others seemed
indifferent to our glimpse of the new continent, or anticipations of the
morrow, and fetched out their cards or dice to begin the evening's
gaming. Many of the convicts, like owls or bats, seemed to come alive
only at nightfall. The ship rolled with a light creaking of timbers, and
the stench of her bilges, on this hot summer night, mingling with the
odours of filthy clothing and unwashed human bodies, made Newgate a
fragrant memory by comparison. Foul air, enfeebled health, and the
desponding state of their minds made most of the convicts uneasy
sleepers; they shifted this way and that on their hard planks, groaning,
muttering, and scratching the whole night through. At last I fell
asleep.

The sound of our grating being removed awakened me, and the voice of the
marine on duty at the hatch, summoning me and Goodwin by name. "And up
with a dozen more of ye," he added. "Look alive!"

There was no great scramble for the privilege, even on this final day of
our voyage, for most of those below slept sounder at this hour than
during the night. Goodwin, Oakley, and I were followed by the wanted
number. The breeze still held, and the _Charlotte_ was standing offshore
on the starboard tack, under foresail and maintopsail. The stars, though
fading, shone in a cloudless sky. It was dark to the west, where we had
spied the land the night before, but there was an increasing brightness
where dawn touched with faint rose-colour the tufts of fair-weather
cloud along the horizon. As the light grew stronger, the _Sirius_ tacked
and stood in toward the land, making a signal for the ships of the
convoy to follow.

Before an hour had passed the coast of New South Wales was visible from
the deck, stretching away to the north and south as far as the eye could
reach. It was a glorious morning. I felt my spirits rise at sight of the
vast continent before us. Had I been a free man, engaged in an
expedition to explore these unknown forests, plains, and mountains, my
happiness would have been complete. Presently we opened the entrance to
Botany Bay and followed the _Sirius_ in between the heads. There, before
us, to the relief and joy of all, we saw the brig _Supply_ at anchor,
together with the _Alexander_, the _Friendship_, and the _Scarborough_.

All of the convicts were now permitted to come on deck, between the
barricades, where they lined the bulwarks three and four deep, to stare
at the land they had traveled so far to reach, and which was to be their
home, in many cases for life. When the sails had been furled and all
made snug, I stared as earnestly as the others. This was to be my home,
too; for how long, I did not permit myself to speculate. Though Oakley
and I often spoke of escape, we well knew how small our chances were. I
am setting down these recollections in 1831, when ships from England are
seen as commonly in Melbourne or Sydney as they were on the Potomac when
I was a boy. All of the oceans have been explored and their islands and
coastlines charted; a voyage to Australia to-day is little more of an
adventure than a crossing of the Atlantic used to be. It is hard for
young Australians to realize that at the time of which I write, New
South Wales seemed little less remote than the moon. The nearest
European settlement was in the Dutch East Indies, a thousand leagues
distant, on a course beset with dangers which had nearly caused the loss
of Captain Cook's ship. That we had reached Botany Bay safely was a
tribute to the skilled seaman and navigator in command of the convoy.

At first sight the shores of Botany Bay wore an aspect of beauty and
fertility, but we soon learned that the green meadows were morasses,
covered with coarse marsh grass, and that the rich vegetation of the
wooded shores was rooted in mud. The bay itself afforded but indifferent
anchorage, being exposed to the easterly winds which sent a great sea
rolling in between the heads; it seemed to extend inland for several
leagues, and to be four or five miles wide from north to south.

And then we had our first view of black men. There was a picture for an
artist to have painted--the arrival in Botany Bay of the first fleet of
convict settlers, and, certainly, this scene will some day be
commemorated and preserved for posterity. Even at the time I realized
the strangeness of that first meeting between felons, outcasts, despised
and rejected by society, and those members of one of the most primitive
of all savage races, who would have rejected us in their turn, had they
possessed the power. A dozen or more of the blacks emerged from the bush
at the end of a low point. They were tall lean fellows, stark naked, who
looked as black as coal in the bright sunlight. They carried shields and
were armed with long slender spears which they shook defiantly, shouting
"Warawara! Warawara!" in deep harsh voices. The convicts yelled and
hooted at them, which only aroused them the more. We did not then know
the meaning of this first word we had heard of the native speech, but we
could easily guess it from the fierce warning gestures of the blacks.

"By God!" one of the convicts exclaimed. "We've been pitched out like
dirt by them at home, and even the bloody savages won't have us!"

I have always remembered this incident. Like other old settlers, I feel
a certain tenderness for the blackfellow, the original proprietor of the
land. No man can say how long he has lived here, nor whence he came, but
the continent was his by right of discovery, and he had peopled it as
thickly, perhaps, as his mode of living permitted. If to-day he steals
our sheep, or spears our cattle, it is because we have destroyed the
game on which he once subsisted. The defects of the Sydney black were
many, but he was a brave fellow, and often a merry one. The arrival of
the transports in Botany Bay marked the beginning of a mighty change in
the annals of the Australian Continent, and the blacks who shouted
"Warawara!" (Go Away!) from the point may have had some prescience of
the future.

Our interest in the blacks, and the near-by shores of Botany Bay, ended
abruptly when we were told that we might make free with the water in the
scuttle butts, and that more would be fetched on deck. It was a great
luxury to have all we wanted of the element we had never had enough of,
even to drink, during the course of the voyage. We drank deep, we bathed
our filthy bodies as best we could, washed our clothing, stiff with dirt
and crawling with vermin, and spread it in the morning sun to dry. I had
scarcely finished when a dozen of us were ordered into one of the
longboats.

"Off with ye, lads," said the bosun's mate; "'tis a watering
party--ye'll have a run ashore."

We sprang into the boat, delighted at our good fortune, and an officer
and three marines took their places in the stern. Goodwin was beside me
on the thwart, and I could see the pleasure it gave him to have an oar
in his hands. We pulled along the northern shore of the bay, rounded a
blunt point and entered a creek, bordered by marsh lands. At last the
boat grounded and we rolled our casks for a considerable distance to a
drain which carried a run of fresh water. Two convicts, Jurd and Mawson
by name, were given cutlasses and ordered to fetch bundles of the best
grass they could find, for what sheep and cattle we had left were at the
last extremity.

Only a man who has been eight months at sea, without once setting foot
on land, could understand our emotions as we felt the earth beneath our
feet once more. I worked hard that morning and enjoyed my task; filling
the casks with bucket and funnel, and helping trundle them down to the
boat, as I had often seen our slaves do in Maryland, with the hogsheads
of tobacco on our rolling road. Flights of wildfowl traded up and down
the bay; immense flocks of white cockatoos passed overhead, screaming
and chattering harshly. At midday we were ordered to knock off for a
bite of food.

Jurd and Mawson had disappeared amongst the trees a quarter of a mile
distant, after fetching in several loads of grass. Of a sudden, we heard
an outcry and saw the two convicts running toward us pursued by three
blacks, who halted and cast spears which flashed past the fugitives,
missing them narrowly. A second party of blacks now burst from the
woods, taking up the pursuit with angry shouts. Our marines were on
their feet, muskets in hand.

"Quick, lads!" the lieutenant ordered. "Over their heads! Fire!"

The reports of the muskets were no doubt the first the blacks had ever
heard. They halted in consternation, and as the marines reloaded and
raised their pieces once more, they retreated to the cover of the bush.
Glancing over his shoulder, Jurd slowed his pace to a walk, while Mawson
sank down, unable to proceed further. I followed the marines at the
double to where the wounded man lay. A spear had ripped its way through
his left buttock, and the blood was flowing fast. Jurd stood in
glowering silence by his companion, wiping his cutlass furtively on the
leg of his pantaloons.

"What's this?" asked the lieutenant.

"Tried to spear us, the black bastards!" said Jurd.

"There's blood on your cutlass."

"Can't a man defend himself?"

"Disarm him, corporal!" ordered the officer, sternly.

Whether angered by his situation and the pain of his wound, or because
of some long-standing grudge, Mawson now raised himself and pointed a
shaking finger at Jurd.

"He's a bloody liar, sir! 'Twas all his fault!"

Jurd took a step forward, clenching his fists, but the marines seized
him. "Speak out!" said the officer. "What have you done?"

"I'd naught to do with it," Mawson replied. "We came onto a black boy
and a girl, cookin' some fish over the coals. Jurd grabbed the biggest
fish and started to eat it, and the black boy snatched it from his
hands. He had no weapon, and Jurd killed him where he stood, with the
cutlass. The girl set up a squalling, and next thing I knew was this."
He touched his backside gingerly.

"Take him in charge," ordered the lieutenant.

Jurd was a powerful fellow, and before his wrists were made fast behind
his back, Goodwin and I were obliged to lend a hand. Leaving him with
Mawson under guard, the officer ordered the rest of us to accompany him
to the scene of the crime, half a mile distant, in the bush. We had no
trouble in finding the glade. The blacks were about to carry away the
boy's body when we emerged from the scrub, but they dropped their burden
at sight of us and vanished among the trees. All was as Mawson had
described it: the embers of the fire, the broken bits of fish, a pool of
blood on the ground, and the dead boy, with a deep gash in his neck
which had severed the jugular vein. He was a well-made little fellow not
more than twelve or thirteen years of age. The officer turned to us with
a stern face.

"You've heard Mawson's story. Observe and recollect what you see here.
The Governor must be told of this at once!"

The sequel to the young black's murder was prompt and terrible. On the
same afternoon, the Governor assembled his Criminal Court under a gum
tree close to the beach, on the northeast extremity of Botany Bay. The
Court consisted of Captain Collins--the Judge Advocate--and three naval
and three marine officers. A boatload of the more hardened convicts from
each of the transports was ordered ashore. Jurd stood sullenly by the
tree, shackled, and guarded by two marines. The witnesses gave their
testimony and when Jurd was required to speak in his own defense, he
only growled out: "I've naught to say. What if I did kill the black
bastard? There's one less to put out o' the way."

The scene in the lonely peaceful bay was one I have never been able to
forget. The marines then on shore, about fifty in all, were drawn up on
one side of the tree where the brief court-martial had been held. In
front of them stood the officers of the Court with Governor Phillip at
their head. The convicts summoned to witness the execution stood
opposite. The silence of the great empty land, intensified by the
rustling of leaves and the faint hissing of the tall grasses as they
bent and nodded to the fresh breeze, was like a visible presence, and,
after the Judge Advocate had pronounced sentence, "...hanged by the
neck until you are dead," the hush seemed to deepen as though we were
all under a spell. Then Governor Phillip spoke, gazing sternly in our
direction:--

"On this, the very day of your arrival in New South Wales, one of your
number has committed an atrocious crime. It is a crime not only against
the natives of this land who have harmed none of us: it is a crime
against ourselves, and against the future welfare of the colony it is my
duty to establish here. The news of this murder will travel far amongst
the natives, who will fear and hate us from this day on, and seek to
take a just revenge upon us. Let the fate of this wretched man be a
lesson and a warning to every one of you."

Governor Phillip then glanced at the Chaplain, the Reverend Richard
Johnston, who stepped to Jurd's side, but the murderer glared defiantly
at him.

"To hell with ye!" he said. "I'll not die dunghill! Turn me off!"

He had his wish. Wanting the executioner's black bag to put over the
man's head, a handkerchief was bound across his eyes, the noose quickly
adjusted, and, a moment later, he was twitching and swaying high in air.
The sun was low in the west, and the long shadow of the hanged man
seemed to spread and deepen until it cast a gloom over all the shores of
Botany Bay, an omen of dark days to come.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Botany Bay was soon found to be an unsuitable site for the foundation of
the colony: the bay itself was shallow, for the most part, affording no
anchorage where ships might ride unexposed to easterly weather, and no
deep coves where docks might be erected for loading and unloading cargo.
The shores were marshy, and what dry land was discovered nearby seemed
sandy and barren; worst of all, no sufficient supply of fresh water had
been found. Though he ordered his officers to continue their
explorations, and even selected a site for the settlement, in case no
more favourable place should be discovered elsewhere, Governor Phillip
resolved to examine Port Jackson and Broken Bay before disembarking the
people where we were. He set sail to the north on the following morning,
with three rigged longboats, taking with him Captain Hunter, Mr.
Collins, the Judge Advocate, and the masters of the _Sirius_ and the
_Supply_. Owing to an outbreak of scurvy among the seamen, I was
fortunate enough to be chosen to pull an oar in the Governor's boat.

It was midmorning when we passed between the heads against a fresh
easterly breeze, getting a good offing before Captain Hunter ordered the
sails set to run northward with the wind abeam. He held the tiller,
while the Governor sat beside him, gazing at this coastline which no
European, save Captain Cook and his people, had examined before. A great
surf broke at the base of rocky cliffs, and level, barren heath land lay
above. At the end of two hours, we were pretty close inshore and abreast
of the south head of Port Jackson.

Nothing was known of the place, save that Captain Cook, who had sailed
past the entrance in 1770, at a considerable distance offshore, noted in
his log that there appeared to be good anchorage inside. We were to
discover that the great navigator's instinct had not been at fault.

No man who sees Sydney for the first time to-day can form the least
conception of the harbour's unspoiled beauty at the time of which I
write, when all was as the hand of the Creator had fashioned it, and the
forests which clothed the whole countryside to the water's edge had
never felt the woodsman's axe.

Sailing in past the southern head, with sheets slacked off, we opened
the vast, landlocked harbour which stretched away for miles to the south
and west. The wind was cut off by the high land as we turned southward,
and we furled our sails. All gazed at the still waters opening before us
in hushed wonder and delight, scarcely venturing to speak in this
enchanted place. The great harbour, sheltered from every storm and
ruffled only by light cat's-paws off the land, extended before us,
branching in coves and bays separated by wooded points, as far as the
eye could reach. As the boats glided westward in a silence broken only
by hushed voices and the faint dip and plash of oars, small islets came
into view, their rocky shores mirrored in the glassy waters of the
harbour. Forests of gum and cedar trees stood at the head of nearly
every cove. Clouds of snow-white cockatoos, their plumage gleaming in
the sunlight, passed from one wooded promontory to the next;
bright-coloured parrakeets rose in thousands from the trees, with harsh
chatterings, as if in protest at this violation of their sanctuary. In
one cove, a pair of black swans floated majestically, and rose with
heavy wing-beats as we passed. We were the first white men to gaze on
these scenes of unsullied primaeval loveliness, and I shall recollect
them to my last day.

Here and there in the coves we saw native fishermen, in their canoes of
bark, but they paddled away hastily at sight of us. The Governor was
eager to establish friendly relations with them, but he had more
pressing business to-day.

"Well, Hunter," said he, "we need search no further!"

"Aye, sir. There's no such harbour in the world! All the fleets of
Europe might ride safely here!"

The Governor hailed the other two boats, ordering them to proceed
westward, separating to explore the coves on the north and south sides
of the harbour.

"Captain Hunter and I will examine these coves near the entrance," he
said. "Look for a good run of fresh water, tolerably flat, rich soil,
and deep water close inshore, where quays may be built. You may camp
to-night and to-morrow night wherever you see fit; let us meet here, by
this point, on the following morning. I shall expect full reports, with
charts, and as many soundings as time permits."

We now proceeded with our task of exploration. A party of blacks stood
on a point as we passed, brandishing their spears and shouting their
invariable greeting: "Go away!" Governor Phillip ordered a halt, and
made it clear to the savages, by signs, that they should leave their
weapons on shore and wade out to receive the gifts he displayed. They
took his meaning at once, and, to our surprise, about a score of them
made their way out to the boat, unarmed, and showing great courage and
confidence in our good will. The Governor rewarded them with mirrors and
beads; on account of their behaviour, I heard him say to Captain Hunter
that he would give the adjacent bay the name of Manly Cove.

It was midafternoon when we entered the cove about which the town of
Sydney now stands. We had six and seven fathoms down the middle of the
bay, and four close to the beaches on either hand. In breadth and extent
inland, the harbour was perfectly designed for an anchorage, and for
working ships in and out. The forest, which at that time covered the
slopes on both sides, grew to the water's edge, so that we stepped from
our boat almost literally into the woods. Most of the trees were of the
eucalyptus kind, some of them of enormous size in spite of the rocky
nature of the ground, but at the head of the cove, bordering what was
later called the Tank Stream, were clumps of magnificent cedars.

The Governor landed presently, and went in search of water, followed by
a seaman who carried his musket, while Captain Hunter continued his task
of surveying the cove. Governor Phillip returned in about an hour's
time, saying that he had found a run of water sufficient for the
settlement's needs.

"We'll encamp here for the night, Hunter," he announced. "I'll be
surprised if we find a more promising spot."

"So I believe," replied Hunter. "We can moor the ships close inshore,
with stern lines fast to the trees. I've found several places where
quays could be built with no great trouble.... Shall we dine now,
sir?"

"We've still a couple of hours of daylight; let us employ them in
completing our survey. There's a pair of kangaroos yonder, one of them
as great as a man. They seemed to have little fear, yet I could not come
within musket shot. I'm no hunter, I fear!" He smiled. "What of
yourself? Can you live up to your name?" The captain, eager to get back
to his soundings, shook his head, and Governor Phillip glanced at the
rest of us in the boat. "Who'll try for the kangaroo?"

I made bold to say, "May I, sir?"

"What's your name?"

"Tallant, sir."

He eyed me keenly for a moment, then turned to his servant. "Give him
the musket and my pouch and powder-horn.... You'll find their tracks
by the run of water yonder; when I last saw them, they were about a
cable's length to the south. Do your best. There's a portion of grog for
you if you bring one back."

I followed the shore of the cove to the stream at its head, a run of
good water, shaded by fine old trees. The Governor's tracks were easy to
follow in the damp ground, and I saw also, for the first time, the
curious traces of the kangaroo, with the mark of the tail in one muddy
place, where the animal had sat upright in alarm. Moving quietly and
glancing steadily ahead, I reached higher ground, where the forest was
more open; and there I had my first sight of an old man kangaroo, with
his mate, feeding side by side, not a hundred paces distant. I crawled
forward on my belly, as the Indians do in America, taking advantage of
what cover there was. At last I looked to my priming and gave a low
whistle. The kangaroos sat up abruptly and I shot the male through the
heart, while his mate bounded away, going at a pace that astonished me.
My quarry must have weighed eleven stone, or more, and when I got him on
my back, with a hind leg over each shoulder, I had as much as I could do
to carry him to the beach. For all that the others had heard the report
of the musket, Governor Phillip, to forestall a disappointment, had
ordered his men to lay out supper, the old wearisome fare of salt beef,
rancid cheese, and wormy ship's biscuits. The cheer that went up when I
hove in sight with the kangaroo warmed my heart.

Governor Phillip and Captain Hunter examined the animal with keen
interest--as we all did, in fact; then, with the help of one of the
soldiers, I skinned and cut him up into steaks and collops which the
others broiled over the coals; and only those who have lived on ship's
fare for months together will know how welcome the fresh meat was.
Seasoned with salt and pepper, all pronounced the kangaroo as
well-flavoured as good wether mutton. We ate like starved men and
everyone had as much as he wanted. The rest of the meat was cooked to
carry with us.

It was a warm, cloudless night, and when supper was over I made myself a
bed of dry leaves and lay with my coat for a pillow watching the stars
come out. Presently one of the seamen came to inform me that Governor
Phillip wished to speak to me. He was sitting by the fire, chatting with
Captain Hunter.

"Where did you learn to stalk game, young man?" he asked.

"In America, sir."

"You are an American by birth?"

"Yes, sir."

"And why are you here? What is your sentence?"

"Life, sir. For highway robbery."

"I see.... Well, good night to you. That's all I wished to know."

We spent the following day in exploring several near-by coves, and when
the three boats met on the twenty-third, I felt certain from the talk I
overheard among the officers that Governor Phillip had decided to fix
our settlement on the shores of the small bay he now named Sydney Cove,
in honour of Lord Sydney, Home Secretary. Late on the same afternoon we
returned to Botany Bay.




CHAPTER X. THE FELON PIONEERS


Goodwin and I were on deck with the seamen before dawn the following
morning. It was believed that the fleet would sail for Port Jackson in
the course of the day, but at sunrise the wind made up, blowing hard off
the land, so we were obliged to wait for more favourable weather. The
time was employed in bringing back to the ships the supplies that had
been carried ashore. In the _Charlotte_, we were washing down the decks
as well as we could, in view of their cluttered condition, when there
came a hail from a man working aloft: "A sail! Sail ho!"

Every man made a rush for the ratlines and we stared out to sea scarcely
believing what our eyes beheld: the topgallants and royals of a large
ship appearing on the eastern horizon. Captain Gilbert was summoned from
his cabin and came on deck half-shaved, to examine the ship through his
spyglass. Within half an hour a second vessel was spied, and by this
time the rigging of every ship in the harbour was filled with men gazing
toward the distant vessels which were standing in, close-hauled, for the
entrance to Botany Bay. Everyone was overcome with astonishment at this
unexpected sight. We had been at anchor less than a week, in a harbour
only once before visited by white men, on the coast of an unexplored
continent thousands of leagues from the nearest European port, and here
were ships making in for the land when we had supposed there were none
save ours closer than China or the Cape of Good Hope.

Despite the heavy weather, the _Supply_ weighed anchor and sped out
under foresail and maintopsail to reconnoitre. Meanwhile, the strange
vessels, finding it difficult to close with the land because of the
offshore wind, tacked and bore off and were soon lost to view; but the
_Supply_ contrived to work her way back some hours later, bringing word
that the strange ships were either French, Spanish, or Portuguese. We
saw no sign of them the next day, but Governor Phillip, fearing that
they might discover and lay claim to the beautiful harbour he had just
visited, set sail in the _Supply_ as soon as the tide served, and
anchored in Sydney Cove, leaving word with Captain Hunter that he was to
follow in the _Sirius_, with the rest of the fleet, at the earliest
possible moment.

At eight o'clock on the morning of January 26, the strange ships came in
sight once more round Cape Solander. They entered the bay and dropped
anchor not far from where we lay, displaying the royal ensign of France.
They proved to be the _Boussole_ and the _Astrolabe_, commanded by the
Count de la Prouse, sent out on a scientific and exploring expedition.
After paying a visit of courtesy to the French Commander, Captain Hunter
lost no time in following Governor Phillip to Port Jackson. Our six
transports and the three store-ships made a brave show as they stood out
to sea in the wake of the _Sirius_. Between six and seven o'clock on the
same evening, January 26,--the date is now celebrated as Anniversary
Day,--the entire fleet lay moored in Sydney Cove. Convicts and freemen
alike lined the bulwarks of the various ships, gazing stolidly, or
glumly, or with awe and wonder and delight, according to their natures,
at the densely wooded shores, the islets and rocky promontories, the
mirrorlike bays and inlets of this harbour. Our small vessels were
dwarfed to insignificance within it, but the cove where we lay was snug
enough, about a quarter of a mile wide at the entrance and half a mile
in depth.

The marines and some of the seamen from the _Supply_ were already
ashore, and a flagstaff had been erected on the east side of the cove,
near the spot where we had roasted the kangaroo. At about seven in the
evening we saw Governor Phillip and his officers gathering by it.
Presently the Union Jack was run up. A volley was fired by the marines,
whereupon those on shore gave three cheers, answered by cheers from the
ships. Another outpost of Empire had been claimed for England. The sound
of the volley echoed away and away along the rocky shores; then, as the
sun set and the last light faded from the sky, the silence of the land
seemed to be flowing in again like a measureless tide from the vast
unknown interior, to meet and mingle with the silence of the sea.

Although the next day was Sunday, the healthier of the male convicts
were ordered ashore, under guard, to begin the task of clearing the land
along the borders of the cove. Oakley, Goodwin, and I were among those
chosen, and I shall never forget our satisfaction as we made bundles of
our meagre belongings and quitted the crowded, evil-smelling
_Charlotte_, never to return on board. The confusion that prevailed
during the first weeks of the settlement was indescribable. The supplies
had been carried in various ships, and many of those needed first were
not to be got at until others had been removed. Orders and counter
orders were given and men were sent here and there on useless errands.

More than half of the convicts had become so enfeebled as a result of
the long voyage as to be useless for labour, and many of the marines
were in the same condition. Before us lay a hundred tasks requiring the
skill, energy, patience, and endurance of hardy woodsmen and pioneers,
and where were the men for them? Governor Phillip's heart must have
quailed as he looked about him on the shores of Sydney Cove, thinking of
the wretched human material he had to work with. Had the King's
ministers in London resolved, with malice aforethought, to put every
stumbling block possible in his way, they could scarcely have done more
than they did to hamper and impede him from the outset. No experienced
farmer had been sent with the expedition to supervise the work of
preparing the land for gardens. Scores of carpenters were needed, and
amongst the convicts only twelve could be found with some small
knowledge of the trade, and the half of this number were too sick to be
of use. Masons, sawyers, brickmakers--artisans of every kind were
wanted, and wanted in vain. Governor Phillip had to make shift with men
who had never held a tool in their hands, save those used by
housebreakers to pick a lock or jimmy open a window. As for tools--the
saws, axes, hammers, picks, shovels, crowbars, and the like, furnished
by the contractors, were all of the poorest quality, and even so there
were not enough for the work in hand. Our axes would not hold an edge
for ten minutes, and the hafts were of miserable cross-grained wood
which often broke after half a dozen strokes. In the confusion of that
time the men would deliberately throw away their tools, or lose them by
design, and everything was in such a state of chaos the wonder is that
anything got done. I can truthfully say that the amount of work gotten
through with in the first three months of the New South Wales settlement
could have been accomplished in as many weeks by one fourth the number
of free men.

And yet, little by little, but at a rate painfully slow, some progress
was made. Saw pits were dug, trees felled, tents erected, and a few
plots of land cleared for gardens. In my own case, had I not been a
convict, I might well have called myself happy. The great empty land
with its golden sunshine and its winelike air was all and more than I
had hoped it would be. It was a harsh land and a barren land, compared
with the American wilderness, with far less game than is to be found in
America; for all that, it had a beauty and a character of its own that
appealed to every drop of my blood.

Tom and Goodwin knew nothing of the woodsman's craft, but they wielded
their axes heartily, and with as good effect as such poor tools
permitted. In those first confused days after the landing there was no
orderly supervision of the convicts. Groups of men were assigned to
particular tracts of forest and ordered to set about clearing them; the
amount of work done depended upon the strength and good will of those
engaged upon it. Goodwin, Oakley, Sabb, Inching, and I had managed to
get ourselves assigned to the same job, the clearing of a tract at the
head of Farm Cove. Governor Phillip ordered several such tracts cleared
at some distance from the settlement that he might discover where the
soil was best suited for gardens. We considered ourselves lucky to be
working together, at a good distance from the main body of convicts. We
built a shelter of boughs, thatched with reeds, and it served our
purpose very well.

In view of my knowledge of such work, I was chosen overseer for the five
of us, and I favoured Sabb and Inching in a manner that might have lost
me the job had it been known to the authorities. But there was good
reason for this: two men with less knowledge of manual labour, or more
averse to acquiring it, could not have been found. It was truly comical
to see this pair with axes in their hands. They were never at a loss in
the thickets and forests of human society, such as London, but Nature's
forests were another matter; so Oakley, Goodwin, and I let them loaf to
their hearts' content; we were well repaid by their company. The only
work they did was to walk to the settlement to draw our rations. Nick
had his well-thumbed cards and his cribbage board and the two of them
played in deep content, keeping a wary eye out, however, for possible
inspection visits. I see them at this moment as clearly as I did on an
afternoon when, having prepared for themselves a snug nest of grass and
fern, at the foot of a huge tree, they settled themselves into it with
sighs and grunts of content. They reminded me of Sir John Falstaff and
Slender taking their ease, and not in the least ashamed of their
idleness.

"Hugh, by God, it's all come out as promised," said Nick. "D'ye mind how
yourself and Tom said ye'd work out the footin' I staked ye to in
Newgate?"

"That I do," I replied.

"Wouldn't ye know he'd hold us to that?" said Oakley with a grin. "But
mind this, ye four hundredweight o' guts! We said naught of working out
Ned Inching's! Call that debt canceled, else we'll report the pair of ye
and a good hiding ye'll get."

"Canceled? Never in the world!" said Nick. "I pay ye at the rate of
convict wages, which is three farthings a day. Ye can keep the score and
tell me when ye've worked it off. By then Ned and me will be through our
time and for London again."

Inching was about to speak in his turn when we heard voices in the
distance. We had laid plans in advance for such emergencies. Sabb and
Inching immediately seized their axes and took places at a tree the rest
of us had nearly cut through while we attacked another. And none too
soon; a moment later Governor Phillip himself appeared, accompanied by
Mr. Collins, the Judge Advocate, and two marine officers. Sabb and
Inching rested from their labours, puffing and blowing, as though they
had been hewing steadily since daylight.

The Governor halted and looked about him, surprised and gratified at the
extent of our labours.

"How many of you are at work here?" he asked.

"Five, sir," I replied.

Again he looked about him with more than evident satisfaction.

"You five have felled all these trees alone, without other help?"

Sabb and Inching stood with downcast glances, patterns of modest worth.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

The Governor remembered Goodwin and me, and he asked all of our names,
making note of them in his pocketbook. After a few additional questions
he turned to the Judge Advocate, then acting as his adjutant.

"Mr. Collins," he said, "these men are to carry on here without
supervision." He again turned to us. "You have done very well. As long
as you merit the trust I am placing in you, you shall have it," and with
that he walked on.

This was a fortunate meeting for us. We were left at full liberty during
those first days on shore, and the time was to come when Governor
Phillip would remember us to our great advantage.

                 *        *        *        *        *

On February 3, 1788, the second Sunday after the arrival of the fleet at
Fort Jackson, divine service was held by the Reverend Richard Johnston.
The meeting place was under a great tree near the shore of the cove, and
all the people, officers, marines, and convicts were gathered for the
occasion. Only the male convicts were ashore at this time, the females
having been kept on board until arrangements for their shelter could be
completed. I well remember the hot and muggy morning and the strange
assortment of human beings gathered to hear the first divine service
ever held on the Australian Continent. The convicts resembled an
assemblage of beggars from a London workhouse, for the shoddy clothing
supposed to last them for a year was already in rags, and some of the
men were barefoot. The Chaplain's text was taken from the 116th Psalm,
the twelfth verse: "What shall I render unto the Lord for all his
benefits toward me?" I will do the convicts the credit to say that, on
this occasion at least, they were quiet and orderly, the reason being,
perhaps, that all were trying to recall what benefits they enjoyed to be
grateful for. At the end of the service the Chaplain informed us that,
by the Governor's orders, those convicts whose conduct merited approval
and who found mates amongst the women would be permitted to marry, and
he exhorted them to show, by sober, industrious behaviour, that they
were deserving of this indulgence.

That same afternoon, Goodwin, Oakley, and I, having worked like draught
horses for more than a week, felt justified in taking French leave from
the settlement, so we set off together, carrying our supper rations with
us. Having gone inland for a couple of miles, we came out on the shore
of another cove, later called Blackwattle Bay. This place, although
close to that chosen for the settlement, was a complete solitude, its
stillness broken only by the calls of gayly coloured birds and the whir
of their wings as they passed close overhead. The forest was not so
dense here as at Sydney Cove; clumps of gum and cedar trees were
scattered over the ground rising in a gentle slope from the water's
edge. At the head of the inlet was a beach of smooth yellow sand
checkered with the shadows of overhanging trees, and a little stream
trickling down its rocky bed made the silence seem the deeper at that
spot. We seated ourselves, enjoying to the full the peace and beauty of
the afternoon, and the pleasure of being free, for a few hours at least,
in the great lonely land. Oakley lay on his back, his hands beneath his
head, gazing into the pools of blue sky between the piled-up masses of
cloud that seemed to hang motionless there.

"This is something like," he said, presently. "'Twill be none so bad,
this New South Wales, if we can steal away now and again to be with
ourselves."

"It's easy done," said Goodwin.

"Aye, for the present," said Oakley, "with everything upside down, but
once they get some order into the place, I doubt if we'll go and come as
we please."

"If they'll set me to the work I can do best," said Goodwin, "I'll not
be bad off for liberty. Fishing was my trade at home when it wasn't
smuggling. I'm thinking there'll be few here knows that business as well
as myself."

"There'll be none," said Oakley. "Ye can lay to that."

We were silent for a time, then Goodwin said: "Lads, here's a plan
that's popped into my head. My belief is that them who show a willing
hand will have more liberty than Tom thinks. In the miserable
good-for-nothing lot we've been sent out with, a man with any skill at a
trade will be wanted bad, and he'll be put at the work he knows best."

"Aye," said Oakley. "That'll be fishing for you, and hunting for
Tallant, since he's already bagged a kangaroo for the Governor himself.
But where's the work for me? I'll be kept hacking down the bloody gum
trees."

"No," said Dan, "not if ye work it right. What'll be wanted here most is
food, and fresh meat even above fish. We've already been told they're to
choose hunters for the settlement. What's to prevent Hugh from asking to
be made one, and you with him?"

"By the Lord, we'll do it!" said Tom, eagerly. "Ask for the chance,
Hugh! I warrant we'll get it. I'm a good hand with a fowling piece, if I
do say it."

I had a plan of my own in mind at this time, but said nothing about it.
Instead, I agreed heartily.

"We'll not miss the chance for the want of asking," I said, "and the
sooner the better. What more, Dan?"

"This," said Goodwin. "Governor Phillip is a man of his word. He'll
favour them that work for the good of the place. If we're given jobs to
hunt and fish, we'll bide our time and ask to be sent down here to live
by ourselves. What d'ye say?"

Oakley and I were heartily in favour of this. The cove offered a perfect
anchorage for a boat, and the trickle of water that came in at the head
would furnish a dozen families. The soil was a sandy loam and there was
good pasturage for livestock at hand. We explored the land all round and
selected sites for dwellings as hopefully as though permission to settle
here had already been granted. We would build a house for Oakley and
Phoebe and another for the Goodwins, and I was to decide whether I would
live with one household or the other, or have a hut to myself.

It was at this time that Oakley confessed to Goodwin and me what, of
course, we already knew, though we had waited for him to speak of the
matter. During that part of the voyage when he was in the _Friendship_
with the Thynnes, he had gotten Phoebe with child.

"But mind ye, lads," he said, "'twas no trifling matter on either side.
And I'll make her a husband as true and steady as though we'd been
married aforehand, with bell and book."

"Ye will and all, that's certain," said Goodwin. "Well, Tom, ye'd have
had to go far to find a prettier lass. I shouldn't wonder but she'd make
the best of wives and mothers. When does she expect? I'd guess ye'd not
long to wait."

"I was well beforehand with my courting," Oakley said, mantling a
little. "It's a matter of another three months. Hugh, if it's a boy, I'd
wish him to have your name. Would ye object?"

"Object? Never in the world!" I replied heartily.

"Then it's done in advance, for I've made Phoebe promise a boy....
There's one more I'd wish to see for our little town here, if we're
allowed to build it... Nellie Garth."

"Aye," said Goodwin; "she's a thriving woman, is Mrs. Garth. She'd make
a champion manager for a little farm."

"Champion?" said Tom. "She's beyond that, even. There never was such a
hand to make things grow. No better turnips, pumpkins, cabbages, and the
like came into Covent Garden Market than Nellie Garth's. We must have
her amongst us if the thing is possible."

The sun was setting by the time we finished our rounds of the cove. We
halted again by the little stream to eat our salt pork and wormy
biscuit, talking of the good meals we would have here in future if our
plan carried through. Then, in the golden light of early evening, we
started back to Sydney Cove.

When halfway back we halted to wait for nightfall, for we wished to
return unseen to our quarters on Farm Cove. As we were sitting there, we
caught sight of a man walking in the direction from which we had come.

"Damn my eyes! It's Mortimer Thynne!" Oakley exclaimed.

Thynne turned quickly at our hail, and, with wave of the hand, strolled
toward us. He smiled as he came to a halt.

          "Can'st tell me, gentle foresters,
           If shepherd's cot, or some rude shelter, else,
           Lies hidden in the depth of this drear wood?"

Thynne could be counted upon to have some quotation from the poets pat
to whatever occasion. He admitted that he was lost and had supposed
himself walking toward Sydney Cove instead of away from it. We had seen
nothing of him for more than a week, for he had been kept aboard the
_Charlotte_ to help one of the assistant commissaries in making out
lists of supplies to be sent ashore. He told us that he had come on land
only that morning.

"And all the ladies as well," he added. "The last of them were set
ashore at midday."

"What!" said Tom, getting hastily to his feet. "Then we must make haste
to see that our own are safe. I'm astonished, Thynne, that ye could
leave your wife and Phoebe at such a time as this."

"Set your mind at rest, Tom," said Thynne. "Mrs. Thynne and my daughter
are under the protection of Captain and Mrs. O'Day, in their tent. Miss
Munro, I am happy to say, arranged for this. Your wife and the lad with
them as well, Goodwin, and Mrs. Garth. There is quite a tentful, in
fact, for the O'Days have taken in others amongst the younger women who
desired to come. As for the rest... dear me! It seems that protection
is the last of their wishes."

"Thynne, there'll be the devil an' all afoot now," said Tom, soberly.
"The men will be wild to get at 'em. Are they to have leave?"

"It seems so; at any rate, they've taken it," said Thynne.

Let me speak of this night--it was the sixth of February--in the light
of my later knowledge of what had been decided upon by Governor Phillip
and his staff. It must be remembered that most of the convicts, men and
women, were the scum of England's worst. It must also be remembered
that, during a voyage of more than eight months' duration, the men and
women had been kept rigorously apart except for a few occasions when
they were permitted to be on deck at the same time. There was no
intention, of course, to keep them forever separate, and the Governor
let it be known that some liberty of intercourse was now to be granted;
in the chaotic situation that prevailed during the early weeks of the
landing, no other course was possible. His hope was that, under
Government encouragement, the steadier convicts would marry. The others
would be no more of a problem here than elsewhere in the world. As for
the first meeting, ashore, orders had been given the marines to stand
aside and let convict nature and human nature have its way; but those
women who desired protection were to have it.

As the four of us walked on toward the settlement, Thynne told us of
this, for he had heard the news current aboard the transports. He also
told us that the women had been able to smuggle ashore a large quantity
of gin and rum given them by the seamen.

I'd best draw the veil as quickly as possible over the scenes that met
our eyes as we came through the forests to the shores of Sydney Cove.
The light of many fires cast wavering reflections across the still
waters of the bay and outlined in clear silhouette the trunks of the
tall forest trees. Two hundred women and three times as many men were
rushing here and there with howls and yells that sounded like nothing
human. In the scarcity of women, men battled for them, the women, some
stark naked, egging them on with taunts and promises for the victors.
They were worse, even, than the men; they resembled furies escaped from
some lowest circle of Dante's hell.

I have no wish to dwell upon this scene which exceeded in bestiality
anything I could have conceived of as possible. It would have continued
the night long, no doubt, had not Nature herself taken a hand to bring
it to an end. Some time after midnight there came on a violent storm of
wind and rain accompanied by vivid flashes of lightning that seemed like
the thunderbolts of the wrathful God of Israel, directed at these
degraded beings who had come to establish a new Sodom in the wilderness.
The condition of the settlement, with more than a thousand people on
shore, can well be imagined. The rain fell in solid sheets, and those
under canvas were but little better off than those for whom no shelter
had yet been provided, for most of the tents were laid flat before the
storm came to an end. The revelers, their fury well dampened if not
extinguished, huddled in sodden misery beneath the trees. Oakley,
Goodwin, and I were set at work helping to raise the fallen tents, and
many of them were blown down a second time before the fury of the wind
was spent. The peals of thunder seemed to split the very heavens. I
remember seeing, in one particularly blinding flash of lightning, an old
woman leaning on a stick, her scraggly hair streaming with rain and her
dress plastered against her skinny body. She might have flown to Sydney
Cove in the wink of an eye, from some blasted heath in England, for if
ever I have seen a veritable witch, it was she. She raised one bony claw
in malediction, shaking it at a group of half-drowned women huddled in
the open, at her very feet, and too frightened to move.

"Ye sluts!" she screamed. "Burn, would ye? Ye'll burn in hell afore the
night's done!"




CHAPTER XI. SENTENCED TO PINCHGUT


The following morning there was not a cloud in the sky; the drenched
earth steamed in the sun, and a fresh breeze quickly dried the ground.
There was no more liberty now, to say nothing of license--every convict
save those too sick to stir was set at work in the attempt to bring some
order into the settlement in preparation for the events of the afternoon
when Governor Phillip's commission was to be read. At midday we were
ordered to make ourselves as decent as possible, and an hour later we
were assembled in two companies, the men in one, the women in the other,
whereupon we were marched to the cleared land later to serve as a parade
ground for the soldiery. By the Governor's orders, the events of this
Proclamation Day, when Government and Law were to be formally
established in the colony, were conducted with impressive solemnity. All
officers and seamen of the eleven ships in the harbour who could be
relieved from duty were ordered on shore, and stood in a company at one
side of the parade. The marines, under arms, in their dress uniforms,
were drawn up on the opposite side, and the company waited in deep
silence for the Governor to appear. He came, presently, accompanied by
the Lieutenant Governor, the Judge Advocate, the Chaplain, and other
officers of the Civil Establishment. They walked slowly down the parade
to the spot where a camp table had been placed, with the commissions, in
two morocco cases, resting upon it. Here Governor Phillip exchanged
formal courtesies with the marine officers, and, this ceremony
concluded, the soldiers, with fifes and drums playing, fell into
columns, marched around the parade, and were formed in a circle around
the body of convicts. We were then ordered to sit down, and, as the
commissions were drawn forth and opened, the soldiers discharged their
muskets three times over our heads. This was to signify our position, as
felons, in the colony. Captain Collins then opened and read His
Majesty's Commission appointing "our trusty and well beloved Arthur
Phillip, Esquire" to be Captain-General and Governor-in-Chief in and
over the territory of New South Wales and its dependencies. It was a
lengthy document, defining the Governor's powers and duties, and while
it was being read, the Governor stood with his hat beneath his arm,
listening with as keen attention as though he had not already known its
contents. He then made a short address to the military, thanking them
for their good conduct, reminding them of the great trust imposed in
them, and of the sacred duties and responsibilities which this honour
entailed. He next turned in our direction, gazing in stern silence over
the assemblage of convicts whilst three more volleys were fired over our
heads. After another interval of silence, prolonged to make the
solemnity of the occasion the more impressive, he addressed us, and for
all the years that have passed, I believe that I can quote his remarks
very nearly in the words in which they were given.

"There are, in this place," he began, "more than seven hundred of you,
men and women, convicted of crimes against society and condemned to
exile by the just laws of our country. Throughout our voyage from
England, and during the past twenty days since our arrival in New South
Wales, I have watched you, and tried you, that I might know what manner
of folk you are. I had hoped that you might have a desire, at least, for
improvement; that you might wish to mend your evil ways and habits and
be ready to accept the opportunity I would be only too willing to grant,
to become decent and useful members of the community to be established
here.

"A few--a very few--have justified that hope. By far the greater number
have shown me, only too clearly, how mistaken it was. You have taken
advantage of every indulgence granted you. You have believed that the
kindness shown you by my officers, upon my authority, might be abused
with impunity. You have fought like the brute beasts amongst yourselves.
You have robbed one another and stolen from the Government stores. You
have hidden or destroyed the tools given you to work with at a time when
all our hope of some rude comfort and security from the elements depends
upon those tools. When, yesterday, I permitted the women to come on
shore to take their part in the life and work of this colony, giving you
all freedom to rest and refresh yourselves after so long a voyage, how
have you employed this freedom? By a night of riot and debauchery that
would make the black savages of this land hang their heads in shame at
thought of being compared with you."

Governor Phillip paused to let his glance travel slowly over the
assemblage of convicts listening to him dully, impudently, sullenly, or
with some degree of concern, according to their natures. Then he
continued:--

"Be assured, I know you now. Be assured, also, that I shall know how to
deal with such depraved, licentious, vicious animals as you have proven
yourselves to be. Since you will not be ruled by kind and generous
treatment, you _shall_ be ruled by grim justice, and I warn you that it
will be grim indeed toward those whose conduct warrants such treatment.

"We have come to a new land which offers us little or nothing in the way
of food until such time as we can produce it for ourselves. We are
dependent for our very lives upon the supplies we have brought here with
us. Yesterday, several of our fowls were stolen. In England, such an
offense, serious though it is, would not be punished with death, for
fowls are plentiful there and easily supplied. Here, I warn you, the
theft of a fowl, or a pound of rice or flour, is a matter of the gravest
consequence. The person found guilty of robbing our stores shall be
hung.

"We have a great labour before us in making this wilderness habitable.
You shall not be worked beyond your capacities, but I insist, I demand,
that each of you contribute his full share to the welfare of this
colony. Those who do shall receive just and liberal treatment. Those who
do not, shall not eat."

At the conclusion of these remarks Governor Phillip reviewed the
companies of marines, while the band played different airs, concluding
with "God Save the King." The convicts were then dismissed to their
quarters.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ever since the morning when the French ships had dropped anchor in
Botany Bay, one thought had dominated every other in my mind--escape.
The French had built a small temporary fort on shore, armed with a
couple of light cannon, to protect their carpenters, who were at work on
a pair of longboats fetched out in frame. It was known that the
_Boussole_ and _Astrolabe_ would sail as soon as the boatbuilding was
done. This task occupied the whole month of February, and early in March
I learned that Count de la Prouse planned to sail within a week. My
time, eagerly waited during many an anxious hour of thought, had come at
last.

Until now, I had taken no one into my confidence. Much as I liked and
trusted the Goodwins and Nellie Garth, it seemed best that they should
know nothing of my plans, but Tom Oakley was different. I could not go
without taking leave of him and suggesting that he accompany me. It had
been agreed between us that we would seize the earliest opportunity to
escape, but now that he was planning to marry Phoebe and awaiting with
such happy anticipations the birth of their first child, I doubted that
Tom would want to join me. I had decided to make my escape on a Sunday,
when I would not be missed until evening roll call, and on the afternoon
before, when work was over for the day, I broached the subject to
Oakley. We were alone in the lean-to shelter we had erected on the edge
of the clearing where we had worked ever since coming ashore. Our week's
rations had been drawn, and Tom was baking a hard flat cake of something
resembling bread, on the blade of a shovel which also served as a frying
pan. He was silent for some time after I had told him of my plan.

"D'ye think the Froggies'll have ye?" he asked.

"They might. I heard Captain Hunter say that the _Astrolabe_ had lost
ten killed and twenty wounded in the Navigator's Isles."

"Aye--they'll be shorthanded. Ye're hopin' to make friends with some of
the seamen and talk 'em into stowin' ye away on board?"

"Yes. And to keep out of sight of the officers until we're at sea."

"Can ye talk the lingo?"

"Not a word."

"No matter, ye'll make 'em understand." Tom paused. "In my belief, ye've
a good fightin' chance. Damn my eyes! If it wasn't for Phoebe... but
no, I'm stoppin' here. Ye've no idea how I love the lass; I'm daft about
her, and that's the plain truth."

"I understand."

He tossed his cake into the air, allowing it to fall back on the unbaked
side, and smiled awry at me. "I'll miss ye sore, Hugh!... Look!
Here's Mortimer."

Thynne was coming along the path from the far side of the cove. He was
our chief source of news concerning what went on in official quarters.
Governor Phillip was so poorly supplied with clerks that he had been
obliged to seek among the felons for men capable of preparing records
and reports. Thynne's intelligence, his pleasing presence and more than
respectable attainments, had all worked to his advantage. Having been
brought to the Governor's attention on the voyage out, he was appointed
to the clerical staff shortly after our landing in Port Jackson, and now
had a desk in Phillip's portable canvas dwelling, already known as
Government House. Thynne strolled up to us, swinging his rough cedar
staff as jauntily as if it had been a gold-headed walking stick.

"I've good news for you, lads," he announced. "Your petition's to be
granted."

Tom sprang to his feet. "Ye mean it? Ye're sure?"

Thynne nodded. "I heard His Excellency talking with Surgeon White.
There's desperate need of fresh food, with all this scurvy. You two are
to be appointed hunters, and Dan will have a boat for fishing as soon as
one can be spared."

"God bless ye, Thynne!" exclaimed Tom, heartily. "Will we have leave to
stop in the other cove, like ye wrote down?"

"That you will. And Nellie Garth, too. Nothing's too small for the
Governor to recollect. 'Twas the sow she bought in Capetown got her in
his good books. She's to try her hand at a little farm of her own."

"Ye've done Nellie a kindness she'll never forget," said Oakley. "She'll
call it heaven to be quit of the sluts she's had to make shift with!"

Thynne smiled and dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. He
turned to me. "I'm forgetting the principal part of my errand here.
Tallant, Miss Munro would be pleased if you would step around to see her
for a moment at Mrs. O'Day's tent."

When I had made myself as tidy as conditions permitted, I set out with
Thynne for the marine camp. The sun was near to setting, the golden
light revealing the havoc wrought by men's hands in this once beautiful
and lonely place. Trees hacked down in any fashion by unskilled axemen
lay in every direction, and groups of tents were crowded together at
haphazard in the clearings. The soft earth at the mouth of the Tank
Stream had been churned into quagmire by the passing of many feet. Along
the shore of the cove were great piles of stores, covered with old
sailcloth, and the acrid smoke of brushwood fires filled the air. We
crossed the stream higher up, where the huge old gum and cedar trees had
been left undisturbed. I halted and turned to Thynne.

"Is Miss Munro alone at the O'Days' tent?" I asked.

"No. Mrs. O'Day is there, and the Captain himself, unless he has gone
since I came away."

"Thynne, I'm not going on. Make some excuse for me, will you?"

"Nonsense, my dear fellow. It was Captain O'Day himself who sent for
you, at Miss Munro's request. You're no more free than I to disobey an
order."

I did so, nevertheless, persuading Thynne to ask Sally if she would be
good enough to come to the spot where I waited. A convict's natural
embarrassment would, I thought, be considered a reasonable excuse.

During Thynne's absence, I composed myself as well as I might. Little as
I had seen of Sally Munro since our coming to Sydney Cove, I had thought
of her with a tenderness that I knew must be conquered. I had no
slightest reason for supposing that she took more than a friendly,
half-pitying interest in me. What pain and humiliation she would feel if
I should betray my feeling toward her! My heart was bitter at the
thought that, had I met her in America, or in England before my arrest,
I would have had every right to speak. But now... I imagined myself
saying: "Miss Munro, you have lost your father; you are far from home
and friends. But here is Hugh Tallant, who offers you his steadfast
heart, and the inestimable privilege of sharing the cabbage-palm hut of
a convict for life."

I acted as my own physician, and felt well out of danger by the time I
spied Sally coming along the path, escorted by Thynne. I was more than
glad of his presence; in his easy, offhand manner he broke the ice, for
me at least, for Sally appeared to need no such service. She greeted me
in the friendly manner of our first meeting on board the _Charlotte_,
yet I could see that she was moved at the thought of her father, the
only bond between us.

"You needn't wait, Mr. Thynne," she said; "I'll ask Mr. Tallant to walk
back with me, part way, at least."

Once we were alone, my embarrassment melted away. It was Sally's doing.
Her simple, friendly manner, and forgetting or wishing away the barriers
I had been so conscious of, made me forget them as well. She told me why
she wished to see me. Shortly before her father died he had asked that I
be given some of his books, among them a little volume containing Dr.
Goldsmith's "Traveller" and "The Deserted Village," which he knew I
loved. She had made for them a little canvas case so that I might keep
them safe.

Little by little all sense of constraint vanished and we stood talking
as naturally as though we had been friends for years. Sally spoke of the
O'Days, of the warmth of their Irish hearts and of what their protection
and friendship had meant to her since her father's death.

"You showed great courage," I remarked, "in coming out here to the ends
of the earth."

"Courage? Not at all." She smiled faintly. "It was ignorance of what lay
ahead. But I would have come in any case. My father was my comrade from
babyhood."

"You've an aunt in Canada?" I said.

"Yes, my mother was French. My aunt in Quebec is her sister."

"You must be eager to get back to her.... Do you find this a dreadful
place?"

She shook her head. "The country's lovely--I long to see more of it. But
it is dreadful that..."

"It had to be a convict settlement?"

"Yes, you understand?"

"Of course. I feel as you do. I could love the land, too, as a free
man."

"How long... must you stop a long time?"

"Only as long as I live."

She laid a hand on my arm. "Forgive me. I didn't know. Well, I'm as much
of a... of a prisoner as yourself. I'm not permitted to go anywhere
alone."

"I'm surprised that you were allowed to come here."

"Why not? Captain O'Day knows you."

"May I ask what your plans are, Miss Munro?"

"I'll go back to Canada, as my father wished. But I don't want to make
such a long voyage alone. The O'Days are ordered to Norfolk Island, when
the _Supply_ returns. They want me to go there and stop with them until
their return to England."

I was deeply moved at the thought that this was to be my last meeting
with Sally. On the morrow, I would make my attempt at escape; I could
not bear to part from her without something more than a casual
leave-taking. I glanced up and down the path, to make sure that we were
unobserved.

"Miss Munro," said I.

"Yes."

"I'm afraid we shan't meet again. I can't leave you without saying how
much it has meant to me to know your father and yourself. And I want you
to know something else--to-morrow I shall try to escape."

"Gracious heaven! How? In one of the French ships?"

She listened with keen interest as I explained my plan to her, and
exclaimed: "They might take you! Can you speak French?"

"No."

She paused to reflect for a moment. "Come with me. I'm going to write a
letter you can present to one of the seamen when the time comes. Oh, I
hope you'll succeed!"

We walked back along the path and Sally asked me to wait for her not far
from O'Day's marquee. Presently she returned and handed me a folded
paper.

"That's to give the French," she explained. "It says that you are an
American, unjustly imprisoned and eager to get home. They don't like the
English, and may help you only for that. And here is my aunt's address
in Quebec. Who knows but we might meet there someday? Now I must hasten
back before the Captain returns." She took both of my hands in hers and
pressed them. "God bless you, and take you safe to America."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Next morning, when the drums beat for the roll call, I was present to
answer to my name, and knew that the whole day would pass before I would
be missed. Tom and I strolled back to our hut, saying nothing until we
were out of earshot of the bands of convicts on the path. Then Oakley
pressed into my hand a pair of silver shoe buckles, and a heavy gold
ring.

"What's this, Tom?" I asked.

"Ye'll need 'em, lad. They'll grease the way when ye talk to the Frogs."
He grinned. "They was honest come by, too."

He forced me to accept the gift, and presently when I had made a bundle
of clothing and food and taken up a heavy cudgel which would be my only
weapon in case of attack by the blackfellows, I clasped Tom's hand.

"Time I was off."

"I'm fair sick to go! But I can't do it, lad. Ye'll write if ye get off
safe?"

"That's looking a long way ahead."

"So it is. Ye're takin' on a chancey job, but never say die! Off with
ye, Hugh, afore Nick gets back. Good luck! I've no mind to stop here for
life. Mebbe we'll meet up one day."

He squeezed my hand hard and I turned away southward, into the bush.
Once across the clearing, I was safe from observation, and found my way
to a native path I knew, which led through the woods, avoiding the open
heath land along the coast. I walked warily, stopping to listen from
time to time, for I had no wish to fall in with a party of blackfellows.
Grieved as I was to part with Sally and my small group of friends, my
heart lightened as the day advanced. I was free, for the time being,
perhaps for good, and had everything to gain and little to lose, I
thought, in attempting to board one of the French ships. If the seamen
would have none of me, and I found escape impossible, I would make my
way back to Sydney with some story which would explain my absence from
roll call. But I put this thought out of mind.

It was midmorning when I reached a tongue of woods jutting out toward
the marshes near the creek where we had filled the _Charlotte's_ water
barrels. It seemed likely that the French might be watering for their
departure, and the woods gave me a vantage ground from which I could
reconnoitre the bay without being seen. Though the season was early
autumn, the sun was bright and the northerly breeze agreeably warm. I
stole through the woods without a sound, passing the glade where Jurd
had killed the black boy, and coming to a halt in the fringe of
underbrush close to the run of fresh water. I parted the rank growth and
peered out.

There were two boats in the creek about half a mile distant--one
returning to the ships, and the other approaching, laden with empty
casks. The _Boussole_ and _Astrolabe_ lay at anchor inside the northern
head, looking enormous to eyes accustomed to our smaller ships; I could
see the breastworks where the guns were mounted, and the large canvas
fly beneath which the longboats had been put together. The watering
party drew near with much good-natured shouting; I was convinced that
there was no officer in the boat, and that the men, in charge of a
bosun's mate or quartermaster, were in the best of humours at the
prospect of a run on shore. The boat grounded at the head of the creek.

The men seemed to know the place well, and were in no hurry to set about
their work. Two, whom I took for marines, put down their muskets and
filled their pipes; the others, numbering half a dozen, rolled the
barrels to the watering place and sat down on the bank to drink wine,
with which they seemed well supplied. One short, strong-made fellow,
with a cutlass at his side, wandered off in my direction, examining the
plants growing on the edge of the marsh. He came ever closer, and when I
was sure that he was within earshot, I called in a low voice, as Sally
had instructed me:--

"_Ami!_"

He gave a start and laid his hand on his weapon, but I rose to my feet,
parted the bushes, and smiled as ingratiatingly as I knew how. "_Ami!_"
I repeated, holding out the letter Sally had written. The French seaman
asked me some unintelligible question; I shrugged and shook my head.

"_Tu ne parles pas franais?_"

I made it clear that I could not, and when a quick glance had assured
him that I was alone and unarmed, he took the paper from my hand. I do
not know all that Sally had set down, but as he read the note the
fellow's manner changed.

"_Toi amricain, hein? Anglais pas bon!_" He paused to reflect for a
moment, and pointed to the ground at my feet. "_Attends ici._"

I offered him the little gift I had prepared: the things Tom had given
me and one of my own pair of razors, but he shook his head, smiling in a
friendly manner. "_Attends_!" he repeated. With that, he left me to
stroll back to his mates.

I watched them while my paper passed from hand to hand and they seemed
to consult among themselves, with many gestures, as to what should be
done. Four began to fill the barrels at last, while my new friend,
accompanied by an elderly fellow with a grey moustache, wandered
casually toward my hiding place.

The newcomer spoke enough broken English to make himself understood and
questioned me at some length, making sure that I was an American and
that I had been to sea. The two then spoke together rapidly before the
elder man turned to me once more. He said that they would risk hiding me
on board the _Astrolabe_, and that as soon as night fell, I was to make
my way along the shore to a sandy point near the anchorage, there to
await a boat. They took leave of me with smiles and friendly claps on
the shoulder.

I was overjoyed at this good fortune. No one resents a shorthanded ship
more than the seamen themselves, a fact which accounted for their
willingness to stow me away; but they were good-natured fellows for all
that, and my heart warmed to them. I opened my bundle and ate with good
appetite the salt beef and Tom's unleavened bread; then I settled myself
to wait through the long hours until nightfall.

The Frenchmen were as good as their word. It was past midnight when a
small boat stole in to the beach and ferried me out to the bows of the
_Astrolabe_, where I climbed a rope to the rail. I was then led down a
ladderway, past gun deck and orlop and into the hold. We groped our way
in the darkness amongst bales and casks. The old English-speaking seaman
showed me an empty puncheon in which I might hide when any of the ship's
people entered the hold, and informed me that he would find means to
fetch me food and water when only the anchor watch would be on deck. If
discovered, I was to say that I had stolen on board unknown to anyone,
in a bark canoe. Once at sea, I might rest assured, he said, that
Captain Clonard and his officers would be glad of an extra hand.

I spent four days in the hold of the French ship, in company with
innumerable rats. They squeaked and scurried about by day, and made
sleep almost impossible at night. The hold was pitch-dark, save when
parties of seamen came down with lanterns to hoist out casks of
provisions. At such times I crawled into my puncheon hastily and
remained there until the workers were gone. On the last day, when the
faint glimmer of light coming down the hatchway told me that the sun was
up, there was a great stir and bustle in the ship, a blowing of bugles
and the tramp of many feet on the decks above. I flattered myself that
we were about to sail, and was stretching my cramped limbs when the
sound of voices warned me that some of the people were coming down the
ladderway. There was nothing for it but to crawl into my puncheon, like
a rat into its hole.

The voices drew nearer; presently I heard footsteps in the hold and saw
a yellow gleam of light on the carlings. Several Frenchmen were
speaking, as if in protestation. Then a voice close at hand--as English
as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding--stiffened me with alarm.

"He _must_ be on board. We caught the other fellow in the _Boussole_."

"We 'ave question' all ze seamen; zey know nozzing."

"I'll have a dekko, in any case."

"As you wish, Lieutenant."

For a long time I heard them moving empty casks and prying about among
the stacks of firewood. The Frenchmen were weary of what they considered
a useless search, but the English officer was indefatigable, and I
cursed him heartily under my breath. At last he seemed satisfied.

"It's plain the fellow's not here," he remarked; "the blacks may have
knocked him on the head before he could get to Botany Bay.... Hello,
what's this?"

The devil himself must have directed the officer's eye to my puncheon,
half concealed in the shadows behind a pile of wood.

"Empty, you say? Fetch a light."

I was caught. Next moment strong hands dragged me out, none too gently.

"_Sapristi!_" exclaimed the astonished French officer. "How you come
here?"

I told the story agreed upon, which seemed to satisfy him, and was
prodded up the ladderway to the upper deck. A curious crowd gathered
about us; Captain Clonard himself ordered me questioned further,
thinking that some of his people might have helped me to stow away. But
I stuck to my story, heartened by the looks of sympathy many of the
seamen bestowed upon me. Presently I was ordered into a boat and taken
ashore.

A corporal's guard of Sydney marines stood on the beach, with fixed
bayonets, about a burly young convict, a former seaman, whose tattooed
arms were manacled behind his back. He was a fearless fellow who boasted
openly of his thefts from the men and exploits among the women.

"So they catched ye too?" he remarked, with a leer. "It's a red-checked
shirt at the gangway, for the pair of us...."

While they pulled my arms behind my back, and snapped handcuffs on my
wrists, the lieutenant asked curtly: "You're Tallant, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

Several French officers stood near by, and the Englishman now turned to
his corporal. "March them back to Sydney. Tell the captain I'm stopping
to dine with these gentlemen."

I had risked all and lost all. Escape had been just within my grasp,
only to be snatched away by the very worst of ill-fortune. That I would
be severely punished, I had little doubt. As my fellow prisoner had
predicted, we would almost certainly be flogged. Heretofore, I had been
a model convict, noticed and praised by the Governor; from now on, my
status would be very different.

We arrived at the settlement during the noon hour of rest, and a little
crowd of friends and acquaintances followed us to the tent where we were
placed under guard. The sergeant dispersed these people, once we were
inside. We were given bread and water, and strictly guarded throughout
the long, dismal afternoon. At nightfall the sergeant notified us, with
a kind of cruel relish, that the Governor had ordered us to be flogged,
three hundred lashes each.

Flogging has always seemed to me the most inhuman of all punishments. I
had been an unwilling spectator at such scenes on more than one occasion
in the past, and felt a sense of fierce, dark humiliation at seeing the
manhood scourged out of a fellow creature. The physical pain of a
flogging often extends beyond human endurance, but the pain of the soul
is worse. It was agony to think that Tom, Goodwin, and Nellie Garth
would know that I was being flogged; worse than agony to think of Sally
Munro. Had it been possible I think that I might have taken my own life.

The fellow in the tent with me snored on, wasting no time on useless
forebodings. I was still wide-eyed when the sun came up, and the drums
beat for morning roll call. Even my callous companion was silent and
thoughtful during the morning hours. The corporal came to fetch us at
noon.

The flogging pillory stood near the barracks of the marines. None of my
friends was present, of course, but a crowd of convicts and marines had
assembled about Surgeon White, a burly corporal and the sergeant I had
seen the night before. The convict women enjoyed these spectacles even
more than the men, and there was no lack of them among the audience.
There was a hush as we were ordered to halt, and the sergeant glanced
down at a paper in his hand.

"James Saxton," he commanded, "step forward!"

My fellow prisoner did as he was told, and the sergeant went on: "By
order of His Excellency, Governor Phillip, three hundred lashes, for
attempting to escape. Corporal, do your duty!"

The handcuffs were removed from Saxton's wrists, and he was ordered to
step into the tall narrow box at the foot of the pillory, which would
prevent him from moving his feet. He was helped to take off his shirt,
and his hands were confined in the two holes provided for that purpose,
at the level of his shoulders. The burly corporal rolled up his sleeve
and drew the tails of the cat through his left hand.

"Proceed!" ordered the sergeant.

The corporal drew back his cat and brought it down with all the strength
of a brawny arm, to strike Saxton's back with a thudding sound. The
breath flew out of the man's lungs with a loud "Ugh!" and a great red
stripe appeared on the bare flesh.

"One!" announced the sergeant.

The corporal struck again. "Two!" The flesh quivered as the injured
muscles contracted, and the red stripes turned purple. "Three!"...
"Four!"... "Five!" Now the bright blood came welling out and began to
trickle down the man's back. I turned my head. An hour seemed to pass,
and still the flogged man, whose one virtue was courage, had made no
sound but an occasional low moan. The convict spectators watched in
silence.

"Hold!" interrupted Surgeon White. "That's all the man can bear for
to-day. Carry him back to the tent."

I glanced at the poor fellow as they removed him from the pillory. He
had lost consciousness and his back was a red slough from waist to
shoulders.

The sergeant glanced at his paper once more. "Hugh Tallant, step
forward!"

There was black despair in my heart as I stood with my arms outstretched
while the guards removed my handcuffs. At that moment a marine orderly
came running across the parade at top speed.

"Sergeant!" he called. "Orders from Major Ross!"

The sergeant glowered at the man, but took the folded paper, spelling
out the words silently with his lips, like a schoolboy. He gave me a
sour glance as he looked up.

"Call yerself lucky," he said, grudgingly; then, to the corporal: "Take
him off to Pinchgut. He's to have three months."




CHAPTER XII. GOODWIN'S HOMECOMING


Pinchgut is a rocky islet in the harbour, between Kirribilli Point and
Garden Island. In those early days it was a penal colony within a penal
colony: it was often remarked that the three quarters of a mile of calm
water separating Pinchgut from Sydney had a more wholesome effect upon
convict character than the four thousand leagues of stormy ocean between
Port Jackson and England.

There was no water there, no shelter of any kind, nor shade against
midday sun save for a few bushes and stunted trees. Garden Island is
only four hundred yards away, and from there to the land the distance is
even shorter. The most indifferent of swimmers could have made his
escape had there been no sharks. These fish, of great size and ferocity,
inhabited the harbour in scores. Several convicts, driven to desperation
by existence on Pinchgut, had attempted the short swim to land. But not
one had reached it.

Bread and water was the diet on Pinchgut. The place was visited once a
week by a corporal's guard, who filled the keg and left seven days'
supply of wretched bread, barely enough to sustain life. To a man of
active mind and habits, the life there was more terrible than I can make
clear in words. In those days there was seldom more than one convict at
a time on the islet, and the solitude was a torture in itself; there was
nothing to do but indulge in one's own sad or bitter thoughts. When it
rained, the hermit shivered all night long, exposed like an animal to
the weather. When the summer sun beat down, making a veritable furnace
of the rocks, his only refuge from the heat was in the scant shade of
one of the stunted trees, or in some tidal pool. After a month on the
islet I looked back upon the life in Sydney as our first ancestors,
after their expulsion, must have reflected upon the delights of the
Garden of Eden.

The usual sentence to Pinchgut did not exceed a fortnight, and during
that time, as I said, the diet was bread and water. At the end of the
second week, however, I was given a little salt meat and pease, as well
as a piece of old sailcloth for a shelter. Without these small
indulgences my lot would have been a hard one indeed.

My sentence on the island would expire on the eighth of June, and I kept
count of the days by means of scratches on a rock. Long after dark, on
the last night of May, I was overjoyed to have my first visit from a
friend. Winter was coming on and the night was too cold for sleep.
Huddled in my blanket where there was a little shelter from the breeze,
I heard a cautious voice hailing me:--

"Hugh! Hugh! Where are ye?"

It was Goodwin, paddling a native bark canoe close inshore. I guided him
to the north end of the islet, where we made ourselves as comfortable as
we could among the rocks.

"How be ye, lad?" he asked.

"Still alive, as you see."

"Did ye think we'd forgot ye?"

"Of course not."

"I'm to have a boat next week. It's the devil and all to get hold of a
canoe. I've tried a score of times afore now."

He handed me a bundle, containing the first decent food I had tasted for
three months, and I fell to ravenously.

"Eat hearty," said Dan. "Nellie and my good wife fixed it for ye."

Presently I leaned back against the rock with a feeling of pure animal
content. For the first time in three months my belly was full.

"God bless you, Dan," I said. "Now give me your news."

"There ain't so much to tell. Tom's a father now."

"He is! A boy?"

"Aye. Born on Saint Patrick's day. Mrs. Thynne was for callin' him
Paddy, but he's to be christened Hugh Thynne Oakley."

"Tom and Phoebe are married?"

"Long since. All shipshape and Bristol fashion."

"Do you see Miss Munro sometimes?" I asked, casually. "How is she?"

"Well enough. She's leavin' to-morrow."

"Leaving!"

"Aye, for Norfolk with Captain O'Day and his lady. The _Supply_ sails
around midday."

I had hoped to have at least a word with Sally before her departure, and
Dan's information disappointed me cruelly. "You're sure it's to-morrow?"
I asked.

"Certain. I had it from Thynne. Ye should see him, Hugh--he's that proud
to be a granddad!"

"You got leave to move to the other cove?"

He glanced at me in the darkness, seeming to hesitate before he spoke.
"I hate to speak of us, lad, while ye're in a fix the like o' this...
yes, the Governor gave us leave. We've been a buildin' our cottages.
Tom's a hunter now, and I'm to have a boat, and nets. Hugh, ye must ask
leave to live with us."

"I'm not likely to get it with a black mark against my name."

"Who knows? There's worse crimes than tryin' to run away."

We talked on in the dark while the small waves slapped against the rocks
below, and we shivered in the chill breeze. At last Goodwin rose.

"I must be off, lad. The moon'll be up in half an hour. Ye'll be ashore
in another week. There's a black family helping us these days. If they
don't make off with their canoe, I'll slip up to see ye first chance."

                 *        *        *        *        *

The breeze was at northwest next morning, and I knew that the _Supply_
would pass between Pinchgut and Garden Island, on her way out to the
Heads. Sally must never see me, yet I wanted a last glimpse of her. I
chose a spot where I could lie at full length among the rocks, unseen by
those in the ship, and peep out through a clump of bushes.

It was midmorning when the brig came around Bennelong Point, half a mile
distant. Her jibs and topsails were set, as well as the forecourse and
driver; once clear of the point, she bore off, slacking away her braces
to run almost free for Bradley's Head. She came on fast, and I flattened
myself against the rock, never taking my eyes from the group standing on
her quarter-deck. Now I could make out Sally, and Mrs. O'Day's short,
stout figure at her side. The _Supply_ increased her speed as
topgallants and royals were loosed and sheeted home.

Now she was abreast of Pinchgut and less than a hundred yards distant.
Sally gazed fixedly at the barren islet, turning to stare back after the
brig had passed. I did not move until the vessel bore up and disappeared
beyond the high land more than a mile away. How many months or years
would pass before I might hope to see Miss Munro again, I made no effort
to compute.

Dan came twice during the nights that followed, bringing gifts of food,
and the news that Garth was making progress with her little farm. The
family of blacks seemed to have settled in the cove. The woman was a
help to Nellie, Dan said, and her man was useful at hauling the nets. On
the last day of my exile, Goodwin passed close to Pinchgut in the launch
Governor Phillip had allotted him for his fishing, and grinned as he
pointed to the black man with him, who was learning to pull an oar. Next
morning, promptly on the day set for my release, the marines came to
carry me to Sydney.

As we pulled into the cove I could see that some progress had been made,
though the improvement was pitifully small, considering the number of
men at work. A few acres had been cleared, particularly about the head
of Farm Cove; the observatory on the point was finished; wattle-and-daub
huts had replaced many of the convicts' tents; barracks of a sort had
been erected for the marines; the hospital had been enlarged and I saw
the beginnings of a permanent residence for the Governor. The shores of
Sydney Cove were commencing to assume the aspect of a permanent
settlement.

Thynne was waiting for me on the wharf by the flagstaff; he nodded to
the corporal and clasped my hand.

"Come, Tallant," he said, "His Excellency told me to fetch you. Prepare
yourself for good news."

The Governor's house was close by, surrounded by cultivated land fenced
with stakes. He looked up from his writing as Thynne ushered me in, past
the sentinel, and informed me briefly that while my attempt to escape
had not been forgotten, I was to have one more chance. My petition to be
a game killer would be granted, and I could live with my friends in
Blackwattle Bay. My future would depend upon my conduct and success at
hunting.

I was so overjoyed at this good fortune that I could only stammer out a
few words of thanks. Thynne was ordered to see that I got a week's
rations and a musket and fowling piece.

"You're in luck, eh, Tallant?" said Thynne. "You know whom you owe it
to?"

"No."

"To Miss Sally Munro. And 'twas she who saved you from the flogging as
well."

Thynne glanced at me quizzically, relishing my astonishment. "Quite so,"
he went on. "She'd been off on a three-day trip, with some of the
officers and their wives, to the head of the harbour. They returned on
the very morning when you were to have been flogged. Miss Munro had
heard nothing of your attempt to escape. The moment she learned of it,
she came to Government House to ask for an audience with His Excellency.
I heard every word that passed between them."

"What did she say?"

"A good deal that I hadn't known before. That your father and brother
gave their lives for the King in the American War. That you were wounded
in one of the last battles. That your loyalty cost you the family
estate. You couldn't have had a more eloquent defender or a prettier
one. She told how your compensation had never come through; how you were
driven to commit a crime in order to get to Canada. The end of it was
that His Excellency sent an urgent message to Major Ross. You know the
rest."

I glanced at Thynne's lean, intelligent face. "See here, Thynne, I
suspect that you had a hand in this, too."

He smiled. "Why not? I had no wish to see you flayed alive. And I
couldn't think of a better advocate for you than Miss Munro.... Now,
Tallant, I must hasten back to my inkpots. There'll be a warm welcome
for you at Blackwattle Bay."

Thynne proved the best of prophets. I reached the small, new settlement
an hour later, and the pleasure with which Nellie and the others greeted
me warmed my heart. They had accomplished wonders at the head of the
beautiful and lonely cove I had not seen for so long.

The cottages stood close to the beach. The walls were of cabbage palm,
plastered with clay; the roofs were neatly thatched with reeds of the
gum rush, and the floors were of clean, hard-packed sand. A path led
from the landing where Goodwin's boat was moored and his nets hung to
dry. They had cut down the brush roundabout, leaving only a few fine old
trees to shade the dooryards in summertime. Behind the houses was the
fenced enclosure where Nellie kept her pigs, and next it a paddock for
two cows and a young bull entrusted to her care by one of the marine
officers. Some progress had been made on a clearing where Nellie hoped
to plant maize and vegetables as soon as the proper season should
arrive. The family of blacks of whom Dan had spoken lived in a bark hut
near by: a man, his wife, and a boy of fourteen. The fellow's name,
Pattagorang, signified "kangaroo" in the local dialect, but Goodwin
called him Pat.

I was taken into the Goodwin household; Tom and Phoebe, and their child,
lived with Nellie Garth. It was plain from the first that Phoebe was
never designed to be a mother. There was no doubt, I think, that she
loved her little son. She would be seized by moods of the deepest
tenderness and affection for him, and I have never seen a young mother
who had more engaging, more touching ways with her first-born. Then, of
a sudden, she would tire of the child, turn him over to Garth or Mrs.
Goodwin and go off to see her mother at Sydney Cove; often she would be
away for a day or two at a time. Tom was shocked at this indifference,
and more than one stormy scene took place when Phoebe would return; but
it would all pass quickly, for Tom could never be angry with her for
longer than five minutes. What hurt him most was that Phoebe refused to
suckle her child. She proposed turning him over to one of the convict
women to rear, but both Tom and Nellie Garth said no to that. The event
was that Garth reared the baby herself, feeding him on cow's milk with a
little sugar added.

Nellie knew by instinct what others were forced to learn by experience.
The Government's wheat and Indian corn had been planted too early in the
year; the young shoots withered for lack of rain and were killed by the
hot sun. Garth waited until late in July before planting the seed given
her, and the result showed how wise she had been. By mid-October the
corn was tall and green in her little field.

Oakley and I were up every morning before daylight to set out with
musket or fowling piece in search of game. We became skilled in the
habits of emu and kangaroo, learned what lagoons were visited by black
swan, duck, and other wildfowl, building hides in the marshes where we
could lie in wait. Sometimes, but not often, we would come back
empty-handed; at others we would bring down a dozen or more duck at a
single discharge of our guns. Our chief duty was to hunt for the sick at
the hospital, but we would have been more than human if we had not
reserved a small share of game for ourselves. The fresh meat, with the
weekly rations we drew from the Sydney stores and the fish Goodwin
fetched home, kept us in the best of health. When fish were plentiful,
Goodwin often pulled round to Sydney with the boat laden to the
gunwales. His work took him to many a remote reach and cove seldom
visited by any but himself, and he came to know the ramifications of the
vast harbour better than any man of his time.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Though he liked the country and was content with the work assigned him,
Goodwin lived with but one thought in mind--a return home. When we
sailed from Portsmouth, only a year and a half of his sentence remained
to be served. This was, I think, the chief reason why Mrs. Goodwin had
insisted upon coming with him to New South Wales. She was devoted to
Dan, despite her somewhat peevish, complaining ways, and she made him a
good and loyal wife. Bella was a splendid cook and housewife and kept
their cottage as neat as a Dutch kitchen. But there is no doubt that she
enjoyed her sense of martyrdom, endured for his sake. I had great
respect for Mrs. Goodwin, but I must admit that she lost much of the
virtue of self-sacrifice through speaking of it so often. But that was
her nature; we all have our faults, and I have no wish to dwell upon the
flaws in the character of an excellent woman.

Goodwin's time would be up in November, and both he and his wife were in
a state of almost painful anxiety and impatience for the day to come.
For, during these months, the transports and store-ships that had
brought us out had sailed, one by one. Some had gone by way of China for
cargoes of tea for the East India Company, others had sailed direct for
the Cape and home. Only one, the _Fishburn_, remained in Sydney Cove;
she was now upon the eve of sailing, and the Goodwins hoped to return in
her. The question was, would his time be up before the _Fishburn_ left?

The rest of us were almost as concerned about the matter as the Goodwins
themselves, for if they missed going by the store-ship they would have a
year at least, perhaps two years, to wait, as no other ships were
expected within that time. The thought of separation was painful to all,
and Dan said little of it. He had the most thoughtful consideration for
others, and leaned over backward, as the saying goes, in his efforts to
conceal his own happiness at thought of freedom, knowing that we must be
left behind.

And then came the long-wished-for day when, according to Goodwin's own
careful reckoning, his seven-year sentence expired. I remember well: it
was the twenty-seventh of November, and I must have been awakened by
Goodwin shortly after midnight on the morning of that day. I opened my
eyes to find him standing beside my bed with a candle in his hand, and I
could feel the joy in his heart before a word was said.

"Hugh, I'm off to fish now, and Oakley's coming with me. If we've luck
we'll carry the catch direct to Sydney afore comin' home."

"Is it morning?" I asked.

"Aye," said Dan, his face beaming; "though a mite early, I wished to
have the full good o' this day from the start."

I sprang out of my bunk and clasped his hand, as happy for him, I verily
believe, as I could have been for myself, in his place.

"God bless you, old lad!" I said. "And you're a free man! How does it
feel?"

"I couldn't rightly say, but I feel it, here," and he struck his chest.

The whole of our little settlement was stirring within the half hour. We
felt justified in proclaiming a holiday for ourselves, but Goodwin was
so mindful of his duties that he was bound to go fishing. He and his son
and Tom set off in the boat a little before sunup, and I went inland,
afoot, with my fowling piece, to hunt for ourselves and no one else, on
this occasion. I returned at midday with four leash of wild duck that
Mrs. Goodwin roasted to perfection in our clay-covered oven. We had our
rations as well, and Nellie and Mrs. Goodwin were busy throughout the
afternoon preparing the feast we were to have, keeping a sharp lookout
the while for the return of the others. It was not until toward evening
that we spied the boat coming round the point from the direction of
Sydney.

"There's Phoebe with 'em," said Garth, in a relieved voice.

"And high time, too," said Mrs. Goodwin, disapprovingly.

Phoebe had been absent three days on one of her periodical visits to her
mother's house. She was subdued and quiet upon first arriving, but that
passed off. She took her son from his crib, fondled and played with him
and tossed him in the air till the little fellow crowed with delight.

A happy occasion that was, for Dan had learned, at the settlement, that
the _Fishburn_ would sail for England on the Friday. Before ever leaving
England, Goodwin had put away the money for their passage home. He had
it safely hidden in his cottage.

Our meal was now ready, and Governor Phillip himself would have been
pleased to sit at such a feast. The ducks came on, basted with their own
rich gravy, with roast turnips, and carrots to go with them. There was
grilled mullet for another dish, and boiled salt beef and cabbage for a
third, enough and to spare for all. Even tea was not wanting, brewed
from the leaves of a shrub that grew wild in the forests, and called,
for want of its true name, the sweet-tea plant.

Mrs. Goodwin was all but out of her senses with joy and excitement over
the news of the _Fishburn_'s early departure. She hurried back and forth
between the house and the cook shack at the back, talking a steady
stream.

"Nellie, I can't hardly believe it! Wouldn't ye say it's all been
ordered by the will of God? Here's Dan's time out the very day, for I
mind well he was judged and sentenced the twenty-sixth of November,
seven years gone, and I never thought to see the end of 'em; I never
did. And now they're past and done with! And there ain't but a week to
wait!... Dan, are ye certain about the _Fishburn_?"

"Aye, she'll sail Friday, certain sure, for the word is posted at
Government House."

"And the captain'll take us? There ain' no doubt about it?"

"If all's shipshape with my papers, and it will be, for I've made no
mistake in my reckoning. I asked to see Governor Phillip this morning,
but he's that busy I must go again to-morrow."

"Goodness me! I don't rightly know _where_ I be, I'm that stirred up,"
said Mrs. Goodwin, her eyes shining. "I can't relish my vittles the way
I'd wish."

"Just ye calm down now, Bella," said Tom, "and enjoy 'em hearty, for
ye'll taste no roast duck on the voyage home."

"That ye won't," said Garth, "nor none of yer good soft bread. If 'twas
not for the mouldy flour, and that's no fault of yours, I'd say I'd
never et better.... Phoebe, what's amiss with ye? Ye're scarce eatin'
a bite.... Bless me, if the lass ain't as glum as a mute at a
funeral!"

Garth laid a hand on the girl's shoulder, and of a sudden Phoebe burst
into tears. She buried her head in her arms, her whole body shaking;
then, rising from the table, her face still hidden in her hands, she
went quickly out the door.

Tom gazed blankly after her. He put down his fork, and with a quiet nod
to the rest of us followed her.

"God forgive me!" said Mrs. Goodwin. "God forgive me for the selfish
creature I be! Takin' joy in my good fortun' with never a thought for
the rest of ye!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and a moment later she herself was crying.

"There, ye good soul," said Garth; "we'll not have ye blamin' yerself.
It's not in reason to hide the joy ye feel. We'd be the same in your
place."

"I should ha' tried, Nellie," sobbed Mrs. Goodwin. "But I was thinkin'
only o' Dan and me and little Tom. I should ha' tried, for your sakes as
well as Phoebe's. I'm selfish and unmindful, for you're to bide here and
we're to go."

"We'll do well enough," said Garth, "and it ain't as if we was yonder in
the settlement. Take comfort, now, Phoebe'll have her cry out and be all
right, after. She's had 'em before, in her homesick times."

Mrs. Goodwin raised her homely, tear-stained face, wiping her eyes on
her sleeve.

"I know, but she's such a young thing, Nellie, and it's a rough hard
life for a girl."

"She'll settle down to it, in time, I shouldn't wonder," said Garth.

Mrs. Goodwin shook her head. "No, never--not Phoebe. I'll say this,
amongst ourselves: she shouldn't ha' married Tom Oakley, for she'll
never be happy here."

"Hush, now!" said Goodwin, sternly. "It's not for us to say what Phoebe
should ha' done. And don't ye put the notion in her head she can't be
happy!"

"I've no thought of it, Dan! I wouldn't for the world! But a body that
ain't blind can see it, clear as daylight. And she with as handsome a
little son as ever was born! Even that ain't made her content."

Goodwin and I carried benches outside, and seated ourselves by a great
cedar tree that stood in the dooryard. It was a glorious night, with the
moon an hour up, and not the wisp of a cloud to pass across it. The
shadows beneath the trees were pools of blackness, and before us lay the
peaceful cove, like a silver mirror, with Goodwin's boat at anchor there
to give the bay a homely touch, and seeming to keep the great silence
and loneliness of the land at a little distance.

"Hugh," said Goodwin, presently, "I'll miss ye sore, ye and Tom. I will,
so."

"Away with that," I said, with an attempt at lightness, though my heart
was heavy indeed. "Tom and I have no mind to give you two thoughts, Dan,
once you've gone. We're resolved to forget you, straight off."

"Aye, that'll be best, if so be we can manage it," said Goodwin. "I take
small comfort in going, for the thought of ye two, and Garth."

Tom returned and took a seat beside us.

"She's all right now, and will be along directly," he said. "Phoebe's a
soft heart, Dan. She was upset to think we're to lose Bella and yerself
so soon."

"What'll you do, Dan, once you're home?" I asked.

"We'll not speak of that," Goodwin replied. "Bella's said enough to
spare of home."

"Ye fear to sadden us?" Tom asked. "_We're_ not soft-hearted! As far as
that goes, Hugh and me's getting to love this land. We'd think twice
about leaving, even if the chance was to come."

"It's not a bad life here, the way we're fixed now," I said. "Come, Dan!
Tell us what you'll do, at home. You won't go back to smuggling?"

"I will and all," said Goodwin, quietly.

"Then we won't say good-bye if ye're set for that work again," said Tom.
"Mind ye, Dan! It'll be twice seven years, and mebbe life, the next time
ye're caught."

"No fear!... Lads, smugglin's my trade; 'twas my dad's and my
granddad's afore me. There'll be Goodwins at it in the generations to
come."

Their work finished and the kitchen made tidy, Garth and Mrs. Goodwin
joined us presently; then Phoebe came, quiet now, and well over the fit
of homesickness. Bella took care to say nothing that might touch her
there again. We talked of the bad times and good times we'd had
together, and of Nick Sabb and Ned Inching, who had settled into the
life at Sydney Cove with better heart than ever we thought they would.
Sabb had been made sergeant in charge of the convict patrols that
policed the place at night, and had made a snug little home for himself
at the guardhouse, with old Maggie Shinn to wash and mend and cook for
him. Inching, through Sabb's influence, had been given a post that
suited him well--that of sexton for the settlement: he had charge of the
burying ground. This churchyard, without the church, lay back from
Sydney Cove in open sandy ground covered with scrub. It was a forlorn
spot, with its own native air of desolation, but Inching seemed to take
a kind of sour pleasure in being miserable there, and in seeing the
lodgings in this part of the settlement increase. He had a helper for
grave-digging, and they had made final homes for twenty men and eight
women since the month of January.

Presently Goodwin asked Phoebe to sing, and we all seconded that
proposal. She had a lovely voice, sweet and clear, and she knew scores
of songs, both grave and gay: she never came to the end of them. Phoebe
was in a sad mood that night and she sang one song I have never
forgotten and never will:--

                "Shall I go walk the woods so wild,
                 Wand'ring, wand'ring here and there?
                 As I was once full sore beguiled...
                 Alas for love! I die with woe.

                "Wearily blows the winter wind,
                 Wand'ring, wand'ring here and there
                 My heart is like a stricken hind;
                 Alas for love! I die with woe."

None of Phoebe's songs touched Tom Oakley to the quick as this one did.
She had only to sing it, on a night of full moon, or one with the sky a
glory for stars, and his eyes would fill with tears and a flood of
tenderness well up in his heart. And well Phoebe knew it!

The next day was Sunday, and both households were astir early. The
Goodwins were up before the rest of us, Dan making himself tidy, with
his wife's help, for his walk to Sydney, where he was to see Governor
Phillip. He was dressed in his best blue coat and trousers, and shoes
with silver buckles, which he had never before worn in New South Wales.

"A fine upstanding fellow ye look, Dan," said Oakley, admiringly. "I'm
proud to know ye."

"I mind well when I first saw him in the coat," said Mrs. Goodwin, with
a happy smile. "Ye recollect, Dan? 'Twas the day we was married. The
cloth is as good as it was then, thanks to me, for I've took the best of
care of it."

"So ye have," said Goodwin. "It gives me a queer feelin' to be wearin'
it again, like as if all the grief that's come since a never been....
Lads, what'll I do at the settlement, yonder?"

"Do?" said Oakley. "Walk straight along to the Governor's house like the
free man ye are, and tell him ye've come for the release paper."

"No," said Mrs. Goodwin; "I know how it'll be with Dan. He's like to be
that tongue-tied not a word will come out as it should. Ye'd best see
Mr. Thynne, first, and ask him to come along to explain all in proper
fashion."

"So I will, Bella; 'tis good advice. I shouldn't wonder if I'd be gone
till evenin', for I wish to see the captain of the _Fishburn_ when I'm
through at the Governor's, and lay down the passage money. I'll feel
better when it's safe in his hands and all's settled for us but the
going aboard."

"Oh, Dan, a happy day this is!" said Mrs. Goodwin, giving him a last
brush with her hand. "Go along, now, and come home the minute ye can.
I'll have supper waiting and ready."

"Leave that," said Goodwin, "for there's no saying how long the business
will take. I might have to spend the night, and if I do, I'll bunk in at
Nick Sabb's. So don't wait up for me."

A long day it was for Mrs. Goodwin, but she got through the better part
of it in making preparations for departure. In the afternoon I found
her, with Garth, sitting on the floor beside the sea chest which Mrs.
Goodwin had brought, packed with clothing and other necessities, from
England. She glanced up quickly when I appeared in the doorway.

"Dan's not coming yet?" she asked.

"Now, Bella, how could he come as soon as this?" said Garth. "The time
will go soonest if ye forget Dan till we see him. I shouldn't wonder if
he'll be obliged to stay the night, like he said."

"I know; like enough he will, but gracious me! It _is_ hard, the
waitin'. There couldn't be no hitch, think ye, to our being allowed to
go?"

"Hitch? Never in the world. Didn't Dan himself say he'd seen the
captain?"

"There, I'll think no more about it," said Mrs. Goodwin, with a happy
sigh. "Now, Nellie, here's a box not even touched yet, of the best black
and white thread; there's four dozen spools of each, with papers of
needles, both the large and small. And this cloth bag has twenty pounds
of the best wool yarn. This ye shall have, for the patching and mending
of Hugh's things, and Tom's, to say naught of yer own."

"'Tis more than kind," said Garth, "and I'll not say no, if they can be
well spared."

"They can, and I'd wish ye to have them, whether or no, for a starved
place this will be, soon, for cloth and thread. I was told by Mr.
Palmer, the commissary, there's not enough in the stores to last another
three months, not to speak of the lack of needles. This petticoat I wish
to lay out for Phoebe. There's good wear in it still, and 'twill serve
in the end for cutting into little suits for the baby."

"Poor thing," said Garth; "she's still that low-spirited. I could wish
she'd stayed at her mother's till the ship's gone. A lonesome time we'll
have here till we can settle down to it."

I left them for an hour's stroll in the moonlight, and when I returned
to the house I found Nellie Garth seated at one side of the table and
Tom at the other, with Goodwin's homemade lamp, filled with shark-liver
oil, burning between them. They were writing letters home for the
Goodwins to take with them for posting in England. Mrs. Goodwin was more
than commonly excited and "stirred up" to watch them at work on the very
letters she was to carry. Phoebe was sitting near Tom, holding the baby,
asleep in her arms.

Nellie gave me a quick friendly glance as I came in.

"Come, Hugh," she said. "Be a good lad and write for me. I'm no hand at
letters, and do naught but spoil good paper. Will ye help me?"

Tom had prepared a little heap of quills, from the flight feathers of
the black swan. I selected one and took Garth's place at the table.

"It's to my old neighbour at home," she said. "I'll speak and ye can set
it down: 'Mistress Sarah Windle, Wood End, Middlesex, England. Dear
Friend Sarah...' Have ye got that down?"

Nellie went on till my hand was weary, telling of New South Wales, of
our little settlement apart from the others, in Blackwattle Bay, of the
wonderful climate of the country, of her pigs and fowls, and the bull
and the two cows entrusted to her care--all the homely things in which
she took so deep an interest; and her concern about Nat showed in every
other line. At last she was done, and took the pen to write in her own
sprawling hand: "From your old neighbour and gossip, Ellen Garth."

"I'd wish to be set this moment where my letter's bound," said Tom,
looking up from his writing. "Ye mind Dick Waller, Nellie, landlord of
the Bell in Hand, at Northolt? It's to him I'm writin'. Many's the pot
of ale I've had in Dick's company.... Hugh, have ye none of yer own
to write? The _Fishburn's_ our last chance for letters. God knows when
there'll be another!"

"No," I said, "I'll wait for the next one, whenever it comes."

I had more than once been tempted to write, in confidence, to Mr.
Fleming, making a clean breast of my present situation. I longed for
news of my mother; my anxiety about her, the uncertainty as to whether
she was living or dead, was indeed hard to bear. But when it came to the
point of writing, I could not bring myself to do it. I knew that I could
depend upon Mr. Fleming to guard my secret; but there was no knowing
what had happened to him. He might be still in Canada; he might have
returned to England. The possibility I most dreaded, when I was tempted
to write, was that my letter would fall into the hands of someone else,
and be opened in his absence. The news of my fate would then become
known to my mother, if she still lived, and to our friends in Canada. It
seemed best to keep silence; to let my friends and relatives believe
that I must have died in India, the grave of so many hopeful young men
who had gone out to make their fortunes.

The hour grew late and Goodwin had not come, but we all waited up for
him until at last we were sure that he could not be expected until
morning.

"That'll be it, depend upon it," said Tom. "Dan's not been able to
finish the business to-day, else he'd ha' come well afore this. Bella,
ye'd best go to bed and take your rest."

Phoebe and Garth had already gone, and Tom soon followed; but Mrs.
Goodwin and I sat by the table, talking and waiting until well past
midnight. At last, overcome with drowsiness, she laid her head on her
arms and fell asleep.

I was more than sleepy myself by that time, and took a turn outside
before going to bed. I walked down the path toward the bay and stopped
short, for there was Goodwin, sitting on the little pier we had built
over the shoal water. He didn't see or hear me until I stood beside him.

"What is it, Dan? How long have you been here?" I asked.

He got heavily to his feet, and walked slowly along the beach, I
following. When we were out of earshot of the house, he stopped. My
heart smote me as he turned his face toward me in the moonlight.

"We're not to go," he said.

"Not to go? You mean the captain of the _Fishburn_ won't take you?"

He stood staring dully at the sandy shore, as though he had not heard
me. Then he shook his head, slowly.

"It's not that... I'll not be allowed to go, the Governor says." Of a
sudden he roused himself, and his voice was cold and hard as he spoke
again.

"Will ye believe this? The convicts' papers was not sent out with us
from England! That's what the Governor says. It's a lie! It must be a
lie!"

"Wait, Dan," I said. "The Governor himself told you that?"

"The Governor himself told me that. The fault's none of his, he says.
The papers wasn't sent. He's wrote for 'em, to England. Till they come,
he can take no man's word for the time he's served."

I could think of nothing to say. What comfort could have been offered in
the face of so bitter a disappointment? A moment later Goodwin added, in
a heartsick voice: "And it's no lie, what he said. I could ha' told, if
it had been. No... Governor Phillip's an honest man. He spoke fair
and looked me straight in the eye.... But how am I to tell Bella?
How? It'll break her heart."




CHAPTER XIII. THE UPPER HAWKESBURY


"We're not to go."...Goodwin's words, and the dull, embittered,
hopeless voice in which he had spoken, sounded in my ears as I walked
away northward along the beach of Blackwattle Cove. I could see that he
wanted to be alone, and I had no wish to be present when he should rouse
his wife and break the news to her. I glanced back as I turned from
sight, around a wooded point. Dan was standing where I had left him, as
though powerless to move from the spot.

I walked slowly along in the bright moonlight, following the windings of
the beach; then struck across the land till I came into the path leading
from our place to Sydney Cove. Convicts were not supposed to be abroad
at such an hour, but with Nick Sabb in charge of the patrol that policed
the settlement at night, I knew that I ran little risk. The marines
policed only their own barracks and the storehouse, so I gave these
places a wide berth and made my way to the cabbage-palm hut that served
both as a guardhouse and as a lodging for Sabb. This stood back from the
cove on the west side of the Tank Stream. A light was burning there; the
door was open, and looking in I saw Sabb, Mortimer Thynne, and Ned
Inching seated at a table lighted by a single candle, their shadows huge
on the walls of either side. Sabb and Inching were at their old
diversion, cribbage, and Thynne was looking on. Sabb glanced round
quickly at the sound of my step.

"What's this?" he exclaimed. "Thynne, didn't I say 'twas an uncommon
quiet night, with not a man fetched in to the guardhouse? Here's one
that walks in without waiting to be fetched!"

"Am I under arrest, Nick?" I asked.

"So ye are," said Sabb, with a grin, "and I'll just shut and lock the
door so's ye won't run out on us.... Sit ye down, Hugh! Now then,
what are ye up to, prowlin' round the settlement at this hour?"

"Ask Thynne," I replied.

"Ye speak of Dan Goodwin?" said Sabb.

I nodded.

Thynne gave me a sober glance.

"Tallant, if ever I've felt sorry for a man, it's Goodwin," he said. "I
might have told him, in advance, but I hadn't the heart to do it."

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Did he say nothing of what he was told by the Governor?"

"Yes; that, by some mistake, the Home Office had failed to send out the
records of our terms, and the Governor could take no man's word that his
time was out until the records came."

"That is true; that is absolutely true," said Thynne.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked.

"Because, Tallant, I made the fair copies of the very despatches
Governor Phillip sent to Lord Sydney by the first transport that sailed
for home. You will understand the impression made upon me by the
paragraph which mentioned the missing records. I can quote the
Governor's very words: 'I urgently request the necessary information
respecting the time for which the convicts were sentenced, and the
intentions of Government respecting those convicts who, when their time
shall expire, may refuse to become settlers and demand liberty to return
to England!'... It is hard to believe in such gross neglect on the
part of the Home Office. The fact remains that none of our papers were
sent out."

"Neglect, d'ye call it?" said Sabb, grimly. "I've my own belief about
that."

"Aye," said Inching; "the papers wasn't meant to come. We're sent for
life, the lot of us, them with seven years as well as the rest. None of
us will see England again. They've made sure o' that."

Thynne shook his head.

"See here, Thynne," said Sabb. "Is it likely they'd forget to send so
important a thing as our papers? No, by God! We're naught but rogues,
the main part of us here; but there's rogues with human feelings, like
ourselves, and there's rogues in high places with stones for hearts.
What do they care about justice? They've got rid of us, and they mean to
stay rid of us, be our terms what they may."

"No," said Thynne. "Our papers will come, but God knows when!"

"Meanwhile, here's Goodwin, as free a man this minute as Governor
Phillip, or Lord Sydney himself. A heap o' comfort he'll take in
thinking his papers may come, someday!"

"There's nothing we can do about it," said Thynne. "Tallant, it's
fortunate, your coming round to the settlement. I was to send for you
the first thing in the morning. I've news for you and Oakley."

"Good news?"

"_I_ would not call it so, but you and Tom will. You recollect the
fellows who took to the woods a fortnight back?"

"Yes. Haven't they been found?"

"Only fancy! They thought China lies just beyond the mountains and hoped
to reach it on foot!"

"Mebbe it does," said Inching. "Mebbe they're safe there by now."

"God save us, Ned Inching!" said Thynne, giving him a wondering look.
"You tell me you really think the Celestial Empire is a part of New
South Wales?"

"I know naught of the Celestial Empire, but I shouldn't wonder if China
was not far off yonder. They'd never tell us, for fear we'd _all_ hop
it."

Thynne shook his head with a give-it-up expression. "By the Lord! Here's
a geographer!" he said; and turned to me. "A detachment of marines was
sent in search of the missing men," he went on. "They got lost, and a
second detachment of six went in search of the first. They would all
have died of starvation if they had not fallen in with some friendly
blacks who guided them home. Both parties came in yesterday, half-dead.
As for the convicts, heaven knows what has happened to them. I suspect
it's no case of half-dead, there."

"What has this to do with Oakley and me?" I asked.

"_You're_ to go in search now. Governor Phillip's orders. He does you
the honour of thinking you will be able to learn what has happened to
the poor devils, and to find your way back with the news. You are to
take the tame black, Pattagorang, with you."

Ten minutes later I was away on the road for home. Tom and I had long
wished for an opportunity to explore the country inland from Port
Jackson, and had been tempted, more than once, to take French leave for
the purpose. But, as we had to report at Sydney twice weekly for roll
call, we had decided that the risk was not worth the chances of losing
favour with the Governor, and our jobs as hunters with it. I half
dreaded reaching Goodwin's house, thinking of the state Bella would be
in, after the news Dan had surely broken to her by this time. Day was at
hand as I came within view of the cove, and saw that the boat was gone.
Mrs. Goodwin spied me from the door and came to meet me.

"Dan's gone off to fish," she said, quietly. "He wished for the day
alone. I fixed him a bite o' food to take with him. We wondered where
ye'd got to."

For a moment I thought that Goodwin had not told her, but Mrs. Goodwin
put that fear out of my mind at once.

"'Tis a cruel blow to him, Hugh--a hard, bitter blow," she said. "My
heart's that sore for him..." Her eyes filled with tears. "Come
along, now, and I'll get yer breakfast."

I was so astonished at Mrs. Goodwin's fortitude that, of a sudden, I
took her by the shoulders and gave her a hearty kiss on her sallow
cheek.

She broke down at this and cried a little, but soon recovered herself.

"Hugh, I've been a peevish, naggin', worryin' wife to him, but God help
me, I'll be so no more! When I think of the sharp-tongued, hateful
creature I've been, blaming him for bringin' me here... A poor
helpmeet he's had in me for anything but the housework. But I'll comfort
him now, if so be as I can, and make the waitin' easy instead of a
torment.... But his papers will come someday, won't they, soon or
late?"

I never thought to see such a change as that in Bella Goodwin. She had
spoken nothing but truth in calling herself a peevish worrying wife, for
that she'd been from the day I'd first seen her at Portsmouth gaol,
blaming Goodwin endlessly for dragging her off from home and friends to
be the wife of a convict. But from this day on she forgot herself in
thinking of her husband.

I found Tom having his breakfast, with Phoebe and Garth. Phoebe listened
to my account of what we were to do with an air of almost painful
interest, puzzling to me then, though I understood the reason for it
later.

"And you'll be gone a full week?" she asked.

"Longer, perhaps," I said. "We're ordered to continue the search until
we can come back with definite news of what's happened to them. We're to
carry rations for ten days."

"Oh, Tom! You'll not be here to see the _Fishburn_ sail!"

"What of that?" said Tom. "I've no wish to see her go, but we can think
of that with better heart since Dan and Bella won't be aboard. Their
hard luck is our good."

"So it is," said Garth. "Bella's bearin' it in a way I never thought to
see."

A strange happy light came into Phoebe's eyes.

"I'm so sorry for them," she said, quickly, "but it would have been
terribly lonesome here without them."

"Phoebe, you little vixen," said Garth, giving her a sharp look. "You're
not sorry at all."

"Oh, but I am, Nellie! I am indeed!"

"We're all that selfish and may as well admit it," said Garth. "As Tom
says, we think of our own good above theirs." Tom and I lost no time in
making our preparations, and within the half hour we were ready to go.
Pattagorang was awaiting us in his canoe, by the pier. Phoebe came with
us down the path, and as I stepped into the canoe, she threw her arms
around Tom and clung to him, her face hidden against his breast.

"What's this, Phoebe?" he said, patting her shoulder. "D'ye think I'm
off for good?... There now, lass! Bear up! We'll be back afore ye
know it."

She glanced up briefly, her eyes streaming with tears.

"Tom, be very careful, won't you? I'm so afraid that... that
something may happen."

Drawing down his head, she kissed him, then turned quickly and ran back
to the house. Tom stood gazing after her for a moment, and as he took
his place in the canoe he said: "Hugh, lad, I've got a wife in a
thousand--aye, in ten thousand!" He grinned. "But like enough ye've
heard me say that afore now."

We paddled round to the settlement in the cool of the morning, both of
us deeply content with the prospect before us, of a full week, perhaps a
fortnight, of complete freedom. In that mood, even the rough little
settlement at Sydney took on a new aspect. It seemed more cheerful and
promising, and I realized, for the first time, I think, that the colony
Governor Phillip had founded under such discouraging conditions might
yet prosper. The slopes on either side of the cove had been pretty well
cleared by this time, leaving only a few scattered trees. The rows of
huts for male and female convicts, the hospital, the storehouses with
their thatched roofs, the Governor's cottage, the marquees and the newly
built cottages of the officers, the barracks of the marines clustered
around the parade ground, made a far from mean impression of man's
handiwork under the rough hard conditions of pioneer life.

Leaving Pattagorang with the canoe, we walked up the beach to Thynne's
hut. For all the fact that Thynne had sat up till the small hours
yarning with Nick Sabb, he appeared as lively as though refreshed with a
full night's rest. Half a dozen convicts, both men and women, were
waiting in his dooryard, for Thynne combined with his official duties
that of letter writer to the felon population. Most of them could
neither read nor write and all those who wished to send letters home by
the returning transports came to him for help. At this time, with the
_Fishburn_ soon to leave, he was doing a thriving business. We found him
at a table in his small office.

"Come in, Tallant, come in," he called, cheerily. "Tom, the top of the
morning to you! One moment and I am at your service."

He was just finishing a letter for a thick-set, low-browed fellow, all
rags and tatters, who stood, barefoot, in the middle of the room turning
his cap round and round with great horny hands.

"There," said Thynne, with a final flourish of the pen; "is that all you
wished to say, my good man?"

"Did ye tell the old devil, me fayther, I ain't sick, but workin like a
bloody slave in the brick kiln?"

"I did."

"And ye wrote about the sarpents and the murtherin' blacks? And I'd call
the worst bog in auld Ireland Hiven itself alongside o' this New South
Wales?"

"It's all in," said Thynne.

"Then I'd thank ye to read it over to me," said the man.

Thynne cleared his throat, and with a glance, half triumphant, half
apologetic, for ourselves, began:--

    Honoured and Well-beloved Parent: We are informed that the
    store-ship, _Fishburn_, is to sail for England within the week,
    and I hasten to take my pen in hand, to inquire after your
    welfare, and to assure you of my own. May this message of filial
    solicitude find you as well as it leaves your devoted son.
    Although separated from you by half the circumference of our
    Planet, and set down in what is, after all, a wilderness, be it
    never so blooming and romantic, my health leaves nothing to be
    desired. Our simple repasts, partaken of in quantities a more
    prosperous society might consider inadequate, together with an
    abundance of wholesome out-of-doors employment, make for a sound
    mind in a healthy body. I am at present engaged in the
    honourable and useful task of brick-making. One day, soon or
    late, these same bricks will rise in noble edifices, monuments
    to the foresight and architectural genius of our Governor.

    What manner of land is New South Wales?--you may ask. A
    veritable land of promise, I reply, though in some respects,
    perhaps, it suffers by comparison with our own dear Emerald
    Isle. The aborigines, I must admit, are not unjustly incensed at
    the white strangers who have usurped their hunting grounds; and
    serpents, both large and numerous, await the day of their
    banishment by some Patron Saint who has yet to make his presence
    known amongst us. But time flies on winged feet, and I am now
    called to my not unpleasant labours at the brick kiln. Not a day
    passes, my honoured parent, when your name is omitted from the
    thoughts and prayers of

                       Your dutiful, obedient, and affectionate Son

The man listened with an air of bewildered admiration as Thynne read
this flowery epistle. The latter then put the quill in his hand and
guided his fingers while he signed his name. The fee was one shilling,
and the convict seemed well pleased with the bargain.

"Thynne, that was worth a good half crown of any man's money," said
Oakley, when the convict had gone out.

"Was it not?" said Thynne, with a bright smile. "But we must temper the
wind to the shorn lamb. I sometimes write them for sixpence."

He rose, put on his hat, and, informing the convicts waiting in the
dooryard that he would be back directly, he led us to the Governor's
house. It was little better than a cotter's dwelling at home, but it
seemed almost luxurious beside the wattle-and-daub huts of the convicts.
The Governor was writing at a large table covered with neat stacks of
documents and papers. Around the walls were shelves for books and
records. An open door gave a glimpse of another room that was,
apparently, the Governor's combined drawing-room and study.

He glanced up, gravely.

"You have explained, Thynne, the purpose of this mission?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"What I wish you to do," said the Governor, "is to find these men. The
chances are that you will discover only their bodies, for they left the
settlement with little food, and they have now been missing for a
fortnight. How far west has your hunting taken you?"

"Not far, sir," I replied. "Three or four leagues out from the
Crescent."

"You'll have the black with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I understand that you have never been molested by the natives in your
hunting?"

"No, sir."

"Good. What trouble we have had with them has been of our own making. We
can scarcely complain if they attack men who steal their gear and break
up their canoes. Thynne!"

"Sir?"

"Write an order on the commissary for a fortnight's rations for three
men. And they'll want a supply of powder and ball."

It is about five leagues by water from Sydney to Rose Hill. Governor
Phillip had long since realized that there were no tracts of land near
the coast suitable for growing the crops needed so urgently. Having
explored the country round about, he fixed upon a region then known as
the Crescent as offering the most likely land for farming, and already
there was a little settlement in the making here, at the place called
Rose Hill. It was from this place that we were to start on our search.
We concealed our canoe where we had often hidden it before, on the shore
of what is now called Homebush Bay, near the eastern end of Elizabeth
Farm. At the new settlement, Captain Campbell, in charge of the marines,
informed us that the tracks of the fugitives had been followed as far as
Bellevue, or Prospect Hill, which was a considerable distance farther
inland. Campbell was surly and short with us; far from pleased that two
convicts were now set to a task in which his own men had failed. He
predicted that we would have our labour for our pains. We had our own
ideas about that, and might have made some more than pertinent remarks
on the worthlessness of marines for anything but garrison duty; however,
being convicts, we held our peace.

During the following week we proceeded farther and farther into a wild,
rocky, wooded country that we first viewed from Prospect Hill. Not a
black man did we see save Pattagorang himself, and he went forward at
such a pace that it was as much as we could do to keep him within view.
How he followed the trail of the missing convicts after so long a time
is still a mystery to me, but he went forward with an assurance that
convinced us he knew what he was about. On the second day out, we came
upon the remains of two convicts, their bodies half eaten by dingoes and
so badly mutilated that we could not know whether they had been killed
by natives or had died of starvation.

No white men, save the missing convicts we followed, had ever set foot
in the country we now traversed. Our general course was south-southwest,
and before noon of the next day we had found three more bodies lying as
they had fallen. This left but one unaccounted for. The trail, if trail
there was, for we saw no signs of one, now became more difficult for
Pattagorang to follow. We turned this way and that but proceeded in the
same general direction, and late in the afternoon emerged from the
forest country into the bottom lands of a broad unknown river, the Upper
Hawkesbury, or Nepean, flowing north, which watered a region far more
fertile and beautiful than any we had yet seen in New South Wales. The
land here was open, bordered with low hills, and carpeted with rich
grass. Scattered groves of stately trees, free from undergrowth, gave
the landscape the appearance of some nobleman's park. Kangaroos bounded
away at our approach, and we saw emus far in the distance, grazing on
the rich grass of the meadows that bordered both sides of the river.
Away from the stream, and at a higher level, were other far-reaching
flats, with small lakes among them fringed with reeds and green bush and
reflecting the glories of the evening sky. Pat, wholly unmindful of all
this lonely beauty, led us on a long circuit, through the open grass
land and back toward the river once more, and then, by some instinct
possessed only by his countrymen, brought us to the remains of the last
of the missing men, lying beneath a tree. It was no pleasant task to
bury the man, and we wasted neither time nor sentiment upon the poor
wretch who lay there. Tom remembered him, for he had come out in the
_Friendship_, but he remembered no good about him, and no prayers were
muttered over his grave.

Pattagorang built a fire, and when it had died away to a fine bed of
coals we roasted a couple of swan to a golden brown, and a better meal
I've never enjoyed. When we had finished, the black made him a nest in
the grass and Tom and I stretched out in our blankets near by. The night
was cool and starlit; we could hear the quacking and chattering of the
waterfowl and the music of their wings as innumerable flocks passed
overhead.

"Hugh," said Oakley, presently, "we'll say naught of this place, eh?"

"Not a word," said I.

"We've small hope of clearing out from New South Wales," he added, after
a silence.

"I catch your drift, maybe," I replied. "You're thinking we might get
lost, ourselves, and settle here."

"Man, if it wasn't for Phoebe and the lad, ye'd not have to speak twice
of such a plan!"

"What's to prevent our fetching 'em, and Garth and the Goodwins with
'em? We could shift our gear up here on the quiet. A month would do it."

Tom sat up, his hands clasped around his knees. "It might be done," he
said. "It might well be done! But we'd be found, soon or late."

"What of this, Tom! We might do it all open and aboveboard. Suppose we
went to the Governor himself, told him of the place, and asked leave to
come here. We're in his good books now. If he said yes, we could come
with tools, and seed from the Government stores, and livestock that we'd
never be able to fetch, otherwise. What a place for sheep, or cattle!"

"And horses--don't forget the nags! I'd a picture in my mind's eye just
now--a cottage by the clump of trees yonder, with smoke risin' from the
chimney and Phoebe on the doorstep, and me and young Hugh walkin' out
after supper for a look at the colts and fillies. Lad, ye're right! It
must be done with the Governor's help. If he's the man I think he is,
we'll have it.... But would Phoebe be content in such a lonesome
place?"

"You should know that better than I."

"She's London born and bred, but ye've seen her change.... I can't
say she's much of a mother; mayhap that'll come. Phoebe's young."

We talked on half the night, and the more we discussed this bright
prospect, the more convinced we were that it might become reality. We
spent the following day in making a thorough exploration of this
delightful region, and were four days on the homeward journey as far as
Rose Hill. As it was no business of ours to make a report there, we went
on to the place where we had hidden our canoe. We came down on the ebb
tide, and Tom's vigour in wielding a paddle showed his eagerness to
reach Phoebe and home. I rallied him about this as we were rounding Long
Nose Point, with Goat Island less than a mile ahead.

"Take it easy, Tom. You'll be in a sweat, and that's no state for
appearing before the Governor."

"What!" said he. "Must we report to the Governor to-night, think ye?
He'll not expect us, that's sure, at this hour."

I agreed with that, and he glanced back with a grin.

"Ye rogue!" he said. "Wait till ye've a wife of yer own. Ye'll know how
to haste, then, on yer homecomings."

Night was falling as we passed between Goat Island and the mainland and
turned south. Goodwin's boat was tied up at the pier, and lights were
shining in both houses.

"They've not seen us," said Tom, happily. "By the Lord! I _am_ in a
lather. Go along, Hugh. I'll have a dip, first. But don t go to our
place. I wish to surprise her."

As I opened the Goodwins' door, I found Bella and Garth sewing by the
table, with the lamp between them.

"Hugh! Where's Tom?" asked Garth.

"Coming..." I stopped short. "What is it, Nellie?"

Mrs. Goodwin put her head in her arms and burst out crying. Nellie got
to her feet and, going to a little cupboard, returned with a bit of
folded paper which she handed to me in silence. I opened and read it.

    Nellie:--

    I am leaving for England by the _Fishburn_. I can't bear it here
    any longer. No one knows I am going, not even my father and
    mother. Ask Tom to forgive me if he can, and please help him to
    take care of little Hugh.

                                                    Your sorrowful
                                                             Phoebe

Garth seated herself again at the table. A moment later we heard Tom's
quick step on the graveled path, outside.




CHAPTER XIV. SALLY


Every man, as he looks back over the road he has traveled from youth to
the threshold of old age, will recall a stretch of the road that lies
deep in shadow; when the misery of the journey was relieved by scarcely
a gleam of light ahead. There was such a period in my own life, shared
indeed by all the inhabitants of the Port Jackson settlement; from the
dreary summer of 1789--winter in the Northern latitudes--until well into
our winter of the following year.

More than two years had passed since our arrival in New South Wales and
no ship had come out from England to relieve our distress. The people of
Sydney Cove, convicts and freemen alike, sank more and more deeply into
a kind of hopeless apathy and despair. It is hard for the best of men to
live and work without some pleasant prospect to cheer them; how much
harder is it for felons, with scant resources of courage and energy,
weakened by half-starvation, living in wattle-and-daub huts that
scarcely offer a shelter from the elements, to face a future which
promises nothing but the continuation and deepening of their misery.

In the month of November, the ration of the entire settlement had been
reduced to two-thirds allowance, and five months later it was again
reduced, to less than one-half. Each male convict now received, as
provision for seven days, two and one-half pounds of flour, two pounds
of salt pork, and two pounds of rice, or pease. The rations of women and
children were even less. This food had been loaded into transports or
store-ships more than three years earlier. Of poor quality at best, its
condition after so long a period can well be imagined. It had lain in
the steaming holds of leaky vessels during the eight months' voyage. It
had been handled and rehandled, and had suffered all the damage that
time and exposure could work upon it. The flour was mouldy and alive
with weevils; the pork was no more than pieces of rancid fat, so
nauseating that only starving men could have swallowed and kept it
down--the few lean bits boiled away to nothing; the rice was a grey
powder, filled with worms. Governor Phillip was compelled to order that
rations should be issued daily, instead of weekly, for many of the
convicts could not command themselves, and would devour their week's
provisions at one meal. Then, in defiance of the most severe penalties,
they would steal the food of their mates, or plunder the poor gardens of
the settlement. The country about Sydney Cove was so barren that the
Governor was forced to order the greater part of the swine to be
slaughtered, because of lack of food and herbage to keep them alive. In
March 1790, it was known through the settlement that the food remaining
in the public stores would be exhausted in three months' time. Failing
the arrival of ships from England, our colony of near one thousand
inhabitants would face starvation.

We would have been more than human, at Blackwattle Bay, had we not fared
a little better than the inhabitants of Sydney. Nellie's vegetables, and
our game and fish, went to the hospital or into the public supplies, but
when I shot a wild dog or Dan captured a shark, we felt justified in
saving the almost inedible flesh for ourselves. As many as a score of
men were hunting for the settlement in those days, and game became more
and more scarce in the region of Port Jackson. On many a day Tom and I
came home empty-handed. All of Goodwin's fish was now needed for the
inmates of the hospital, fifty or sixty poor creatures who were more the
victims of starvation than of disease.

A change had come over Dan; he went about his duties in the same quiet
way, but the light of hope had gone out of him. There were several
others whose terms had expired; all shared Dan's belief that Government
had no intention of permitting any of them to see England again. Like
Goodwin, Tom Oakley had become embittered and taciturn. He believed, at
first, that Phoebe had left him with her parents' connivance, and
refused to see or speak with them from the day when we had returned home
to find Phoebe gone. I was thoroughly convinced, on the other hand, that
the Thynnes had known no more of their daughter's plans than Tom
himself. Feeling certain of the injustice Tom did Mortimer and his wife,
I played my part in bringing them together, and in the end the old
friendly relationship was resumed.

During the months of February and March, our relations with the blacks
became seriously strained. Gangs of the rougher sort of convicts were in
the habit of wandering about the country on Sundays or holidays,
ostensibly searching for the herb they called "sweet tea." In spite of
the Governor's warning and the severe punishments inflicted on men known
to have plundered the aborigines, the hungry convicts never missed an
occasion to steal fish or game from them, carrying home their weapons
and implements, and oftentimes breaking up their bark canoes. More than
one of the felons was murdered by the incensed blacks; the convicts
retaliated, in kind, and it became dangerous for an unarmed person to go
into the bush alone. The natives had great fear of a musket, though they
knew that firearms were harmless, once discharged. Pattagorang grew more
and more uneasy; he warned us to be on our guard and contrived to make
us understand that it was dangerous to separate when visiting distant
hunting grounds. The most hostile of all the tribes was that known as
"Bideegal," who inhabited the northern shores of Botany Bay.

Game had become so scarce and wary in the vicinity of the settlement
that we were obliged to go far afield. One day, late in March, after a
week of unsuccessful hunting, I set out at dawn to the southward,
resolved to spend a night in the bush rather than come home
empty-handed. When I ate my wretched midday meal I had seen no more than
a single small kangaroo, far out of range, and going at a great pace,
but toward evening, as I was circling to the west, I came on a pair of
emus, picking at the grass in a little glade. They had not seen me; I
began to stalk them, taking advantage of what cover there was, and
without the least suspicion that I was being stalked in my turn, by men
far more deeply versed in woodcraft than myself.

At length I crept within range. The male bird raised his head suddenly,
as if alarmed. I fired; he fell kicking in the grass while his mate went
off like the wind. My ramrod was in my hand when I heard some small
sound behind me and turned about. At that moment a spear struck me,
entering the right shoulder with such force that the barbed head was
driven clean through behind the shoulderblade, close to the backbone.
There was a wild yelling as half a dozen blacks came bounding toward me.
The blow of the spear had nearly knocked me down, and the weapon's
twelve-foot haft, dragging from my shoulder, caused great pain, but I
seized my musket by the barrel, preparing to defend myself as best I
could. Then I felt a crashing blow on the head, and knew no more.

                 *        *        *        *        *

When I regained my senses, my right arm and shoulder were afire with
pain, and I was so pitiably weak I could not stir. At first I could not
even guess where I lay. A man's voice asked:--

"How does he do?"

A small, cool hand was laid on my forehead and a woman's voice replied:
"No worse."

"The lad's as tough as oak. Such a crack on the head might have killed
an ox! I've no fear of the shoulder; the inflammation's going down. But
he may never recover from the concussion."

"You say he's a chance, though?"

"Aye. His skull's an inch thick.... I've a power of work to-day; will
you change the bandages, Miss Sally?"

Even then my numbed brain told me nothing. The patched, mouldy canvas of
a tent was overhead, with the afternoon sunlight streaming in through a
dozen small rents; I lay on a cot, with blankets pulled up to my chin.
Sally Munro was standing with her back to me, leaning over a basin in
which she was washing some cloths.

Presently she turned, and, seeing me conscious, gave a little cry and
came running to the bedside, to take my uninjured hand in hers.

"Don't try to speak, Hugh," she said. "It's all right."

I could do no more than give her a puzzled stare as she dipped a cloth
in cool water, wrung it out, and placed it on my forehead. Then she
began to feed me water with a spoon. My throat was parched with thirst
and my body seemed to absorb the water faster than Sally could raise the
spoon to my lips. She smiled.

"Drink," she said. "Surgeon White says you may have all you want."

I wanted to speak but Sally put her fingers over my lips. "You mustn't
talk. You're going to get well, Hugh. I'll tell you all in good time."

My eyes closed once more, and that is all I recollect until the morning
of the next day. The water Sally had given me worked some sort of
miracle, for when I awoke the fever was down, the inflammation of my
wound reduced, and the pain much less than on the preceding day. And I
was hungry, which I took for a good sign.

The sun was casting level beams of light through the holes in the wall
of my tent. There were the faint hum and bustle of the awakening
settlement, distant shouts, the barking of dogs on the other side of the
cove. I heard the drums beat and the voices of the convict overseers,
far and near, calling the rolls of the men about to start their work. I
wondered whether Sally were up and about, and listened eagerly for her
footstep outside the tent. I knew now that I was in Sydney, in one of
the old tents pitched when the hospital became overcrowded. I raised my
hand and fingered the great bruise on the back of my head.

Memory returned by slow degrees. I recollected shooting the emu, miles
distant from Sydney, on the northern shores of Botany Bay, and the
attack of the aborigines, but I could recall nothing that had happened
since. I wondered dully how much time had elapsed, and how Sally came to
be here, instead of on Norfolk Island with Captain O'Day and his wife.
Then I saw her slender figure in the doorway. She came straight to me,
leaning over to touch my forehead with her lips.

"You're better, sir. The fever's down, by half."

She gave me water, all I wished to drink, removed the bandages from my
shoulder, spread fresh ointment on the wounds, and bound them with the
clean cloths she had washed the day before. Gentle as her touch was, the
slight movements I was forced to make hurt abominably.

"There, that's finished," she remarked. "I know how it must hurt. Your
shoulder's not nearly as red as it was."

"I'm hungry," I whispered.

"Splendid! Surgeon White says you may have some broth whenever you want
it. Tom Oakley fetched in a fine kangaroo last night. Did you see him
this morning?"

I shook my head, and she went on: "He's slept beside you every night.
And Nellie Garth and the Goodwins have come often. You've staunch
friends, that's certain."

"When did you come, Miss Sally?"

"Only a day or two after you were hurt. The _Supply_ came to Norfolk to
bring back the officers and seamen marooned there when the _Sirius_ was
wrecked."

"Wrecked! The _Sirius_?"

"Yes; on the reef at Norfolk, but no lives were lost.... I must go,
now; the hospital is filled with sick. I'll fetch your broth when it's
ready."

The morning hours wore on, while I stared at the canvas overhead or at
the glimpse of the cove through the tent's open fly, dozing off from
time to time, and grateful merely to be alive. Surgeon White looked in
for a moment when Sally brought the broth.

"Well, young man," he said as he took my pulse, "you can thank God for a
thick skull. I wish all my sick had your constitution."

When he had gone Sally fed me the broth. Never have I enjoyed a meal as
I did that one, though my enjoyment owed more, perhaps, to the pretty
hands that fed me than to the excellence of the food itself. Each
spoonful seemed to give me fresh strength.

Sally was in and out of my tent throughout the day, but with the
hospital so crowded she had little time to herself. I slept the
afternoon long, and when I woke I found Oakley sitting beside me.

"So ye're out of the woods, lad?" he said.

"That I am--better every hour."

"Damme if I'd have believed, ten days back, that I'd ever see ye on the
mend, like this. I thought ye was a job for Ned Inching."

"Not this time. Ten days--have I been here as long as that?"

"Miss Sally didn't tell ye?"

"She hasn't allowed me to talk more than a minute or two at a time."

Tom nodded. "She's promised me a half hour, granted ye let me do the
talking. Aye, it's been nip-and-tuck with ye, lad."

He went on to tell me how I'd been found in the bush.

"And ye can thank old black Pat for that. Without him to track ye down,
ye'd ha' been dead long since and yer carcase et by the dingoes. Ye must
ha' broke the spear when ye fell; I found the after end of it. The
blacks wanted to keep the barbs, I reckon, and pulled six feet of it
through yer shoulder, point first. Then they stripped ye naked and made
off with the musket and the emu ye'd killed.... Has Miss Sally told
about the _Sirius_?"

"Only that she was wrecked on Norfolk Island, and no lives lost."

Tom nodded, soberly.

"There _was_ a loss, for the lot of us. God knows what'll come of it!
She was to go on to the Cape of Good Hope for flour and pork. Now
there's naught but the _Supply_ between us and starvation. It's believed
whatever supply ships has been sent from England must ha' been lost as
well.... But away with that. We'll manage somehow, like as not." He
gave me a keen glance. "Ye're pleased with yer nurse, I take it?"

"That I am!"

"Ye owe life to her, lad--no question there. I hope ye know what use to
make of it, now ye have it again?"

"What do you mean by that?" I asked.

"Answer that for yerself, if ye're not stone blind and have a tongue to
speak with," said Tom.

Those long weeks in the hospital proved that I had friends beyond any
man's deserts. Garth and Bella Goodwin prepared little dishes for me out
of their own scanty store of food. Goodwin and Oakley rarely missed a
day in coming to see me; Sabb and Ned Inching would drop in of an
evening, and the Thynnes as well. Sally's duties in the hospital were
far from light, yet she found time to spend many a half hour with me.
Sometimes she read to me; at others we spoke of the past, particularly
of our childhood days, hers on the fringes of the Canadian wilderness,
mine in the Maryland colony. I opened my heart to her as I had done to
no other, and acquainted her with every circumstance that had led to my
imprisonment and transportation. I knew, long before this, that I loved
Sally, and often, as I lay awake at night, my heart would be filled with
despair and bitterness at thought of my situation. It was unthinkable
that a felon, a transportee for life, could aspire to the hand of such a
girl, but I resolved that, as long as I lay ill, I would try to forget
all but the joy of her daily company.

I grew stronger rapidly, until I was at last permitted to walk out for a
little and bask in the afternoon sunshine. I had the feeling of rebirth
common to every man who has been at the brink of death. The world took
on a new beauty; the most commonplace objects appeared in a new light,
as though I had been gifted with new vision to behold them with.

One Sunday morning I had walked as far as Dawes Point, where I found
Inching and Nick Sabb stretched out at ease, enjoying their day of
complete idleness with a gusto which always seemed greater, in the case
of this pair, than with commonplace folk. "Sit ye down, Tallant, sit ye
down," said Nick, heartily. "Damme, if ye don't look as good as new
again!"

"So I am," I replied. "Surgeon White says I can return to Blackwattle
Cove, to-morrow."

"And Ned, here, had a place all marked out for ye at the buryin'
ground!"

"Aye," said Inching, with a grin; "as pretty a place, Tallant, as ye'd
wish to see, right alongside of old Mag Pallcat."

"What! Is she dead?" I asked.

Inching nodded, with an air of satisfaction.

"Them bones shall rise no more. And bones was all I had to bury. Ye mind
what a mountain of sin she was in Newgate? She would ha' weighed all of
fifteen stone. Aye, New South Wales is the place for alley cats and
Pallcats: makes angels of 'em in no time."

"How is it, Ned, that you don't mark the graves?" I asked. "You must
have forty or more in the burying ground by this time."

Inching nodded. "My town's growin' fast. Where's the need o' markers? I
ain't seen any weepin' kinfolk there of a Sunday. Far as that goes, I
know where every one of 'em's planted. I can call 'em by name, and give
ye a full catalogue of their good deeds. Do it before ye can spit."

"_I'll_ have a marker, mind that!" said Sabb.

Inching's face brightened.

"What, Nick! Ye mean to give me the joy of planting ye?"

"No, by God! Ye've done me dirt enough already, trapsticks! Ye'll not
have the pleasure of shovelin' six feet more on my carcase. I'll outlast
ye, no question o' that, but not for long mebbe, if the ships don't come
from England. I've clean forgot the taste o' food."

"What will ye have for the marker?" asked Inching.

"Somethin' neat, with a proper verse on it."

"No fear--I'll furnish it," said Inching.

               "Here lies Nick Sabb, taking his rest,
                Of many a cully he got the best."

"Aye, that wouldn't be far off it," said Sabb. "Ned, tell Tallant about
Pallcat. Ye mind the man she was livin' with, Hugh?"

"Tooley, the lumper, wasn't it?"

"That's the one. Tell him about Tooley's mournin', Ned."

"He'd thieved a full quart o' gin off the marines," said Inching, "and
damn my eyes if he didn't come to the buryin' ground to share some of it
with Pallcat! He'd half finished the bottle afore he come, else he'd
never been feelin' so generous-like. Down he squats on Pallcat's grave
and begins to talk to her like she was still alive. 'Mag,' says he, 'how
is it wi' ye where ye are? Thirsty, ain't it? Ye'd relish a dollop, I
shouldn't wonder? How's that?... Ye old bawdy-house bottle! Don't I
know it as well as yerself? Ain't I seen ye drink two quarts o' gin in
less'n two minutes? But Mag, mind where I be. 'Tain't much better than
where _ye_ are. But I don't forget ye, lass.' With that he pulls the
cork and pours mebbe three drops on Pallcat's grave. 'Twouldn't have
wetted a gnat's hair. 'There's a handsome kick in the guts for ye, Mag,'
says he; then he up-ended the rest of the bottle down his gullet in one
swig!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

I returned to Blackwattle Cove the following day, and now I come to an
event of such sacred memory, a time of such deep happiness, that I shall
pass it over with the briefest possible mention. It is not to be shared
with strangers, at any great length.

Since her return from Norfolk Island, Sally had become Surgeon White's
greatly valued assistant at the hospital. She had worked so hard, under
the primitive conditions of that place, that, at the end of a month, she
was herself in a condition to be a patient there, rather than a nurse.
At last Surgeon White had ordered her to rest, and she came to
Blackwattle Cove for the good of the air, and to be away from the
wretched, depressing life of the settlement. She stopped with the
Goodwins, and many a day did I pass in her company. In Pattagorang's
canoe, with himself for a paddler, we made excursions along the lonely
winding shores of the innumerable bays and coves of the great harbour,
and it was then that I learned what I had never dared to hope for--that
my deep love for Sally was as deeply returned. I have called this a time
of great happiness, but this is not wholly true, and the fault was mine.
Foolish man that I was, I could not forget that I had no right to the
happiness Sally offered me from the depths of her loving, generous
heart; and I went beyond all reason in pleading against myself, in
reminding her, over and over, of the future in store for the wife of a
transportee for life. My intentions were of the best, of course, but I
did my dear girl scant justice in supposing that she had not considered
this matter for herself, long before I brought it forward with such
wearisome repetition.

And so it was not until she was about to return to Sydney, to resume her
work in the hospital, when I had spoiled what might have been the pure
joy of our companionship by my anxiety lest she should discover, later,
that she had made a mistake in loving me, that we had the matter out for
the last time. I could go to the very spot, on Blackwattle Cove, where
Sally, having once more listened to my heart-burnings and
heart-searchings on her account, halted and faced me, her eyes filled
with tears.

"Hugh, I am not a child. I know my own mind and heart better than you
can know them. But if you won't have me, speak out and be done with it.
I can say no more, for very shame."

And there and then I put an end forever to my doubts and fears. That day
was the tenth of June, 1790, and I have celebrated it with thankfulness
for more than forty years.




CHAPTER XV. THE SECOND FLEET


One day, shortly after Sally's return to Sydney, I had been out with my
fowling piece on a fruitless search for game. Returning home, I found
the Thynnes at Goodwin's house. They doted on their grandson, now more
than two years old, and were miserable indeed if a week passed without
their seeing him. They had brought their own poor rations to be
contributed to our midday dinner, and Bella Goodwin was in tears as she
regarded the miserable portion of flour and so-called pork to serve as a
meal for eight people.

"Hush, now, Bella," Goodwin was saying. "There's no good cryin' over the
vittles. We'll just have to make out the best we can with what we've
got."

"It's slow starvation!" said Bella, miserably. "We'll die in this poor
mean land! That's what the Governor wishes, I'll warrant, so there'll be
more for his officers and the soldiers."

"Mrs. Goodwin, no," said Thynne, shaking his head soberly. "Governor
Phillip fares like ourselves. I've seen the food prepared for his own
kitchen, and it's no worse and no better than every convict has. And
I'll add this: he brought out from England three hundredweight of flour,
at his own expense, for his own use. He has given the whole of it to the
public stores, to be served out to all."

"Ye know that, Thynne?" asked Oakley.

"I do, for I heard it from the Commissary."

"He's an honest man, that may be said for him," Mrs. Thynne remarked.
"He's doing what he can to make the food last till the ships come from
England."

"Ships, ships, ships!" Mrs. Goodwin exclaimed, bitterly. "They lie when
they tell us of ships to come! There's none been sent, to my thinking.
If they have, they've been lost at sea."

"No luck, Hugh?" Goodwin asked.

I took my game bag by the bottom end and shook out one small cockatoo;
it wouldn't have weighed a pound, bones and all.

"What do you think?" I asked. "Must I carry it all the way to the
hospital? It wouldn't go far, amongst sixty."

It was agreed that we might add this poor bird to our unnamable stew,
and Bella accepted it with as much enthusiasm as the gift deserved.

Whilst the meal was being prepared the rest of us took seats outside to
enjoy the warmth of the midday sun. Thynne sat with Tom's boy on his
knee. A fine sturdy lad he would have been, with decent food to grow on.
As the matter stood, he had not done badly, for Garth gave him a gill of
milk morning and night, the rest of our scant supply going to the
hospital.

"He's not a Thynne, my love," said Mortimer, holding the boy at arm's
length, and regarding him fondly. "At least, he's not a perfect Thynne."

"I should think not, indeed," said Mrs. Thynne, with a tight smile.
"Neither is his grandfather."

Tom laughed heartily.

"I'd never have believed it, ma'am, without your word for it. Like
enough, that's just as it should be."

"So it is, so it is," said Thynne; "but Tom, the boy is your very image.
I see it more and more.... Hugh Thynne Oakley--there's a happy
combination of names! Hugh for true, Thynne for win, and Oakley...
bless me! What does Oakley rhyme with? No matter; I'm convinced that
little Hugh will combine in his character all the virtues and none of
the faults, small as these are, of his namesakes."

Bella had gotten over her fit of despondency by the time the meal was
ready. We didn't linger over it--each one downed the nauseating mess as
quickly as possible; then Goodwin and I set out in the boat for the
signal station on the South Head, calling at Sydney Cove on the way. It
was one of Goodwin's tasks to carry the weekly relief to the lookout
station on South Head, where a constant watch was kept for the ships
that never came. On this occasion we carried down a midshipman from the
_Sirius_, Southwell by name, and four marines that made up his detail.
Southwell was an intelligent young fellow, but so desperately homesick
that he had sunk into a state of chronic melancholy. His four companions
were as dejected-looking as himself, and climbed down the ladder at the
pierhead in glum silence. Duty at the signal station had once been
welcomed, but the monotony of keeping watch over that empty sea had long
since ceased to make it so. We rounded Bennelong Point and headed east
for the four-mile run to South Head. Goodwin held the tiller. Southwell
and his men sat facing aft, as though to avoid until the last moment the
sight of the lookout where they were doomed to spend another week of
useless vigil.

Presently Goodwin said: "Look yonder, Mr. Southwell. Will they be having
a game with us at the station?"

I was staring ahead at the same moment, so taken aback I could not
believe in what I saw--the ensign run up the halyards of the tall pole
on the Head, and now fluttering out in the breeze.

Southwell turned in his seat, then rose to his feet, steadying himself
by the mast. The flag was undeniably there. Southwell turned to us
again, an expression of incredulity, of blank astonishment, upon his
face.

"The ships," he said, in a trembling voice. "It can mean nothing but
that! The ships from home!"

"I'd not be too sure, sir," one of his men replied. "It might be the
_Supply_ comin' in again."

Governor Phillip, despairing of the arrival of the long-awaited
store-ships from England, had been obliged to send the _Supply_ to
Batavia, in the Dutch East Indies, for a cargo of rice, salt beef, and
whatever other provision might be had there, for the food in the public
stores was so nearly exhausted he dared wait no longer. The _Supply_ had
been in constant service, without overhaul, for more than three years
and was in no fit condition for so long a voyage. We now feared to learn
that it was, indeed, the _Supply_ returning; that she had met bad
weather and been compelled to put back for repairs.

But as we neared the station, our doubts vanished. We saw one of the men
from the station hastening down the path to the cove on the west side of
the Head, and we could guess, from his behaviour, that it was not the
_Supply_ that had been sighted. He ran back and forth along the shore
waving his arms like a madman and shouting with joy as we came to a
landing.

"What do you see, Thompson?" Southwell called.

"They're in view from the Head, sir," the man shouted. "It's the fleet
from England, certain!"

"How many?"

"Two so far. They're hull-down, but comin' up fast!"

We made the boat secure and hastened up the rocky path to the station.
The officer Southwell was to relieve had the spyglass trained on the
distant vessels, and we all examined them in turn. Small they looked
against the measureless floor of sea, but as they neared we agreed that
they were of greater tonnage than any of the ships, save the _Sirius_,
that had come out in the First Fleet, and there was no doubt that they
were English. The breeze was fresh and from the north, and they came
steadily on, the sunlight of late afternoon gleaming on the sails from
time to time. A blessed sight it was to the eyes of men in our
condition, who had all but lost belief in the existence of an outside
world.

Southwell and his men took over at the signal station, and the relieved
detail, having waited until the ships were no more than three leagues
off the entrance to the harbour, hastened down to the boat to carry the
news to Sydney. The flag had been seen from Bennelong Point, and we met
Governor Phillip's boat with himself and the Judge Advocate on board,
coming out of Sydney Cove as we entered it. They passed close alongside,
and we gave them what news we had.

Every man, woman, and child in the settlement able to stir abroad was at
the waterfront as we tied up at the pier. As we made our way through
that throng of half-starved scarecrows who all but mobbed us in their
pathetic eagerness for news, I wished that His Majesty's ministers, in
England, might have looked upon the scene. It was one to have touched
even their hearts; to have made them more mindful of their duty toward
the wretched folk they had exiled and forgotten, at the far ends of the
earth. Famine was written plain in every face--in the hollow eyes, the
sunken cheeks, the blotched and sallow skin stretched tightly over the
bones. Their bodies were mere skeletons, having scarcely any protection
against the cold of this winter season. Not one in a score had even the
remains of shoes to his feet. Shoulders, elbows, knees, hipbones, showed
through shreds and rags of clothing that would have been scorned as
garments by the poorest beggars of London.

"Aye, they're coming--'tis the ships from England, certain--they're not
five miles off by now," we repeated over and over again to the forlorn
beings who plied us with questions from all sides. The day being Sunday,
all the people were at liberty, and marines and convicts alike milled
along the inner shore of the cove or hastened out to Bennelong Point in
the hope of catching sight of the ships as they came down the harbour;
but no ships appeared, and late in the afternoon the Governor's boat
returned with word that, owing to the failing of the breeze, the ships
were standing off till morning, outside the Heads. At sunset the
convicts were ordered back to their quarters and Goodwin and I were
about to set off for home when we received word, from Mr. Palmer, the
Commissary, to leave our boat at Sydney and return, with Oakley, at dawn
the next morning ready to help in the work of unloading stores.

It was a night of nights at Blackwattle Cove. Nellie Garth--stolid,
patient, long-suffering Nellie--let the tears flow unchecked at thought
of the letters she would receive from her old neighbour, Mrs. Windle,
with news of her dear Nat.

"There'll be a dozen, that's certain," she said. "Sarah Windle's not one
to forget any small thing I'd wish to hear about the lad and the place
and all."

"A dozen?" said Tom. "God bless ye, Nellie, there'll be twice the number
and more, I shouldn't wonder."

"I never thought to see the day; I never did," said Mrs. Goodwin,
walking the floor of the small bare room. "Dan's papers will come, and
we'll be free to go home by one of the ships that's fetchin' 'em! Glory
be, there's many a poor creature here will be made happy the morn, one
way or another!"

I will now tell, as briefly as I can, what happened on the following
day. I have no wish to dwell upon the events of it, for the memory of
that day, and those immediately following, is a horror that has remained
with me these forty years. I thought I had seen, in Newgate prison, as
black an example of man's inhumanity to man as England could furnish;
but it was not until the arrival at Port Jackson of the Second Fleet of
convict transports that I realized to what depths of ferocious cruelty
one species of the human animal can sink. Three transports, the
_Neptune_, _Scarborough_, and _Surprise_, with the store-ship
_Justinian_, anchored in Sydney Cove after a five months' voyage from
Spithead. They had left England with 1017 convicts on board. Of that
number, 281, above one in four, died on the passage, by far the greater
number victims of the cruelty of the masters, or, better, monsters, of
the transports, and their underlings.

Before proceeding, I had best explain the iniquitous system for the
transportation of convicts prevailing at this date. Some months before
the time set for an emptying of gaols and prisons throughout the
Kingdom, His Majesty's Government would advertise for bids from firms of
merchants and shipowners for the carrying of the convicts to New South
Wales. The firm making the lowest bid would, commonly, be given the
contract and would engage, upon the payment of a fixed sum per convict,
to provide transportation and food for the human cargo. Nothing was
stipulated as to the kind of provisions to be furnished--this was left
to the tender mercies of the contractors themselves; but the worst
feature of the bargain struck was that the merchant contractors received
payment from Government for the convicts embarked: no clause in the
agreement required that they be delivered, alive, at the end of the
voyage. Therefore, no interest for the preservation of life was created
in the owners or charterers of the transports, and the dead were more
profitable (if profit alone was consulted and the good name of their
house was no consideration) than the living.

The convicts in the First Fleet did not suffer by this vicious system,
for Governor Phillip, a humane and honourable man, was present to see
that they were not starved and misused. The case in the Second Fleet, of
which I am now to speak, was far otherwise. The Government contract had
been awarded to a London firm, Messrs. Calvert, Camden and King, and
every convict who survived the voyage in their ships, or who witnessed
the arrival of the fleet at Sydney Cove, will wish that their names, and
those of their ships' captains, may be infamous forever.

Goodwin, Oakley, and I, walking fast along our well-beaten path from
Blackwattle to Sydney Cove, knew nothing of all this at the moment. It
was a clear winter morning, almost cold enough for frost, and the land
lay shadowy and still in the first faint light of approaching day.
Although we had decent clothing of our own brought out from England, we
were sparing of its use, and wore, commonly, the garments of the
Government issue, coarse Osnaburg shirts and trousers, so patched and
mended by Garth and Mrs. Goodwin as to be past even their skill for
further repair. They offered little protection from the biting air of
early morning, but we took no thought of cold as we hastened toward
Sydney. We believed, as did everyone else, that the coming ships were
not transports but store-ships bringing us the long-awaited supplies:
food, clothing, stout shoes, tools, medicines for the sick, soap,
blankets--all the innumerable things which most folk take for granted in
life but which had been lacking with us for many weary months.

"Lads, think of it!" said Tom. "Full bellies again for all! Clothing for
all! By God! The Governor should make this a holiday. If I was master
here, I'd give the starved frozen people a day to remember for once in
their lives!"

"Like enough he will," Goodwin replied.

"I'd think first of the empty bellies," I put in. "Double rations all
round for the start."

"Aye," said Tom, "with the fresh clothing to come directly after. And
then I'd say: 'Good people, ye've done well enough in these cruel and
bitter times; better than I expected. Ye've been half-starved and
half-frozen in the midst of winter, through no lack in my power to
remedy. I promised ye relief when the ships came, and that ye shall now
have. Here's shoes for yer naked feet, stockings for yer naked legs;
shirts and trousers for the men and blouses and warm flannel petticoats
for the women. Bring the filthy rags ye may now put off to the parade,
and we'll burn 'em in a common fire.'"

"There'd be little enough to burn," said Goodwin.

"Hugh, will ye look at him," said Oakley, giving Goodwin a clap on the
shoulder. "He's near to bursting with the joy he feels at thought of
home. Speak up, Dan! Take the full good of it. There's no call to be so
delicate for our sakes."

"Ye think it likely the papers will come?" Goodwin asked.

"No doubt of it," said Tom, with such conviction that Goodwin's face
lighted up. "It's not a thing would be twice neglected. Ye mind what
Thynne told us of the Governor's despatches sent home by the transports
we came out in? Thynne copied 'em himself, and there was full mention of
our missing records. The letters from the Governor would have reached
London well before these supply ships sailed. Aye, the papers have come.
Take that as certain."

"I'll wait and see," Goodwin replied; "and say naught to Bella till I'm
sure. I doubt she could bear a second disappointment."

We hurried on, impatient to reach the rise of ground where we could
overlook the settlement, and there we halted to take in the welcome
sight below. We were puzzled by the appearance of the crowd that
thronged the shoreline on both sides of the pier.

"Aye, the Governor's given 'em liberty for the day," said Tom, "else
there'd be no such swarm as that."

"Quiet, ain't they?" said Goodwin. "Like as if they can't believe the
ships has come."

There was no stir and movement in the crowd as there had been the
previous afternoon; no running here and there for a better view, and not
a shout or a hail, from ship or shore, broke the morning stillness. We
looked at one another, not knowing what to make of the strange frozen
silence, then pushed on at a faster pace.

We were skirting the burying ground, with its forlorn hillocks of
unmarked graves, when we saw Ned Inching coming up the path from the
settlement. He spied us at the same moment and halted.

"What news, Ned?" Tom called. "There's naught amiss, yonder at the
beach?"

Inching had a gnarled and calloused heart, well able to withstand the
heaviest shocks of time and circumstance, but we always knew when he was
moved by the sour smile that wrinkled his leathery face.

"They ain't store-ships," he said.

"What!" Oakley exclaimed.

Inching shook his head.

"Wait. Ye'll see summat, directly. No, they ain't store-ships. They're
transports. They been chuckin' the dead into the cove. They's six bodies
washed in, up to now. We'll have work aplenty today, me and my men."

We were about to hasten on, when a procession of a dozen men, bearing
canvas-covered litters fetched from the hospital, appeared around a turn
in the path. Each litter was carried by two men, and upon them lay the
pitiful remains of a woman, a boy of fifteen or sixteen, and four men.
Three were stark naked; the others had some remnants of filthy rags,
dripping with sea water, clinging to the huddled forms.

The men put down the litters, and we stood staring at them in silence.

"God in heaven!" Oakley exclaimed, in a low voice. "Who could ha' done
this!"

"Who?" said one of the bearers. "Who but the bloody masters of the
ships? The poor bastards has been starved to death."

"Food, lads!" another put in, with a harsh laugh. "By Christ, here it
is! Forehanded, ain't they, in sendin' it ashore?"

Goodwin, Oakley, and I waited to hear no more. At the waterfront,
convicts and marines together were staring like folk possessed at three
more bodies just then being dragged in from the shallows to the beach.
Mutterings now began to be heard, and shrill cries of grief and rage and
horror from some of the women. Offshore, we saw the Governor's boat
lying alongside one of the transports. A moment later he appeared at the
gangway with Colonel Johnson of the marines, and came down the ladder to
embark for shore. Two six-oared boats lay by our pier, their men
standing by for orders. Goodwin, Oakley, and I, with a fourth man
detailed to go with us, waited with the rest.

Several officers of the Civil Establishment were on the wharf when the
Governor returned. They conversed apart there, for a moment, and then
came toward us, the crowd falling back on either side as they
approached. The Governor's face was pale and hard-set and he looked
straight before him as he passed through. We learned that the transports
had brought, not only convicts, but the first contingent of soldiers of
the New South Wales Corps, sent out to replace the marines of the First
Fleet whose period of service would soon expire. Presently our soldiers
marched down from their barracks to the music of fifes and drums. They
had prepared to meet the newly arrived Corps as best they could, but
they were a sorry-looking company in their ragged faded uniforms. Their
last-issue shoes, like those of the convicts, had long since been worn
past further mending, and nine in ten of them were barefoot. The
convicts were herded back from the beach and the marines drew up in
platoons to one side of the wharf. The boats from the transports were
now coming ashore with the members of the new Corps, and through the
next hour the work of disembarking them, with their wives, children, and
baggage, continued.

An effort was made to mark this memorable occasion with a show, at
least, of pomp and circumstance, but the attempt was a dismal failure.
Officers and soldiers alike, of the New Corps, looked about them with
expressions on their faces that revealed only too plainly their
astonishment and disappointment. Scattered along the shores on both
sides of the cove they saw lines of wretched mud-plastered hovels, and
around them was a crowd of ragged, emaciated beings, the very children
of famine, giving them a foretaste of what their own life was to be in
this outpost of Empire.

Long before the last of them were ashore, rumours were spreading
swiftly, from mouth to mouth, through the crowd: all of the ships were
floating hells, filled with dead and dying; of more than one thousand
convicts embarked, half the number had died on the voyage; the bodies we
had already seen were of convicts who had died during the night and had
been thrown overboard by the captain of the _Neptune_, who expected the
ebb tide to carry them seaward before they could be washed ashore.

It was not until nearly midday that our shore boats were ordered out to
the transports to help in the work of disembarking the convicts.
Goodwin's boat was sent to the _Neptune_, where, we were told, Surgeon
White would give us our directions. We found him awaiting us at the
gangway. As a usual thing, he had an excellent command over his
feelings, but on this occasion I could see that he was holding them in
check only with the greatest difficulty.

"This way," he barked. "Come along, now! Make haste!"

He led the way to the forehatch, and there we were halted by the
appalling stench that poured up from below. I had believed that five
months in Newgate and eight months aboard the _Charlotte_ had hardened
me for all time to horror of that smell, but I quailed before it once
more, as did the others. The surgeon gave us a grim look.

"It's got you, has it?" he said. "You'll heave your insides out before
this day's work is done. Men, I'm warning you: the 'tween-decks of the
_Charlotte_ was heaven itself compared with what you're about to see
here. Work as fast as you can. When you can stand it no longer, come up
for air. Now follow me."

Down we went to the orlop deck, and it was like a descent into hell.
There had been packed into this horrible place 330 men and women. Death
had mercifully taken nearly one third of the number before the vessel
reached Port Jackson, and those who remained were so frightfully reduced
by disease and starvation as to have neither the will nor the power to
help themselves. By the dim light of three or four lanterns swung from
the beams we saw forms that looked scarcely human, some half, others
quite naked, lying in bunks without beds or bedding. I do not believe
that the worst slave ship that ever sailed from Africa could have shown
so terrible a scene of human misery. Men whose bodies were mere
skeletons lay in their own filth, their rags of clothing alive with
vermin. Many had no longer the strength to cry out; others, who wished
only to die where they lay, begged us not to touch them, and groaned
pitifully, cursing us in feeble voices as we took them from their bunks.
Not one in a dozen had the strength to climb the ladder to the upper
deck. Most of them were dragged or pushed up from hand to hand, and
swung over the ship's side in slings to the waiting boats. Some fainted
when brought to the open air, some died upon deck, and others in the
boats before they could be carried to the beach. Upon reaching the shore
many were not able to walk, stand, or stir themselves in the least. Some
crept up the beach on their hands and knees; some were carried upon the
backs of men waiting to receive them.

All through the afternoon the work of unloading these miserable beings
continued, and night had fallen before the last of them had left the
transports.

From what I have already written of the starved condition of the
settlement before the coming of this Second Fleet of transports, my
readers will be able to picture for themselves the desperate situation
on this night of June 20. The small rude shelter that served as a
hospital had accommodation for no more than sixty inmates, and at this
time it was filled with the sick from the settlement itself. Between
three and four hundred of the convicts just landed needed immediate
medical care and there was not even shelter for them unless the old
half-rotten tents in which we had lived at first could be called
shelter. One hundred of these tents were brought out from the storehouse
and quickly erected in lines along the beach. Each had accommodation for
four people, and in these the sick were compelled to lie on the bare
ground, through a bitterly cold night, with one blanket among four for
covering. The Sydney convicts forgot their own misery in the presence of
these others whose sufferings were so much worse than their own. They
showed a humanity, a generosity, in sharing their poor rags of clothing
with the naked frozen people in the tents that did them honour.
Themselves enfeebled by hardship and long privation of the most
elementary necessities, they laboured the night long, fetching grass for
the sick to lie on and wood for the fires that were lighted along the
rows of tents.

During the early part of the night, Goodwin, Oakley, and I were employed
in carrying some of the weakest of the convict women to huts in the
settlement where room was made for them to lie out of the bitter cold.
We were returning from one of these journeys when we heard a forlorn
cry, "Dan! Dan!" and saw Bella Goodwin running toward us. She and Nellie
Garth had come over from Blackwattle Cove early in the afternoon to see
the ships, and none had worked harder than themselves, or to better
purpose, in caring for the sufferers.

Bella clutched her husband's arm, unable to speak for a moment. She hid
her face against his breast while Dan patted her shoulder, gently. We
thought she had been overcome, for the moment, by the pitiful sights on
every hand, and there were enough, certainly, to challenge the stoutest
heart.

"There, Bella," said Dan. "Ye'd best take some rest now. Ye and Nellie
have done yer share and more for the poor creatures."

"Dan, it's Nellie Garth's boy! The lad she's told us about time and
again! He's here!"

"What are ye saying, Bella?" Oakley broke in. "Ye tell us..."

"It's him... her lad, Nat! Nellie's just found him, yonder in one of
the tents!"

She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, the poor little fellow! I doubt
if he lives till day!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was about three in the morning when we set out for Blackwattle Cove.
There were the Goodwins, Oakley, Nellie Garth, and myself. Dan and Tom
carried Nat Garth on a litter, Nellie walking beside him, with Bella
Goodwin and I following. The waning moon was shining in a clear sky, and
our breath came out in clouds of frosty vapour. I don't recollect that a
word was spoken save by Goodwin, who held the front handles of the
litter. "Mind the stone," or "Mind the log," he would say over his
shoulder to Oakley as we wound this way and that over the uneven ground.

Bella halted and took me by the sleeve; the others moved on, not heeding
us. "Wait," she said, in a low voice. "Let them get ahead.... They'll
find him dead when they reach the house. I'd not see Nellie at the
moment."

She seated herself on a stone by the side of the path and covered her
face with her hands. When she had recovered a little, we went on.

"Hugh, if ye'd seen her when she first knew the lad!" she added in a
heartsick voice. "Miss Sally was with us, and we was givin' what help we
could, like the others, amongst the tents. We come to one where five was
laid, with but a bit of old canvas to cover them, and the one who was
strongest amongst 'em had hogged it all for himself. The tent was old
and rotten, all holes and patches, and the light come through from one
of the fires beyond, but naught of the warmth. The four others lay on
the bare ground, perished with cold, and one poor skeleton--that was
Nat, but she didn't know it then--had not a rag to his body. We thought
he was dead till he moved a little. Miss Sally had gone to the hospital
then. Nellie slipped off her under petticoat to cover the poor naked
body. 'We'll carry him out to the fire, Bella,' said she, but first we
took the rag of canvas from him that had it all and covered the others
again. Then, with her petticoat round him, Nellie lifted the boy, and
'twas not till she'd brought him to the fire that she saw 'twas her own
lad. And he knew her, and put his poor sticks of arms around her neck. I
came to seek Dan directly I knew the truth, though I can scarce believe
it yet. The poor lad! The poor abused little creature! How can it be
he's here? Would he have leave to come, to seek his mother? Oh, the
pitiful sight of him! He'll not live, that's certain!"

The others had a fire going when we arrived and a kettle of water
heating over it. Nat was in Nellie's bed in the next room. She came out,
presently, to fetch the water, but she wanted no help. There was no door
between the two rooms, only a canvas curtain, and we heard the splashing
of the water as she washed him. Then Nat spoke, only a word or two, and
we heard Nellie say: "There, Nat. Rest, lad. It's all right now. It's
all right," and there was silence after that. Half an hour later she
came to say that he was sleeping. Goodwin, Oakley, and I went to the
other house, leaving the two women to keep watch.




CHAPTER XVI. GARTH'S VENGEANCE


It was on a Monday night that we brought Nat to our place. All the rest
of the week Nellie nursed him, never leaving the room for more than a
moment or two. She knew from the first, I think, that there was little
hope, but she clung to his life for him, heartening and encouraging him
in every way she could. Nat was conscious all the while, but so weak
that he scarce had the strength to speak above a whisper. He died on the
Saturday morning, with Nellie sitting by him, holding his hand, and we
buried him the same day, on a green rise shaded by one tall gum tree,
overlooking the cove. Garth shed no tears in our presence, then or
later. She walked away while Goodwin and I were filling the grave, and
was gone till nightfall. Mrs. Goodwin was the heartbroken one, if tears
are ever an indication of true misery, but she understood that no
comfort we might offer could be of service to Nellie.

On the next day, Sunday, Garth had gone to the grave to plant a border
of shrubs around it. She wanted no help in this task, and Tom and I were
sitting in the dooryard, watching the distant lonely figure. Presently
we saw Nick Sabb coming along the path from Sydney, accompanied by a man
and a woman, whom we guessed were convicts arrived in one of the
transports. The man was a big-framed fellow, pale and hollow-eyed, who
looked as though the walk from the settlement had all but exhausted him.
The woman wore a patched and faded shawl over her shoulders and an old
quilted petticoat hung at an angle from her bony hips. Her scant grey
hair was twisted in a tight knot at the back of her head, and her quick
squirrel-like movements and small harsh voice revealed a tough spirit in
the shriveled little body. Their name was Peters, and they had come out
in the _Neptune_. Mrs. Peters made it known at once that she was not a
felon, but a free woman who had accompanied her husband, condemned to
seven years' transportation for stealing a fishnet. Before the transport
had left Portsmouth she had been entrusted with a letter for Mistress
Nellie Garth, and she was bound to deliver it into the hands of no one
else. Mrs. Goodwin and Dan, seeing the visitors, came over from their
house, and Tommy Goodwin was sent for Garth. Sabb explained that Mrs.
Peters had been given the letter by a woman who came to see Nat the day
before sailing. "But ye say ye can't call her name?" he asked, turning
to Mrs. Peters.

"It'll come in a minute," said Mrs. Peters. "She was that grieved,
cryin' over the lad and wringin' her hands, I thought 'twas hers till
she told me the mother was here."

"That would be no one but Mrs. Windle," said Oakley.

"So it was, sir, and she give me five shillin' to see the letter was
give to the mother's own hands, and that I'll do. The young 'un's here
with her?"

"He's dead," said Mrs. Goodwin, her lips trembling. "We buried him
yesterday."

"I looked to hear it," said Mrs. Peters. There was no emotion, in voice
or manner, as she spoke. "The wonder is we ain't all dead with him. Look
at my man! Fourteen stone he weighed when he was catched. Who'd ever
think it!... Be ye all convicts here? Ye've a sight better lodgin's
than them in the town yonder."

"I'd say naught about the voyage to the boy's mother when she comes,"
said Goodwin.

The little woman sat forward with a jerk, and her black eyes snapped.

"No more we won't, if she don't prick us to it; but if she's bound to
know we'll not scant the truth. 'Twas murder, murder, murder, from first
to last! And so I'd tell the Governor of this place if the chance was
given."

"That we can believe, ma'am, from them we've seen brought ashore," said
Goodwin, "but 'twill serve no turn, now, to tell Mrs. Garth."

"What is it ye say, Dan?" And we turned to find Nellie standing in the
doorway. She nodded to Sabb as she entered the room and stood looking at
the strangers.

"Be ye Mrs. Garth?" asked the woman.

Nellie nodded, without speaking.

"Then this letter's yourn, ma'am, and its none so clean, as ye see, for
I had no means to keep it so."

Garth took the letter, turning it over slowly in her hands; then she put
it in her petticoat pocket, and took a seat facing the bearer of it.

"Ye came in the _Neptune_?" she asked.

"So we did, ma'am."

"And ye saw my boy, times, on the voyage?"

"Not me, for I was amongst the women, but my man was chained next to the
lad the five months long."

"Chained?" asked Nellie, in a cold hard voice.

"Nellie, there's naught to be gained in speaking of the voyage," said
Tom, "for it's done with and past mending. Will ye tell us, Mrs. Peters,
or yer husband, if ye know, what the lad was sent for?"

"Wait," said Garth, in the same cold even voice. "This is my affair, and
I'll know what happened to my boy.... Chained?" she repeated, turning
to Peters.

The man now spoke for the first time, in a dead voice, contrasting
strangely with that of his wife.

"We was all in chains, ma'am, from the time we left England till the day
afore we fetched the land here."

"Homeless dogs was never so starved and misused!" Mrs. Peters broke in,
clenching her small bony fists. "Hearken to this: there was above five
hundred of us in the _Neptune_, in the dark stinking hole deep in the
ship, with but two hours in the twenty-four to be on deck. It was
horrible for us women, but a hundred times worse for the men. They was
chained from first to last and lay body against body, with no room even
to turn on the boards."

"What is he called, the captain of the ship?"

"Called? I'd call him beast, devil, murderer, and his officers with him.
They never came near us to see if we lived or died."

"Ye lay next my boy?" Garth asked, turning to the man.

"Nellie, there's no need to go into it now," Tom began, but Garth cut
him short.

"Hush! I'll have the truth."

"Then ye shall have it, Mrs. Garth," said the woman, "for if ever a lad
was murdered, 'twas yer own son, and scores with him. I can't give ye
the true numbers, but I'll say one in three died on the voyage and their
bodies were cast into the sea like filth. Dick, speak up now and tell
her the whole of it."

Then, in a dull voice, with the air of one so beaten down by hardship
and privation that he no longer had the strength to feel grief or anger
or horror,--only a kind of helpless melancholy, in the relation of past
events,--the husband told us the story of the voyage. I shall not repeat
it here. It was a tale of cruelty, greed, and indifference on the part
of Captain Narker and his underlings in the _Neptune_ the truth of which
has long since been made public. Human history has few darker pages to
show than that which concerns the treatment of the convicts who came out
to New South Wales in the Second Fleet.

Garth heard him through, asking a question now and then as the story
touched upon Nat, and Mrs. Peters prompted her husband lest any detail
of the horrors should be forgotten or passed over. At the end of it
Nellie thanked Mrs. Peters for her kindness in bringing the letter; then
she went off alone to read it.

That same evening, after Sabb had returned with the visitors to Sydney,
the Goodwins, Oakley, and I, having finished our supper, were waiting
for Nellie, who was alone in her room at the other house. She came in
presently, for a moment only.

"Ye'll wish to see Mrs. Windle's letter," she said. With that, she laid
it on the table and went out again.

"Read it aloud, Hugh," said Oakley.

This was the first letter received by any of us since we had left
England. Mrs. Goodwin lighted our homemade lamp and set it at my elbow.
The letter was dated from Portsmouth, January 16, 1790, the day before
the _Neptune_ sailed.

    Dear Nellie:--

    When this letter comes to your hand, I hope and pray ye'll not
    think hard of your old friend and neighbour for what's come to
    poor Nat. I did the best I could to comfort him and do for him
    like as if he was one of my own. But oh, Nellie, I could see how
    it was with him from the day ye was parted, though he said not a
    word of it. He grieved his heart out day and night, and he come
    to the point where he couldn't abide the waiting. That's all
    there is to say of it. He was bound to come out to ye, somehow,
    and took the only way there was.

    Last July he went off without a word to any of us here. I was at
    my wit's end with worry and hunting high and low. Then we found
    he'd gone to London and was took up by the constables for
    stealing three silk handkerchiefs hung to dry in an areaway. He
    was held for the Quarter-Sessions at the Guildhall, and being
    such a lad and his first offense, he was sent to the Fleet for
    three months. And not a Sabbath, Nellie, one of us didn't go to
    visit him and take him what little comforts we could.

    I knew why he'd done it. A better, honester lad never lived, and
    he'd no more steal than you or me or one of my own lads, save he
    saw no way but that to be sent to ye. When I had him home again
    I talked and talked with him and begged him to wait, but there
    was no way I could get him to promise he would. And it wasn't a
    fortnight till he was away again. This time he was took up for
    stealing draper's goods to the value of thirty shillings from a
    shop in Great Hart Street. For that he's sent for seven years.

    Oh, Nellie, like enough it's my fault, but still I don't see how
    I could have stopped him. He had but the one thought, to see his
    mother, and seven years is forever for a boy to wait.

    I write this from Portsmouth and the transports will sail
    to-morrow if wind and weather permits. I've brought Nat comforts
    and clothes and all needful for the voyage, and if he wins
    through to ye, safe and sound, I'll say it was God's will and
    all for the best he should go. Nat can give ye the news of all
    here. I'm that heartsick I can say no more.

                                                    Your Friend,
                                                       Sarah Windle

Feeling ran high in the settlement toward the masters and officers of
the transports, but none was so deeply hated as the captain of the
_Neptune_. What the officials of the colony were thinking we did not
know, having little connection with them, but it was believed by the
convicts that Governor Phillip would, surely, set an inquiry afoot to
fix the guilt for the ill-treatment of convicts which had resulted in
281 deaths in a total of 1017 embarked. And this was not the full
number, for many, as in Nat Garth's case, survived the voyage only to
die on shore. And five hundred more were so wasted by disease that the
poor resources of the settlement were taxed to the uttermost to take
care of them. But no inquiry was made, and it soon became clear that
none was intended. We did not know, then, that Governor Phillip was to
make a full report to the Home Office of the horrible conditions in the
Second Fleet, and that his indignation equaled our own. The convicts,
with the fatalism of their kind, accepted a situation they were
powerless to remedy.

All but one, and that was Nellie Garth; but before I speak of that I
will tell, briefly, of the events following the arrival of the ships.

Goodwin, Oakley, and I were busy the whole of this time, helping to
carry ashore the supplies brought by the _Justinian_. All the people
were put upon full rations once more, and every convict, male and
female, received a new blanket, a pair of shoes, and an outfit of
clothing. A portable hospital, in frame, came by the _Justinian_. This
was speedily set up, and as many of the sick as could be accommodated
were transferred to it from the tents where they had lain from the day
when they were brought ashore.

Somehow, the word got about that the missing papers with the dates of
conviction and the terms of service of the First Fleet convicts had
arrived with the despatches from the Home Office, but no word of the
matter was given out from Government House. Goodwin waited with what
patience he could muster, but as day followed day, and none of the
orders or proclamations mentioned the freed men, Goodwin gathered half a
dozen of those whose time, like his own, was out, and a petition was
prepared and signed by them humbly begging an audience with Governor
Phillip. This was granted, and once more Dan, with Bella's help, dressed
himself in his old wedding suit and set out for Sydney.

He returned late in the evening; it was like the other time when he had
gone so hopefully to see the Governor, thinking that he would be free to
return home by the _Fishburn_; but on this second occasion there were
none of us asleep when he came home. Bella ran to the door when we heard
his step, and the moment we saw his face we knew what he had to tell.

"Dan... they... they didn't give ye the paper?" Bella asked.

Goodwin fumbled in his coat pocket and drew out a document which he
handed to her in silence. She quickly opened and read it, her face
lighting up as her eyes ran over the lines.

"But... ye're free! Here it is, writ out, with the Governor's name,
and the stamp and all!"

"Aye, so it is... but we're not to go. We're not ever to go, if so be
they can hold us here." He seated himself by the table, gazing dully
before him for a moment; then he struck the board a mighty blow with his
fist, and his eyes blazed with anger.

"The villains! The dirty rogues! I'm free; there's the paper to say it.
I've paid seven years of life for what I've done, and my time's out. But
home's thousands of leagues off, and how are we to get there?"

"But ye've money for the passage, Dan," said Oakley. "And here's the
ships..."

"Aye, but they won't take us. I been to every one. They say it s not
allowed, in the charter, to carry any freed men home. Its all clear now!
I see why we've been sent to the world's end. It's not meant that any of
us shall see England again. Seven years, fourteen years, life--it's all
one. We're here till we die."

Garth sat with her elbows propped on the table, gazing at him
stony-eyed.

"I could ha' warned ye what to expect," said she, "for I feared it from
the first."

"Hold hard," said Oakley. "I'll get this straight. Tell us what was said
by the Governor."

"He had the records brought of the five of us there present," said
Goodwin, "and he looked 'em over and over, like as if he wished to find
we'd mistaked in thinkin' our time was out. In the end he acknowledged
'twas as we said."

"And then, what?"

"He spoke to me first. 'Goodwin,' said he, 'ye'll wish to stay on here
as a free man, no doubt?'"

"'No, sir,' said I. 'I speak for all of us here. We wish to have the
discharge papers and go home by one of the transports returning.' 'And
what would ye do at home?' says he. 'There's tens of thousands idle and
their wives and children in the workhouses. Here, in this great empty
land, ye can make new lives for yerselves. Ye shall be given plots of
land and tools to work them, and seed for the plantin'. And ye may draw
rations from the public stores till such time as ye can support
yerselves.'

"'I've my wife and three bairns in Yorkshire, sir,' said one. 'I've no
wish to settle here and see 'em no more.'

"'It might be they could come out to ye at a later time,' said the
Governor, and he went on to tell how it would be, mebbe, some day, with
freed men on their own land. We caught the drift of it soon enough.
Government had no wish that any of the convicts should return to
England. We was to stay, willin' or not."

"Did ye task him with that?" asked Garth.

"I did, for my blood was hot, but I spoke slow and respectful. 'Sir,'
said I, 'ye don't tell us we're obliged to stay here against our wish?'

"He didn't answer, straight off, and he didn't look at us as he thought
what to say to that.

"'You're not obliged,' said he, 'but I urge it for your own good. Ye'll
fare far better here, in the long run, than in England.'

"'We wish to go, sir, for all that,' said I, and the others spoke to the
same end. I'll not say 'tis the Governor's doing, for I doubt it is.
He's had his orders from home, and as sure as I speak, the orders is to
keep us here, justice or no justice, if the thing can be done."

"He forbade ye to go by the ships?" asked Tom.

"He said he had naught to do with the ships, once they was discharged of
the troops and convicts and cargo. For the voyage home they're under
charter to the East India Company. When we'd left the Governor's, we
spent the day going from one ship to the other. We showed our discharge
papers, signed by the Governor and stamped with the Great Seal. None but
me had money, but the others hoped to work out the passage home. We was
told they had no need of men, and for all I offered to lay down the
money in advance for Bella and Tommy and me, they'd have none of it.
'Twas against the terms of the charter, they said, to take any
passengers.

"I went last to the captain of the _Neptune_, and hard I found it to ask
a favour of the black-hearted rogue. I put it off and put it off till
late afternoon. At last I was about to go out to the ship when I spied
him comin' ashore, with his purser. As ye know, they've set up a shop in
a marquee on the west side of the cove, to sell ventures they brought
out on their own, and the food they stole on the voyage from the
convicts. I followed 'em there, and waited outside, biding a chance to
see the captain, for there was many there, marine officers with their
wives and all, to buy; and they paid through the nose, for the price of
everything was four or five times what they'd be in London.

"At last I saw my chance and spoke to this Captain Narker, and cursed
myself, after, for doing it, for what he said was as bad as spit in the
face. He said we could rot here, and be damned to us. None should go
home in his ship."

"He was at the marquee when ye left?" Garth asked.

"He sleeps there," said Goodwin. "He'll not trust his own men to guard
the place at night, for they're as great villains as himself."

Tom, Garth, and I walked over to our own house, with no word spoken
amongst us save Nellie's "Good night to ye" as she went into her own
room. It was about nine o'clock and the air biting cold; I was grateful
for the new blanket to add to the old one on my bunk. I lay awake for
half an hour, perhaps, thinking of Dan, and Bella, whom we'd left seated
by the table, her head in her arms, crying her eyes out; and the next
thing I knew it was morning.

Nellie was nowhere about. We called at her door, but there was no
answer. Her bed was made up, but she always did that the first thing in
the morning. The Goodwins had not seen her, and we thought, at first,
that the young bull or one of the cows might have broken from the
pasture and strayed off, but we found the animals safe and no sign of
Garth. We'd no thought that anything was amiss. Since Nat's death,
Nellie had kept to herself when she could. She would go off and be gone
for hours to fetch firewood, to give a reason for avoiding company. We
had breakfast without her, none of us inclined to talk for thinking of
the events of the day before. Bella was hard put to keep from breaking
down every time she looked at young Tom. They'd not told him yet, but
the lad took it as settled they would go home now that the new ships had
come. He begged his father to take him to Sydney to see them. Goodwin
promised he should go the next day, and as soon as he had finished his
breakfast, Tommy went off to look at some snares he'd set for birds.

Goodwin went to the door, following the lad with a mournful glance. He
was about to return to the table when he stopped short, looking to the
eastward where the path came down the slope from the direction of the
settlement. "What's this?" he said. "Here's Mortimer Thynne comin'!
There's summat in the wind, by the look of him."

Thynne was a frequent Sunday visitor with us, but never on a weekday,
and least of all at so early an hour of the morning. He was coming down
the path with an air of desperate haste. Tom hailed him from afar but he
made no reply. Upon reaching us he was so winded he couldn't speak for a
moment, but stood puffing and blowing, with his hands pressed against
his chest. At last he managed to gasp out. "You've not heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Tom. "Catch yer wind, man. Come in and set ye down."

"Garth," said Thynne. "Nellie Garth.... She's killed the captain of
the _Neptune_!"




CHAPTER XVII. THE RIOT AT THE GUARDHOUSE


One week later, at eleven o'clock in the morning, Nellie Garth was
brought from the guardroom at the marine barracks to the building near
Government House where the Criminal Court was held. There had not been
so great a crowd gathered at a trial in Sydney since the settlement was
made. Many of the officers and seamen from the four ships in harbour
were present, together with the people of the Civil Establishment and
the soldiers off duty. And on the outskirts of the throng were the
convicts, some hundreds of them--the old and infirm, and those still too
weak, through disease and semi-starvation, to be set at labour. These
forlorn members of the community were under little supervision in the
daytime and they wandered about the settlement like homeless dogs, with
nothing to look forward to from day to day but the hour for drawing
rations.

The Court was held in a large bare room with whitewashed wails,
furnished with benches for the spectators, and in the rear of the room
was a place where convicts might stand, for it was considered advisable
that some should witness the trials of their fellows, to carry the news
to the others of the moving wheels of Justice. Directly the doors were
open there was a rush for places and the room was packed in an instant.
Goodwin, Oakley, and I managed to enter. Those unable to come inside
crowded about the open doors and windows. The judges sat on a platform
at one end of the room beneath a portrait of His Majesty George the
Third, and the clerk sat at a table below them. To one side was a small
railed box for the prisoner and near it a bench for the witnesses.

In those early days of the colony, the Criminal Court was composed of
seven members. Captain Collins, the Judge Advocate, presided, and six
officers of the military establishment served with him. Although His
Majesty's Government had made provision for both civil and military
courts for the colony, it had failed to send out with Governor Phillip
any officers familiar with the Law. Captain Collins was merely a marine
officer selected for the office of Judge Advocate for want of anyone
better qualified, and the officers who served with him were even more
ignorant than himself of methods of procedure in criminal trials.
Therefore, in the absence of anyone able to instruct them, the Court
conducted its proceedings by its own improvised methods. Justice was
served, but an English magistrate would, I suppose, have found much to
criticize.

I have spoken of the high feeling prevailing in the settlement at this
time against the masters and officers of the Second Fleet who had so
cruelly abused the convicts under their charge. This was true not only
of the convicts: I believe that every decent freeman from the Governor
down felt the same indignation, but their sentiments were kept under
cover, of course; whatever the provocation, they would never make common
cause in any matter with felons. The latter, seeing that the guilty
officers were received at Government House and entertained by other
members of the Civil and Military Establishments, felt themselves
betrayed and abandoned, but in their helpless situation they could do no
more than brood over their wrongs and mutter amongst themselves. To
them, Garth had become a champion, the one convict with the courage to
act in their behalf, and they awaited the outcome of her trial with
intense interest and anxiety. Mortimer Thynne had asked for and been
granted permission to appear as Garth's attorney. This was the first
time that a convict had been represented by counsel.

Deep silence spread through the densely packed room as the clerk rapped
for order.

"Ellen Garth, stand forth!" said the Judge Advocate.

Nellie stood with her hands resting on the rail in front of her as the
charge was read. There was a great black bruise over one cheekbone, and
a ragged cut, partly concealed by her hair, extended down the forehead
over her left eye. A loud murmur of sympathy was heard from the crowd at
the windows, but this was silenced by a sharp reproof from the Judge
Advocate.

"Ellen Garth, you have heard the charge against you. Are you guilty or
not guilty?"

"Guilty, Your Honour."

"Call the first witness," said the Judge Advocate.

This was the purser of the _Neptune_, a low-browed, heavy-jowled man of
forty or thereabout, with small, cruel, crafty-looking eyes.

"You are Martin Dowd, purser of the transport _Neptune_?" asked the
Court.

"I am, Your Honour."

"Relate the circumstances, on the evening of June thirtieth, when you
last saw the captain of your vessel."

"On the afternoon of that day, sir, I come ashore to the marquee we set
up to sell the bit of trade we brought out from England, at great
trouble and expense to ourselves, for the good of the colony here.
Captain Narker was about his business in the town. He went off to the
ship for his supper and came back about eight o'clock. We took turns
sleepin' in the marquee to see all was safe with our goods, and that was
his night to stay. He said to me: 'Purser, I'll take over now, and ye
needn't come back till noon to-morrow.' Them was the last words I ever
heard him speak, Your Honour. I went off to the ship, et my supper, and
turned into my hammock directly after. I was roused by the second mate
at four in the morning. He told me the captain had been murdered in the
tent by one of the convicts. That's as much as I know of it, sir, save
what's known in a general way to all."

"Was Captain Narker alone in the marquee when you last saw him?" the
Court asked.

"Yes, Your Honour."

"Mr. Thynne, does the prisoner wish to question the witness?"

"No, Your Honour."

"You may step down," said the Judge Advocate.

The next witness was a young convict woman who had come out in the
_Neptune_, and was known to have been the captain's mistress during the
voyage. She was a well-dressed, bold-faced wench, and it was plain, from
her buxom appearance, that she had shared none of the hardships of the
other women on the voyage from England.

"What is your name?" asked the Court.

"Flo Billings, please Your Honour."

"You were acquainted with Captain Narker, of the transport _Neptune_?"

"I was, Your Honour, in a manner of speakin'."

"You were with him on June the thirtieth, the night of his death?"

"Yes, Your Honour."

"Relate to the Court what happened on that night."

"Well, sir, it's known what a young woman has to put up with wherever
she goes, on land or sea, and I won't say I was against doin' as well as
I could for myself for the voyage, seein' as I knew I had a better
chance than most, and I'd heered the officers wanted to draw lots for
me."

"Leave that aside," the Court interrupted. "Tell what you did and what
you saw on the night of Captain Narker's murder."

"If I'm to come to that, sir, I was in the tent I was told off to live
in with five more, and Captain Narker sent word I was to slip out, come
dark, and go to the _Neptune's_ marquee. So I picked up when the others
was sleepin' and done as I was told. The captain was settin' by a box of
his goods used for a table. He had a bottle of spirits on it. 'It's a
cold night, Flo,' said he, and I said, 'So it is, sir.' 'Would ye relish
a good stiff tot of rum to warm ye up inside?' said he, and I told him
I'd not say no to that. We drank the bottle betwixt us and... well,
sir, if ye'll excuse me, he blowed out the light and took me off behind
the bales and boxes was piled up in the tent. His bed was there and
that's where we went.

"It might ha' been an hour after, he wanted another drink. He said,
'Stay where ye are, Flo, and I'll bring ye a dollop directly.' He got up
and lit the candle, and he must ha' sat by the box again, for I heered
him pourin' out the spirits, but he didn't come back where I was.

"I was that sleepy I dozed off, and then I was roused by some queer
noises I couldn't make out, but I heered him groanin' and it was like a
chokin' and stranglin' for air. The light was still burnin' where the
captain had set the candlestick, on the row of boxes betwixt where I was
and the other part of the tent. It was two o'clock, for I heered four
bells strikin' from the ships in the cove. I was scared, though I didn't
know what was amiss, and shakin' all over. I was afeared to move for a
bit, but I got to my hands and knees and looked past the boxes to the
other part of the tent. I seen the captain down on his back, and the
woman in the box yonder settin' astride of him with her hands around his
neck. Blood was streamin' down the side of her face and she was
breathin' hard. Her back was to me at first, but she got up directly she
knowed he was dead and I saw her plain, though she didn't see me. She
looked at the body for a minute; then she was gone. I was that scared I
couldn't speak, and I couldn't ha' moved from the tent if it was to save
my life. But when I'd got my wits together, I began to yell 'Murder!
Murder!' and I kept screamin' till the soldiers come."

"You recognize the prisoner as the woman who was in the tent?" asked the
Court.

"Yes, Your Honour. I saw her as plain as I see her now."

"You say that blood was streaming down her face. Do you think she was
struck by Captain Narker?"

"It stands to reason he'd fight for his life. He had the barrel of his
pistol closed tight in his fist. He must ha' bashed her with the butt
end."

"Questions?" asked the Judge Advocate.

Thynne turned to Garth, who shook her head.

"No questions, Your Honour."

The third witness was a lieutenant of the Marine Corps. When he had been
sworn, the Court said: "Tell the Court what you saw of the prisoner on
the night of Captain Narker's murder."

"I was officer of the guard on that night, sir. A sentinel was on duty
in front of the guardhouse. I was in the officers' room, reading the
newspapers brought from England by the transports, when the man on duty
outside appeared with the prisoner. She was bleeding badly, as the last
witness has testified. I asked the guard what had happened. He said that
the prisoner had come up to him out of the darkness, and that she wished
to give herself up. I questioned the prisoner. She told me that she had
killed Captain Narker, of the transport _Neptune_, and that we would
find his body lying on the floor of the _Neptune's_ marquee. When the
prisoner had been locked in the cells, I went at once to the marquee
where I found the woman, Billings, screaming 'Murder!' and half out of
her senses with fright. Captain Narker's body was lying on the floor of
the tent. He had a pistol clutched by the barrel, in his right hand, as
the witness has said. Captain Narker's throat was black and bruised, and
the fingermarks on it showed plainly that he had been strangled. The
convict, Billings, was then brought to the guardroom for questioning.
She told the story already related to the Court."

The Court asked: "You examined Captain Narker's pistol?"

"Yes, sir."

"Had it been discharged?"

"No, sir."

"Do you think he had attempted to discharge it?"

"I could not be certain as to that, sir. I tried to discharge the
pistol, outside the guardhouse, but it would not fire. I found the
priming damp."

"When you questioned the prisoner, did she give any motive for killing
Captain Narker?"

"Yes, sir. I remember her words. She said: 'I have killed the villain
who murdered my boy by his cruelty, and scores of poor creatures with
him.'"

"She said nothing more?"

"No, Your Honour."

Again no questions were asked, and this brought the testimony to a
close. The Court was cleared of the spectators and Garth was taken back
to the guardroom. It was a day of bright sunshine, with a fresh
northerly breeze ruffling the waters of the cove. Flocks of cockatoos,
and small parrots with their brightly coloured plumage, passed overhead,
screaming and chattering, and, in the bay, the boats from the transports
plied back and forth between the shore and the ships, unloading the last
of the supplies brought from England. The crowd outside the courtroom
gathered in groups, talking in low voices as they awaited the verdict.
Goodwin, Oakley, Nick Sabb, and I stood together, too sore at heart for
speech. Thynne, who had walked with Nellie as far as the guardroom,
returned and joined us.

"Will there be any hope, Thynne?" Oakley asked.

"Very little," Thynne replied. "One chance in a hundred, perhaps."

"Thynne, be honest," said Sabb. "There's not one in a thousand. They'll
hang her, certain."

"Poor Nellie! Poor woman!" said Tom. "Aye, she's done for. 'Tis foolish
even to hope."

"Had it been a common seaman, there would be an excellent chance of an
appeal for mercy being granted," said Thynne. "But the captain of a
vessel in His Majesty's service... all the provocation in the world
will not weigh against the man's rank. Nevertheless, I shall do what I
can."

"God grant ye the gift of tongues!" said Goodwin, fervently.

Scarcely a quarter of an hour passed between the clearing of the
courtroom and the reopening of the doors for the announcement of the
verdict. This time, as she passed with her guards, Nellie saw us and
gave us a grim smile. "God bless her!" said Oakley in a low voice.
"She's lookin' death in the face, and knows it!" It was now midday, and
the crowd outside was greatly increased in numbers by the convicts
coming in for their noonday rest. Garth stood quietly facing the Judge
Advocate as he rose to announce the Court's decision.

"Ellen Garth, this Court finds you guilty of willful murder. Have you
anything to say before sentence is pronounced upon you?"

Garth shook her head.

"You have leave to speak. I ask you once more: have you anything to say
in your own behalf before the sentence of the Court is pronounced?"

"I killed him, sir," Garth replied, in a clear steady voice, "and I'll
abide the punishment. As for why it was done, ask my dead boy and the
many murdered with him by the captain of the _Neptune_. I'll add this,
Your Honour. If it was to do over again, I'd not stay my hand. I have no
more to say."

As Garth finished speaking, a woman convict in the crowd by the open
door shouted: "Free her! Let her go!" and immediately a babble of voices
rose in a tumult of shouting: "Free her! Free her!" "Hang the bloody
captains!" "Hang the villains!" "They're the murderers!" "Free her! Free
Garth!" "Hang the purser of the _Neptune_!"

The clerk pounded with his gavel, and the Judge Advocate shouted,
"Silence! Silence! Order! Do you hear?" but his voice was all but lost
in the clamour that came from the convicts crowded at the doors and
windows. This was the first time in the history of the colony that they
dared to assert themselves as a body. The soldiers stationed outside the
courtroom rushed amongst them but were overwhelmed by the angry shouting
mob. At last quiet was restored, but the convicts, who had been driven
back from the doors and windows, pressed forward again, despite the
efforts to hold them back, to hear sentence pronounced. The Judge
Advocate was both shocked and frightened by the boldness and
determination of the half-starved felons. He stood, grimly waiting for
quiet to be restored; then he said: "If there is any further disturbance
here, every one of you shall suffer for it! Bear that in mind, for I
mean what I say!" His voice was shaking as he turned to Garth to
pronounce sentence.

"Ellen Garth, this Court, having found you guilty of the crime charged
against you, doth order that, on July fifth, next, at ten o'clock of the
morning, you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may God
have mercy upon your soul!"

I thought there would be another outburst at this moment, but not a
voice was raised. Thynne, who was standing beside the prisoners' box,
stepped forward, and the convicts waited, in painful silence, to hear
him.

"Your Honour, have I leave to speak?"

The Judge Advocate nodded, and Thynne made his plea for clemency. This
was another man from the one I knew, or thought I knew: he showed a side
of his character that had remained hidden beneath the light, bantering
manner that was his daily wear. He was deeply moved, and spoke with a
quiet eloquence the more impressive because of the sincerity that lay
behind his words. He was one convict pleading for the life of another.

"Your Honour," he concluded, "I well know that, by the just laws of our
land, the honourable members of this Court, having found the prisoner
guilty of the crime charged against her, have no choice in the matter of
sentence. They are compelled to condemn her to death. But it is within
their power to make a recommendation of clemency, of mercy; and surely,
sir, if ever a prisoner, standing before the dread bar of the Law, has
deserved mercy, it is the unhappy and truly good woman for whose life I
plead."

Three days passed with no news as to Garth's fate, but on July 4 we
learned that no plea for clemency had been made by the Court, and that
sentence would be carried out on the following morning. Since the night
when she had given herself up, Nellie had been kept in solitary
confinement and our requests to see her had been refused; but on the
morning of the fourth, a boy came from the settlement with a note from
the chaplain informing us that we would be permitted to see the prisoner
at three o'clock on the same afternoon.

Bella Goodwin, overcome by anxiety and grief at Garth's fate, was in no
condition to go, but Dan, Oakley, and I were at the gaol at the
appointed hour. The Reverend Mr. Johnston was then with Garth, but he
retired, that we might be alone with her for the time of our visit.

"Nellie, we've tried hard to get here afore this," said Oakley. He broke
off, abruptly, not trusting himself to say more.

"Ye needn't tell me," said Garth, laying her hand upon his. "I knew ye
would come, if ye could."

Goodwin sat with his elbows on his knees, gazing at the floor. Garth
alone had herself well in hand.

"I wish ye all to set yer minds at rest," she said. "It had to be as it
is, and I'm not afeared of what's to come. But I've one thing to ask,
and then we'll say no more of it."

"What is it, Nellie?"

"I've a dread of lying in the burying ground, here in the settlement. I
wish to rest yonder, beside Nat, if they'll grant it."

"That ye shall, Nellie. We promise," said Goodwin.

"There--I'm content, for I know ye'll manage it," said Garth. She then
spoke calmly and quietly of other things, as though we had been sitting
on the bench in the dooryard of Goodwin's house, and when we left her
she had managed to convey to us something of her own courage so that the
bitterness of the parting was spared us until the moment had passed.

Goodwin and I returned to Blackwattle Bay, leaving Tom at the settlement
to arrange for bringing home Garth's body. The Reverend Mr. Johnston had
offered his help in this, though he could not promise that permission
would be granted. I remember my feeling of despair and unbelief as
Goodwin and I took the path for home. With Nellie's quiet words of
farewell sounding in my ears, it was impossible to bring home to the
mind the fact that less than a day of life remained to her.

When we had finished the evening chores, we sat in the Goodwins' small
living room, talking little, in low voices, as though we had been in the
presence of Garth's dead body. I went back in thought to the winter
afternoon when I had first met her, accusing myself, in anguish of mind,
as being the cause of all the grief and misery that had come to her
since that day. Consider the matter as I would, I could not but see how
heavy was the burden of responsibility I must bear for the chain of
events leading to the bitter present moment.

Bella Goodwin sat, chin in hands, gazing stony-eyed at the flame of the
lamp.

"Is the Reverend Johnston with her?" she asked.

"Aye," said Goodwin.

"They'll not refuse her last wish, surely," said Bella.

"Who knows what they'll do? We must wait for Tom."

"There's hope... there is, there is!" said Bella fiercely. "I'll not
give her up, not till the last minute!"

"Ye've no great time to wait, then."

"But there is, Dan! D'ye mind the two men was to be hanged for stealin'
from the stores a twelvemonth back? They was led to the foot of the
gallows and had the ropes around their necks; then word was brought
their lives was to be spared."

"I mind well, and a cruel way it was to show mercy, if mercy was to be
shown. One's been no better than an idiot, since."

"But they was spared, Dan, on the very edge of death. And so may Nellie
be."

"There's no chance, I say! None. A blacker-hearted villain never lived
than this Narker. The worst convict in the colony is a saint beside him.
That's known, it must be, to the Governor himself. But he was master of
a ship in the King's service. There's naught to weigh against that."

The time dragged on toward midnight. Bella, worn-out by grief and
anxiety, went to her bed. Dan and I were dozing in our chairs when
Oakley burst into the room.

"Wait," he said, breathing hard. "I've run all the way home... Lads...
she's out! Free!... No, not pardoned.... There's been a riot...
gaol delivery. They broke in the door and set her loose...."

"Take it slow, Tom," said Goodwin, pushing him into a seat. "How's this,
now? Ye tell us they broke into the gaol?"

Tom nodded. "By God, ye never saw such a mob! The soldiers was too
late.... Wait; I'll tell ye how it was from the start. I went with
the Reverend Johnston to arrange for the body. The Governor was off to
dinner with the captain of the _Justinian_, store-ship, and there was
none to give permission for the burial without his say. The chaplain
told me to stop at Thynne's place. He was to see the Governor and send
me word. Like enough he missed him, for I waited till close to ten
o'clock and no word came.

"The town was quiet as the grave by then; ye'd never have guessed there
was trouble afoot. I had young Hughie in my lap and presently I carried
him off to his cot. Thynne and I waited another half hour, thinking the
chaplain might come, late as it was. Then all hell broke loose amongst
the huts across the end of the cove. 'Twas like that--one minute so
still ye could hear a dog barkin' from Bennelong Point, and the next a
yelling and shouting to stir the dead. Will ye believe it? We never
guessed what was up, at first. I thought it was a free-for-all amongst
the huts like the time they all but murdered the marines for trying to
steal some of the women. But it wasn't two ticks till we knew this was
something beyond a fight. We heard a crashing and banging from the
direction of the gaol, and the drums began to beat the alarm from the
barracks. Then it clicked with me. 'Thynne, it's Nellie,' I said. 'It's
a gaol delivery!' 'It may be,' said he. 'Tom, for God's sake stay where
ye are! There's naught they can do. Keep clear of it!' Mrs. Thynne came
running out in her nightdress. She grabbed my other arm, but I shook
them off and away I went, cursing myself for knowing naught of such a
plan before, and them that had it in hand for saying naught of it to me,
the oldest friend Nellie's got."

"Likely there was no plan made," said Goodwin. "But who could have egged
them on to it?"

"I'm coming to that. Black as the night is ye couldn't see a yard ahead
and I bashed into a tree and all but knocked myself silly. As ye know,
'tis a good half mile from Thynne's place to the gaol. Every convict
able to stir was packed around the place, and they paid no heed to the
drums beatin' the muster at barracks. Those next the gaol was bashin' at
the door with the trunk of a tree, and before I could get near, down it
went. A rush was made then. There was no getting near the door for the
mob, but I knew by the cheers and yells that Nellie was out and away
into the bush. And Moll Cudlip as well."

"Moll Cudlip?"

"Aye, for 'twas Moll that led the crowd that broke in the door. Hugh,
d'ye mind the thrashing Nellie gave the woman in Newgate? Who'd ha'
thought Cudlip would pay anyone back with good? But she was one of the
leaders, certain."

"Where was the soldiers?" Goodwin asked.

"Dan, 'twas the neatest trick was ever turned! Over and done with afore
ye could say 'damn my eyes!' The guards at the gaol put up no fight.
They was loosed when two squads from the barracks came at the double,
with bayonets fixed and torches to light the way. The crowd melted into
the dark on both sides, back to the huts, and no one the wiser as to who
was who."

"But some must ha' been seen," said Goodwin.

"There'll be no floggings for this; that's my guess," said Tom. "Cut
rations, mebbe, but no more, for the whole place was in it, women and
men. Cudlip was seen and close to being took, for she was swaggerin' and
yelling by the gaol when the marines came. She broke loose, though, and
has gone bush herself, like as not. I didn't wait to hear what happened
after. Good luck to her! She's Satan's own, but we've her to thank that
Nellie's free, if what they say is true."

Goodwin shook his head, glumly.

"Free... aye, for to-night, to-morrow, but where can she go? To
starve in the bush? They'll take her."

"Never, Dan. The getting loose was none of Nellie's work, but now that
she's clear, she'll not be took again. She'll die first.... God bless
her! If only there was some way to get track of her!"

"No hope of that," said Goodwin. "She'll never give us the chance."

"No... she wouldn't."

"I'd give my life to save her," said Goodwin, quietly. "Hearty and
willing. Lads, we'd best turn in. Mark my words--they'll be here
searchin' for her, come day."

Goodwin was right about that, except in the matter of the hour. We were
no more than in our beds when a party of eight marines in charge of a
lieutenant came to search the place. The men lay concealed for the rest
of the night and the following day, lest Garth should steal back for
food or help. Blackwattle Bay was kept under close watch for a week
thereafter, and parties of marines searched all the bays and coves on
both sides of Sydney; but no trace was found of either Garth or Moll
Cudlip.




CHAPTER XVIII. THE AMERICAN BRIG


One Sunday, a fortnight after Nellie Garth's escape, Sally had come to
spend the day at Blackwattle Bay. Whether the others knew how matters
stood between us, we didn't know. Likely they did, though we had said
nothing about the matter. Bella Goodwin seemed ready to burst with
curiosity but managed to keep from putting the direct question. I could
see Goodwin's hand there: he was never a man to pry into another's
affairs, least of all those of a friend. Sally and I had decided to keep
our understanding a secret for the present. There were rumours abroad
that the Governor was planning to put some of the steadier convicts on
farms of their own, and my hope was that all of us at Blackwattle Bay
might be permitted to settle on the fine land Oakley and I had
discovered on the upper Hawkesbury. If that should happen, Sally and I
planned to marry without further delay.

The Thynnes were so attached to their small grandson that they had
persuaded Tom to allow them to take the boy to live with them. This
seemed the best arrangement that could be made, now that Garth was gone
and Bella left alone to carry on the work of the two households, though
she had been the one to protest against the plan. She seemed as fond of
Tom's son as she was of her own.

Goodwin had had good luck with the fishing that morning. He returned at
midday with the boat half filled, and directly dinner was over he and
Tom had gone with the fish to the settlement. Sally and I spent the
afternoon together, and when we returned at dusk we found Bella sitting
on the bench by the doorway. She was feeling low-spirited, and Sally and
I tried to cheer her, with no great success.

"Come, Bella," I said; "it isn't as though we'd lost the lad for good.
The Thynnes will bring him down often."

"I know, but it ain't like it was afore. I don't rightly know how I'll
manage here without little Hugh. What with Nellie gone and Tommy off
with his father all the while, there ain't a body for me to talk with. I
don't see what keeps Dan at the settlement. I'll warrant him and Tom has
gone to gam with them good-for-nothings, Sabb and Inching."

We waited another hour; and as they had not returned we had supper
without them. It was not until late in the evening that we made out the
boat, shadowy in the starlight, coming round the point at the head of
the cove. We went to meet them on the beach, and Tom called out: "Hugh,
are ye there? We've news and to spare, lad! There's a ship from America
lying in Sydney Cove."

"Make haste, now, the pair of ye," said Bella. "Your supper's been
waitin' these two hours."

"Did I tell ye, Dan?" said Oakley. "They'll not believe us. Damme if I
believe it myself, for all I've seen her with my own eyes."

"What's the man saying?" Bella asked. "There's no ship, surely?"

"Aye, but there is," said Goodwin, "else I'd have been home long since."

"He clean forgot ye, Bella," said Tom; "and small wonder with an
American ship in the cove."

"She was signaled early this morning and sailed into the cove whilst we
was giving in the fish at the stores," said Goodwin. "Ye'll know the
stir that was made when we spied her coming round Bennelong Point. A
bitter disappointment it was to all when we found she was not from old
England."

His wife gazed blankly at him, and Sally and I were scarcely more ready
to believe. The sense of our remoteness, of the thousands of leagues of
empty sea lying between us and the outside world, had grown upon us as
the months passed, and America seemed as remote as the moon.

"'Tis no game ye're having with us?" Mrs. Goodwin asked, once more.
"There is a ship, as ye say?" But little by little even Bella was
convinced. Speaking in turn, Dan and Tom gave us the news. The ship was
the brig _Harriet_ from Boston, homeward-bound now from China. The
captain had learned, before leaving America, of the new settlement then
being made at Botany Bay and had brought with him three hundred tons of
cargo, both salt beef and spirits, on the chance of selling it there. He
knew nothing of Port Jackson, and having called at Botany Bay he came
north along the coast, and was about to square away for Cape Horn when
he saw the flag at the signal station. The report was that Governor
Phillip was more than willing to buy the stores offered, and the ship
was to leave as soon as they could be taken ashore.

We talked until past midnight, then went to our beds, but I had no wink
of sleep and needed none. Escape, escape, escape--the word kept
repeating itself in my mind. Here, if ever, was the chance for Sally and
me. I did not, then, think of Oakley or the Goodwins; my stirred and
heated mind seemed, at first, to have room for only one image: Sally
standing at the rail of the American ship and I beside her, our hearts
too full for speech, as we watched the rocky headlands of Port Jackson
receding in the distance.

And why not? For Sally the opportunity seemed as good as certain. She
was free to leave the colony whenever an occasion presented itself. She
had money and to spare for a passage, for her father had been no
impoverished prisoner. He had left her, as I knew, about three hundred
pounds which Captain O'Day had placed, for safekeeping, in the strongbox
at Marine headquarters. Much as the O'Days would regret her going, they
would be far from trying to dissuade her against such an opportunity as
this, for it might never come again. From Boston she could take ship
direct to Quebec, to her father's sister. As for me...

It was impossible to lie quietly in bed under the impulse to action of
these reflections. I rose, dressed hastily, and was, going toward the
beach when I saw Sally coming toward me from the pier. She put her hands
on my shoulders and her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

"I knew you would come, but I couldn't have waited longer. Hugh, we're
going. You've come to tell me that, haven't you?"

Before I could speak she put her fingers over my lips.

"I know what you would say: I am to go in any case. Never! Not without
you. Is that understood?"

"Sally, it may well be a chance for you, but..."

"No, no, no! We go together or not at all! We must and we can! Believe
that, as I do."

"Have you forgotten the French ships that came to Botany Bay?" I said.
"There may be a slightly better chance for me in an American ship, but I
doubt it. We don't dare allow ourselves to hope too much. The ship will
be searched from stem to stern as the Frenchmen were."

"I know it."

"Well, then?"

"Can you think of no other way?"

"How could there be another? My chance will be one in a hundred,
perhaps."

"Hush! It is far better than that. To-morrow I will return to the
settlement. I will tell the O'Days that I wish to take this chance to
return home. They will understand that and help me in it. As soon as it
can be arranged I will see this American captain. Open and aboveboard,
with Captain O'Day himself to ask for a passage to America."

"And then, what?"

"Later, I shall make an occasion to see him alone. That will be easy.
And I will tell him about you... about us."

"It won't do, Sally. Governor Phillip is sure to warn him against hiding
or harbouring convicts. The ship will be so thoroughly searched before
she sails, not even a rat could escape being found."

"I said nothing of hiding in the ship."

"Then I am to walk boldly aboard, with you, and wave my hand to the
soldiers as we leave the cove?"

"Hugh, how slow-witted you are! You are a tolerable walker, I know. You
could, perhaps, walk as far as Botany Bay?"

I stared at her.

"By the Lord! It might be done! It might well be done!"

"It will be done," she replied, quietly. "I will be in no haste in
speaking to this captain. I must see him first, make friends with him.
He will be a hard man indeed if I cannot persuade or bribe him to send a
boat ashore for you at Botany Bay."

"There is a chance that Governor Phillip, or Major Ross, will think of
such a plan to escape and forestall it."

"I don't think so. The convicts in the settlement will be carefully
guarded on the day the brig sails. In any case, the chance must be
taken. We're going, I know it," she added, with such confidence that I
could almost believe, myself. "There is a Providence watching over us,
Hugh. Think of this: I would have told the O'Days about us, if this ship
had not come. Sooner or later I would have been forced to tell them. And
now... you see?"

"Yes. You could not have gone without arousing their suspicion that I
would try to go as well. As it is, you are sure they suspect nothing?"

"How could they? I have not worn my heart upon my sleeve. They know my
father liked you, that I have been kind to you for his sake--nothing
more."

"Sally..."

"Yes?"

"Supposing it succeeds, as we plan..."

"It will! It must!"

"Think of the Goodwins, of Tom Oakley. If the captain will consent to
take me..."

"Why not the others? I was thinking of that as you spoke. I could ask,
perhaps..." She broke off, and then added: "Hugh, we must not. The
risk would be too great. Call me selfish, if you like, but I think of
you first. Supposing a party of marines should go to Botany Bay, and
Major Ross might send them, as a precaution. We must prepare for that
possibility. We can, I am sure, if you come alone. With more, the chance
of failure would be far greater."

"There will be no need to go to Botany Bay, if the others come. We can
avoid that danger altogether."

"Avoid it? How?... Oh... I see it! You would come in the boat!"

The moment I spoke of the plan, Sally was as strongly in favour of it as
myself. We could steal out at night, the Goodwins, with young Tommy,
Oakley and I, and meet the brig well off the coast. Late as the hour
was, we were too impatient to wait for day to discuss this matter with
the others. Sally went to wake the Goodwins whilst I routed Tom out, and
a few moments later we were gathered in the small bare living room at
the Goodwins' house. It was a frosty night, and the air was nipping
cold. Dan made up the fire on our dry-stone hearth and we drew our
benches around it.

"Now, Hugh, what's this?" he asked. "What have ye to say that wouldn't
keep till morn?"

Together, interrupting one another as we spoke, Sally and I outlined our
plan, the others treasuring our words as though their lives depended
upon not missing a syllable. Tom edged his stool closer and closer as he
listened. Goodwin nodded his shaggy head from time to time, and there
was a light of joy in his eyes I can see to this day. Bella turned from
one to another of us, with timid wondering glances. When we had
finished, I turned to Goodwin.

"Well, Dan?"

"It's champion, champion," he said, quietly.

"Do you see any flaws in the plan?"

"There's naught amiss with it from our end. It's as good as done,
the slipping out at night. But I fear to take hope. If the captain
says nay..."

"But he won't! He can't!" Sally broke in. "Here you must depend upon
me."

"And glad we'll be to do it, Miss Sally," said Tom. "We would ask no
better than yourself to speak for us. And with Hugh an American like
himself, there's a point to make. Lad, ye must lie like a good one about
your part in the American War. A Yankee from Boston would have fought
against the King, not for him as ye did. If he learned the truth he'd
say, 'Let him rot here, and be damned to him!'"

"Never fear for that," I said. "I'll know how to play my part."

"Ye know the Yankees. It's all a matter of rhino with them, ain't it?
He'll not take us for nothing, we can be sure of that."

"If money can win him, I have three hundred pounds, and he shall have it
all," Sally said.

Tom's eyes widened. "Three hundred pounds! God bless ye, Miss Sally!
It's done, then. We're gone, as certain as sunrise!"

"We know naught of the man," said Goodwin, "but it does look fair
promisin' with hard money to offer. I've better than sixty pounds
brought out for our passage home when my time was out.... Bella,
ye'll wish to go if the thing's possible?"

"I don't know what to say," Mrs. Goodwin replied, in an anxious voice.
"But I don't fancy it, stealin' away like a thief, and you as free as
the Governor himself."

"And whose fault is it I'm obliged to?" said Goodwin grimly. "Not mine."

"Aye, but if we was to be catched trying to leave unbeknownst... they
might hold ye for another seven years."

"We'll not be catched if the man will take us," said Goodwin.

"Dan's right, Bella," said Oakley. "There's no risk to scare a rabbit."

Mrs. Goodwin rocked to and fro on the bench, clasping her thin
shoulders.

"Oh, Dan! It ain't what I'd wished! I thought to see ye walkin' aboard
a ship with yer head up and none to gainsay the right. But if ye say
go..."

"I do say it," Goodwin replied. "I'll have the freedom I've earned, and
I'll have it now."

"And how will we manage yonder, in a strange land? With another great
ocean betwixt us and home?"

"We'll think o' that when we get there," said Goodwin. "Miss Sally, ye
plan for to go to Sydney, come day?"

"Yes, and I'd best see little of you after that. I'll find means of
getting word to you, in good time."

"There'll be little time needed on our side," said Goodwin. "We'll be
waiting and ready well aforehand."

We then discussed how best to avoid the need of any communications on
Sally's part, and it was agreed that Goodwin should go to Sydney with
Bella, on the day the brig sailed. If we had no further word from Sally,
we would understand that the captain had agreed to take us. In that case
we would steal out in the boat the night following the sailing of the
brig and meet her off the white cliffs to the south of Botany Bay. With
a light easterly breeze, we could reach that place in four hours. If
there should be no wind, we could still manage the distance, rowing, in
from six to eight hours. Sally was to beg the captain to wait
twenty-four hours, in case of need, and if he consented to that, she was
to whisper the word to Bella when she said good-bye to her before going
off to the ship.

Hope and love of life revived in all of us during the days that
followed; had not the thought of Nellie cast a shadow over our hearts,
we would have been almost gay. When we received word from Sally that all
was arranged with the captain of the brig, none gave the possibility of
failure a thought.

It was agreed that young Tommy must know nothing of what was in the air,
lest he inadvertently let drop some hint of our plans, and his father
was so insistent on caution that Bella led the boy away whenever our
preparations might have aroused his curiosity. As a gift for the brig's
captain, who had been unable to purchase a shilling's worth of fresh
provisions in Sydney, we decided to take one of Garth's pigs, a crate of
fowls, and as many vegetables as we could collect from our garden. Tom
and I resolved to take our muskets and all the powder and ball we had.

On the Monday we went out with our nets as usual, returning in the
afternoon with more fish than we had caught for some time. Dan remained
in Sydney, to learn the time set for the brig's departure, not yet
announced, while Tom and I sailed the boat home.

"I shouldn't wonder it'll be to-morrow, or the day after," Tom remarked.
He was silent for a moment. "Hugh, I'll be obliged to speak to Thynne. I
can't go like as if I was desertin' my boy. What d'ye think?"

"He can be trusted, that's certain," I replied. "But who knows? He might
want to sail with us."

"Thynne? Not him! He's digged in here like a badger. He's told me he'll
never return to England. Mortimer's no man's fool; he'll own Sydney when
he's done his bit."

"Tell him, then, by all means. Dan will say the same."

"I'm glad ye feel so. I've a cousin he could write to in England, to
tell me all's well. If we come safe through, soon or late I'll find a
way to send for the lad."

Presently Goodwin arrived. "It's to-morrow, lads!" he said.

Tom's eye brightened. "Certain?"

"I saw Miss Sally at the hospital. She was lookin' at our fish, and
found the minute to tell me."

Tom glanced keenly at him. "Then what d'ye look so glum about?"

"I'm worried aplenty, though it may be naught. Captain Campbell's sent
word we're not to fish to-morrow. He wants the boat, an hour afore
noon."

"What for?" I asked.

"He didn't say."

Tom laughed. "Be easy, Dan. It's naught. Like as not he's begged the
boat from the Governor, for a picnic with some of the officers and their
ladies."

Our boat had been used for such excursions several times in the past,
and I said: "Tom's right. Ten to one they're going to Cockatoo Island to
come home in the evening. We can leave well before midnight."

"No doubt ye're right, lads," said Goodwin. "I'd a kind o' forebodin'...
I'm that set on getting away!"

We talked late, that night, after Tommy was in bed, making our final
plans and attempting to provide against every emergency. We refused to
be worried over the order for the boat, believing that it meant no more
than a picnic, or an afternoon's shooting party. Even if the officers
kept us until long after dark, we could set out as late as three or four
in the morning with reasonable hope of passing the signal station
unobserved. Should they sight us at sea, hours would pass before a
messenger could reach Sydney to send a boat in pursuit, and meanwhile we
would be safe in the brig and headed for Cape Horn. I fell asleep that
night feeling as certain of escape as if New South Wales were already a
hundred leagues astern.

The sun was an hour up when we reached Sydney. A light southwesterly
breeze carried us as far as Dawes Point; we then furled our sails and
pulled into the cove, passing close to the _Harriet's_ side. The
Governor was on board and the quarter-deck thronged with Sydney's
notables. In spite of myself, my eyes were fixed on Sally, standing in
talk with Mrs. O'Day and the Reverend Mr. Johnston's young wife. She
gazed at me without a sign of recognition, and turned away once more.

As we tied up at the pier the visitors were coming ashore. Everyone in
the settlement not at work stood on the beaches to watch the brig sail.
An hour had passed when I heard the chant of the men at the windlass.
She was well-manned; sail after sail was set with a smartness which
would have done credit to an English man-of-war. The _Harriet_ gathered
way, parting the calm water with scarcely a ripple. The foretopsail
halliards were let go in salute as she passed the _Scarborough_ and a
few moments later she was lost to view around Bennelong Point. Oakley
went off to see Thynne. He was then to return home and have all in
readiness when we came with the boat.

A corporal of the New South Wales Corps was approaching us. His boots
were neatly blacked, his belts pipe-clayed, and he had the ruddy,
well-fed look of a man newly out from England.

"Is Goodwin here?" he asked.

"That's me."

"Ye're to wait for Lieutenant MacArthur. Captain Campbell's orders."

"Where are we bound, Corporal?" I asked.

"Rose Hill. They're sendin' some hard cases from the _Scarborough_ to
work there. Stop here till ye're wanted."

He shouldered his musket and marched off, leaving us to exchange glances
that were more than glum. Rose Hill was many miles distant.

The sun crawled toward the zenith while we waited in our boat, fretting
anxiously at the delay. The convicts trooped in for the noon hour, from
the fields, the quarry, and the brick kiln, and at one o'clock the drums
beat the signal to resume work. Dan and I munched our bread and salt
beef without relish. It was midafternoon when a file of convicts was
marched down to the pier, led by an officer and guarded by a corporal
and six men. Each of the prisoners carried a blanket and a small canvas
bag with his belongings. Their evil, pasty faces and cruel mouths
branded them as a hard lot. The officer sprang into the stern when we
had loosed the sails.

Lieutenant MacArthur, destined in later years to play so great a part in
the history of New South Wales, was at the time a young man, in poor
health, with a hot, irascible eye, a pugnacious nose, and an air of
brooding over some grievance.

"Get them on board," he ordered the corporal, harshly. "Four to a
thwart. There's plenty of room! Now come aft here, with your men."

The soldiers squeezed into the stern sheets. Dan held the tiller, while
I found a place where I could manage the foresheet. There was scarcely
enough breeze to fill the sails.

Once out in the harbour, the tide carried us slowly westward, each mile
and each hour that passed adding to my uneasiness. We took to the oars,
but the boat was too crowded and heavy-laden for rowing. The sun set,
and it was night when we reached the Parramatta landing place. MacArthur
had been staring ahead, hoping to see a light. It was his first trip
inland.

"Now damn them all!" he exclaimed. "They were to have met me here. We'll
have to camp for the night."

"If ye'll follow me, sir," Dan put in, "I'll guide ye to Rose Hill. I
can find the path in the dark."

"It's a long way through the woods, I'm told."

"Aye, sir," Dan admitted, "a fair bit, but I'll have ye there in no
time."

MacArthur thought for a moment and then said: "No--we'll camp here."

I spoke up from the bows. "I'm a hunter, sir. There's not an inch of
these parts I don't know. Let me guide you to Rose Hill."

"That'll do, whoever you are! When I want your help, I'll ask for it!"

We were told to build a large fire, and fetch enough wood to keep it
burning through the night.

"You'll stop here with the boat," the officer informed Dan, "and take
the guard down to fetch another load of these rascals to-morrow."

I overheard this stunning announcement as I tossed a log on the fire,
and my heart sank. Dan and I made a pretense of going to sleep in the
boat, though we did not close our eyes for a moment. The convicts
groaned and muttered where they lay, complaining of the cold, while four
marines, with bayonets fixed, stood guard within a few feet of us.
MacArthur was as sleepless and vigilant as his men, rising to inspect
the guard at intervals. The whole scene was illuminated by the bright
flames of the campfire. The night was the longest, and the most anxious,
of my life.

A detachment of marines from Rose Hill came down to the landing place
just after daybreak, and the corporal and his men were ordered to return
to Sydney with us, to fetch the second load of convicts. Every hour of
that seemingly endless day was a torment.

We returned to Sydney, reaching Parramatta with the second lot of
convicts before dark, and were ordered to wait until morning, when
Lieutenant MacArthur would return. But this time the boat was left
unguarded. The corporal went off at the head of his men. We waited,
while the sun set and the new moon followed the same westering path. The
short winter evening gave place to night.

No time was wasted. We pushed off silently, floating downriver with the
ebb while we set our sails. A light northerly breeze was making up, and
the warm air from far-off tropical regions was grateful to our chilled
bodies. Three hours later we sailed into Blackwattle Bay. As we
approached the jetty, Tom appeared from the shadows.

"By God, I'd all but given ye up!" he said.

"Now lads, work fast!" said Dan.

We stowed his chest with the provisions amidships, and fetched the
muskets and our own canvas bags. The pig and the four fowls were stowed
in the bow. I made a bed of blankets for young Tommy, forward, and
lifted the boat's water keg to make sure that it was full. Dan came down
from the cottage, carrying the boy and followed by Bella. We pushed off
with scarcely a glance behind.

Bella took the tiller while Goodwin, Oakley, and I pulled mightily. From
Blackwattle Bay to Dawes Point, we followed the windings of the harbour
in a two-mile pull, all to windward. Directed by her husband, Bella now
steered for the northern shore, to skirt the land as far as Kirribilli
Point, opposite Sydney Cove, and only a few hundred yards distant. We
had the wind abeam by this time, but dared not hoist sail lest we be
sighted in the starlight. Sydney was asleep at this hour. Only a few
lights showed. Of a sudden the dogs of the settlement began to bark, far
and near, as if the breeze, coming in puffs off the land, had borne our
scent to them. A cock crowed, clear in the distance, followed by others
of his kind, and our bird in the crate answered with a cry, muffled in
thick folds of sailcloth. The _Scarborough's_ bell rang clearly, and the
voice of a sentinel reached us from far across the still
water--"Midnight! And all's well!"

Pinchgut Island lay directly in our path. A few of the more desperate
convicts were marooned there and we gave it a wide berth. At last we got
up sail and laid a course to pass just south of Bradley's Head. An hour
later, we were breasting the long Pacific swell at the harbour mouth,
and soon bore off for the run south to Botany Bay. The breeze held fair
and steady from the north.

We breathed easy now. Dan settled himself comfortably at the tiller.
"We'll fetch Cape Solander by eight bells. Lay ye down with Tommy,
Bella."

"Ye think I could sleep?" she replied, going forward, nevertheless.
"Ye'd ha' done well to listen to me, Dan. We're too late."

The same fear must have been in all of our hearts, though no one had
spoken out until now. A hundred times I had imagined the brig hove-to at
dawn on the day before. Sally would have been on deck straining her eyes
westward as the light grew in the east; staring at the barren coastline
while the sun rose behind her, and bright hope gave place to doubt, and
doubt, after many long hours, to despair. The Yankee captain would have
been at her side on the quarter-deck, his spyglass aimed at the Port
Jackson heads, sweeping the coast, scanning the entrance of Botany Bay.
I could imagine how the hours had dragged, and Sally's feelings when
night fell. She would have urged the captain, implored him, to wait
longer. Yet as they considered every aspect of the situation, what could
they suppose had happened? I could almost hear the Yankee's nasal voice,
saying with respectful firmness: "Wall, Miss, I've done my best for 'em.
They've been caught, you can lay to that! I can't hang on here forever!"

"What d'ye think, Hugh?" asked Tom Oakley, in a voice too low for Bella
to hear. "Would he wait?"

"God knows!"

"We can hope, can't we?" put in Goodwin, impatiently. "Stow yer doubts,
lads! We'll sight the brig, come daylight!"

Dan steered close to shore until we made out the capes, toward four
o'clock, then ordered the sheets trimmed as he bore up to head
southeast. We had sailed little more than an hour, on this offshore
course, when the breeze began to slacken, dying away at last to a flat
calm. We were then four or five miles south of Botany Bay, and as many
from the land. The sails were lowered and we sat staring to the eastward
in silence, as if the intensity of our gaze might hasten the coming of
the new day. At last the stars paled and the horizon grew luminous with
dawn. Goodwin rose stiffly to his feet.

Slowly, the black sea turned misty blue, while the faint grey light in
the east was touched with rose, and brightened to dazzling gold as the
sun came up. Stare as I would, I could see nothing that broke the
horizon from south to east.

"There she is!" Dan exclaimed. "Look! Just right o' the sun!"

Gazing in the direction indicated, I made out a pair of tiny projections
above the horizon line, which disappeared as we sank into the trough
between two swells. The light was so dazzling that I put the palms of my
hands to my eyes.

"Her fore and main royals," said Dan. "Bella, take the tiller. To the
oars, lads!"

No watermen on the Thames, rowing in a regatta for a great prize, ever
pulled as we did or had a tenth as much at stake. The heavy boat leaped
forward to breast the seas while we set our teeth and made the stout ash
bend at every stroke.

"Hearty does it!" Dan panted. "With a will now! Break yer backs! They're
on their way. We must get in sight afore the wind makes up!"

Young Tommy stood in the bow, staring ahead as intently as his mother. A
long time had passed when he turned, excitedly.

"Look, Father!" he cried. "We're bringing her up!"

Dan glanced over his shoulder. "So we are, her t'gallants is showin'.
Pass yer shawl forrad, Bella. Now son, can 'ee climb the mast and make
this fast to the truck?"

Sweat streamed down our faces and plastered our shirts to our backs, but
the brig, on which we had gained for a time, seemed further away than
before. Now and again, when boat and vessel rose simultaneously on the
swell, many miles apart, we had a glimpse of her royals, ever smaller
and more indistinct. I knew only too well what had occurred: The north
wind had made up offshore, and had reached the brig well before we could
hope to have it; but we pulled on, never slackening our stroke. Bella
stared ahead, closing her eyes at intervals to rest them from the glare,
speaking to Dan in a low voice each time she sighted the _Harriet_.
Presently she bowed her head in her arms.

"It's no use, Dan! She's gone," she sobbed.

"Hold that tiller!" he commanded, harshly.

We rowed grimly on for another half hour, but at last Dan rested on his
oar. "Avast pullin', lads," he said in a dull voice. "We've lost her."




CHAPTER XIX. ESCAPE


We sat slumped down on the thwarts, weary and heartsick. The boat slid
gently over the long smooth swells. Bella still held the tiller, moving
it back and forth unconsciously, as if to scull on in pursuit of the
brig. Oakley was the first to speak.

"What's to do? Is it back to Master with our tails between our legs?"

In her despair, Bella forgot Tommy, who was standing in the bow still
staring seaward.

"Now we'll never see home--never, never, never!" she cried, in an
anguished voice.

"Hush!" said Goodwin sternly, with a warning glance. "Take the oars,
lads." He spit on his hands and gripped his own.

"Where to, Dan?" Mrs. Goodwin asked, apprehensively.

Before he could reply, our rooster, despite his cramped quarters in the
crate, managed to clap his wings and crow.

"Yon's a brave little fellow," said Dan, quietly. "I've a real likin'
for a cock. 'Never say die' is the word with them.... Steer for
Botany Bay," he added, to Bella.

We hoped that the northerly breeze which darkened the sea to the east
would work in toward shore, but it came no nearer.

As the sun rose the heat became intense, but we pulled on, turning our
heads now and again to estimate our slow progress toward the land.
Weary, weary work it was, dragging the heavy boat toward Botany Bay, and
we had little heart for it now. Only the unspoken thought of pursuit, in
all of our minds, kept us doggedly at it. Midafternoon found us within
the bay. With anxious hearts, we searched every part of it within our
view. It lay before us, as solitary as though, before ourselves, sea
birds alone had visited the place.

Dan had a smuggler's eye and a smuggler's memory. We headed into a
narrow winding drain he had spied when we had gone with the watering
party on the day the convict, Jurd, was hung. It was a mile or more from
the fresh-water creek where we had filled the casks, and screened by
tall sedge grass. With our oars, we poled the boat well into it, then,
wading in knee-deep mud and water, hauled it yet farther, around a bend
where we could lie completely hidden.

"Tide's at the ebb," said Goodwin. "There'll be water aplenty by
nightfall."

There was firm ground a short distance inland. Dan took Tommy on his
shoulder and carried him there, returning to fetch Bella. Tom and I
brought the crate of fowls, the pig, and the sack of vegetables we had
thought to give the captain of the brig. We found a snug dry place to
make camp, well concealed by thick clumps of bush.

"Rest here, Bella, with Tommy," said Goodwin. "Hugh and Tom and me will
have a look inland. We'll be back directly."

He led us on till we were well out of earshot. There we halted.

"Well, Dan?" said Tom, presently.

"Speak first," said Goodwin.

Tom shook his head, with a rueful smile.

"If ye ask me, we're beat. No more roamin' the country, huntin',
fishin', and the like. We can hide out for a month, mebbe, but they'll
nab us, soon or late. And then... aye, we'll be for it, proper!"

"Hugh?" said Goodwin.

"I'll not go back," I said, "never! But Tom's right--we're done for.
When our powder and ball are gone there'll be no supporting life in the
bush."

"I say, starve it out to the end!" said Oakley. "But there's Bella and
Tommy...." He got to his feet and strode back and forth for a moment;
then he halted to face Goodwin.

"Hark ye, Dan! There's only one thing to do. Ye must go back to Sydney
with Bella and the lad."

"Me? Go back?" said Goodwin, with a grim laugh.

"Wait, now! Let me finish.... Ye're a free man: that's known to all.
Ye have the paper to show it, stamped with the Great Seal and signed by
the Governor himself. It's my belief he's a real sympathy in his heart
for them, like yerself, that's served their time and forbid to go home.
I'll warrant it's not his fault ye've been kept. It's the black-hearted
devils in the Home Office that won't allow ye to go. Well, then... if
ye go back to the settlement with Bella and Tommy--ye see how it'll be?
It's certain ye'll get off light."

"And what of yerselves?" asked Goodwin.

"Never fret for us," I put in. "Dan, it would be three hundred lashes
each for Tom and me, even if we came in of our own will. And after that,
hard labour for years to come. I'll not suffer it! I'll die first!"

"Ye won't suffer it," said Goodwin quietly. "No more will I go back with
Bella and little Tom."

Tom glanced up.

"What d'ye mean by that?"

"We're not beat! No, by God!... Lads, we'll clear out of here this
same night, but not for Sydney. We're going to make for the Dutch East
Indies."

"What!" I exclaimed.

"In the boat?" said Tom.

"Aye, in the boat. Now let me tell ye summat I'd ha' spoke of afore save
for what's come between.... When I knowed there was to be no goin'
home for me, for all I'd served my time out fair and square, I done some
hard thinkin'. I was bound I'd have the freedom I'd earned, and I could
see no way but to take what was held from me. The boat was that way, and
the only way. I knowed the Dutch East Indies was the nearest place I
could fetch up. 'Twould be a hard cruel voyage in a little boat, and
there was Bella and Tommy to think of. For all that, I was set to go and
layin' my plans. Then the American brig come, and... there's no need
to say more."

We stared at Goodwin as though he had been speaking in a foreign tongue.

"Well, is it go?" he said.

I could find no words, for the moment. Tom spoke for both.

"Hugh," he said, "d'ye mind the night in Newgate, after we'd been
sentenced to swing, when the Recorder came with the word we was to have
life? God bless ye, Dan! No need to ask!"

"Then it's settled," said Goodwin. "I knew well enough where I'd find
the pair of ye."

We settled down to a discussion of the prospects. Goodwin had both a
compass and a quadrant in his sea chest; and beyond this he had a little
rough knowledge of the northern part of the New Holland coast, gained
from an old seaman from his own village in England who had sailed with
Captain Cook on the voyage when he discovered Botany Bay.

"Many a tale I heard from him," he said, "and I treasured every word as
a young man will. The most of what I recollect was about the voyage when
they'd got inside the Great Reef, and the wonder of the lagoons all
along the coast till they fetched the Cape York Peninsula at the
northern tip of New Holland."

"If only we had a chart!" I said.

"'Tis no matter for that," said Oakley. "We've naught to do but follow
the land till we come to the end of it and then head west."

"Hugh, will ye listen to him!" said Goodwin, shaking his head
wonderingly. "Tom knows horses from stem to stern, but I've never seen
his beat for lack o' knowledge of the sea... but there's a chart,
only I ain't got it here. I laid my plans careful for this same voyage
afore the brig come. I knowed that Captain Cook's own chart would be in
Governor Phillip's office, but how to get a copy? There was but one man
could help me there--Mortimer Thynne. I made a clean breast to him of
what I hoped to do, and Thynne, God bless him, for all the risk to
himself, copied the chart and no one the wiser. But devil of it's
this--the copy's still at Thynne's house. The comin' of the brig and all
put the thought of it clean out o' mind. We're obliged to go fetch it;
there's no two ways about that."

We decided that we must run in to Port Jackson, under cover of darkness,
and land in Rushcutter's Bay or Wooloomooloo; then one of us would make
his way to Thynne's house. We had yet another reason for taking such a
risk. We had in the boat but one small five-gallon cask for water. We
would need another twice the size, and we hoped that, with Thynne's
help, we might add something to our scant stock of provisions.

"How far will it be, Dan, the whole of the voyage from here to the Dutch
Indies?" Tom asked.

"I can make only a guess at that, but Thynne's figured it out as well as
he can by the charts. He says it's around seven hundred mile to the
tropic where we'll strike the Great Reef. If we can manage to get
inside, we'll have another thousand to the Cape York Peninsula, but that
should be tolerable smooth sailin'. Once we're clear o' New Holland,
we'll have another thousand to Timor, first Dutch settlement we'll
fetch, if we do fetch it. Call it a thousand leagues all told. That'll
be near it."

Oakley whistled under his breath.

"Once I boated down the Thames to Margate, and damme if it didn't seem
like the ends o' the Earth," he said. "A thousand _leagues_!"

"Or six hundred lashes for the pair of us," I added.

"And it's not certain I wouldn't get three hundred to add to yours,"
said Goodwin, "for it's me would be charged with stealin' the boat. What
d'ye say, is it leagues or lashes?"

"Be damned to ye for askin'," said Oakley, dryly. "Does Bella know of
the plan ye made for the boat?"

"No, I was leavin' that to the end when all was ready..."

Dan broke off, glanced quickly over his shoulder, and sprang to his
feet. There was a rustling in the bushes behind us. Before we could
speak or act, the undergrowth parted and there stood Nellie Garth.

With a whoop of joy, Tom sprang forward and threw his arms around her.
"Nellie, Nellie, Nellie!" he cried, brokenly. "Is it yerself and all?"

"'Tis not," said Garth, with a grim smile. "I'm a good four stone light,
but I can eat the weight of it back, if ye've vittles at hand?"

She was gaunt and sunburned, her clothing in rags, and her eyes bright
and hollow, but with the same old dauntless twinkle in them. Five
minutes later we had her at the camp, and Bella was clinging to her so
overcome that not a word could she say. Tommy, who had been awake all
through the previous night, was now sleeping soundly with his father's
watch coat for a pillow. Nellie's eyes were bright with tears as she
knelt beside him, took his hands and pressed them to her cheeks. The lad
scarcely stirred. As she rose, she caught sight of the pig, tethered to
a tree near by and trying hard to reach her.

"God bless me, 'tis me own little blackie!" she said, and a moment later
she was nursing it in her arms. Meanwhile, Bella had set out the food.
We had half-a-dozen roast fowls, and two of them she placed before Garth
and started feeding her as though she had been a child.

"Now, Nellie," Tom was saying, a quarter of an hour later, "tell us the
whole of it, from the day we last set eyes on ye."

"I've as little to tell as there's been to eat," said Garth. "Bella, I
couldn't well say how I relish the cold fowl, but take it away now, else
I'll be hoggin' the whole of it."

"Ye poor starved creature," said Bella, "ain't that why it's set afore
ye? Oh, Nellie darlin'!" And she hugged her again.

Then, briefly, Garth told us her story. She had lived on raw crabs,
oysters, and other shellfish, and had slept in the bush wherever night
had overtaken her. "And the nights was the worst," she said. "I'll never
again take the blessing of a fire as a common thing. There's been times
I all but perished with the chill."

"But why didn't ye steal in to us?" asked Goodwin. "There's not been a
night, Nellie, we ain't slept with one eye and one ear open for ye."

"Did ye think so mean o' me, Dan Goodwin? As if I'd not caused grief
enough without gettin' the rest of ye in a peck o' trouble for my sake."

"What's become of Moll Cudlip?" I asked.

"Did ye battle with her, Nellie, like the time in Newgate?" Tom asked,
with a grin.

"I did not. I'll say this for the woman. Though she's not one I'd choose
for company, I'd go far to do her a good turn if the chance was
offered."

"But where is she?" Mrs. Goodwin asked.

"I should think ye might guess," said Garth, dryly. "'Tis not a thing to
speak of, but... ye must ha' known, Bella, she had a fancy-man
amongst the blacks?"

Mrs. Goodwin gave a gasp of horror.

"Nellie! I never did! Ye tell me..."

"I do," said Garth. "She's with him now, or was, when I saw her last. I
had a kind invitation to go along with 'em to the black's tribe." Her
eyes twinkled as she added, "I wasn't so tempted as ye might think."

It was scarcely necessary to explain to Garth the reason for our
presence here. She had seen the brig coming out from Port Jackson and
knew it was none of the English transports. When she spied Dan's boat
coming in from sea, she had guessed the reason.

"And now--what? Dan, ye're sure to be took, soon or late. There's no
livin' in the bush for long. I've tried it."

With a glance at his wife, Dan now spoke of the boat voyage. It was
curious to watch the two women. Garth leaned forward, her eyes shining,
watching Dan's lips as if for double confirmation of what the voice was
saying. Bella sat with her hands tightly clasped against her breast. Her
thin body trembled convulsively. She might have been listening to one
condemning her to death. Dan was still speaking when Tom, who stood
guard at the border of the firm land, came back at a run. "Lie low!" he
said. "The Governor's longboat's just coming through the heads!"

Our camp, as I have said, was well hidden. Goodwin, Oakley, and I stole
down to where we could lie, screened by a thick fringe of bush, and
overlook the bay. The longboat was still far distant, a light breeze
from the south filling her sails. Half an hour passed before we could
make out the marines on board. An officer stood in the stern, spyglass
up, as he scanned the shore slowly and carefully. Presently they slacked
away for the creek at the head of which we had filled the _Charlotte's_
water casks so long ago. There was a tense moment as she passed the
outlet of our drain, but she held on, sailing in with the tide until she
grounded in the shallows, a mile distant. Twilight faded to full night,
and we saw the gleam of a fire where her people were encamped. "Now,
lads," said Goodwin, "we've not a moment to waste!"

We hastened back to the others. Goodwin took Tommy in his arms, and
Bella held his hand. Nellie carried her pig with her hand over his
snout. Tom and I followed with the other provisions. We waded slowly
across the marsh to the boat, and poled down, stern first, till the salt
drain widened. In the open bay we stepped our masts, and headed for the
entrance.

The night was so dark that I could see nothing but the black water
rippling under the chill breeze, but Dan steered confidently. At last we
heard the roar of breakers and made out the dim bulk of Cape Solander.
The wind freshened outside. In two hours we were abreast of the signal
station where a light showed in the hut by the flagpole. We bore up to
enter Port Jackson, ghosting in with the cat's-paws that came down off
the land. It was not far from midnight when we eased our grapnel into
shallow water at the head of Wooloomooloo Bay.

"Tom, stop here with the womenfolk," said Goodwin. "Hugh and me will go
to the settlement."

"Oh, Dan! I'm so afeered for ye!" said Mrs. Goodwin, in an anguished
voice. "If ye're catched..."

"Hush, now! We'll be safe back in two hours, mebbe less."

We waded ashore and there halted for a moment.

"Hugh," said Goodwin, "Ned Inching's our man. We'll go by the buryin'
ground and send him to Thynne."

The distance from Wooloomooloo to Sydney was less than a mile. Inching's
hut was dark, but we stole in, felt for his bed, and wakened him.

"Shhh, Ned! It's me--Tallant."

A more ready, nimble-witted man than Ned Inching could not have been
found. He fumbled for me, then put his lips to my ear. "What's to do?"
he whispered.

In two minutes I had explained the situation. He slipped into his
clothes. "Wait here," he said. "I'll be back in a tick."

Dan and I sat on the bed. The silence was as deep as the grave--as the
graves of all Ned's convict family sleeping six feet underground. The
first we knew of his return, he was there before us, unseen in the
darkness.

"Thynne's wi' me, and Nick Sabb," he whispered. "I'll fetch 'em in."

"Damn my eyes!" said Nick, in a hoarse whisper, and puffing hard. "Ye've
got the courage of lions, and me sergeant of patrol that ought to hook
ye and be made High Constable for life! Dan, it's true, what Ned says?"

"Aye, we're off, and no time to lose. Thynne, are ye there? Ye've
brought the chart?"

"I have," said Thynne, "and a bit of beef and flour that may, perhaps,
be acceptable. Four days' rations."

What this gift meant, only a Sydney convict of those days could
understand.

"Thank ye, and hearty," said Goodwin. "There's another thing we're
obliged to have: a ten-gallon cag, for water."

"Take mine," said Inching. "Ye can fill it from the little run at
Wooloomooloo."

"There's need for haste," said Nick, "but let me speak for ten seconds,
Dan, and all ye need to say is Yes or No. Would ye take Ned and me?"

"Ye wish to go? D'ye know where we're bound to, man?"

"Aye, the Dutch Indies, wherever they be, but speak quick, Dan! If I
think twice I'll make lard o' my vitals."

"Done," said Goodwin. "Thynne, would ye wish to join us?"

"Good heavens, _no_!" said Thynne. "Nick, think what you do! Stay here,
and I promise we'll be the most prosperous and respected citizens in the
colony ten years hence."

"God's name, don't ask me to think!" said Sabb, desperately. "Haste ye,
Dan, and Ned and me will whisper London! London! London!' till we're
well out to sea."

Inching had scurried like a terrier under his bed.

"Reach me the sack," he whispered. "I've eight bottles o' rum here."

"Ready?" said Goodwin.

I have never forgotten that hurried, whispered leave-taking. Thynne was
not even a shadow in the blackness as he gripped my hand.

"Hugh, if you reach the Indies, would you send us a parcel of spices?
We'll know by that you've won through, and Mrs. Thynne is partial to a
bit of seasoning in her food."

That commonplace remark brought a gust of deep warm feeling into my
heart so that I choked up and could scarce speak, but I managed to say:
"God bless you, Mortimer! That I will!"

"And tell Tom he's to have no fears for little Hugh."

Half an hour later we were gliding down the bay with no sound but the
faint plash of the oars, and dawn found us ten miles to the north of
Port Jackson, our hearts lightening with every mile we put behind us.




CHAPTER XX. A THOUSAND LEAGUES


Our boat was of the kind furnished to many of His Majesty's ships, and
known as a launch; her length was twenty-two feet, and her beam six; she
was remarkably dry in ordinary weather. We had reason to be grateful to
the men who designed and constructed her. She was rigged with two masts
and lugsails. We were eight on board, but she would easily have carried
twelve and sailed the better for it.

We had a little beef and pork, a bag of flour, and a small one of corn
fetched for the fowls. As I have said, we had a pig, the rooster, and
four hens. The vegetables, carrots, turnips, onions, and cabbages
amounted to about fifty pounds' weight. Tom and I had our muskets, a
fowling piece, and a good supply of powder and ball, while Goodwin had
fetched a fishing net, as well as hooks and lines, saw, axe, hammer, and
nails, in the sea chest where his chart, compass, and quadrant were
stowed. For water, we had one five- and one ten-gallon keg; and--a most
important item--Ned Inching's eight quarts of rum. Last of all, and most
useless so long as we should be at sea, Nick and Dan had their bags of
sovereigns stowed away in the chest.

At dawn the wind made up stronger. We lowered the mainsail, unstepped
the mast, rigged a pair of stays to brace the foremast, and set to work
to make all snug. With the folded mainsail, we made a bed for Bella and
her son in the bows, where they lay, wrapped in Dan's watch coat. An icy
spray was beginning to blow over the quarters each time a wave overtook
us; Goodwin sat at the tiller while the rest of us disposed our chilled
bodies as best we could on the bottom boards, sheltered in some degree
from the wind.

And so it went, throughout that day, and the night, and the day that
followed. On the evening of the second day, Dan estimated that we had
run two hundred miles or more. We had been edging in toward the land all
afternoon, while he studied the coast attentively. Just before sunset,
he pointed to the surf-battered shore.

"Get forra'd, Hugh," he ordered. "There's an inlet yonder. Trim the
sheet while I bear up a bit."

A headland lay close to larboard, with what appeared to be an inlet
beyond, guarded by a bar on which the sea ran very high.

"It looks ugly, but we'll chance it," said Dan. "It's not breakin' so
heavy at the far end."

The change in course made the boat roll violently, while spray and solid
water sluiced over the rail. The boat flew on, as if eager to reach a
sheltered anchorage.

Presently we rose on a great sea and shot forward into the turmoil of
waters on the bar. For a long minute it was nip and tuck, despite Dan's
quick eye and steady hand on the tiller; then, with water ankle-deep in
the bilges, we sped forward on even keel into a landlocked bay, or river
mouth, bordered by low hills clothed in bush. We rounded-to in the lee
of a long, wooded point and paddled till the keel grounded on sand.

We soon had a fire going at the foot of a low cliff. When we had cared
for the livestock, we gathered by the hearty blaze, turning this way and
that to let the heat soak into stiffened joints. We were weary and
chilled to the bone and gave little thought to food. As soon as we had
dried our blankets, we stretched out on the sand and fell asleep.

I have never revisited that northern coast and do not know to this day
whether our refuge was Harrington Inlet or the great bay behind Smoky
Cape. During the week we spent there I saw no sign that the country was
inhabited, and the birds and beasts were so tame they seemed
unacquainted with their enemy, man.

There were no kangaroos about, but the smaller animals of the same kind,
called wallabies, were plentiful among the rocks. One of us hunted every
day, while the others plied the fishing net and scraped up a supply of
dirty reddish salt from the rock pools above the reach of all but the
highest tides. Garth was forced to go off out of earshot while we
slaughtered her pig; his flesh was cut in thin strips, well-rubbed with
salt, and hung in the sun, with wallaby meat and what fish we were able
to secure. When we set sail on a fine morning with the breeze at
southeast, we carried full water kegs and a fortnight's supply of food.

Four hundreds of miles of open sea still lay between us and the Great
Barrier Reef, and the distance was increased because of our need to hug
the coast. We met with no great storms and were deeply thankful that
wind and sea refrained from showing the full majesty of their might.
Only at intervals, when we discovered a bay or inlet which enabled us to
land, were we able to refresh ourselves on shore. We saw the sun but
rarely, throughout this part of our voyage; the sky was as grey and cold
as the sea. Sometimes, for forty-eight hours together, we sat huddled on
the thwarts, drenched with rain and spray, the strong southerly wind
seeming to freeze the blood. And we bailed until our weary hands could
scarcely hold the scoops. There were days when we had little to eat, and
others when we had nothing at all, but Nellie was bound our cock should
not lack. She fed him a few grains of corn at a time, and stowed his
crate forward, in the driest part of the boat. The spirit in his little
bedraggled body was never daunted; on rare mornings when the sun came
out and he was placed on a thwart to warm himself, he would flap his
wings and crow with a right good will, as if to encourage the rest of
us. His small heart seemed a reservoir of courage as boundless as the
sea itself.

Throughout this time, we had the prospect of the Great Barrier Reef to
cheer us. Its southern extremity, we knew, lay somewhere about the
twenty-fifth parallel; once we were within its shelter, we could promise
ourselves a voyage of comparative ease, for more than a thousand miles,
until the time came to leave the continent of New Holland behind, and
push out across the open sea once more, toward the Dutch East Indies.

We fell in with the Great Reef which shelters the coast from Moreton Bay
to Cape York, and passed three days and nights of misery while searching
for an entrance. The wind held strong at S.S.E., so that we were able to
skirt the formidable Barrier closely enough to gaze beyond it at the
calm waters within, the wooded islets, with their promise of rest and
refreshment, and the faint, blue outlines of the distant main. Safety
was there, but between us and the longed-for haven stretched the reef,
where the great westward-rolling combers piled up in awe-inspiring
fashion, crashing upon the Barrier in geysers of foam and broken water.
Twice we thought we had found an entrance, and came so near to disaster
upon discovering our mistake that we needed all of our resolution to
approach so closely again, especially since the wind now shifted to full
east, blowing directly onshore.

But Providence was with us. Late in the afternoon of a cloudless day, we
found an entrance, all of a quarter of a mile wide, and sailed in
without mishap. There before us, only a few miles distant across the
lagoon, lay an islet that seemed heaven itself to our weary hearts. It
was scarcely a mile in extent, rocky and barren, covered with clumps of
harsh scrub, but at one end a sandy spit sheltered a little bay as
smooth and clear as the waters of a mountain lake. More than a week had
passed since we had last set foot on shore. Of water we had plenty,
thanks to the rains that had so drenched and chilled us, but not a
morsel of food remained in the boat save Nellie's bag of corn. Weak and
stiffened as we were, we made shift to gather oysters and other
shellfish before night set in, finding them so abundant in the rocky
shallows that half an hour sufficed to obtain more than we could eat. We
rested and refreshed ourselves at this place for two days, and set sail
with life and hope renewed.

We sailed on to the north, day after day, in the midst of a silence that
seemed never to have been broken since the beginning of time. I was
conscious of a feeling of mingled awe and exhilaration in traversing
these unknown regions. So far as we knew, no white man had ever passed
this way before. Captain Cook, after his discovery of Botany Bay, had
sailed north well offshore, not entering the Barrier until he had
reached latitude thirteen or thereabouts, near the Endeavour River,
where he hove down his ship for repairs.

Good fortune now followed us as if in recompense for the miseries we had
endured. We were within the tropics, and cold weather a thing of the
past; the trade wind held warm and steady between S.E. and E., speeding
us on our passages between the islets where we camped almost every
night. Water was to be found on many of the larger islands; only on rare
occasions were we obliged to risk a brush with the blacks by filling our
kegs on the main. It was now spring in these latitudes and the sea birds
were beginning to lay; their flesh and eggs, boiled or roasted, provided
us with many a meal. Great flocks of bronze-wing pigeons flew out each
evening to roost on the islands, and a single discharge of my fowling
piece often brought down half a dozen fine birds. We ate shellfish until
we wearied of them, and when we drew our net we often liberated the half
of the catch. Fish of a hundred wholesome kinds were here, in numbers
that made us think with regret of the poor folk in Sydney. Twice we
captured huge turtles, come on shore to deposit their eggs, and feasted
like aldermen on the rich greenish fat and flesh.

In memory I can see our boat at anchor in any one of a dozen snug island
harbours, our camp pitched, our beds of dry grasses ready prepared under
the stars, and all hands gathered about the fire to roast our birds or
fish. The rich juices dripped upon the coals with sharp hissing noises,
sending up spurts of vapour that made our bellies quiver with
anticipation. And the best sauce to whet our appetites, if whetting were
needed, was the recollection of Port Jackson fare. Our brave little cock
throve with us. Once within the Barrier, his grain was saved for the
lean times ahead, but he grew sleek on fish and flesh and oysters, and
the tidbits he discovered for himself as he roamed at will on shore.
There was no fear of his straying. A call from Nellie would bring him
back as fast as legs and wings could carry him.

One circumstance of our voyage within the reefs both surprised and
reassured us: the small numbers of aborigines to be met within these
regions. Sometimes, after dark, we could make out the faint points of
light that marked their fires on the mainland; now and again, when the
breeze was light, we saw smoke rising from some promontory. We had
learned enough in Port Jackson to know that white men have no reason to
fear these people in small numbers, provided that nothing is done to
arouse their anger or suspicion. Though we had firearms in case of need,
we were well content to avoid meeting parties of the natives, and only
met them close at hand on two occasions.

Once, in a bay on the main, we surprised a small party whom we took for
three generations of a single family. Their astonishment at seeing us
was increased when we shouted greetings in their own speech or something
akin to it. They lost their timidity by degrees, and before nightfall we
were able to place ourselves on friendly terms with them. We camped on
the shores of the bay for two successive nights, and while we kept
watch, I think that we might have slept in perfect confidence, for they
were as quiet and peaceable as country folk in England. On the last day,
we drew our net and shared the catch with them, much to their delight,
and when we set sail they accompanied us in their canoes, shouting and
laughing in their efforts to keep pace with us, till the wind freshened
and we left them far astern.

On another occasion we were camped on an island well off the coast, and
three or four miles from a second larger island to the east. Shortly
after daybreak, when we were making ready to sail, Tommy Goodwin came
running to say that he had spied five canoes, approaching from the
direction of the main. As always, we had taken care to screen our fire
from view the night before, but we now believed that it must have been
seen, and that the savages were bound for our island. For all our
muskets, the prospect of facing so large a party was disquieting. Our
boat was hidden in a cove below the camp, but we could not reach her
without exposing ourselves to the view of the blacks. Carrying our
weapons, Goodwin and I crept to a rocky promontory whence we could look
down upon the approaching flotilla. To our great relief, it was soon
clear that they were bound not for our island, but for the larger one
beyond it, though they passed directly beneath our hiding place and not
thirty yards offshore. We were well screened by bushes, and I have never
forgotten that strange and intimate view of a savage tribe going about
its affairs in complete ignorance of any observers. The canoes were made
of bark, and larger than any we had seen; each carried fire, built on
sand contained in the shell of a giant clam. The folk of all ages were
naked and several of the women had infants at their breasts. One ancient
crone was broiling fish over the coals in her clam shell and tossing
them aft to her companions, who doused them in salt water and gobbled
them up, bones, entrails, and all. A tall, skinny fellow stood in
another canoe, polishing the haft of a spear, talking with great
animation as he worked and making strange comic gestures which set the
others to laughing heartily. A small boy sat behind him, with his head
resting against an old woman's knees. He had a white sea bird, tethered
by a long string of bark, and watched it intently as it fluttered back
and forth high overhead. There was much talk and laughter and shouting
as the flotilla glided swiftly by. Presently the canoes vanished to the
eastward, in the dazzling track of the sun.

That was our last sight of the aborigines. A sense of our loneliness
drew us more and more closely together as we moved slowly northward
between the twin immensities of land and sea. For all save Bella Goodwin
this was a time of increasing hope and confidence. She seemed to have
lost all interest in living, to be fading gradually under the influence
of an illness which was more of the mind than of the body.

Many an evening on shore, when Tommy was asleep at his mother's side,
the rest of us would gather for talk of plans for the future, taking it
for granted that we should succeed in reaching England. I recollect one
night in particular, our twentieth inside the reefs, when these matters
were discussed until the small hours. We sat by our dying fire on the
shores of the bay, whose still waters were like a nether sky, bright
with the reflections of the stars. According to Goodwin's calculations
we were no more than two hundred miles from Cape York, the northern tip
of the continent.

"Are ye certain of the reckoning?" Garth asked.

"I'm not far off," said Goodwin. "If the breeze holds, we'll be clear of
New Holland in four-five days."

"Damn my eyes!" exclaimed Tom Oakley. "As close as that? Can't ye smell
home in the air, lads?"

"That's the smell I'll live on, the rest o' my days," remarked Sabb.

"What d'ye mean by that?"

"Grant we win through, and with Dan to lead us, I'll warrant we will.
What then? Ye know what happens to convicts escaped from
transportation."

"Aye, if they're catched," said Inching. "But they'll never nab _me_
again!"

"Ye'll go back to London, and picking pockets?" Sabb asked.

"What else? It's my trade, ain't it?"

Nick shrugged. "Suit yerself, Ned, suit yerself. I've nothing but good
words for the trade; but if ye're set on climbin' a ladder to bed, go
back to London. Ye'll not have the pleasure of my company. I'm for
Holland."

"What'll ye do there?" asked Oakley.

"My nephew's carried on in London, if he ain't been hooked. I'll set up
a branch in Rotterdam. Holland's a brisk market for jewels, and trinkets
too pretty to melt down. There'll be a rosy future for the pair of
us.... Where are ye for, Tom? Ye mean to run straight?"

"Ye can lay to that!" said Oakley, with a grim laugh. "I'm for
Wiltshire, once we reach home; ye'll see no more of me in London! I'll
work hard and save every sixpence, and soon or late, Tom Oakley, under
another name, mind ye, will have his own string of horses, and money put
by.... What of yerself, Dan? Will ye be safe in Suffolk?"

"That's to be seen," replied Goodwin. "I'd the luck not to be took at
home, but on the Norfolk coast." He turned to me. "Would there be work
and a decent living yonder in America?"

"Work?" said I. "You'd find it the day you landed. New England's the
place for you, Dan: Boston, or Salem. They can't build and man ships
fast enough to keep up with their trade!"

"Say ye so? We might do worse," said Goodwin, thoughtfully.

Presently the others stretched out on their beds of grass, under the
stars. I walked down to the beach, where our boat lay in the shallows.
Here, in the coolness and vast hush of the night, I found myself truly
believing, for the first time, that we might yet reach England.
Heretofore I had not permitted my thoughts to stray beyond the boat
itself, the camps we made, the events of our daily progress. Now I found
pleasure in letting them fly on before us, traversing in a flash of time
the thousands of leagues of sea that stretched away ahead, to England,
to America, to Canada; and so real were the scenes conjured up by
imagination that I seemed to breathe the fragrance of Sally's very
presence, to feel her nearness in an all but physical sense. Quebec...
it was there I would go from England, as fast as ships could take
me. In my longing for the day to come I dreamed myself already there,
stepping along some narrow street of the ancient town, on the last five
minutes of my quest for Sally. I fancied myself standing on the doorstep
before her aunt's house, raising the brass knocker to announce my
presence, seeing the doorknob turn... but even in fancy I could go no
further. Time and space widened again on the instant, and I felt a pang
that was close to despair as I returned to an awareness of the present
moment. In the mind's eye I saw the American brig far out on the
Pacific, with Sally standing at the bulwark, thinking of me, perhaps, as
I was thinking of her. And the huge round bulk of the planet must yet be
placed between us before ever our paths could begin to converge.

                 *        *        *        *        *

For eight days we had camped in a cove sheltered from easterly winds,
where a run of sweet water found its way down to the beach. To the north
the sea, as far as the eye could reach, was strewn with reefs and bars
innumerable. To the west was a great opening set with mountainous
islands, which Goodwin declared must be the passage through which
Captain Cook had worked his ship twenty years before. If he had not
mistaken his reckoning, this would be our last camp before pushing out
to open sea and the Dutch East Indies. Both fish and game were plentiful
here, and we soon laid in and salted provisions sufficient to carry us
through the last leg of the voyage to Timor. Of bread or breadstuff we
had none, save for two or three pounds of corn, and we had no intention
of depriving our cock of this scanty ration. Our fish and wallaby meat
was well salted and dried and ready to stow in the boat. Water was our
chief concern, but we estimated that, by allowing a pint a day to each
person, our fifteen gallons should last us as many days. If the trade
wind held, Timor should be no more than ten or twelve days distant. Had
it not been for Mrs. Goodwin, our prospects would have seemed brighter
than at any time in the past.

Although we avoided speaking of her condition, we realized that Bella
had come to the end of her tether; she would die here, or on the passage
to Timor. She had sunk rapidly during the previous fortnight. Each time
we went ashore, Dan had carried her, for she was too weak to stand, and
now she lay in a kind of stupor, scarcely conscious of what was taking
place around her. Whatever his feelings, Dan had kept his own counsel
until the evening when all was in readiness for proceeding.

Tommy was already asleep at his mother's side. Garth sat on watch by the
sick woman, who had taken no food the day long. Dan rose, with a nod to
Oakley and me, and we followed him to the beach.

"Lads," he said, "this is our last camp. It's open sea, now, to Timor,
with never a dot of land between, laid down on the chart. I wish your
advice. Can Bella support the voyage?"

"No," said I.

"We must wait, Dan, till she picks up a bit," said Tom.

"That would be my wish," said Dan, "but I've the rest of ye to think of.
The season's far advanced, and the monsoon due to shift. With luck we've
a fortnight to fetch Timor before the westerlies set in. If we don't
clear out quick, we're stuck here till May or June."

"Dan," said I, "this is a thing for you to decide."

"'Tis bitter hard... but Bella's done for: that's plain truth. God
help her, I doubt she lives through another night." He walked up and
down before us for some little time; then he said: "We're obliged to go
on, but for Bella's sake I'll ask ye all to stop here two days more."

That length of time was not required. Bella died the following morning,
with Goodwin and Nellie Garth sitting by her. The rest of us had gone
with Tommy to a sandy islet half a mile beyond the entrance to the cove.
Garth met us at the beach, upon our return, and we knew at once what had
happened. She went off with Tommy to a rocky headland at the far end of
the beach, and her warm motherly heart found the way to break the news
to the boy, and comfort him.

We buried the lad's mother in the night, when he was sleeping, and
marked the lonely grave with a border of sun-bleached coral fragments.
North, south, east, or west, there were no other white folk within a
thousand miles. The sun had just risen when we rowed out of the cove.
The breeze was blowing fresh and fair. We hoisted sail and bore off to
the westward.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The memory of the sixteen days' voyage to the Dutch Indies is still such
a horror to me, for all the intervening years, that I shall pass over
the events of them with the briefest possible mention. The horror was
concentrated in the last three days of the passage, although the
anxiety, the weariness, the hard struggle to fetch land, then within
view, began on the tenth day. Nothing went amiss during the first week,
once we had groped our way through Endeavour Straits to the open sea.
The breeze was light but fair, and so it held until, by Goodwin's
reckoning, we were within two hundred miles of our destination. It then
became lighter, but at the end of seventy-two hours we had on our
starboard beam a glorious sight: the shadowy outlines of a mountainous
land, so far distant that the bulk of it was below the horizon. At first
we doubted the land was there. The sky was clear, but the moisture-laden
air, shot through with dazzling sunlight, played tricks with vision. The
faint bluish outlines would vanish, and we would again see, or think we
saw, the empty horizon line before us. So it went all that day, but a
little before sunset we doubted no longer. Away to the north we saw what
appeared to be a group of small islands, but we had good reason to
believe that they comprised the highest peaks of a single body of land.
It was thanks to Tommy Goodwin's sharp eyes that we had not missed it
altogether, for it lay abeam and far to the north. We did not then know
that it was not Timor, but the neighbouring island of Roti that we saw.

No sooner had we hauled our wind to fetch it than the breeze failed us.
We must have been a good twenty leagues off at the time. We took to the
oars and toiled under a sun that seemed to suck all the juices from our
bodies. The breeze made up at nightfall but came right in our teeth, and
we made boards all that night and the following day, but I doubt if we
gained three leagues in the direction we would go. We were just at the
change of the monsoon and what little wind there was came from north to
northwest. Then it fell dead calm and remained so.

For three days we had not been able to touch the remains of our fish and
wallaby meat. Of necessity, they had been so imperfectly dried and
salted that they had gone rotten in the heat; the mere sight and the
smell of them set us to retching. But thirst, not hunger, was the
torment. We had so little water left that we were obliged to cut down
the ration to a quarter of a pint, issued at noon. Our brave little cock
that had gone through so much with us had his just share; indeed, he had
more than the share needed to keep life in his small body. We were bound
that he should survive with Tommy and favoured them both in issuing the
ration. With one of the blankets we made a shelter for them in the bow
where they could lie protected from the pitiless sun. Of the six adults,
Ned Inching best supported the horrors of thirst. Sabb's was the most
alarming condition. The thick bitter mucus on his lips and tongue made
it all but impossible for him to speak.

I have only a nightmarish recollection of the last thirty-six hours of a
voyage of a full thousand leagues. I recall, vaguely, Nellie Garth
kneeling beside me as she poured a few drops of water between my swollen
lips, and my feeling of shame that she, a woman, should have outlasted
myself. But, God bless her faithful, generous heart, knowing the woman
she was I might well have been ashamed of being ashamed.

The last thing I remembered was Nellie lifting me to a sitting position
on the floorboards.

"Hugh, look yonder!" she said, thickly.

A large ship lay becalmed about two miles distant, her dingy brown sails
hanging limp from the yards. And between her and ourselves, a boat,
rowing four oars or six, I couldn't be sure which, appeared and
disappeared as she approached us over the glassy sea.




CHAPTER XXI. THE PARTING AT SNAPENESS


The ship was the Dutch barque _Amstel_, homeward-bound from Timor, via
Batavia and the Cape of Good Hope. Her captain was named Dykstra, a
broad-beamed, broad-faced man of fifty, with the heart of a saint hidden
in his squat body. Castaways in our desperate condition might well have
aroused the pity of any ship's company, but Captain Dykstra and his men
showed us a humanity that, by reason of our long experience as convicts
and outcasts, gave us a renewed faith in the innate goodness of the
generality of mankind. At the end of a week we were all fully recovered.

We were letter-perfect in the story we had planned to tell in the event
we reached one of the Dutch settlements. We were castaways from the
American brig _Rappahannock_, from Baltimore, in Maryland, with a cargo
of rum, tobacco, and tierces of beef which we had expected to exchange
in Peru for silver and hides. But the Spaniards would not permit us to
trade there, and James, our mythical captain, had laid a course across
the Pacific to India via the island of Otaheite, in the South Sea. We
had found our way through Endeavour Straits, and just beyond, on a dark
stormy night, a strong current had set us on a reef where the ship was
lost. Captain James had been killed by the falling of the mainmast. At
daybreak, the rest of us had managed to launch our three boats, but we
had become separated from the others within the week and had never seen
them again. Nellie was supposed to be the captain's wife.

Captain Dykstra, who spoke a little broken English, accepted this story
without question, and when we reached Batavia, where we lay for the
better part of a month, he was good enough to offer us a passage to
Europe. We had informed him of the extent of our resources. Nick Sabb's
leather guinea bag was far from its old weight, but he had remaining one
hundred and eighteen pounds. Goodwin had the sixty pounds brought out
from England--not a penny of it had he spent. Captain Dykstra agreed to
take us for the sum of one hundred pounds down, the rest to be paid when
we reached England. This left us with a sum sufficient to buy what
clothing we needed and to pay for food and lodging during our stay in
Capetown. At Batavia, owing to the pestilential climate of the place,
Captain Dykstra permitted us to lodge on shipboard.

We had a good passage to Capetown, and on an evening early in December
came safely to anchor within half a cable's length of the place where
the _Charlotte_ had lain, on the passage to Botany Bay. British, Dutch,
and French Indiamen were at anchor in the bay; great numbers of scoots
plied between them and the quay at the east end of the town, loading and
unloading cargo, or fetching water and provisions from shore. Dykstra
informed us that he was obliged to stop here for the better part of a
month whilst the _Amstel_ underwent repairs. Both Goodwin and I had made
ourselves useful as seamen during the passage to the Cape, and now Dan,
who was a first-class shipwright, offered his services to the captain,
who gladly accepted them. Tommy remained aboard with his father. As soon
as permission was received from the authorities, the rest of us went on
shore to one of the humbler lodginghouses on the outskirts of the town.

Capetown, in those days before the English occupation, was a bit of
Holland, set down in Africa, and inhabited by a greater variety of races
than could be found in any European city. The wide streets were laid out
at right angles with the greatest order, and the houses, of whitewashed
masonry, in their well-tended gardens, looked as if they were scrubbed
every day, from ground floor to attic. The burghers strolled along the
waterfront in the cool of the evening, or sat in their gardens, drawing
in stolid content at their great porcelain pipes. Seamen of many
nationalities wandered in bands and crowded the public houses to drink
the fiery Cape wine. Heavy wagons drawn by several span of oxen, and
laden high with casks and bales, rumbled through the streets, managed
with great skill by their Kaffir drivers, who cracked long whips of
rhinoceros hide. The Dutch had brought numbers of Malays from the East
Indies, and they gave a touch of gay colour to the scene, in their
embroidered jackets and bright-coloured kilts.

We were more than wary when we first came ashore, fearing that other
transports for Botany Bay might be lying in harbour, or, worse still,
that some of those of the Second Fleet, homeward-bound, might appear in
the offing. But our luck held. The only English ships in harbour were
four outbound Indiamen, and three of them sailed within the week.

Captain Dykstra had made his report of our rescue to the Dutch
authorities. Goodwin and I were called in to give further details, which
were all written down with Dutch thoroughness. Our chief concern
thereafter was to make no slips in conversation, for the names we gave
the Dutch authorities were, of course, fictitious. But as we knew no one
in the town save our landlady, who spoke no more than a dozen words of
English, we managed very well.

Nellie, Oakley, and I passed many a pleasant afternoon walking out to
the open country where we were free to talk over old times and make
plans for the future. It was at this time that I pleaded hard with them
to go on with me to America. Garth considered the proposal with deep
seriousness. She knew that she could never again feel safe in England,
but I could not draw a definite promise from her. Oakley would play with
the notion of joining me; sometimes he would say: "By the Lord, Hugh,
I'll come, and I'll fetch Nellie if I have to drag her along by main
force!" Then he would think of England, and if ever there was a man who
loved his country, it was Tom. His enthusiasm for America would fade,
and he would outline plans for his future as a breeder of fine horses,
once he had gotten on his feet again.

Sabb and Ned Inching passed their time soaking in sunshine in the garden
at the back, and playing cribbage for hours together. With the excellent
and more than abundant Dutch food provided by our landlady, Nick's belly
began to resume its old proportions. He wore the same wide cowhide belt
I remembered so well when I first saw it enclosing his huge paunch in
Newgate. His "belly-gauge," he called it, and he had a name for every
hole the full length of it. Three holes from the outer end was his Cloak
Lane hole which marked his girth at the time he was nabbed and sent to
Newgate. Two holes farther in was the Newgate State Side girth. Then, in
succession, toward the buckle end, came the _Charlotte_ hole, the Botany
Bay hole, and last, a truly astonishing distance toward complete
deflation, was the Famine hole, where he had fastened the belt when we
were living on one-quarter rations of powdery, worm-eaten rice and
rancid pork.

One afternoon, Sabb and Inching went into the town for the first time
since we had come ashore. We were all in a happy frame of mind, for
Goodwin had come to tell us that the _Amstel_ was again ready for sea,
and that Captain Dykstra planned to sail in two days' time, weather
permitting. Dan had left Tommy on board; the lad loved nothing so much
as a ship, and was the pet of all the _Amstel's_ company. Dan stayed for
supper and spent the evening with us. Nellie had gone to bed, and
Goodwin was about to return to the _Amstel_ when Sabb and Inching
arrived. Nick's round face was flushed and beaming, and he had one arm
around Inching's neck, the latter striving hard to hold him on even
keel.

Nick Sabb "shaking a cloth" was as merry a sight as a man could wish to
see; there was nothing mean or savage in his character. I had seen him
in a doleful humour more than once, but never in an ugly one. His usual
mood was one of bland, imperturbable good spirits, and when he was in
his cups this heightened to a quiet, belly-shaking gayety: every man was
his friend, and every passing moment a joy to live through. Inching
liked his glass as well as another, but I never saw him drunk. He could
pour an astonishing amount of liquor down his skinny throat and still be
as sober as Sunday.

Sabb halted just inside the door, and in leaning back to get us into
better focus he would have lost his balance had not Inching, who was
behind, braced himself to receive Sabb's weight.

"Steady on! Ned, are ye there?

            "Oh-h-h, 'tis for our good, me hearty lads,
             We pass the hours away.
             We'll have a frisk without the risk
             Of a squabble or a fray,"

sang Nick, in a voice as melodious as that of a costermonger's donkey.

Ned peered round from behind.

"Fetch 'im a chair, Tallant," said he.

"Aye, Hugh, ye cloud-pushin' giant, fetch me a chair! Call me cut if I
walk another step!

            "Oh-h-h, 'tis for our good, me hearty lads,
             We sing the hours away..."

Nick sank into the chair with a thump that only the stoutest piece of
furniture could have withstood.

"What's this, Pinch-Guts?" said Tom. "Where've ye been?"

Sabb sat with his hands clasping his broad knees, mellowing us like a
harvest moon.

"Well may ye ask, Tom! Well may ye ask!

            "Oh-h-h, we'll have a frisk without the risk
             Of a squabble or a fray."

He peered cautiously around the room where the candlelight cast wavering
shadows upon the walls. "Are we all friends here? Who's the
broad-as-long yonder?"

"It's Dan," said Tom. "There's none here but ourselves."

"Good! More than good!... Ned, ye weasel!" Sabb broke off and his
belly shook with a hearty chuckle. "Lads, it's been a night of nights! I
ain't enjoyed myself so much since the time, years gone, when I buried
the old woman."

Inching, who had been standing by this while with a proud grin on his
leathery face, now took a chair. His skinny form, or, better, the coat
with the roomy pockets which hung upon it, seemed to be all lumps and
corners.

"Now sit ye quiet, Ned," said Sabb, "whilst I praise ye to the heights
of heaven.... It was like this, Tom. As ye know, Ned and me has sat
in this house as demure as a pair of mutes at a funeral, and ye've me to
thank for it. All the yearnin' for a pocket that wasn't his came back to
the shrimp yonder the minute he first set eyes on the fat Dutchmen
strolling along the quays, flashin' their silver snuffboxes, with the
gold fobs to their han'some gold watches hanging from their waistcoat
pockets, and the watches tickin' 'Take me! take me! take me!' so loud ye
could hear 'em a good half-mile away; leastwise, Ned could. None of ye
marked him, mebbe, as we was comin' through the streets the day we
landed, but _I_ did. I feared I'd never get him safe indoors, and when
'twas done I kep' him here. 'Ned,' says I, 'we've been saved by the
Dutch, fetched here by the Dutch, fed by the Dutch, and we'll be carried
home by the Dutch. If ever I see that quick little hand weaselin' toward
a Dutch pocket, I'll shout "Thieves!" as sure's me name's Nick Sabb!' I
made him see the light o' reason, but he'd ha' gone blind again, to all
but the pockets, if I'd not kep' him alongside o' me day and night.

"Then comes this Hugh Tallant, three days back, to tell us the last of
the India ships was to sail for Calcutta this very night. Says Ned,
'Nick, there ain't no harm thievin' from them that's been robbin' the
poor folk of India these fifty years past and cartin' the loot home by
the shipload.' Says I, 'Never in the world! They're our own kinfolk ye
might say, and if they had their deserts they'd be carted by the fleet
o' shiploads to Botany Bay.'...And that's why I've give the lad a run
out for a breath of air."

"And air is what he's fetched home?" asked Tom.

Sabb peered around the room once more. "Ye're certain all's safe here?
Landlady abed?"

"Hours since," said Tom.

"Then, ye blessed little Satan's apprentice, show 'em what we took,"
said Sabb. "Quiet, now!"

Ned began to disgorge. First came three handsome snuffboxes, two of
silver and one of blue enamel, with a picture on the lid of a sea fight
between two first-rates. Three gold watches followed, and a dainty
little round-bellied scent bottle of crystal glass, such as a lady would
carry in her reticule, overlaid with gold filigree work of the most
exquisite design. A superb brooch came next, a miniature of His Majesty,
George Third, set round with sapphires mounted in a narrow gold band.
All of these articles were wrapped in handkerchiefs, and the last item
of the loot was a dozen solid-silver apostle spoons. The latter were
fine examples of the silversmith's art, the handles being the figures of
the apostles. These were wrapped in a large linen napkin splotched with
fresh wine stains.

Oakley stared, first at the loot, then at Sabb, then at Inching.

"Have I said he was the neatest-handed rogue in the trade?" asked Sabb.
"Away with 'em, Ned! Here's the key to my chest. Hide 'em well toward
the bottom. Was it a good night's work, Tom?" he added, as Ned climbed
the staircase to their room.

"I'll warrant that," said Oakley, gravely. "There'll be a hue and cry
raised the morn that'll land the lot of us in quod. Aye, a fine night's
work! And us all but safe home!"

"Never ye fret," said Nick. "We saw the last boat, with all the nabobs
and their servants aboard, pull off to the ship. She'll be gone, come
daylight."

"That's to be seen," said Goodwin, grimly. "If we're caught and sent
back to Botany Bay, I'll save the hangman a job for the pair of ye."

Sabb sobered at once.

"Dan," said he, "the fault is mine; I know it well. I shouldn't ha' let
him out o' my sight. But, damn my eyes, he worked on me sympathies, so I
said he could have a buzz through the streets if he'd be back in an
hour's time and promise he'd lift no more than a handkerchief or two,
just to be certain his hand was in as good as ever."

Oakley laughed in spite of himself.

"And he comes home with a load to break a horse's back! Where the devil
could he ha' took the apostle spoons?"

"I'm comin' to that," said Nick. "This being the last night afore the
Indiaman was to sail, the officers, with the nabobs and their ladies
goin' out as passengers, hired the han'some supper room at the tavern up
against the public gardens. Ned ran into the crowd lookin' on from
outside. All the light there was in the street came through the windies
where the nabobs was dancin', with the cold collation to come. There
could ha' been no holdin' Ned then save I'd been by to put him down and
sit on his head."

"And why wasn't ye?" Tom asked.

Sabb had his excuses ready, but they boiled down to one: he was still
too weak in the legs to walk far. He admitted, however, that he had had
a hand in the taking of the apostle spoons. Ned had rejoined him at the
public house, and they were just on the point of coming away when two of
the stewards from the Indiaman, who had waited on the guests at supper,
came into the public house with the hampers containing the linen and
silverware brought ashore from the ship.

"They was sloppin' over with the wine they'd drunk arter the nabobs
left," said Nick, "but they came in for a nightcap on the way to the
boat landin'. And w'ile I talked with 'em, Ned was improvin' his mind
with the twelve apostles."

There was no sleeping for Oakley, Goodwin, or myself that night. Tom and
I were at the waterfront at the crack of dawn, where we found Goodwin
staring out to sea. A fresh breeze was blowing, and far down the bay we
saw the Indiaman outward-bound, with all sail set.

"God be thanked!" said Tom.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Our passage north from the Cape was a tedious one. The broad-beamed old
_Amstel_ was almost as slow as the _Charlotte_, but we were
homeward-bound at last.

The incident I best remember on the voyage occurred on the day we left
Capetown, when the lot of us were standing at the bulwark with full
hearts, watching the coast vanishing in the haze. The day before, when
Tom was laying in a few comforts for the voyage, he had discovered an
old copy of the _London Chronicle_, evidently left at the Cape by some
English vessel. It contained a long item about the sailing of the Second
Fleet from Portsmouth, and beneath it was a treasure of poetry and
unconscious humour--to us, at least--under the title:--

                       BOTANY BAY
                           or
            The Felons' Farewell to England

        May we, sad exiles to a barb'rous shore,
        Removed from all that lured to guilt before,
        With cheerful hearts the horrid journey speed
        And learn to make a virtue of our need.
        Atone our crimes to Britain and our God
        By useful labour in that drear abode;
        With patient toil the dismal desert grace,
        Improve its wild, uncultivated face;
        Mark the rude site of our Colonial town
        And earn the willing settlers' modest crown.
        Th' untutored Blacks shall faith and friendship find
        And own we left our vices all behind.
        England, farewell! Thy stern though generous hand,
        Granting us mercy in a distant land,
        We kneel to bless, while fresh and favouring gales
        Convey us to our haven, New South Wales.

There was delightful reading indeed for us. As Nick said, he could all
but weep at the thought that we were bound in the opposite direction.

I think that Captain Dykstra had a pretty shrewd notion before the
voyage was over as to how matters stood with us, but he never so much as
hinted at this. He had taken a great liking to Goodwin, and the two
often sat in the great cabin till past midnight, smoking their pipes.
They may have opened their minds to one another concerning the smuggling
transactions in which Dutch and English seamen so often joined forces.
It was late in March when the _Amstel_ wallowed through the Strait of
Dover, edging in toward the Suffolk coast when we had passed the Thames
Estuary.

The sky was overcast that afternoon; the North Sea was grey and calm,
and the light westerly breeze barely enough to fill our sails. Harwich
and Felixstowe were off in the haze on the larboard beam. Goodwin stared
at the flat Suffolk coast without a word. It was his own land where he
was born and bred; he knew every hidden path, the windings of every salt
creek in the marshes. The sun set and the grey light faded. The _Amstel_
lost steerageway, turning slowly eastward as if she longed to be off for
Holland and the end of her voyage.

At the time we were rescued, Captain Dykstra had taken our boat on
board, and now, in exchange for it, he gave us a little boat of his own
to go ashore in. Our leave-takings were of the briefest. It was
pitch-dark, but I can well believe that the eyes of the others were as
moist as my own as we shook Sabb's hand.

"Good-bye, ye rogue," said Tom. "Where do we meet again?"

"Not in England, Tom. No, no! But ye can get word o' me from my nevvy.
Ned'll be able to find him."

"And now ye'll rob the Dutch in Rotterdam, the folk that's been so kind
to us?"

"Never in the world," said Sabb. "What I do is this: my nevvy'll send me
the lurries took from them that can well spare 'em, and I sell 'em to
the Dutch for half their worth." He chuckled as he added: "Damn my eyes
if I ain't got a pretty little stock to start with, thanks to Ned."

"See to it, Nick, that you send your address to your nephew," I said.
"Tom and I won't be easy till we've paid you what we owe."

"Will ye hush about that?" said Nick. "I got the worth of it ten times
over when ye was hackin' down the gum trees yonder in a place I'll spare
to mention."

The boat was lowered and the ladder put over the side. Nellie climbed
down with our little cock under her arm. Thanks to her excellent care,
he was as full of life as ever he'd been. Nellie said she meant to breed
a new race of fowls with him as sire. We made our hearty, grateful
farewells to Captain Dykstra and his men, and followed into the boat.
Dykstra leaned over the bulwark.

"Gootvin," said he, "if efer you vant a jop, come to me."

"Aye, aye," said Dan, and we pushed off.

Lights were few on this lonely stretch of coast, but Dan steered
confidently. Nearly two hours had passed when we entered a wide shoal
inlet where packs of widgeon whistled on the tidal flats, and plover
wailed in the darkness overhead. The tide was beginning to flow once
more. The channel wound inland through a desolate region, half sea, half
land. We turned into a creek that led off the main channel, and
presently, glancing over my shoulder, I felt rather than saw dim trees
on a slope of rising ground, the masts of a lugger stranded on the tidal
shore, and the lights of a few distant scattered cottages. Steering with
uncanny skill, Goodwin turned the boat into a narrow drain through which
the tide was flowing soundlessly, and brought up alongside a jetty of
piles driven into the mud. A slimy ladder led up to a plank walk.

"We're home, lads," he said, quietly.

He led the way along a well-footed path, through a copse and across a
field. We passed a cottage where dogs barked and a door was flung open,
but Dan gave a peculiar whistle, and the door closed once more.

"That's old Jasper's cottage," he said. "I can't get it through my head
I ever been away."

We halted before a cottage at the far end of this tiny village. Dan
pounded on the door and entered without waiting for a response.

Sitting in a low chair with a candle on the table beside her was a
little old woman with snow-white hair showing from beneath her cap. She
wore a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles and was bent over a worn,
silver-clasped Bible which she held on her knee, her finger moving
slowly along the lines as she read. She glanced up vaguely, peering over
her spectacles, but finished the verse she was reading before she laid
the book aside. Goodwin strode across the room and lifted her in his
arms, as though she had been a child.

"Well, Granny," he roared, putting his lips close to her ear, "here I be
again!"

He set her down, and the old woman stood with her hands on his
shoulders, looking up at him.

"I ain't surprised, Dan'l. I ain't a mite surprised. I knowed ye'd come,
soon or late. Where's Bella and Tommy?"

She was very nearsighted and had not observed the rest of us standing by
the door. Even as she spoke, Tommy had his arms around her neck, hugging
her close. The scene was the more affecting because of the restraint
shown. You might have thought that Dan had come home after an absence of
seven days, instead of more than eight years. She greeted us with just
the little touch of homely formality which the occasion demanded, and
listened in silence while Dan told her of Bella's death. But there was
no display of emotion over the news. Suddenly she got briskly to her
feet.

"Bless me, ye pore starved creatures! Here I be a gossipin' and ye'll be
wantin' yer tea!" And away she bustled to the kitchen.

We were soon seated around a spotless deal table with two huge platters
of smoked herrings before us, with plenty of bread cut in thick slices,
and sweet country butter. There was tea for Nellie and Tommy, and a
pitcher of home-brewed ale, refilled three times, for the rest of us.
Oakley's eyes glistened as Dan poured out a foaming pot for him. He took
a long pull and set down the pot with a sigh, wiping his lips with the
back of his hand.

"Now I _know_ we're home," he said.

Old Mrs. Goodwin was so deaf that it was all but impossible to converse
with her, but she chattered on to Dan, trying to give him the gist of
eight years' news in as many minutes. She would skip round to press her
cheek against Tommy's and urge more food upon him.

"Bless my soul, ain't the boy growed! And he ain't forgot his granny,
have ye, Tommy? Dan, he pledges to be a bigger man than yer father. He
does, so!"

"Where's Howard?" Goodwin roared, when we had finished supper.

"Up yonder with the horses. They ain't gone yet. They'll be comin' by
directly."

"Now ain't that just the way it ought to be!" said Goodwin. "Granny,
there's naught amiss with my lugger?"

"She's just as good as when ye left. Trust Howard for that."

Howard was Goodwin's younger brother. We had a brief glimpse of him a
few moments later when a pack train of a dozen horses, each of them well
loaded, passed the cottage in single file, with as many men walking with
them. Goodwin went out to meet them and was gone the better part of an
hour. When he returned, he closed the door after him and stood by it
with a well of content, all of eight years deep, in his heart.

He shook his head wonderingly. "There ain't no use," he said. "I just
can't bring it home I ever been away."

We stopped for two days at Snapeness. The village was like a score of
others on that east coast. The life of its people, ostensibly farmers
and fishermen, had been based on smuggling for generations past. There
was a little public house, and a dozen or more cottages. Two fine
luggers belonging to the Goodwins lay in the creek, and nets hung on
frames to dry. The arm of the Law, long as it is, did not appear to
reach into these hidden tidal creeks and estuaries.

Nellie Garth, at the warm insistence of Dan and his grandmother, decided
to stay on at Snapeness until she could lay plans for the future. Oakley
was for Warwick and Inching and I for London. Dan ferried us across the
broad tidal river to set us on our way.

"Yon's the path through the ma'sh," he said. "It'll fetch ye to the lane
where ye turn left to come out on the Ipswich Road. The best o' luck to
ye, lads. I needn't say there's a hearty welcome here whenever ye choose
to come."

We gripped his hand and hastened on, not wishing to linger over the
parting.

Tom was for the village of Weston, between Leamington and Coventry, by
way of Stowmarket and Cambridge. We had a hurried meal together at
Ipswich, and had no more than finished when Oakley's coach arrived.

"Well, lads?" said Tom. "Hugh, look to yerself in London! I could wish
ye was able to make yerself invisible, like Ned here. Above all, mind
this: there's knaves and to spare like that police sergeant, Kneller,
would give their eyeteeth to nab any one of us. It's forty quid they get
as blood money for any man caught who's returned from transportation. No
need to say what _we'll_ get if we're took."

"Never fear," I said. "I'll not be long in London. Where will I get news
of you, Tom?"

"I'm blessed if I know, yet.... See here--how'll this be? I've heard
ye speak often of the New England Coffee House, on Threadneedle Street.
It'll be a good safe place to send ye a line. How'll I direct for the
name?"

"Write Hugh Bagehot. That was my mother's name."

Tom climbed to an outside seat, the guard played a strain of "All Ye
Bright Faces" on his horn, and away they went. Oakley stood waving until
the coach vanished at the bend of the road.

Ned and I reached London late that same night. As we drove along
Cheapside we were held up by a crowd gathered around another coach,
outward-bound, that had collided with a market gardener's wagon. There
must have been a hundred people looking on as the guard and the driver
of the wagon stood cursing each other with something past eloquence. The
fronts of houses on either side stood out clearly in the light of a pair
of torches, and I could see heads in the upstairs windows regarding the
spectacle as though seated in boxes at the play.

"Tallant, I'm off," said Inching, with a grin, and before I could say a
word in reply, he slid down from the coach and vanished in the crowd.




CHAPTER XXII. AT TOWER HILL GARDENS


I reached London with four pounds, eight shillings and sixpence, and a
decent outfit of clothing, bought in Capetown with Nick Sabb's money. To
make my small capital last as long as possible, I took cheap but
respectable lodgings at four shillings a week, over a saddler's shop in
Parker's Lane, not far off High Holborn. Knowing from past experience
that I might again be reduced to a state close to beggary, I resolved to
perform my one important errand whilst I could present a respectable
appearance. This was to call at the New England Coffee House in hope of
getting some word of Mr. Fleming. I knew that he had planned to return
to London and felt certain that he would have come long before this. But
when I called at the Coffee House I found everything changed. Of the
servants, there was not one I remembered, and Mr. Fleming's name was
unknown to the new management. My conclusion was that either Fleming had
come and gone long since, or had not come at all. I felt more than ever
forlorn and lonely. Although I had never admitted it, even to myself, I
had cherished the belief that I would surely find him.

I had not needed Tom Oakley's word of caution to realize my danger in
London. The eyes of the city's constables and their recollection of a
face or figure were sharpened by greed, for there was at this time an
iniquitous system of rewards known as "blood money" by means of which
police constables were spurred on to add to their meagre wages. A
partial list of these rewards is as follows: For taking a
housebreaker--fifty pounds. A murderer--fifty pounds. A counterfeiter of
gold or silver coin--forty pounds. A counterfeiter of copper coin--ten
pounds. A robber of the King's stores--twenty pounds. Apprehending a
felon illegally returned from transportation--forty pounds. And so down
to a five-shilling reward for taking into custody any idle or disorderly
person.

It was not, of course, iniquitous for a constable to be mindful of his
duty. The evil of this blood-money system lay in the fact that the
police would leave petty criminals at large until their arrest became
profitable. They would keep a proprietary eye upon them in the early
stages of their criminal careers; even encourage and "build them up" in
crime. "He doesn't weigh forty pounds yet" was the common saying amongst
them; and so they would wait, encouraging the wretches they meant to
seize later, giving them a false sense of immunity until they "weighed
their weight." Then they would pounce upon them and suck in the blood
money with the ferocious delight of the spiders they were.

There was one such spider whom I particularly loathed and feared. His
name was Kneller; I had often seen him at the Old Bailey Sessions House
during our trial there, and also in Newgate. He haunted the prison. His
cruel rapacious face could be seen half hidden in some pit of shadow in
the gloomy corridors. He would watch the prisoners who passed, stamping
their faces and figures upon his mind for later use. He was said to
receive more blood money in the course of a year than any dozen
constables in London.

It was Kneller whom I imagined always at my shoulder as I made my way
along the quays and docks of Wapping, on the search for some ship bound
for America. The luck which had held all the way from Port Jackson to
Snapeness seemed to desert me now. With England still at peace,
half-starved men haunted the river in hundreds, thousands, looking for
berths as seamen. Day after day I went up one side of the river and down
the other, visiting every ship bound for America; and the result was
always the same: no seamen wanted.

And so I was driven by hunger to my old occupation of lumper, unloading
cargo from East and West Indiamen for the most part.

At this time, the Thames from the Upper Pool by London Bridge,
downstream past the Horse Ferry to the Mooring Chains at Deptford, was a
nest of water thieves on both banks. The police were helpless against
them for the reason that they had no such close-knit organization as did
the river thieves. There were hierarchies of the latter, from the Light
and Heavy Horsemen, as they were called, down to the Mud Larks at the
bottom. The lumpers were the Heavy Horsemen who broke out cargo.
Coopers, rat catchers, and boatmen comprised the Light Horsemen.

When a ship was ready to discharge cargo, the watermen were ready with
their boats and lay close by in the darkness. The lumpers broke out the
tiers of casks in the hold. The coopers pretended to repair the heads of
the casks, having first removed as much of their contents as they could
manage to steal without detection. All worked with feverish energy,
filling their black-strap bags and passing them along to the waiting
lightermen and their assistants. Sugar, coffee, tea, spices,
tobacco--everything portable went into the bags. They also had bladders
furnished with nozzles, and these were filled with wine or spirits by
means of a pump called a jigger, and tubes calculated to reach casks in
any position. In addition to the black-strap bags, the plunderers wore
an underdress known as a "jemmy," with capacious pockets before and
behind, and long narrow pouches attached to their legs beneath their
wide trousers. In the case of a ship having a rogue of a first mate or
purser, the thieves would pay as high as fifty pounds for the privilege
of unloading that particular vessel. They could well afford to, for the
take in a single night, in an unguarded ship, often amounted to from
three to five hundred pounds.

In my sorry plight I must confess that I was tempted to join these
rascals, for I might easily have robbed enough in a week to buy me a
first-class passage to America. I did not, however, and the result was
that the others became suspicious of me. I had worked only a fortnight
when I was discharged by the man who had hired me, and, word having been
passed round that I might well be a spy in the pay of shipowners, no
other boss would have me. Down to penury I went once more, earning a few
pence per day as a porter and crossing sweeper.

My home at this time was a "Lodginghouse for Travelers" on a woefully
miscalled Love Lane, in Wapping. Here I paid tuppence a night for the
privilege of sleeping on a straw paillasse infested with the vigorous,
sleepless descendants of countless generations of bugs and lice. There
was one long narrow room lighted by the doorway and two unglazed windows
in the same wall. It had accommodation for a hundred or more outcasts,
and at the inner end was a fireplace where we were permitted to prepare
our bits of food, in case we had them. Here were wretches in every
category of wretchedness: boys and girls who lived by beggary, theft,
and prostitution; Irish street peddlers, chimney sweeps, barrow women,
porters and crossing cleaners like myself, ballad singers, blind
beggars, real and fictitious--the homeless of both sexes and all ages,
many of them here to-day and gone to-morrow. The very food we ate was
stolen, for the place was visited, morning and evening, by young roughs
known as "finders," who carried bags suspended from their necks, and
sold at one-third the market price fish stolen from Billingsgate Market,
chines and shins of beef, tripe, vegetables hooked from costermongers'
carts, and, of course, gin, the one necessity of these folk.

At night, pigging it in our common room, I saw sights I have no desire
to describe, and heard conversations that might have jarred the
complacency of many a London citizen.

I slept in this place for three months; then something happened that
drove me to the refuge of the streets. It was an evening late in August.
I had had a good day at parcel carrying and returned to the doss house
with a full belly for the first time in a week; but I was very weary and
went early to my so-called bed. I was awakened sometime after midnight
by the proprietor of the place shaking me by the shoulder.

"Up wi' ye, Cully!" he said, in a low voice. "P'lice is here! I'm
obliged to shake 'em all out."

There was one lighted candle on the table near the centre of the room.
As I got drowsily to my feet, I remember thinking:--

            How far that little candle throws his beams!
            So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

Then a chill of apprehension swept over me. What was it the man said?
Police? I peered through the gloom toward the far end of the room, and
there I could make out four men, police sergeants without a doubt. At
the same moment I felt, rather than saw, that one, carrying a lantern,
was Kneller.

The place was packed with lodgers that night, and the landlord was slow
in arousing so many. He was helped by the others, save Kneller, who
stood where he was, swinging his bull's-eye light with a kind of
blood-chilling jauntiness, as a saunterer, at peace with the world,
might swing his cane while strolling in the park. With despair in my
heart I ranged myself with the others; we stood in a single line in the
aisle that ran down the middle of the room between the rows of beds. The
police were, I knew, in search of someone they had reason to believe had
taken refuge here. The lodgers waited in a tense sullen silence as the
constable with the lantern, accompanied by two others, started down the
long line, flashing the light into the face of every man he passed, and
holding it there as he scrutinized his features. In the deep gloom the
concentrated light from the bull's-eye brought each face sharply out, so
that it seemed to be detached from any body. The man was Kneller; I knew
that before he had moved five paces in my direction. One of the
constables guarded the door at the far end of the room. Quickly and
quietly I buttoned my jacket, preparing to make a dash for it. Not a
dozen lodgers remained between Kneller and myself. He moved slowly, and
I could see the delight he took in the awe and terror he inspired: this
was one of the secondary rewards of his position as an arm of the law.

Of a sudden he seized the man before him by the collar, and jerked him
out of the line.

"By God, here he is!" he exclaimed.

"No, no, sir!" cried the wretched victim. "I've done nothing, sir!
Indeed I haven't!"

The voice and the words were those of a man of considerable refinement,
which seemed to add to Kneller's pleasure.

"No, no, sir! Indeed I haven't!" he mocked. "What d'ye call yerself?" he
added, harshly.

"Robert Martin, sir. I'm a clerk..."

"Oh... Robert Martin, is it?" said Kneller, in the same tone of
savage mockery. "Well, well! Will ye hearken to that, now!"

With that he gave the man so violent a shove that he fell at the feet of
the attending constables. These yanked him up, drew his arms behind his
back, and locked a pair of handcuffs on his wrists; then, without
another glance at the rest of us, as though we were so much dirt under
his feet,--and glad I was that he so regarded us,--he marched out, the
others following with the victim between them.

That was my last night in the rat warren of Love Lane. The week that
followed was a desperate time. At the end of it I moved across the river
with all my possessions in a small bundle. I had a pair of razors my
mother had given me before I left Canada, and the clothing bought in
Capetown, which I spared to put on, for the thought of having it gave me
comfort. I was dressed in a seaman's jacket and a pair of Osnaburg
trousers I had bought at second hand months before. I walked to that
true home of misery, Lock's Fields,--of misery, but, for the most part,
of honest misery. The inhabitants of this forlorn suburb were decent
folk--weavers and other artisans fallen upon evil days, but who had not
lost that most precious of attributes, self-respect. The relief of being
amongst people of this kind once more is past my power to tell. I had
not one penny when I came, yet I was taken into the home--and a true
home it was, for all the poverty, clean and neatly kept--of a weaver
obliged to live on the pitiful wages of two days' work per week. His
boys, of twelve and thirteen, earned more than their father as parcel
carriers and linkboys, turning their hands to whatever offered in the
way of employment. Their mother had the wholesomeness, the courage, the
love for order and cleanliness, of Nellie Garth, and both she and her
husband were determined not to be ploughed under by Fate. This little
family welcomed me, penniless, as though I had been an honoured guest,
but I was soon able to contribute my share to the small earnings that
kept a roof over their heads.

My debt to this cheerful, unconquerable family is beyond computation.
They lived on the very brink of disaster, yet, somehow, managed to avoid
being swept over it. They gave me a renewed belief in human kindness, in
human dignity. Their name was Holt.

A curious thing in life is that, when a man seems to be at the end of
his rope, the meeting with others in the same situation who refuse to
accept defeat will inspire the first with the same courage, and, often,
bring a sudden upward trend in his fortunes. Such an influence the Holt
family had upon my own fortunes, and when I remember what came of it,
what I owe to this heroic family, I am overcome with gratitude too deep
for words.

I resolved to have one more try at a seaman's berth in some American
ship; therefore, one morning when I had dressed in my decent clothing
once more, I set out to make the rounds of the shipping on the Wapping
side of the river. I carried with me my only possession, the razors my
mother had given me. Failing to get a berth, I planned to attempt
bribing some third mate or boatswain to let me stow away. I walked
hopefully and confidently, my chin up and my shoulders squared. I felt
like Hugh Tallant for the first time in months. And I found a berth on
the very first ship I boarded.

It was the American brig _Sterling_, from Portland, Maine, unloading
deals by Wapping New Stairs. She was to sail for home in about three
weeks' time, and her captain and his mates belonged to the Holt category
of human beings.

The captain looked me over with shrewd kindly eyes, whilst he questioned
me briefly about my seamanship. Then he said, "All right, young fellow;
you're hired. Come back this day fortnight and ye can sign on."

If ever a man has walked on air, it was Hugh Tallant as he hurried
toward London Bridge to return as quickly as possible to his friends the
Holts.

I was just by the Custom House, below Tower Hill, when I spied a solidly
built, elderly gentleman carrying a walking stick, with a young woman at
his side, strolling in the same direction as myself, and not thirty
paces in front. My heart all but stopped beating. I halted in my tracks
for an instant, then ran forward. The man was Mr. Fleming, and the girl,
Sally Munro.

I ask permission to pass briefly over the events of the next few hours,
for how could I describe them? Even now, after the lapse of more than
forty years, my pen trembles in my hand at the recollection of the
moment when I stood before the Custom House with Sally in my arms,
unconscious that there were any but ourselves in the crowded, busy
street. Mr. Fleming stood by, vigorously blowing his nose with a
handkerchief the size of a napkin, as though he took joy in the exercise
of his lungs, and still greater satisfaction in the trumpetlike blasts
he could produce with such ease.

Presently he said: "Hugh, I shouldn't wonder but you've visited the
Tower Gardens?"

"I have, sir, often," I replied.

"Many a tragic event has taken place on Tower Hill," said Mr. Fleming,
"and, no doubt, many happy ones. My guess is that the happiest ever is
due to come now." With that he walked off, but turned to call back:
"Dinner's at five, but, damme, it can wait till midnight if necessary!"

I doubt whether, in the venerable history of London, two people have
ever been so happy as were Sally and I as we strolled up to Tower
Gardens and seated ourselves on a bench screened from view of
passers-by; and, screened or not, it would have made no difference, for
we had no consciousness of others there besides ourselves.

I had been pardoned--freely and unconditionally; this was the first news
Sally gave me as we sat, with hands clasped, looking down over the
river. And now I will put into a few words what needed hours to say. I
struggled for a good quarter of an hour trying to convince myself, with
Sally's help, that I was, indeed, free, with no need to cast furtive
glances over my shoulder, no need to fear the future. Sally then
informed me that my mother had died before the departure of the First
Fleet, without learning of the ten thousand pounds' compensation granted
us at about that time. Presently we spoke of ourselves, beginning with
the day when the captain of the American brig, having waited for
twenty-four hours off Botany Bay, would consent to wait no longer for
the boat, despite Sally's prayers and entreaties. He believed, what
Sally herself deeply feared, that we had been caught in attempting to
leave the harbour.

Upon arriving in Boston, Sally had sailed for Quebec, where she stopped
with her aunt. Once there, she had written to Mr. Fleming, at Digby,
Nova Scotia, acquainting him only with the fact that she had a matter of
great importance to communicate. She received a reply from his nephew
informing her that Mr. Fleming had returned to London, and giving Sally
his address. After six weeks in her aunt's home, she had sailed for
London, where she found Fleming living in Queen Anne Square. He had long
believed me dead, but upon learning the true state of affairs he
immediately set about the task of trying to obtain me a pardon. The
record of the Tallant family during the American War, and my own part in
it, worked strongly in my favour. Mr. Fleming was able to enlist the
influence of Sir Joseph Banks, President of the Royal Society, and other
influential Londoners, with the result that the pardon was granted.
Sally's plan was to carry it herself to New South Wales, and on this
same morning she had gone with Mr. Fleming to inquire about the next
ships for Port Jackson. They had learned that two supply ships were
expected to sail in either January or February.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Sally and I were married in mid-September, and went for a fortnight to a
forever memorable inn at Eastbourne, near Beachy Head. The coast was
lonely and beautiful in the early autumn, and we had one week of all but
perfect weather, although had it been English weather at its worst, I
should have called it perfect. In a hired coach with a pair of spirited
horses, we explored the country on either side of Eastbourne, to Dover
and back to Hastings. It was our first sight of the battlefield where
William defeated Harold, but I fear we thought little of one or the
other at the moment. We made long excursions on foot, and spent hours on
the great promontory of Beachy Head, watching the ships pass back and
forth through the Strait of Dover. The time was so filled with happiness
that, if I chanced to be alone for ten minutes, I found myself doubting
its reality, and I would hasten back to Sally to be reassured. And
Sally, God bless her! had no trouble whatever in convincing me that she
was anything but a wraith.

We settled into Mr. Fleming's small Georgian house as though we belonged
there, and he assured us we did. During the weeks that followed we laid
plans for the future. I had no desire to return to Maryland, even though
I should be permitted to. That incomparable region held too many happy
memories for me, overlaid with too many sad ones. We talked of Canada,
New England, the Western Reserve, even the West Indies, as a possible
home, but at last we half decided upon England. Mr. Fleming loved
England only a little less than Maryland, and he had long since made his
decision to remain there for life. He urged us so strongly to follow his
example that we found our interest awakening at the prospect, the more
so because he recommended with such enthusiasm a small estate near
Halstead, in the Colne Valley, which he himself had been sorely tempted
to buy.

The end of it was that Sally and I set out to look at the place in Mr.
Fleming's chariot, with his man, Peters, on the box. The next morning we
turned west, following the Colne Valley to Halstead through a
countryside so beautiful in the golden autumn mists that we loved it on
sight. The house was all that Mr. Fleming had claimed for it, and having
examined it from attic to basement, we spent the rest of the day in
walking over the estate, convinced that nothing we might find elsewhere,
within our means, could equal this retired, enchanted place. There were
seven hundred acres with the Colne running through them, and four
tenants upon the land whose forbears had lived there for generations.
The place was to be had for eight thousand pounds.

Sally and I were so taken with it that we were tempted to arrange for
the purchase then and there; but we were both practical people, not
given to making such an important decision on the spur of the moment. We
spent the night at the Halstead Inn, where we discussed the matter until
past midnight. The following morning we informed the bailiff that he
would have our decision in a month's time.

Our journey into Essex had a double purpose: to visit the Colne Valley
estate and to go on from there to Snapeness, to see Dan Goodwin and
Nellie Garth, if she were still there. Goodwin's village lay some forty
miles beyond Halstead. We drove at a leisurely pace by way of Colchester
to Ipswich, where we spent the night. Snapeness village was not an easy
place to reach. At Woodbridge we crossed the Deben, and turned toward
the coast on a lonely road, scarcely more than a cart track that led to
the hamlet of Shottisham. There we were obliged to leave Peters with the
carriage and proceed on foot, along a path bordering the wide
marshlands.

We quickened our pace when the Goodwin cottage came in sight, and at
that moment we spied Tommy Goodwin coming toward us with a dip net over
his shoulder. The lad stopped short, staring at us for all he was worth;
then he turned in his tracks and sped toward the cottage, shouting,
"Dad! Miss Sally and Hugh! Miss Sally and Hugh!"

Next moment Goodwin himself appeared, his ruddy face beaming with
pleasure. Nellie Garth was right behind him. She hastened forward and
folded Sally in a huge embrace.

"Well met, Hugh! Well met!" said Goodwin, wringing my hand. "But how's
this, now? God bless me! I can't rightly believe my own eyes! Come into
the house and set ye down!"

There, in all truth, was a happy meeting. Old Mrs. Goodwin was there,
and Dan's brother, Howard, just such a rugged, broad-shouldered fellow
as Dan himself, but some years younger. We talked the morning through
and it seemed as if we had only begun to tell one another all that we
had to tell. But the happiest news, to Sally and me, was that Dan and
Nellie had been married only a fortnight earlier. Tom Oakley and I had
often spoken of this possibility during the voyage home in the _Amstel_.
We both wished it with all our hearts, but had not dared hint of it to
Dan; and whatever he and Nellie may have thought, they kept their own
counsel.

Toward midafternoon Sally and I were compelled to return to Shottisham.
Dan and Nellie walked with us halfway, and it was then Dan told us of
his plans for the future. He and Nellie and Young Tom were soon to sail
from Bristol for America.

"We've talked it over this way and that way," said Dan, "and now we've
settled down to goin', with the passage money laid out and all."

"Dan," said I, "you couldn't make a better move. Where are you bound?"

"For Boston, in New England. Ye've told me that seamen, fishermen,
boatbuilders, and the like, don't come amiss there."

"Amiss!" said I. "Rest easy, Dan. You'll find work from the day you
land, and have your own boatyard, or fishing business,--what you please
in that line,--before you've been in the country two years. There never
was such a place as New England for a stirring, thriving fellow like
yourself."

"Hugh," said Nellie, "d'ye recollect the talks we had about America when
ye was stoppin' with me at Wood End? Ye got me fair in the notion of
goin' there, though I little thought, then, 'twould ever come to pass."

"I've a snug little capital to start with," said Goodwin. "My uncle here
bought my lugger." He smiled as he added: "And I ain't done so bad at my
old trade since comin' home. I been twice to Holland and once to
France."

"Nellie, you've had no word of your old friend, Mrs. Windle?" Sally
asked.

Garth shook her head.

"I'd a mind to write her, but I don't dare risk it, Sally, that's the
plain truth. There never was a better friend and neighbour than Sarah
Windle, but if I was to write, she'd get that stirred up and excited she
might let out a word without meanin' to. No, I wouldn't dare risk it,
though I'd give the world and all to see her."

We had Shottisham in sight when we halted to say our farewells. We
lingered for another half hour, delaying the moment as long as possible
as the sunlight mellowed toward evening. Presently Dan stepped forward
quickly and gripped my hand, whilst Nellie took Sally in her arms and
kissed her on both cheeks.

"Night promises fair," said Goodwin, gruffly, and with that he and
Nellie turned and strode away homeward without a glance behind.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A fortnight passed, and neither Sally nor I had made up our minds about
the Colne Valley estate. There was not one objection to be set against
its desirability as a home; in fact, most of our discussions were
concerned with pointing out to each other its undoubted merits. We were
convinced that we might search the whole of England without finding
another place that so completely met our requirements. For all that, no
word was sent to the agent in Halstead.

I became more and more restless and uneasy as I considered the prospect
of spending my life in the tame, long-settled English countryside, but I
concealed the fact from Sally--at least, I thought I did. She went
quietly about our affairs as though assuming that we would soon make our
decision, but she never pressed me toward it.

One day when Mr. Fleming had gone to his club to enjoy a rubber of
whist, I came into the library in a more than glum frame of mind. The
newspaper was lying on the table. I took it up casually, and stretched
out in an easy chair to glance through it. On the front page, in the
lower left-hand corner, my eye was arrested by the following
announcement:--

                   FREE SETTLERS FOR NEW SOUTH WALES

    His Majesty's Secretary for Home Affairs has announced that
    Government will show special consideration to countrymen
    possessed of capital amounting to five hundred pounds or more,
    who signify their desire to emigrate to New South Wales. Grants
    of land will be accorded them at a nominal price per acre, to be
    paid over a long term of years; and, under certain conditions,
    convicts will be assigned to them as labourers. It is felt that
    great opportunities await experienced and industrious settlers,
    and that there is good land and to spare for as many as may wish
    to emigrate. Such settlers, with their families and household
    goods, will be transported free of charge, whenever space can be
    found on the transports or store-ships.

The brief autumn afternoon was almost over. A drizzling rain fell
steadily outside. The newspaper dropped to my knees and I stared at the
fire. In the mind's eye I saw Sydney Harbour rippling under the bright
Australian sun; the hazy ridges of the Blue Mountains, distant and
mysterious, shutting in no man knew what rich valleys and limitless
green plains. I seemed to feel the warm westerly breeze on my face,
scented with the aroma of untrodden forests.

The door opened, and Sally came into the room. She sat on a low stool
behind me, and I handed her the newspaper.

"There's an interesting announcement on the first page," I remarked.

Sally glanced at me as she took the paper, and quickly found the
announcement. I could not see her eyes as she read, but I knew that they
were dancing along the lines. She put the paper aside.

"Hugh, do you mean it?" she asked.

"Do I mean what?"

"That you would like to return to New South Wales?"

"Would you?"

"Yes," she replied, quietly, without a moment's hesitation. "I've wanted
to speak before now, but... tell me, truly: you wish to go?"

"Sally, there's nothing in the world I'd rather do than accept the
Government offer."

"Then we shall," she said, her eyes shining. "I could never be happy in
England. I've known it from the moment we visited the Colne Valley
place. It's beautiful--everything it should be for... for Englishmen.
But not for us. In my case, I suppose it's my father's fault. I was
brought up on the edge of the wilderness. I've been trying to pretend
for your sake, but it's useless."

"For my sake! And I've been pretending for yours!"

"Listen!" Sally went on eagerly, taking my hand and holding it in both
of hers. "We could do this: we could ask for land in that fine country
you and Tom Oakley discovered. Hugh, it would be perfect for us! It's
strange; when I think of New South Wales, and hardly a day passes that I
do not, I forget the dark side. I remember only the glorious lonely land
far beyond the settlement."

"There is no dark side, save in Sydney."

"I know.... Sometimes I think I'm bewitched. I long for the bright
sunlight, the clean air, the smell of the gum trees, above all, the
loneliness of the great wide land."

We were off, then. Forgetful of everything but the prospect before us,
we talked the evening through, and half the night as well, after Mr.
Fleming's return.

His final comment, when we separated, was: "Hugh, if I may be permitted
to say so, you're a pair of young fools." His eyes twinkled as he added:
"But there's no cure for it. It runs in the blood of all Americans--mine
too. B'gad, I wish I were thirty years younger. There'd be three in the
party!"




CHAPTER XXIII. "TO BE HUNG ON MONDAY"


The autumn months passed quickly, and Sally and I were well forward with
our preparations for return to New South Wales. We had learned that two
supply ships were to sail early in the coming year, with accommodation
for a few free settlers. Others beside ourselves were planning to take
advantage of Government's offer to establish themselves in the colony,
but we were certain that there would be none amongst them in our strange
situation. We spent many an hour in making lists of everything needful
to set ourselves up in the wilderness: tools and utensils of every kind,
furniture, clothing, arms and ammunition--all the thousand and one
things that must be taken to a colony at the far ends of the earth. I
could half believe that the events of my life, from the time of my first
arrival in England, had never happened; that I had never been a convict,
and was preparing to go to the new colony as one of the American
Loyalists, under the plan abandoned so long ago.

It may appear strange that Sally and I should have had any desire to
return to a land where we had suffered so many hardships and privations,
where the inhabitants were chiefly convicts, and where the future could
offer us little save the hard crude conditions of pioneer life. As for
the latter objection, it was not one to us. We came of adventuring
pioneering stock, and the passion for unsettled country was in our bones
and blood. But more than this, New South Wales had first brought us
together, and we felt that our destiny was linked with that of the great
unknown continent. Our longing to return was based on something beyond
reason: it was of the nature of a deep compulsion. We never doubted that
so vast a country contained land far richer than any as yet discovered.
Never, during these months of preparation, did we regret our decision.
On the contrary, we became more and more impatient for the day of
departure to come.

One winter evening when we had returned late from the city, we found Mr.
Fleming in the drawing-room at Queen Anne Square, with a copy of the
_Morning Chronicle_ on his knees. We had learned only that day that the
transports for New South Wales were lying in the Thames at Deptford. We
spoke of this to Mr. Fleming, with an eagerness that might better have
been concealed; so I thought when I noted the air of concern with which
he listened to our news. When Sally went up to dress for dinner, I made
my apologies to this old friend who stood in the place of a father to
both of us.

"You must forgive us, sir," I said. "We are nothing like so happy as we
may appear to be, but this, I confess, is only on your account. If you
were to come with us we would have nothing left to wish for."

"Nonsense, Hugh. Why shouldn't you be happy? I shall miss you sorely, in
all truth, but it's not that I'm thinking of at the moment."

"What is it, sir? You've had no bad news?"

He hesitated, regarding me with deep concern.

"Yes... sad news indeed for you. My first thought was to say nothing
about it, but I fear you'll have to know. You would certainly learn of
it for yourself."

"Well, sir?"

"Hugh, your friend Tom Oakley has been caught. Evidently he returned to
his old life again. He's in Newgate prison at this moment, under
sentence of death."

I stared blankly at him, unable to say one word, as he took up the
newspaper and pointed out the following paragraph:--

    Among the four men to be hung at Newgate, on Monday next, is the
    highwayman, Tom Oakley, who was condemned to death at the Old
    Bailey in January, 1787, for the robbery on the Bath Road of Mr.
    Reginald Baxter. His sentence at that time was commuted to
    transportation for life, and he was among the convicts sent out
    to New South Wales in the First Fleet Expedition, in the Spring
    of that same year. Six weeks ago, in a daring single-handed
    attempt to rob the Night Mail to Dover, a man who gave his name
    as Tom Ashe was caught and, later, arraigned under that name at
    the Old Bailey Sessions House. It was proved beyond question
    that he is none other than the convict Oakley, transported in
    1787, and when his identity had been sworn to by no fewer than
    six witnesses, it was admitted by the prisoner himself. How this
    man was able to return to England is a mystery he refuses to
    explain. He will, probably, carry with him to the scaffold the
    secret of his escape from a penal colony at the far ends of the
    earth.

I read the paragraph over and over again, in such a state of numbed
horror and unbelief that I could not, at first, grasp its significance.
Sally came down a few moments later and I blurted out the news without
stopping to consider how cruel a blow it would be. Tom had less than two
days of life remaining to him. That the date of hanging had been set was
proof that he and the three men with him had nothing to hope for.

"You must go to him, Hugh," Sally was saying. "If ever he has needed a
friend at his side it is now."

"But how can I?" I asked, miserably. "Here am I, a free man, with life
before me..."

"You know Tom better than that," Sally broke in. "If you stood in his
place and he in yours, would you not want to see him?"

"I know I should."

"Then don't waste a minute, but go."

"To-night? I shouldn't be permitted to see him at this hour."

"Then send him word that you will come to-morrow. Send it at once."

"That's the best of advice, Hugh," said Mr. Fleming. "It's a strange
situation, God knows, but delicacy of feeling has no place here. If your
friend should think it best not to see you, he can let you know..."

"But he won't, Mr. Fleming," Sally put in. "I know he won't!"

"Then send him a note. Peters can take it and stay for an answer."

Never was a message penned with a heavier heart. It was necessary to
tell Tom of my pardon, else he would never consent to see me. And if I
were to go without warning, he would look at me stony-eyed, without a
sign of recognition, thinking I had come at the risk of my life.

Peters returned two hours later. I could hear Tom's voice in the words
that blurred before my eyes as I read them.

    Dear Hugh:

    The old Newgate smell is as rich as ever. If you can suffer it
    for the sake of an old friend, you'll render a service to

                                                          Yours,
                                                         Tom Oakley

                 *        *        *        *        *

Sunday at Newgate. Of all the days of the week in that forbidding place,
I had reason to remember it best. It was then that friends and relatives
of the felons awaiting trial or transportation came to spend a few hours
in their company. It was then that the idle and the curious of the
fashionable world treated themselves to the thrill of a visit to that
vast hive of misery--above all, on the Sunday before a hanging, when
they could attend a last service for the condemned in the prison chapel,
and see and speak with the wretches who had before them but one more day
of life. Thieves, pickpockets, receivers of stolen goods, and other
members of London's underworld entered the place with brazen temerity to
confer with confederates in the toils of the Law. They would bring with
them food from the cookshops, tobacco, ale, spirits, and spend the day
with their cronies in feasting, drinking, and card playing, for little
was forbidden in Newgate to those with the money to pay for license and
privilege. And one would see there women of the streets, and ladies of
leisure of a higher category in the profession. These latter, elegantly
dressed and enjoying the stir they created, would parade the gloomy
wards and courts as, on weekdays, they frequented Vauxhall, or Ranelagh,
and the lobbies of the theatres. From the hour when visitors were first
admitted, throughout the day, the prison would be thronged with folk of
all ages, all classes and conditions; and over and about them, clinging
to their persons like an invisible, unescapable spirit of evil, was the
horrible prison smell.

I was at the main gate an hour before entrance time. The customary
Sunday throng was already gathering; these early arrivals were, chiefly,
the only folk who could be said to have legitimate reasons for a visit
to Newgate--the sons, fathers, wives, and mothers of prisoners within,
bringing with them what small comforts their scanty means allowed. Many
were the very embodiments of want and misery, and they waited, with the
forlorn patience of the desperately poor, the pleasure of Newgate's
lords and masters.

I recalled the December evening, five years earlier almost to the day,
when Oakley, Nellie Garth, and I had stood before that gate; and again I
was seized by the confusion of mind one experiences upon waking from
troubled and chaotic dreams, or after a long period of wasting fever,
when reality seems, rather, to be unreality, and familiar objects
torture the memory in the attempt to place them in the right
relationship to past events. I had passed through such varied
experiences in so brief a span of time and over so vast a portion of the
earth's surface that I could scarcely bring home to myself the fact that
I was, indeed, the man concerned in them. Vivid pictures crossed my
mind, giving way with the swiftness of thought to others. I saw the
smoking ruins of our old Maryland home as I had seen it three days after
it had been sacked and burned by a war-maddened mob. I saw my sad,
brave-hearted mother standing on the deck of the British troopship on
the morning we sailed from New York for Nova Scotia, with two hundred
other Loyalist refugees. I saw Nellie Garth, Tom Oakley, and myself at
the prisoners' bar on the winter afternoon when we had been sentenced in
the Old Bailey Sessions House, and Sally standing by the gangway in the
_Charlotte_, turning her head quickly at the moment when the body of her
father was committed to the sea, five hundred leagues past Capetown. I
saw the convict, Emmet Jurd, hanging from the limb of a tree at Botany
Bay on the very day of our arrival there, his body seeming to cast a
measureless shadow across the land, as it slowly swayed and turned in
the light of the westering sun. I saw our little band of eight, in
Goodwin's boat, pulling with desperate haste toward the American brig,
and seven of us standing by Bella Goodwin's lonely grave on the Cape
York Peninsula.

These and many other pictures flashed across my mind as I walked slowly
to the end of the street and turned to come back, and the grimmest of
them all was there before me, in its reality: Newgate Street itself,
flanked on one side by the prison, on the other by dingy three- and
four-story buildings--shops, dwellings, decayed-looking ordinaries and
public houses. To-morrow, at this same hour, every window in those
houses would be filled with heads, and the street packed from end to end
by a vast throng all gazing in one direction, toward the black-draped
scaffold erected before the Debtors' Door.

I was aroused by a light touch on the arm and turned to find an old
woman at my side. She might have been seventy, but looked to be an
active little person. Her face was shaded by a bonnet and she wore a
faded green shawl over her shoulders, fastened with a brooch. I caught
the gleam of spectacles from within the shadow of the bonnet.

"Please, sir," she said, in gentle, quavering voice. "Can you tell me
the hour? Has it gone nine yet?"

"It's getting on for nine," I replied, reaching for my watch. Then I
stopped short. I had consulted my watch not a quarter of an hour
earlier, but now I had no watch to consult. For a moment I could not
believe it was gone. I carried it always in the same pocket of my
waistcoat and knew I could have placed it in no other; nevertheless I
made a startled search through all, even to the side pockets of my
breeches. And no watch was to be found. Mine was a splendid timepiece,
the work of Mr. J. Harrison, one of the best watchmakers in London; but
far beyond this, it was Sally's wedding gift.

"Why... it's gone!" I exclaimed. Then I made a second frantic dive
into my inside coat pocket. "And my wallet's gone, too! I've... I've
been robbed!"

"Oh, sir, don't tell me that!" the old woman exclaimed, in a horrified
voice. "You're certain you brought it with you?"

"Yes, I know I did," I replied, as I continued to search my pockets with
both hands.

"Dear me, dear me!" She regarded me with an air of the most woeful
concern. "Was it a valuable watch, sir?"

I was so horror-stricken at the realization that I had lost, not only my
watch, but my pardon as well--it was in my wallet--that I scarcely heard
her question, but I managed to reply: "It was a wedding gift from my
wife. I wouldn't have taken a thousand pounds for it."

Of a sudden, with an all but incredible change of voice and manner, she
perked her head to one side. "If ye prize it at that rate, would ye give
a pint of ale to buy it home?" she asked. It was Ned Inching, and I
would never have recognized him save for the voice.

"Shhh! Step round the corner with me, Tallant. Damn my eyes if ye don't
need a bodyguard when ye walk out! Follow me, now, and say naught."

He led me through a narrow lane and down a flight of steps at the end
into a dingy public house. There was no one in the place save the man
behind the bar. A silent knowing salutation passed between the two as
Ned preceded me to a table in the corner. When we had seated ourselves,
he leaned back, his arms folded, with the air of a mistress at a dame's
school preparing to scold a naughty boy. Then his shoulders shook with
the dry little cackle I so well remembered.

"You double-dyed rogue!" I exclaimed, so overjoyed and astonished that I
could do little more than stare at him. The barman brought the ale,
giving Ned a quizzical glance as he set down the pint pots, and the
latter, with a nod of his head, sent him away about his business.

Ned removed his spectacles and polished the glasses with a corner of his
shawl.

"Tallant," he said, ruefully, "I've not lifted so handsome a timepiece
since we came home, and it had to be yours! I had it and the wallet
stowed safe in my petticoat pocket afore I saw yer face. Rogue, is it?
Who's the rogue but yerself, makin' an honest woman o' me against my
wish?" He glanced cautiously toward the man at the bar, before he added,
in a lowered voice: "Hark ye! Have ye no more thought o' yer neck than
to show yerself in Newgate Street in the broad light o' day? Ye've
changed--I allow that--but not enough to make ye safe. Far from it."

"You know why I came?"

"It's no hard matter to guess. Ye heard Tom Oakley's took."

"I'm going to see him."

"What! No, by God! Old Woman that I am, I'll hold ye away by main
force!"

"Wait," I said. "You all but murdered me by heart failure just now, and
here's the reason why." With that, I took my pardon from my wallet and
passed it to him. His eyes widened as he opened and read it.

"God's truth! Was ever a bird so easy picked, so crop-stuffed with
luck!" he said, wonderingly. "In the crowd yonder by the gate there's a
good dozen in my line o' trade. Any one of 'em could ha' cleaned ye out,
though not so quick and neat as myself. Where'd the precious paper ha'
been then?"

For a moment I forgot the numbness of my heart as I pressed Inching for
news. He had long since regained the self-respect he believed he had
lost forever in being once nabbed by the police and transported. He was
convinced, now, it never could happen again, and told me he had "done
famous" since I had last seen him. Nick's nephew Timothy Sabb, was now
his fence, though the place of business had been moved to a new locality
since Sabb presided over it. As for Nick himself, he was prospering in
Rotterdam. Inching had kept in close touch with him through the nephew.

Then he spoke of Tom, and for all his attempt to assume a hard,
indifferent manner, I could see how sincerely he grieved for him. He
took pride in the fact that Tom had returned to his old life on the
road.

"And mind ye! 'Twas only by the cursed luck o' Satan he was took. I got
that straight from them that know. There was four Navy officers took the
Dover mail that night, after Tom had been tipped off as to who'd be in
it. They done for him."

"You've not seen him?" I asked.

"Me? How'd I see him?"

"Ned, you could walk into Newgate with me as safe as going to church."

"So I could, but I'm not such a fool as to chance it. No, no! But wish
him a stout heart for me, lad, though there's no need for that. He'll
step onto the drop like he was walking to his breakfast."

I was more than a little concerned about entering the gaol, but Inching
gave me some reassurance there.

"I doubt there'll be any to know ye. Four years in Newgate's a long time
for keepers and the like. The blessed gaol fever cleans 'em out like the
rats they be."

Presently he drained his pint pot and rose.

"I'll not keep ye. Stay here for half a tick till I'm in the street."

"Wait, Ned! Tell me where I can find you. We must be sure to meet
again."

He gave me the ghost of a smile as he adjusted his spectacles once more
and shook out the voluminous folds of his petticoats.

"Look to yourself if we do!" he said. "Damn my eyes! As handsome a watch
as that and I had to fork it over! Are ye sure ye've got it now?"

"Never fear. I'll not lose it again."

"Then close it in yer fist, with the fist in yer pocket. And put the
wallet inside yer shirt with yer arm tight against it. Damn my eyes if
ye should be trusted out alone, but I'll hold ye in sight till ye pass
the gate."

It was well past nine as I approached the entrance, and the press of the
early visitors had been relieved. I joined the line moving slowly
forward; then the horrible breath of Newgate closed round me once more.
As I approached the wicket in the door leading to the inner gloom, I
seemed to hear Oakley's voice, saying, as he had on the winter night so
long ago: "Draw it in and be done with it, for it will never be done
with you."

The face of the keeper at the wicket was strange to me.

"Who for?" he asked.

"Tom Oakley, alias Tom Ashe," I replied.

The man seemed to paw me over with his glance, then the door swung ajar
and I was through. I knew what money could accomplish in Newgate and I
was not sparing in my use of it here. The effect was magical.

"This way, please Your Honour! Thank 'ee and hearty, Your Honour!...
You, Joe! Look sharp! Show the gentleman to Mr. Oakley."

Of the turnkeys on duty I was deeply relieved to see not one I knew. The
man who led me along the maze of corridors with their black sweating
walls was a cadaverous, pockmarked fellow with a brisk, knowing manner.
I asked him how long he had been in service here.

"Eight months, Yer Honour. I was in Fleet gaol, afore."

"You like it better here?"

"That I do, sir! The pickin's in Newgate is 'andsome alongside the
Fleet. I take as 'igh as two quid 'ere, of a Sunday."

"You're not afraid of the gaol fever?"

"Me? Not likely! They ain't nothin' can kill me. That's w'y I was
shifted from the Fleet."

We turned into a long passageway closed at the end by a heavily barred
door with another turnkey sitting by it. I slipped two half crowns into
the hand of the man who had brought me and, with a surprised "Bless Yer
Honour's nobility!" he left me with the other by the door.

"I'm for Mr. Tom Oakley," I said to this man, speaking in a low voice,
"but don't announce me yet. I'll look on from here for a moment."

"As ye wish, master. He's just at the end of 's breakfast. There's two
merry hearts, sir! They'll never die dunghill."

Through the grating I looked into a small, stone-paved, stone-walled
court with a vaulted ceiling. It was backed by a row of doors with a
barred window in each, leading to the cells for the condemned. A table
spread with the remains of what appeared to be a sumptuous meal stood in
the court, and there sat Tom Oakley with one companion, their legs in
irons, though I was not aware of them at first glance. The gloom here
was almost that of night, but the light of two candles brought into
sharp relief the faces of the two men. Oakley was dressed at the top of
his bent, and a striking figure he made in those surroundings, against
the wall, like a curtain of gloom, behind him. He wore a handsome
sky-blue coat and breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes with
silver buckles. His hair had been carefully dressed and the snowy stock
at his throat set off his ruddy complexion that showed, in the
candlelight at least, no trace of prison pallor.

The man seated opposite was a formidable-looking fellow, a full head
taller than Oakley, and with the physique of a Thames bargeman. His
newly shaven chin and cheeks gleamed with a bluish light, and he held a
fork upright in a fist that looked heavy enough to have felled an ox.
Two shabbily dressed fellows sat near the breakfasters and I guessed
their errand at once. They were Grub Street hacks, in the employ of some
publisher of Newgate annals, whose business it was to furnish the
public, on execution days, with the life histories and so-called dying
confessions of doomed felons. One had a drawing board on his knees and
was making a sketch in profile of Oakley.

"Hold that for thirty seconds more and I'm through, sir," he was saying.

"Look sharp," said Tom, "and mind ye make no daub of me!"

"Never fear, Mr. Oakley. I've caught you to the life if I do say
it.... There, sir," he added, a moment later, holding the sketch at
arm's length. "Will that do?"

The blue-jowled man came round, with a clanking of leg irons, to stand
behind Oakley's chair.

"By God, Tom! 'Tis yer very image!" he exclaimed. He turned to the
artist with a ferocious scowl. "Why couldn't ye have done as well by
me?"

"I'll try again, Mr. Thorne, if ye'll be pleased to sit," the other
replied, in a frightened voice.

"What, Dirk Thorne! Would ye be prettified?" said Oakley, looking up at
him with a grin. "Ye'd best be proud of such a mug. The nursemaids will
weep for me, but, damme, ye'll be giving the half of London nightmares
for a fortnight! I warrant ye sell ten to one against me to-morrow."

"So I will," said Thorne. He turned to the artist, still scowling but
with a mollified air. "Away with it, for I'll sit no more. Fork out the
quids, ye shrimps, and tell yer masters we'll have the stories here the
first thing to-morrow. I'll have mine read afore they stretch me."

"Never fear, sir. They'll be at the printing all day and half the night.
The lads will be hawking 'em in the crowds by daylight."

"Are they talkin' of us outside?" asked Thorne. "Does it look to be a
big day?"

"That it does, sir," said one of the newsmen. "Every window across the
way has been sold out long since. The best places have fetched as high
as three guineas. If there's one there'll be twenty thousand in the
streets moving this way, by six o'clock."

"Good, by God! We'll give 'em a show, eh, Tom?"

"Will we not, Dirk! Will we not!" said Tom. "Hi, you at the door! Send
in the waiter to clear away here, and if the newspapers have come, tell
him to fetch 'em at once."

I nodded to the turnkey; he unlocked the heavy door, pushed it slightly
ajar, and clanged it shut after me. "Visitor for Mr. Oakley," he called.




CHAPTER XXIV. THE HANGING CHAPEL


Shading his eyes with his hand, Tom peered in my direction; a moment
later he had me by the shoulders as though trying to convince himself
that I stood before him in the flesh. There was such a lump in my throat
that I dared not trust myself to speak, at first.

He searched my face with an anxious glance. "Hugh, it's no lie? You're
clear--your own man?"

I nodded, and he seized my hand in both of his.

"Lad! I couldn't rightly tell ye the comfort I take, knowin' that!" He
turned to his companion. "Dirk Thorne, I'd make ye known to... but
it's no matter for the name. He's my friend, the best I've got in the
world."

"That's enough for me," said Thorne as he shook my hand. "In that case,
ye'll have a word or two to say to each other, I shouldn't wonder?"

"That we have, and none so much time to say 'em in."

"Never ye mind for me," said Thorne. "Step into the cell, why don't ye?"

"So we will; 'tis a good notion. If I'm asked for, Dirk, say my agent's
come and I'm makin' my will."

The cell was just such a cage as Tom and I had once occupied together in
Newgate, except that this was for one occupant. It was furnished with a
cot bed, a table, and two chairs.

"We're livin' like a pair of nabobs, Thorne and me," said Oakley, with a
grim smile. "Food, ale, spirits, tobacco--there's naught denied us save
the right to walk out, and that comes to-morrow.... God bless ye,
Hugh! Is it yerself and all? Sit ye down and talk fast, for there's the
world and more I want to hear. But this comes first: have ye any word of
Nellie or Dan Goodwin?"

I told him of the visit I'd made to Snapeness, of the marriage of Dan
and Nellie and of their plans for leaving England. "They've sailed long
since. They'll be in America as we speak of them," I added.

"Good go with 'em!" said Tom, heartily. "Ye've relieved me no end on
Nellie's account. There's been many a night, Hugh, I couldn't sleep for
thinking of her. If ever she'd been caught, she'd ha' been for it,
certain sure. Nothing could have saved her. And now... by the Lord!
She's safe!... Poor Bella! I'll put no slight on the dead. Many's the
kindness the pair of us has to thank Bella Goodwin for; but I'm bound to
say this: Dan's got the wife he merits at last."

"That he has," I replied, "and what better fortune could we wish for
Nellie?"

"It couldn't ha' come better.... Hugh, if ever ye have word of 'em
again, and I warrant ye will, soon or late, say naught o' this Newgate
finish. Tell 'em I was well and hearty when ye last saw me, and that'll
be no lie neither. I'll cast no shadow from here over the hearts of such
friends as they be."

He sat leaning forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, staring at the
shackles on his feet; then he glanced up with a faint smile.

"I can hear ye thinkin' it," he said. "Ye make the walls ring with
it.... 'Tom! Tom! Why, in God's name! Whatever did ye go back to it
for?'... Lad, we've better to speak of than what's past mending, but
I owe ye a word, and 'tis all that's needed... rhino. I couldn't
stick the want of it. I couldn't abide the layin'-up of the sixpences
like I said I would. Slow and sure and safe it might ha' been, but it
wasn't my way. There's no cure for the old disease, easy come, easy go:
that's the sum of it in a breath, and... well, here ye find me. Will
that do, for a lame reason?"

The old merry look came into his eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
"That's done," he said. "Now we can talk, and ye'll not grudge me the
right to set the tune, as ye might call it. D'ye recollect the bright
cool morning, just after we'd settled in at Blackwattle Cove, when
yerself and Goodwin and me..."

And then Tom and I were abroad again, and pictures of old happy days
when, in search of game, we tramped together along the shores of the
lonely bays and coves of Port Jackson came into mind with such vividness
that we could all but forget present time and place and circumstance.
Never has an hour of life seemed so precious, so woefully brief.

"And the six black swans in the little glassy cove," he was saying. "How
many times I've thought of that day! It belongs in our good books. Ye
mind how we both raised our pieces as the birds flew off, and then
spared to shoot? 'Twas like as if we'd been told not to."

He turned his head quickly as the great bell above the prison chapel
began to ring. One thinks of the music of Sabbath bells, but here was no
music; only a cold grey flood of sound as heart-chilling as the wards
and courts and corridors through which it came, echoing from the vaulted
ceilings, thrown back from wall to wall, as though it, too, were
imprisoned here without hope of escape into the pure sweet air of day.
All the prison rang with the mournful clangor; it seemed to grow in
volume, rising in a sullen viewless tide until, finding no outlet, it
stood motionless, dead, like water in the bowels of the Earth, filling
every ward and cell and crack and cranny in Newgate gaol. Then came
silence.

Oakley gave me a strange look.

"Ye remember old Gill, the Chaplain's flunkey?" he asked. "Wouldn't ye
know it could be none but him at the bellrope? And, man, does he love to
ring for a hanging chapel!... What did ye give the keeper at the gate
when ye come in?"

"Five guineas."

"Five guineas! Hugh, are ye made o' the stuff? But it's all gain for me.
They'd never have let ye see me like this afore chapel, without ye'd
sweetened 'em to it."

"You're compelled to go?" I asked.

"To chapel? Would ye have me miss it? Be damned to ye! 'Tis part of the
finish, and I'm no wind-broken crock to lag now. No, no! I'll make a
good end, and the hanging chapel belongs to it."

At this moment the turnkey who had brought me here appeared at the
barred window in the cell door.

"Mr. Oakley! The gentleman must come along now!"

"Aye, directly. Will ye come back, Hugh, after service?"

"You wish me to?"

"What d'ye expect me to say to that? 'No?' But there'll be this about
it: no more privacy. We'll be locked in the cells, the four of us,
seein' company like the animals in the Tower Gardens."

"I'll come, for all that."

"Mr. Oakley! There ain't but twenty minutes to chapel!" said the
turnkey.

"Then why d'ye stand there, ye cod-piece? Show my friend out!"

I was on the point of leaving when we heard a burst of harsh triumphant
laughter from Tom's companion, Dick Thorne.

"Tom! Tom!" he called. "Come out here!"

Oakley and I went out together, and there stood Thorne, jingling four
gold sovereigns in his huge hand, under the nose of a sheep-shanked
fellow who was regarding him with an air of blank dismay.

"A bite! A bite, by God!" cried Thorne, laughing fit to burst. "The
body-snatcher here has give me four gold quid for me carcase, and I'm to
be hung in chains!"

"Ye've no right to cheat me," said the man, dismally. "Ye said I was to
fetch the body from the gallows as soon as it was cut down."

"So I did, ye rat, and I still say it. Come fetch it and see if ye get
it! I tell ye, I'm to be hung in chains arter they stretch me here."

"Then ye'd best give me back the sovereigns, else I'll report ye to the
Master Keeper," said the man, who was a purveyor of corpses to Surgeon's
Hall. It was a not uncommon practice for condemned felons, without
friends, and who wished to do so, to sell their bodies in advance, for
dissection.

"Report me, will ye?" said Thorne, laughing still more. "By God, ye
liver-coloured louse, ye scare the lights out o' me! I reckon I'll get
punished right bad if ye do!"

I was compelled to leave before the conclusion of this scene, but as I
followed the turnkey out of the place I could still hear Thorne's
roaring laugh echoing through the corridors.

The turnkey hastened on before me. "Beggin' pardon, sir," he said, "but
I'm obliged to fetch ye along sharp. Ye was let stay to the last minute.
There'd be the devil and all to pay if the Governor knowed. Will ye go
to service?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Then I'll take ye back along another road, and there'll be none the
wiser as to where ye've been. This way, sir."

I had believed that my own earlier experience of Newgate had given me a
pretty clear picture of the place, but now as I followed my guide
through labyrinth after labyrinth of crooked passages, up and down short
flights of footworn steps, I was completely lost. We passed through
narrow corridors where two could not walk abreast, with others branching
off in what appeared to be blind alleys leading to courts so wrapped in
gloom that we heard and felt, rather than saw, their wretched inmates.
We halted at heavily barred doors, and at each of them sat a turnkey,
his shadow huge on the floor or wall, in the dim light of a spermaceti
lamp or a candle sputtering in a small lantern. Each of them appeared to
have taken root in the dampness and dirt of his niche, like some
horrible fungus growth. They would peer or scowl into the face of my
guide, then unlock and push the door barely ajar as though grudging us
passage. When one of them said, "Wot o'clock is it, Joe?" the sound of
his voice came with a startling effect because of its human quality and
the impression it gave of one who appeared to take all this misery,
including his own, as customary and commonplace.

A thousand years of misery. My heart sickened as I passed over this plot
of unhallowed ground hidden from sun and air for so many centuries;
where the accumulated sufferings of thousands upon thousands of human
beings had left, or seemed to have left, more than the mere memory of it
behind them. The first Newgate prison was almost as ancient as the Tower
of London, and far older than the Bastille. And for all the vicissitudes
of Time, for all the chances and changes,--the Great Fire of London, in
1666, had nearly destroyed it, and it was gutted again at the time of
the Gordon Riots,--it still gave the sombre impression of being coeval
with the Spirit of Evil; of a monument built, not in the dawn, but in
the night of human history, to commemorate forever man's inhumanity to
man.

Presently I recognized our surroundings: we were in the corridor passing
the Females' Common Side Court, and I had a view of it through the
gate--the same gate which Nellie Garth had kept to her back on the night
when she had given the convict, Moll Cudlip, such a trouncing. And
where, I wondered, would Cudlip be now? Retaken, perhaps, long since,
but I thought it more likely that she would still be at large, with the
tribe of blacks. She was no squeamish person in the matter of company. I
could easily imagine her as a sort of tribal chieftainess, her face and
body decorated with weird designs in ochre and white clay, leading
raiding parties by night to the outlying gardens of the Port Jackson
settlement. As we passed along the court, I heard the same hideous
uproar from within and saw two females who might have been Moll Cudlip's
own kin. Their mops of hair hung in their eyes, their faces streamed
with blood, and they were clawing and scratching at one another in a
circle of yelling spectators.

The turnkey halted at the juncture of two passageways where, on one
side, a door stood open, looking into what appeared to be a kind of
taproom for turnkeys, wardsmen, and the like.

"I'll leave ye now, Yer Honour," he said, "for there's no more gates to
pass. Take the passage to the right, bear straight on, and ye'll come
out in the court under the chapel."

The hall by the main Newgate entrance, below the stairs leading to the
prison chapel, was now so thronged with visitors that there was scarcely
room to stir in it. Some were already making their way up the staircase;
others stood in groups, conversing with as much animation as if they
stood in the lobby of a theatre during the quarter of an hour before the
opening of the play. Here was the cream, so-called, of Newgate's Sunday
crowd: young rakes handsomely dressed, with their mistresses as gay as
butterflies in their splendid toilettes; old rakes ogling them, but
giving more particular attention to pretty women who came unescorted;
dowagers of a certain kind in full paint and powder, who prided
themselves on nothing more than their knowledge of the pedigrees and
exploits of famous criminals, particularly those who followed the
genteel profession of highwayman. They were far from being singular in
this interest and knowledge. Indeed, folk of both sexes, notable in the
political and social world of London, were frequenters of Newgate.
Strangely enough, not a few would pay golden guineas for the respectful
regard of the more daring and notorious among condemned man: it appeared
to add to their self-esteem. And the condemned not only benefited during
their last hours by these handsome bribes, but were flattered in their
turn by the condescending notice of "the great."

Presently the Master Keeper, directly under the Governor of Newgate in
authority, followed by several turnkeys, appeared.

"Room, gentlemen! By your leave!" he called. "Be pleased to make way!"
And a wide lane was opened through the crowd to the foot of the chapel
staircase. It was not unusual for the High Sheriff of London to add
solemnity to these Newgate services, and he now appeared in the passage
leading from the Governor's apartments, escorted by the Governor and
followed by other lesser city dignitaries in their ceremonial robes.
They proceeded slowly through the crowd and up the staircase to the
seats set aside for them in the chapel. The hum of conversation
increased as they passed. Two men standing directly behind me were
talking in low voices.

"There--you see her?" said one. "The pretty wench in the blue gown and
bonnet standing by the pillar."

The other gave an admiring whistle, under his breath.

"What a stunning little creature!"

"Beauty in the Courts of Grief, eh? Mourning for her doomed lover."

"What! Her husband's among those to be stretched?"

"Yes. At least, she's said to be his wife."

"Who is she?"

"Mrs. Tom Oakley, no less. Gad, how sorrow becomes her!"

And at the same moment I myself caught sight of Phoebe, standing in the
forefront of the crowd on the opposite side of the opened lane. I stared
hard, scarcely believing my eyes, but Phoebe it was, as dainty and
appealing as she had been when I first saw her, at Portsmouth gaol;
looking not a day older, and as virginal as a young Madonna. She had a
tiny black-bordered kerchief in her small gloved hand and touched it
quickly to her eyes as she gazed before her, unaware, it would seem, of
the wide interest and sympathy she attracted. Then she caught sight of
me, gave the least perceptible start, and at once averted her glance.

Before I could recover from my astonishment at finding her there, the
great bell gave four measured, sonorous clangs, and as the sound died
away a voice was heard from a window or balcony somewhere above the
crowd. The person was hidden, but I recognized the voice at once: that
of old Gill, the Chaplain's assistant--a cold, impersonal monotone, as
lifeless, as pitiless as the grey walls that sent it echoing and
reverberating over the heads of the hushed throng:--

"_You prisoners that are within, who, for sin and wickedness, after the
many mercies shown you, are now appointed to die: give ear and
understand that to-morrow morning the great bell shall toll for you in
the form and manner of a passing-bell, as it is wont to be tolled for
those who are at the point of death, to the end that all godly people,
hearing the bell, and knowing it is for you going to your death, may be
stirred heartily to pray to God to bestow His Grace and Mercy upon you
whilst you yet live._

"_I beseech you, for Jesus Christ, His Sake, to keep this coming night
in watching and prayer for the salvation of your souls whilst there is
yet time and place for mercy; as knowing that to-morrow at this same
hour you must appear before the Judgment Seat of your Creator, there to
give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal
torments for your sins committed against Him, unless upon your dolorous
and unfeigned repentance you find mercy through the merits, death, and
passion of your Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ, who sits at the
right hand of God to make intercession for as many of you as turn
penitently to Him._

"_Lord have mercy upon you!_

"_Christ have mercy upon you!_"

The four doomed men, preceded and followed by guards, appeared from the
corridor at the rear of the hall, bearing the emblematic coffin
completely draped in black. Their shackles clanked dismally as they
moved slowly through the staring throng. Oakley and his companion, Dirk
Thorne, were in front. Tom, his head held high, looked straight before
him, and there was a calm steady light in his eyes. Thorne glared to
right and left, as though defying anyone to meet his glance. I already
knew something of Thorne's history. He was a celebrated pugilist of
formidable strength, turned footpad and housebreaker, and was widely
known in the South of England. He had served various prison terms in
county gaols; once before he had been condemned to death at Bedford
assizes, and made a daring and spectacular escape the week before he was
to be hung. Thereafter he had disappeared, but was caught again after a
robbery on Hounslow Heath, where he had killed his victim with a blow of
his bare fist. He was first to be hung at Newgate, and his body was then
to be rehung in chains on a gibbet at the scene of the robbery.

The two other condemned men were a counterfeiter and a forger. The first
was a tall, stoop-shouldered man in middle life, dressed in a shabby
suit of black broadcloth. His eyes were deep-set in cavernous hollows;
he had a high-bridged nose and a sensitive, well-shaped mouth. The
transparent pallor of his face gave him the appearance of a scholar and
recluse. He kept his glance on Oakley's back and seemed quite
unconscious of his surroundings.

The forger looked the very embodiment of despair and terror. No offense
in the English criminal code was more pitilessly dealt with than
his--there was never the least gleam of hope for either a condemned
counterfeiter or a forger. As I looked at this wretched man I remembered
another forger who had been condemned at the Old Bailey at the time when
Oakley, Garth, and I were tried, and the words of the magistrate who
passed sentence upon him came back to me. He was a terrorizing "hanging
judge," and I have never forgotten the gleam of ferocious humour that
came into his eyes as he said: "...Hanged by the neck until you are
dead. And may you find the mercy Above, if there you are to go, which a
right and proper regard for the sanctity of the paper currency of this
Realm forbids you to hope for here."

I lost sight of Phoebe in the crowd mounting the staircase, but when I
reached the gallery in the rear of the chapel she was already seated in
the pew reserved for the relatives of condemned prisoners, in the
gallery to the left. There was but one other occupant of the pew, a
frail, shabbily dressed woman with snow-white hair, who, I learned, was
the mother of the forger. A striking contrast the two mourners made: one
so old and bowed and wrinkled, herself near the end of her journey; the
other so virginal in appearance, so appealing in her youthful beauty. In
this same gallery were seated the felons, capitally convicted, who had
been respited and were waiting transportation for life to New South
Wales.

On the opposite side of the chapel was the gallery for notable visitors
who had come with special cards of admittance. In the pew next the
gallery rail sat the sheriffs, wearing their gold chains, with two tall
footmen, in state liveries, standing behind them. Below, and between the
galleries, was the mass of the prison population. The pew for the doomed
men was in the centre of the chapel. It was a large docklike structure
painted black, visible to all in the place. The Chaplain's desk and
pulpit were just in front of this pew and within a couple of yards of
it. The emblematic, black-draped coffin rested on trestles, also painted
black, in the little space between the condemned felons' pew and the
pulpit.

The four doomed men were kept outside until the chapel was filled.
During this time all glances were directed toward Phoebe and the
solitary mourner with her; then a deep hush fell over the congregation
as the door opened and Oakley, Dirk Thorne, and their two companions
were marshaled to their seats. Guards stood to the right and left and
behind the pew, facing the pulpit.

The Chaplain sat at his desk with old Gill, his assistant, below him.
The Chaplain was the same incumbent who had served in Newgate in my
time. He was a heavy-jowled, walleyed man whose fiery complexion
indicated his devotion to the bottle rather than to his office as prison
ordinary. Old Gill was precisely as I remembered him, pallid of
complexion, with the same piercing black eyes and resonant, lifeless
voice. He rose to announce the hymn, the "Lamentation of a Sinner,"
which carried me back in an instant to a hanging chapel I had attended
shortly before leaving the prison for Botany Bay, when fourteen men and
three women sat in the pews for the condemned, forced to listen to the
words of that most melancholy hymn. On this present occasion not more
than a dozen voices joined in the singing which added to the mournful
chilling effect. Then the Chaplain rose.

"Let us pray... especially for those now awaiting the awful execution
of the Law."

A sense of mingled horror and repulsion seized me, but I seemed forced
to attend to both the prayer and the sermon which followed, as though I
myself were seated beside Tom Oakley and about to share his dreadful
fate. The voice of the Chaplain had in it a quality of softness, but it
was a pitiless softness; he seemed to be either indifferent to, or
unconscious of, the effect of his words.

"From Leviticus... the fifth chapter and the seventeenth verse:--

"'And if a soul sin, and commit any of these things which are forbidden
to be done by the commandments of the Lord; though he wist it not, yet
is he guilty, and shall bear his iniquity!'"

From this text he drew cold comfort indeed for the four men on the brink
of Eternity. The gist of the sermon was that, if a soul sin unknowingly
and must yet bear his iniquity, how much deeper is the guilt of those
souls who sin wittingly; with what bitter lamentations must they
acknowledge their sins; with what woeful appeals for mercy must they
turn toward the awful Seat of God's Judgment. There was neither
compassion nor fire in voice and manner as he spoke. He seemed to be a
mere passionless mouthpiece, both for the vengeful God of Israel and for
equally vengeful Society--human Society, as represented by the great,
the pitiless, and the powerful of the Realm.

Of the prisoners, Oakley alone appeared to attend. He sat with one arm
resting lightly along the back of the pew, and gazed at the Chaplain, or
the oaken canopy above the pulpit, with an air of bland respectful
interest. He might have been a country squire, who, mindful of his
duties, had come to church to set an example to his lesser neighbours.
Dirk Thorne, ignoring the Chaplain, turned in his seat to regard the
congregation, nodding and winking, and waving his hand to felons he
knew. The forger sat with his head bowed. The counterfeiter stared at
the coffin as though fascinated, unable to avert his gaze.

Directly the service was concluded, the felons of the congregation
crowded out the door in a disorderly rout, impatient to be with their
friends and cronies. The visitors gathered in the chapel court, to
witness the return of the condemned to their cells, and, as soon as they
had passed, thronged after them, for at this time they were given access
to the small court to view the men who were then locked in their cells.

Then I caught sight of Phoebe once more and made my way to where she
stood, seemingly unconscious of the stares and whispered comments of
those about her. She gave me a wan smile.

"Oh, I hoped you would come to me, Hugh," she said, in a low voice.
"Will you take me outside? I feel as though I were going to faint."

She took my arm, and quickly revived in the fresh air. We walked through
Newgate Street to a quiet little tavern at the St. Paul's end of
Cheapside.

"I used to come here with my father," she said, as we entered the place.
She ordered a brandy-and-water which she sipped daintily, as though
unaccustomed to drinking spirits.

"Hugh, how did you dare to enter the prison? I was so afraid for you
when I saw you there."

I explained briefly what had happened since our return to England: my
meeting with Sally, the granting of my pardon, our marriage, and our
plan for return to New South Wales. Phoebe sat with her elbows propped
on the table, her chin in her hands, regarding me with the air of grave,
innocent appeal which so became her. Her eyes were bright with tears as
she listened.

"I am so happy for you," she said. "And you will see Mama and Papa
again, and my dear little son! You will never know, Hugh, how I have
grieved for him. When will I ever see him again!"

Well as I knew Phoebe, or thought I knew her, she looked so woebegone
that the old feeling of bafflement and uncertainty with respect to her
real character returned to me. There was the fact of her planned and
deliberate abandonment of Tom and their little son--no explanations or
excuses could make it appear less ugly than it was. Nevertheless, one
wanted to forgive it; to believe it had been an act of impulse, bitterly
repented.

How small a thing may come between a generous impulse of the heart and
the sober judgment of the head. Phoebe made no effort to restrain her
tears, and I would have been far more deeply moved by her grief save for
the tiny black-bordered handkerchief which she held to her eyes. I had
no doubt whatever that she had bought it for the occasion of the chapel
service: she was in mourning for her husband even before he was dead. It
was an appeal for sympathy and pity on behalf of the beautiful young
wife so soon to be a widow. But she had not expected to display it
before anyone familiar with her history. Without appearing to, I
observed her sudden startled awareness, and the silence rang with her
unspoken, "Good heavens! I hope he hasn't noticed!' When I looked up
again, the handkerchief had disappeared.

"Have you seen him, Hugh?" she asked.

I told her of my meeting with Tom before the service.

"He spoke of me?"

I shook my head.

"I can understand that. He wouldn't want you to know. He would think
that... that, perhaps, you felt bitterly toward me for... for
leaving him. But I loved him, Hugh! Indeed, _indeed_ I did, and I always
shall! And when I met him at Marlborough..."

She broke off and regarded me appealingly, yet with an expression of
quick keen appraisal behind the glance.

"At Marlborough? How was that?" I asked.

"It was the strangest thing. I had been in Calcutta, with Doris. She
wanted me to go there with her and... and I couldn't well refuse my
only sister. We stayed six months, then Doris thought we should return
to London. India has a horrid climate. We sailed in a ship bound for
Bristol.

"At Bristol we took coach for London, and stopped for supper at the King
George, in Marlborough.... Hugh, I had just stepped down from the
coach when I saw him! Tom was head hostler there.

"It was meant to be--there is no other way of explaining it; we were
meant for each other. Never for one little minute had I ceased to love
him. You remember when we met in that hideous gaol in Portsmouth? I knew
from that first day that I could never love anyone but Tom. And when I
knew that he loved me as deeply and truly as ever..."

"You stayed in Marlborough?"

"Yes.... I shouldn't say it of my only sister, but Doris has a cold
heart, Hugh. She called me a little fool for wanting to return to Tom.
She was determined that I should go on with her to London.... But I
didn't.

"Tom took lodgings for us near the inn. We were very happy. There was
only one thing... he was bound we should live on his wages. I had
three hundred pounds that... that Doris had given me, and he wouldn't
touch a penny of it, not even to send for little Hugh. That's what we
planned--to write Papa to send Hughie home when there should be a safe
opportunity. But Tom was bound to wait until he could earn the money
himself.

"We just managed on his wages. At last he thought he should look for a
better position. London was home to me, of course, but I wouldn't have
wanted to go there unless Tom had been so set upon it. He thought he
would be safer in London than in the country."

She went on to tell me what had happened then, though I could easily
have guessed the rest of it.

"I didn't know, Hugh," she said, miserably. "He told me he'd found a
very good position as night hostler at the Angel in the Strand. He was
making a great deal of money, but I never dreamed the truth of it, that
he had taken to the road again. Then he was caught, and... that's all
there is to tell."

"Where are you staying, Phoebe?" I asked.

"With Doris. She's seen Tom. She's come with me every Sunday since he
was taken, but she wouldn't to-day. Are you going to see him again?"

"For a little while. I promised I would, after the service."

"Then I'll wait here. You'll not speak of meeting me?"

"Not if you prefer I shouldn't."

"That will be best, I think.... Go, then, Hugh. You can pass this way
when you come out."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Upon returning to the prison, I found the court adjoining the cells for
the condemned crowded with visitors. The four men were now locked in,
each in his separate cell. I saw the old mother of the forger standing
by his wicket, and the son with his face, deathly pale, pressed close
against the bars. He had thrust out his hand, and his mother held it in
both of hers, unconscious of the stares of the onlookers. My heart bled
for the sweet-faced old woman who seemed far past any comfort that tears
might bring. The counterfeiter was hidden in his cell, while the idlers
gathered at his door peered through the barred opening in an attempt to
catch sight of him in the gloom.

But the throng was before the cells of Oakley and Thorne. Each stood at
his window, and Thorne at least was thoroughly enjoying the attention he
attracted. Handsomely dressed women were passing him oranges, papers of
tobacco, and other gifts. His harsh laugh rang out from moment to
moment, as though he had not a care in the world.

"Afeered? Me, Lady?" I heard him say. "Damn my blood! Never in the
world! Get ye a good place up against the scaffold to-morrow and ye'll
see Dirk Thorne kick off his boots when the drop falls."

Tom stood at his window, lightly clasping the bars with both hands. This
was his day even more than Thorne's: he was gay and condescending in
manner, like a prince holding court, and seemed wholly at ease as he
conversed with the handsomely dressed men and women who crowded close to
his wicket, eager to be noticed by him. I had opportunity only for a
brief word. The moment he caught sight of me his expression changed on
the instant.

"It's no use, lad," he said, in a low voice. "We're on show. They've
come to see the performing bears, and, by God, I'll carry it through!"

"I'd best go, then?"

"Aye, but... could ye be with me the morn?"

"Would it be permitted?"

"I've told 'em ye're my uncle's son. Sweeten the head turnkey and it's
done." He gave me a keen smiling glance. "Can ye abide it, Hugh? It's
past all reason to ask, but..."

"I'll come," I said.




CHAPTER XXV. NEWGATE STREET


It was late afternoon when I returned to Queen Anne Square. After
supper, when Sally had gone to bed, I sat for another hour with Mr.
Fleming, in the library. There was the night to be gotten through
somehow, and I could not hope for the oblivion of sleep; neither could I
read, or talk, or sit with folded hands, staring at vacancy. Presently I
changed into my meanest clothes, taking care, this time, to leave my
watch and wallet at home. I put a five-pound note into a safe pocket, to
be given the head keeper at Newgate, and set out to walk the streets.

The sky was overcast and a thin mist blurred the lights of the
occasional street lamps. The clocks were striking nine as I crossed
Oxford Street into New Bond Street, following it as far as Piccadilly
where I turned east, paying little further heed to direction, concerned
only to walk and to keep from thinking of Tom. Many a night I had
tramped the streets of London in this fashion when I had no home to go
to an the raw wintry air forced one to keep in motion. I went on and on
through the maze of crooked streets in the central part of the city, and
at last found myself in Wapping, in the same wretched quarter I had
known so well in the past. By chance I passed the end of the very court,
off Love Lane, where I had slept in the tup'enny doss house on the night
when the place was searched by Kneller, the police sergeant. As I peered
into the narrow pit of blackness, hemmed in with miserable tumble-down
houses, the old hunted feeling so common to me then returned to send me
hastening back toward the better part of the city.

In spite of myself, it seemed, I was drawn toward St. Paul's, though
well knowing how near it stood to Newgate prison. It was now past
midnight, but many people were in the streets, all moving in one
direction. For the most part, they were the dregs of humanity, drawn to
a hanging as flies to carrion; nevertheless, I saw many
respectable-looking townspeople amongst them, no less concerned to
secure good places from which to view the execution.

At this time, 1791, Newgate was the place of execution for all London
and its environs. The old procession to Tyburn, dating back to the
sixteenth century, had been abandoned in 1784 in favour of the Newgate
hangings, in the hope that the throngs of spectators might be more
orderly because less numerous, and free from the vast accession of
drunken riotous folk who invariably followed the Tyburn processions
through the heart of London from the prison to the gallows. It was no
less a person than the great Doctor Samuel Johnson who frowned upon this
change designed to improve public morals.

"Sir," he said to Boswell, when the procession to Tyburn had been
discontinued, "executions are intended to draw spectators. If they do
not draw spectators they do not answer their purpose. The old method was
most satisfactory to all persons: the public was gratified by a
procession, and the criminal supported by it. Why is all this to be
swept away?"

I far from approve of Doctor Johnson's sentiments in this matter, but he
need not have feared for a falling-off in public interest. Newgate
hangings lacked nothing to satisfy the ferocious curiosity of the mob.
The only change wrought by the change of place was a fiercer struggle
for good positions from which to view the hangings, because of the
comparatively restricted area of Newgate Street.

I followed the crowds as though pushed forward by the same general
impulse, but I had no mind to spend the rest of the night before the
prison. I knew I should have to come early, in order to be at the gate
at the time of opening, but not so early as this. And yet the street was
steadily filling even at this hour; there must have been five thousand
people already present. Workmen were erecting the gallows by the light
of flaring torches which cast weird shadows along the front of this most
grim and gloomy of public buildings. Most of these early comers were
gathered here and a loud buzz of conversation filled the air. Vendors of
gin were everywhere, pushing their handcarts briskly through the crowd.

"Here y'are, gents! A kick in the guts for tuppence! Prime Geneva 'ere,
tuppence a slug!"

They did a thriving trade; and there were piemen with their baskets,
barrow women in their frowsty shawls and bonnets, selling fried fish,
tripe, pigs' knuckles, and other refreshments. A troupe of street
tumblers had an interested crowd around their strip of carpet laid on
the paving-stone and lighted by torches. Ballad singers and professional
beggars were out in force. Among the latter was a horrible slattern of a
woman seated on the narrow curbing with two small children beside her.
Despite the wintry air all three were half naked, and the children, a
boy and a girl, neither of them over seven years, had great sores,
artificially engendered, on their starved little bodies, designed to
arouse the pity of passers-by.

Then I spied four never-to-be-forgotten people whom I had often seen in
Newgate in the past: an itinerant parson whose pulpit was the streets
and gaols of London, and three women who made up his choir. He was
dressed in black, which brought out the deathly pallor of his long
cadaverous face. His one theme was damnation and the horrors of hell.
The grim-visaged women were like the three Fates, though when they sang,
they resembled, rather, the Furies. This band, too, had its audience.
When I came up, the man was in the midst of his terrifying sermon,
preaching with a ferocious eloquence that held his listeners spellbound.
"My friends" rang through his words, but it was as though Satan himself
were thus addressing them while licking his chops at thought of the
tortures he had in store for them at the end of their earthly existence.

At the conclusion of his remarks leaflets were passed out through the
crowd containing the words of two hymns: "Hell," and "The Death of a
Sinner." He then struck a tuning fork and led his choir in the latter
hymn:--

                My thoughts on awful subjects roll:
                Damnation and the dead.
                What horrors seize the guilty soul
                Upon a dying bed!

                Lingering upon these mortal shores
                She makes a long delay,
                Till like a flood, with dreadful force,
                Death sweeps the wretch away.

                Then lost and shrieking she descends
                Down to the fiery coast
                Amongst abominable fiends,
                Herself a frightful ghost.

                There tortured sinners writhe and cry
                In everlasting chains.
                They may not, cannot, shall not die,
                And wait for fiercer pains.

                Not all their anguish and their blood
                For their old guilt atones;
                Nor the compassion of a God
                Shall hearken to their groans.

One of the women had a piercing, blood-freezing voice and, as the others
sang, she furnished an obligato of awful shrieks and groans, as though
she were the damned soul of the hymn descending to eternal torments.

I left Newgate Street--only a little less horrible than the promised
hell of the song--and resumed my wandering, crossing the Thames by
Blackfriars Bridge, against a stream of pedestrians bound for the prison
from the Surrey side. I walked as far as that most poverty-stricken of
suburbs, Lock's Fields, with its scattered hovels and vacant lots filled
with accumulations of rubbish. I passed the Holt family's house, but at
that hour they were asleep. I doubted my resolution to return; then
Tom's face would rise before me, and I knew that I must, whatever the
cost; but I went on, delaying the evil moment as long as possible. At
last, to my astonishment, I was aware that the sky was paling in the
east. I hastened back toward the city, but it was full daylight before I
recrossed the river.

I was engulfed, almost at once, by a great, slow-moving tide of humanity
so dense that I saw at once I could make little progress through it, so
I made a wide detour to come in from the north by Aldersgate Street.
Here the crowd was nearly as great, but I pushed and wormed my way
forward, bitterly reproaching myself for so misjudging the time needed
for reaching the prison. Tom would be waiting for me, looking more and
more anxiously for me as the minutes sped past. What would he think if I
were to fail him?

It was nine o'clock before I so much as reached the east end of Newgate
Street, and there my heart misgave me. How could I make my way through
the packed and struggling mob? Nevertheless, I inched along, determined,
somehow, to reach the gates; but I was a good hour in advancing fifty
paces, and then only at the cost of curses and imprecations of those I
crowded and pushed aside. I was glad of my fourteen stone and my six
feet four of height; I could easily overlook the crowds and make my way
in the right direction. Small boys squirmed with the agility of terriers
amongst the trouser legs and petticoats, clutching their parcels of
broadsides under their arms. Their shrill voices rose high above the
din.

"Life stories of the felons, 'ere!"... "Dyin' confession of the
footpad and murderer, Dirk Thorne!"... "Life 'istory and last words
of the famous highwayman, Tom Oakley, escaped from Botany Bay."...
"Read all about 'em for sixpence!"

The roofs of the houses opposite the prison were filled with people, and
all the windows below. A stand had been erected directly opposite the
scaffold for spectators willing to pay high prices for reserved seats,
and it was now packed to overflowing. At last I managed to reach a spot
directly in front of the scaffold and not ten paces away from it. The
main gate of the prison was only a little distance beyond, but I could
go no further. I could neither advance nor retreat, and was obliged to
stand where I was, so tightly wedged that I could scarcely turn my body.

A fence had been erected below the scaffold, providing a narrow space on
three sides where a double file of soldiers, with fixed bayonets, stood.
Presently the great bell began to toll and the tumult died away. The
bell was rung for a full five minutes. As the brazen clangour ceased,
the door opening on the causeway leading from the prison to the scaffold
was swung back. The Chaplain and Gill his assistant, in their black
robes, emerged first, followed by the four doomed men. Behind them came
the hangman and his assistant and six guards. Gill stepped to the edge
of the scaffold, and looked out in silence over the sea of faces; then I
heard his resonant, heart-chilling voice for the last time:--

"_All good people, pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners going
to their death, for whom this great bell doth toll._"

He then turned to face the doomed men.

"_You that are condemned to die, who now stand at the brink of Eternity,
repent with lamentable tears. In this last moment of your earthly
existence, ask mercy of the Lord for the salvation of your souls._

                    "_Lord have mercy upon you!_
                     _Christ have mercy upon you!_
                     _Lord have mercy upon you!_
                     _Christ have mercy upon you!_"

Against my will I raised my head for a brief glance toward the gallows.
Tom stood erect and firm, without a trace or tremor of fear apparent in
his attitude. Swaying against those so closely pressed against me, I
turned my back upon the scene, but I could do no more than this. I was
forced to stand in my tracks during an eternity of five minutes. Then it
was over.

But a more awful thing was to follow. Newgate Street has witnessed many
a grim and horrible scene, but never, surely, has the toll of its
victims been so appalling as on this lamentable day.

I kept my back turned upon the scaffold, but I knew when the end had
come by the sudden deep murmur of voices rising from thousands of
throats. But still no one could stir from where he stood; indeed, many
had no wish to move, but remained staring at the gallows. Half an hour
passed, and by that time the hangman's agents had, somehow, managed to
worm their way into this sea of humanity with bags containing bits of
the ropes used in hanging the four men. The selling of these ropes was a
perquisite of the executioner and his assistant. I could plainly hear
the voices of the peddlers: "A shilling for an inch of the very rope!"
"Who'll buy? A shilling for an inch of the rope that hung Tom Oakley!"
"This way, gents! Take 'em while they last!" "A genuine bit of Dirk
Thorne's halter, only a bob!"

It may appear strange that anyone should be eager to buy so gruesome a
memento. The fact remains that many began thrusting and pushing against
the crowd in an effort to reach the vendors.

Not far from where I stood was a pieman holding his basket on his head
because of the want of room to carry it on his arm. In the surging of
the crowd, the basket was knocked from the man's head and the contents
spilled upon the shoulders of those around him. There was a wild
scramble for the pies, and the man attempted to kneel to recover those
that had fallen to the pavement.

Before he could even attempt to rise, those nearest stumbled over him,
and fell and were trampled to death on the instant. Women screamed with
terror; others fell and were trampled in their turn. Panic now became
general, but in so huge a crowd, those at a distance were ignorant of
what was happening. Men, women, and children were borne down to perish
under the feet of the others, helpless to hold back the surging mob. It
was worst for the children and the women, particularly those of low
stature. Men nearest them tried desperately to hold them up, but the
awful gathered force of this sea of humanity could not be withstood. Men
were swept under with the women they tried to save. Among the rest was a
woman with an infant in her arms. She stood not a dozen paces from me,
and as she fell she thrust the child into the arms of the man next to
her. He, needing all his strength for the preservation of his own life,
threw it from him to another, and the child passed from hand to hand
over the heads of the crowd until I was able to catch and hold it. I
tried to stand fast, but I was carried this way and that, with the rest.
In this convulsive struggle for life people fought fiercely with one
another, and the weakest went under. Not one of those who fell ever rose
again.

A more dreadful scene could not be imagined, and it was made more
terrible because those at a distance could not know what was taking
place and added to the slaughter by pushing forward to watch the taking
down of the gallows and the removal of the bodies of the hanged men. Not
until an hour had passed was the awful pressure of the mob lessened by
those at the extremities of the street going homeward. As the crowd
thinned, the city marshals and a number of constables were able
partially to clear the place. The catastrophe exceeded the worst
forebodings: nearly one hundred dead and dying lay on the pavement, and
shoes, hats, petticoats, and other fragments of apparel were strewn
everywhere.

I remained in the midst of this scene of horror and despair, holding the
child that had been passed to me. She was an infant of about two years,
and her poor undernourished little body, covered with a thin dirty
frock, told me the kind of home she came from. She lay fast asleep in my
arms as I waited, not knowing what to do next. I had had a glimpse of
the mother as she fell, and I hoped that the father or some other
relative might have survived. The gallows was now being taken down, and
I had before me the grim task of claiming and removing Tom's body. This
Phoebe had asked me to do. The body was to be carried to a burying
ground at Swan's Fields, on the northern outskirts of London, and I was
to meet Phoebe there.

Presently I saw a man, his hat gone, coat gone, and his shirt all but
torn from his body, pushing his way frantically through the lessening
throng in my direction. He gave a little broken cry when he saw his
child in my arms. It was the father, and whatever desire I may have felt
to heap the sternest and most bitter of reproaches upon his head for
bringing his wife and infant daughter to such a place vanished as he
took the child from my arms. He was half out of his senses, and tears
streamed down his cheeks as he held his little daughter close to his
breast.

A street urchin, not above four feet tall, who must have been through
all that horror, stood staring at the father for a moment. He had a
sharp, hard little face, and looked as though nothing could daunt him.
His coat and trousers were five sizes too large for him. They were
nothing but shreds and patches, but he had managed to preserve, under
the coat, his bundle of broadsides. Of a sudden he was all business
again and darted through the crowd, shouting: "Life 'istries and dyin'
confessions of the felons! Last words of the famous 'ighwayman, Tom
Oakley! Read all abaht it, 'ere!"




EPILOGUE


We were sitting in the library at Queen Anne Square--Sally and I--with
that feeling of content common to all voyagers to far places when, after
weeks of preparation, they find themselves ready to the last detail.
Everything but our cabin luggage was already stowed safely aboard the
_Princess Royal_, the supply ship which was to carry us, and other free
settlers, to New South Wales. Sally was weary, after the long ordeal of
packing; nevertheless, she was bound that we should go over our lists
once more to be certain that we had missed nothing.

"The _Princess Royal_," said Sally. "It has a grand sound, Hugh, for a
Botany Bay store-ship."

"But what of that queen of ships, the _Charlotte_?" I asked. "And we had
the _Prince of Wales_ as well, on the first voyage."

"I know.... Only one week to wait! Can you believe it?... Hugh,
I'm going upstairs to rest an hour or two."

I stretched out in one of Mr. Fleming's deep leather chairs and looked
out across the square, letting my thoughts stray where they would
through the past and into the future. Half an hour later I saw Mr.
Fleming's carriage approaching the drive. He came in, presently.

"Well, Hugh--everything in order?"

"Everything, sir, thanks to Sally."

"Where is she?"

"Lying down, upstairs."

"I've just seen Mr. Carleton, of the Home Office," Mr. Fleming remarked.
"It seems that you two are doing the Colony a greater service than you
suspect."

"How is that, sir?"

"You both know the country well. Now you are going out as settlers with
some thousands of pounds to invest.... Can you see what this means?
The newspapers have been filled with letters from disgruntled officers
in New South Wales who declare that the country is a desert, unfit for
settlement. Your action gives them the lie and will encourage others to
emigrate. They're in urgent need of free settlers with capital and an
understanding of farming, if the Colony's to go ahead.... I'd quite a
talk with Carleton."

Mr. Fleming paused, and glanced at me. "He showed me an excerpt from one
of the latest of Governor Phillip's despatches. The disappearance of the
Government fishing boat was mentioned, and a list of those thought to
have escaped in her."

"Good Lord!"

"Phillip believed that some arrangement for escape had been made with
the captain of the American brig.... Have you ever felt, Hugh--what
shall I say--a little hesitation about meeting Phillip once more?"

I laughed. "Indeed I have! You put it most delicately. After all, I was
one of those who stole his boat. I've said nothing to you, sir, but I'm
more than concerned about the matter. My hope is that, in view of my
pardon, and my family's services in the American War, he may be willing
to overlook my share in the theft of the boat."

"And so he will," said Fleming. "Carleton has written to Governor
Phillip. Rest assured, the boat will be forgotten."

"I'm greatly relieved to know it, sir."

I had a number of last errands to perform. Though I omitted to speak of
it to Sally, one was to see Ned Inching again if he could be found. The
only place where I could hope to get news of him was at the pawnshop of
Sabb's nephew. Ned had told me that the shop was now on Vine Street, St.
Giles. Shortly after our midday dinner--"breakfast," as Mr. Fleming
called it--I set out on foot for Vine Street, scarcely a twenty-minute
walk from Queen Anne Square.

The weather was mild for February--more like spring than midwinter, with
the sun shining brightly and the grass fresh and green in the square. I
sauntered cityward through the busy streets, thinking of Ned, wondering
what disguise he might have adopted for the day. That of a threadbare
curate, perhaps, or a respectable small tradesman; or he might be posing
as the gentle, timid old woman who had taken my watch. I could even
picture him as a neatly attired old gentleman, presumably on his way to
his favourite coffeehouse for a rubber of whist. Ned might have given
lessons to Proteus himself.

I wondered where he lived. Did he have lodgings like other men? Inching
enjoyed companionship and good cheer, but his one passion was for the
practice of his art. He considered most pickpockets as bunglers compared
with himself, but he spoke with reverence of the old master, long since
dead, under whom he had served his apprenticeship.

Vine Street was a mean thoroughfare, bordered by poor shops and
ordinaries. I halted before a door with a sign swinging above it:
"Timothy Sabb--Pawnbroker."

A bell rang in a back room as I opened the door. There was a dusty
counter, and shelves behind it where the stock was displayed: cheap
clocks, watches, and snuffboxes; wigs, hats, and the like. Hanging in an
open wardrobe were various articles of clothing--the small, varied
possessions of the poor. All this was the blind behind which the real
business of the firm was carried on.

The door to the back room opened and Timothy Sabb peered cautiously out.

"Yes, sir?" he said.

"Do you remember me, Mr. Sabb?" I asked. "I once met you in a certain
ship called the _Charlotte_, in Portsmouth Harbour."

He examined me more nearly.

"Why, damn my eyes! You're... you're... I can't call your name,
sir, but..."

"Tallant's the name. I'm an old friend of your uncle Nick."

"So ye are, sir! So ye are! Damn my eyes! I recollect ye now!"

For a man whom I had met but once he seemed strangely pleased to see me.
I could not account for the warmth of his welcome. When I asked for news
of Inching, he shook his head.

"I couldn't tell ye where he is. There's none knows that save Ned
hisself. But he's in and out o' my shop a matter o' once or twice a
week. He's a clever one, is Ned! The best customer I got." He came as
near to a beaming smile as was possible for Timothy Sabb as he added, "I
know the whole of it, Mr. Tallant. Uncle Nick's told me. Have ye had
word from him?"

"No.... I hope all's well with him?"

"Better than well," said the nephew, rubbing his hands. "How's this for
a queer thing? There's a gent from Holland settin' in my back room this
minute. Come in, sir! Come in! He'll be pleased to give ye all the news
of Uncle Nick."

I was ushered into a good-sized room, comfortably furnished, and a
proper background for the portly old gentleman seated in a leather chair
by a window, giving on a walled court at the back of the house. He was
well-dressed; his grizzle major wig would have adorned an alderman's
pate; his fat calves were encased in white silk stockings, and a great
beard, streaked with grey, all but concealed the broad expanse of chest
and belly.

Timothy Sabb closed the door behind us.

"Mr. Tallant," he said, "I'll have ye know Mynheer van Schouten. He's a
goldsmith from Rotterdam."

My heart gave a leap as the goldsmith struggled up from his chair.

"The devil he is!" said I, stepping forward to grasp his hand. "Nick,
you fat rascal! Which hole, now, for the belly-gauge?"

"God's truth!" Nick exclaimed. "Did ye know me as easy as that?...
Nevvy, I'm for to-morrow night's packet back to Rotterdam! Damme if I
step out o' the house again till I step into a hackney coach for the
docks!"

"Never fear, Nick," said I. "I'd never have known you save for the way
you got out of the chair. It reminded me of how you used to struggle up
from the foot of a gum tree at Sydney Cove when you spied a marine
officer coming, to convince him you'd cleared an acre of forest since
morning."

"Ye mean it?" said Nick. "Ye wouldn't ha' known me, else?"

"Never in the world."

"There, I'll rest easy," said Nick, lowering himself with a comfortable
sigh into his chair once more. "It's the last hole, lad, for the
belly-gauge. Nevvy, ye'd best mind the shop, for I've a deal to say to
this seven-foot rogue, and don't wish to be disturbed."

I spent two hours with Sabb. He knew, of course, of Oakley's hanging,
and we passed quickly over that. He told me he was prospering in
Holland.

"Aye, we're doin' famous betwixt us, Nevvy and me. But Hugh, Rotterdam
ain't Lunnon.... Hearken to that! _There's_ music!"

We heard faintly the sounds of horses' hoofs on the cobblestones, the
rattle of cart wheels, the cracking of whips, the cries of the hawkers,
"Small coals! Small coals!" and a dozen others beside, against the
rumbling undertones of the great city's life.

"I miss it," said Nick. "I miss it sore. Rotterdam ain't nothin' against
Lunnon."

"Then why not come back?" I asked.

"Ye ask me that! I ain't such a fool. But I won't say I'll not run over,
whiles, for a smell of it."

"Nick, you've kept your promise, of course, to deal in no Holland
goods?"

He gave me a reproachful grin.

"Be damned to ye, Tallant! In my line o' trade, ye can't be forever
askin' questions as to what comes in. But if I was to be brought a watch
with the name Dykstra engraved in the lid, I'd see it got back to where
it belonged. Aye, and I'd send with it six pair of the finest English
razors could be had by fair means or foul, with a han'some gold case
lined with velvet to put 'em in, and a snuffbox His Majesty himself
wouldn't be ashamed to carry; and on top o' that, I'd have a model made
in solid silver of the ship _Amstel_, set on a mountin' of ebony inlaid
with ivory.... And that minds me," he added, before I could reply, "I
got a bit of a keepsake here, for as fine a young lady as ever drew
breath."

He stepped into an adjoining room and returned with a small case of
morocco leather. Opening it, he showed me a magnificent brooch, set with
small, perfectly cut diamonds. On the gold of the under side _Sarah
Munro Tallant_ was engraved.

"'Twas Ned Inching told me ye was married," he said. "He was in here a
two-three days back." His eyes twinkled. "Tell Miss Sally 'twas honest
come by. Damme if I didn't go out to buy it meself, from a goldsmith on
Cockspur Street!"

                 *        *        *        *        *

I had gone by hackney coach to the Shadwell Dock to carry one last box
to the _Princess Royal_, which was to unmoor and drop down the river the
following night. Sally and I were to leave with Mr. Fleming at dawn and
drive to Sheerness, where he was to take leave of us. When I had seen
the box safely stowed with our many others in the 'tween-decks, I drove
back through the city as far as Hyde Park, and there got down for a last
walk through the park before returning to Queen Anne Square.

It was midafternoon, and the air still mild and warm. The trees were
leafless; the grass was green and the waters in the little lake sparkled
in the sunshine. Many people were abroad, taking the good of so pleasant
a day for out of doors. I seated myself on a bench to watch them pass.

Presently I observed a little chariot, very smartly turned out,
approaching down the drive. The coachman drew up some fifty yards
distant; the footman sprang down, opened the door, lowered the steps,
and the occupants of the coach, two young ladies beautifully dressed,
got down to walk, while the coach preceded them. At first I turned only
a casual glance in that direction, but as the young ladies drew near I
recognized them, and got hastily to my feet. I was recognized at the
same moment by Phoebe and Doris Thynne.

Phoebe halted, with a little gasp, then came quickly forward holding out
both hands. She was in full mourning, and a bewitching costume it was,
with herself to set it off. Her thick corn-coloured hair appeared in
little curls and tendrils at the edge of the jaunty bonnet. There was
the finest of filmy lace at her throat and the cuffs of her sleeves.

"Hugh!" she exclaimed. "How fortunate!... You remember my sister,
Doris?"

"Indeed I do," I replied.

"This is delightful, Mr. Tallant," said Doris, in her lovely contralto
voice. "Phoebe and I were speaking of you only this morning.... So
you're truly going back to New South Wales!"

"Yes. We're to go aboard at Sheerness."

"We were aboard the _Princess Royal_ yesterday," said Doris. "We are
sending out a _great_ many things to poor Mama and Papa."

"They will be deeply appreciated, no doubt of that," said I.

Phoebe glanced up, her blue eyes misty with tears.

"I am sending toys and schoolbooks for little Hugh," she said. "We have
heard from Mama and Papa. Hugh is very well and happy, Mama says. Papa
is to teach him. I am so glad for that."

"How _can_ you go back, Mr. Tallant?" Doris asked, with a slight
convulsive shiver of her fine shoulders. "Does your wife really wish to
go?"

"It was she who proposed it."

Doris examined my face curiously, and there was a hard glitter in her
dark eyes.

"Only fancy! Going to that dreadful place when you might remain in
London!"

"It's not so dreadful as you think, Doris," said Phoebe. Her lids
drooped and she glanced down at the toe of the little slipper peeping
from beneath her gown. Then she looked up at me once more with that
innocent, appealing look I knew so well.

"Hugh, will you tell Papa and Mama how much we miss them?"

"I will indeed."

"And will you say..."

"Yes?"

"Will you say that... that I am very well, now, and that I am living
with... that I am living quite near Doris? I neglected to speak of
that in my letters."

"I shall be happy to," I replied.

Doris drew out a tiny watch, scarcely as large as a shilling-piece, from
a hidden pocket at her waist.

"We really must make haste, Phoebe!" she exclaimed. "It's nearly four
o'clock!" She held out her hand, with a little mocking smile. "Good-bye,
Mr. Tallant. It's been so nice, seeing you once more. I hope you have a
_very_ pleasant voyage."

I seated myself on the bench and watched the two sisters moving along
the drive to where the chariot waited. They chatted as they walked,
seemingly unconscious of the many heads that turned to look after them.
They stepped into their carriage, the footman sprang to his seat, and a
moment later they were lost to view.






[End of Botany Bay, by Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall]
