“I do not want to die, I do not want to die!”
“Nor will you, Ike. Now drink your soup.”
“What a gloomy bugger Ike is, always mincing along in his riding boots as if he wore high heels. Jesus, his feet must stink! He even wears the things to bed, Richard my love,” said Bill Whiting the next day as they lugged their stones. “If he swings, so do I. It does not seem fair, does it? His loot was worth five thousand, my sheep ten shillings.” His demeanor was resolutely brave, but now he suddenly shivered. “Goose walked over my grave,” he laughed.
“Our geese would do more than walk over it, Bill. They would be digging after your worms.”
There were eight of them staunch friends: the four women, Bill, Richard, Jimmy and the pitiable Joey Long, who was their child. Richard shivered in his turn. Four of his seven friends might not live to see 1786 arrive.
Then three days after Christmas, all six condemned to death were reprieved, their sentences commuted to fourteen years’ transportation to—Africa. Where else? Jubilation reigned, though Ike Rogers never did recover his bombast.
The year 1785 had seen Richard a prisoner from beginning to end; its last day brought a couriered letter from Mr. James Thistlethwaite.
“There is movement at Westminster, Richard. All sorts of rumors are flying. The most pertinent one as far as you are concerned goes as follows: transportees to Africa held in all gaols outside London are to be put on the Thames hulks in readiness for shipment to foreign parts, but not across the King’s herring pond, which is the Western Ocean—on the maps, Oceanus Atlanticus. Since it is no longer his own private fishery, the rumors I hear (more strongly every day) talk of the Eastern Ocean—on damned few maps, Oceanus Pacificus.
“Not much more than a decade ago, the Royal Society and its powerful Royal Navy connections sent one Captain James Cook to Otaheite to observe the transit of Venus across the sun. This Cook fellow kept discovering lands of milk and honey during what were, I gather, nosy wanderings. Little wonder that in the end his curiosity got him killed by the Indians of Lord Sandwich’s isles. The land of milk and honey which concerns us now reminded Captain Cook of the coast of south Wales, so he dubbed it, imaginatively, New South Wales. On the maps it can be found as ‘Terra Incognita’ or ‘Terra Australis.’ How far it goes from east to west is anybody’s guess, but it is certainly 2,000 miles from north to south.
“At about the same latitude south as the new American state of Georgia is north, Cook found a place he christened ‘Botany Bay.’ Why this name? Because that obnoxious, interfering man of letters and President of the Royal Society, Sir Joseph Banks, snuffled around ashore there with Linnaeus’s pupil Dr. Solander to gather botanical specimens.
“Enter a gentleman of Corsican extraction, Mr. James Maria Matra. He was the first to put the idea into official heads, who huddled in countless consultations with Sir Joseph Banks, authority on everything from the birth of Christ to the music of the spheres. The result is that Mr. Pitt and Lord Sydney are convinced they have found the answer to a hideous dilemma: what to do with the likes of you. Namely, to send you to Botany Bay. Not precisely to be abandoned ashore there, as happened in Africa, but rather to put a few Englishmen and Englishwomen in a land of milk and honey neither the French, the Dutch nor the Spanish have gotten to yet. No place that I have ever heard of was settled by convicts, but such seems to be the intention of His Majesty’s Government in regard to Botany Bay. However, I am not sure that the verb ‘to settle’ is the proper one to use in this context. It is more likely that Mr. Pitt’s verb is ‘to dump.’ Though should the experiment actually work, Botany Bay will end in taking our leavings for generations upon generations and two goals will have been achieved. The first—and by far the more important—is to send England’s felons so far away that they cease to be either an embarrassment or a nuisance. The second—a ploy to lull the suspicions of our ever-multiplying Do Gooders, I am sure—is that His Majesty will own a new, if exploitably worthless, colony for the Union flag to float over. A colony populated by felons and gaolers. Undoubtedly its name in time will be ‘Felonia.’
“Enough punning. Be prepared, Richard, for removal from Gloucester. I have already written to Cousin James-the-druggist, who should descend upon you armed with tools of survival not far into 1786. And gird your loins for a shock. Once you board the hulks moored around the Royal Arsenal, you encounter London. There are three of these penal palaces. The Censor and the Justitia have been there for a decade and have earned much attention and many visits from Mr. John Howard. The third, the Ceres, is only now coming into commission. The hulks are operated under contract to the Government by a London speculator named Duncan Campbell. A canny Scotchman, of course.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you that the Thames hulks are for male prisoners only. You will enjoy no tender female ministrations nor calming influences. The hulks are floating hells, and I mean every word of that. I know I am comforting Job, but Job you are, Richard. And better a Job who knows what he is in for. Guard yourself well.”
* * *
“I have news,” said Richard, putting the letter down.
“Oh?” asked Lizzie, darning complacently. It couldn’t be bad news because his face was placid.
The needle stopped moving; her eyes rested fondly upon Richard my love (which had become his nickname). She knew absolutely nothing about him, for he had volunteered no information about himself beyond the terminology of his crime. Of course she loved him, for all that she would never bed him. In bedding lay a pain she knew she could not bear—a child with death snapping at its heels.
Her new hat, a dizzying confection of black silk and scarlet ostrich feathers, was perched incongruously on her head. He had given it to her for Christmas, carefully explaining that it was not a gift from him, but from someone he knew in London named Mr. James Thistlethwaite. A lampoonist, which he had informed her was someone who made obnoxious politicians, prelates and officials look very small and ridiculous through the power of the written word. She had no trouble believing that; as she could neither read nor write, persons who could earn a living from being literate were next door to God Himself.
So now, complacent needle going in and out and around a hole in one of Old Mother Hubbard’s stockings, she could ask in mild interest, “Oh?”
“My lampoonist friend in London says that everybody sentenced to transportation to Africa will be moved from the county gaols to the hulks in the Thames. Men convicts, that is. He says naught about what is to happen to the women.”
They were going through an underpopulated phase, so much so that the Michaelmas assizes had not been held that year. Scarlet fever had claimed too many lives to warrant Michaelmas assizes; instead there would be Epiphany assizes in January of 1786—if the numbers made it worthwhile.
Therefore some twenty people heard Richard’s news, and stilled to immobility. Those awaiting trial stirred first. The old brigade revived very slowly, eyes widening, heads turning, all attention riveted upon Richard my love.
“Why?” Bill Whiting asked.
“Somewhere in the world—I am not sure exactly where—is a place called Botany Bay. We are to be transported there, and I suppose we sail from London, as they are sending us to the Thames hulks, not to Portsmouth or Plymouth. The men only. Though it seems that women felons will also be going to Botany Bay.”
Bess Parker huddled against a white-faced Ned Pugh and wept. “Ned! They are going to separate us! What will we do?”
No one had words of comfort; best ignore her question. “Is Botany Bay in Africa?” asked Jimmy Price to break the silence.
“It seems not,” Richard said. “Farther away than Africa or America. Somewhere in the Eastern Ocean.”
“The East Indies,” said Ike Rogers, grimacing. “Heathens.”
“No, not the East Indies, though they cannot be too far away. It is south, very south, and but newly discovered by a Captain Cook. Jem says it is a land of milk and honey, so I daresay it will no
t be too bad.” He groped for a geographical anything. “It must be on the way to or from Otaheite. Cook was going there.”
“Where is Otaheite?” asked Betty Mason, as devastated as Bess; Johnny the gaoler would not be going to Botany Bay.
“I do not know,” Richard confessed.
The next day—New Year’s Day of 1786—the convicted felons of both sexes were marched to the gaol chapel, where they found Old Mother Hubbard, Parsnip Evans and three men they recognized only because they occasionally accompanied the mystery men from London who examined the construction work. John Nibbet was the Gloucester sheriff; the other two rejoiced in the appellation of Gentlemen Sheriffs—John Jefferies and Charles Cole.
Nibbet had been appointed spokesman. “The city of Gloucester in the county of Gloucestershire has been notified by the Home Department and its Secretary of State, Lord Sydney, that certain of the prisoners held in the gaol under sentence of transportation to Africa are to be transported elsewhere than Africa!” he bellowed.
“He did not draw a breath,” muttered Whiting.
“Do not court a thrashing, Bill,” Jimmy whispered.
Nibbet continued, apparently not needing to draw breath. “And further to this, the city of Gloucester in the county of Gloucestershire has been notified by said Home Department that it is to act as collecting agent for male transportees from Bristol, Monmouth and Wiltshire. When all have been assembled here, they will be joined by the following prisoners already in the Gloucester gaol: Joseph Long, Richard Morgan, James Price, Edward Pugh, Isaac Rogers and William Whiting. The entire group will then proceed to London and Woolwich, there to wait on the King’s pleasure.”
A long wail terminated the Sheriff’s proclamation. Bess Parker ran forward, stumbling in her fetters, to throw herself at Nibbet’s feet, wringing her hands together and weeping wildly. “Sir, sir, honored sir, please, sir, I beg you! Ned Pugh is my man! See my belly? I am to have his child, sir, and any day! Please, sir, do not take him away from me!”
“Cease this caterwauling, woman!” Nibbet turned to Old Mother Hubbard with a direful frown. “Does the prisoner Pugh have a permanent connection with yon yowling female?” he demanded.
“Aye, Mr. Nibbet, for some years. There was an earlier child, but it died.”
“My instructions from Under Secretary Nepean specifically state that only male felons without wives or wives at common law imprisoned with them are to be sent to Woolwich. Therefore Edward Pugh will remain in Gloucester Gaol with the female transportees,” he announced.
“Damned considerate,” said Gentleman Sheriff Charles Cole, “but I do not see the need for it.”
Old Mother Hubbard murmured into Nibbet’s ear.
“Prisoner Morgan, d’ye have a permanent connection with one Elizabeth Lock?” barked the Sheriff.
Every part of Richard’s being longed to say that he had, but his papers would be examined and they would inform these men that he had a wife. The fate Annemarie had given him lived on. “I do have a permanent connection with Elizabeth Lock, sir, but she is not my wife even in common law. I am already married,” he said.
Lizzie Lock mewed.
“Then ye’ll proceed to Woolwich, Morgan.”
The Reverend Mr. Evans said a prayer for their souls, and the meeting was over. The prisoners were escorted by a very glad Johnny the gaoler back to the felons’ common-room. Where Lizzie lost no time in hauling Richard into a fairly private corner.
“Why did you not tell me you are married?” she demanded, her plumes nodding and bouncing.
“Because I am not married.”
“Then why did ye tell the Sheriff ye were?”
“Because my papers say I am.”
“How can that be?”
“Because it is.”
She took him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously. “Oh, damn you, Richard, damn you! Why do you never tell me anything? What point is there in being so close?”
“I am not intentionally close, Lizzie.”
“Yes, you are! You never tell me a thing!”
“But you never ask,” he said, looking surprised.
She shook him again. “Then I am asking now! Tell me all about yourself, Richard Morgan. Tell me everything. I want to know how ye can be married yet not married, damn you!”
“Then I may as well tell the lot of you.”
They gathered around the table and heard a very edited story relating only to Annemarie Latour, Ceely Trevillian and a distillery. Of Peg, little Mary, William Henry and his other family he told them nothing because he could not bear to.
“Weeping Willy said more than that,” Lizzie stated sourly.
“It is all I am prepared to say.” Richard assumed a worried look and neatly changed the subject. “It sounds as if we are to be moved very soon. I pray that my cousin James gets here in time.”
By the 4th of January the number of men in the felons’ section of Gloucester Gaol had swollen. Four men came in from Bristol and two from Wiltshire. Two of the Bristol men were very young, but two were in their early thirties and had been close friends since childhood.
“Neddy and I got drunk one night in the Swan on Temple Street,” said William Connelly, slapping Edward Perrott companionably on the shoulder. “Not sure what happened, but the next thing we were in the Bristol Newgate and got seven years’ transportation to Africa at last February’s quarter sessions. Seems we stole clothes.”
“Ye look well for spending a year in that place. I was there for three months just before,” said Richard.
“Ye’re a Bristol man?”
“Aye, but tried here. My crime was committed in Clifton.”
William Connelly was obviously of Irish extraction; thick auburn hair, short nose and cheeky blue eyes. The more silent Edward Perrott had the bumpy big nose, prominent chin and mousy fairness of a true Englishman.
The two Wiltshire men, William Earl and John Cross, were at most twenty years old, and had already struck up a friendship with the two Bristol youngsters, Job Hollister and William Wilton. Joey Long was so simple that he gravitated naturally to this young group from the moment they clanked into the felons’ common-room, and—which Richard found strange at first—Isaac Rogers elected to join these five. A few hours saw Richard change his mind—no, not at all strange. Oozing glamour and seniority, the highwayman could retrieve some of the clout he had lost among his Gloucester fellows when he had funked at the prospect of hanging.
Then the Monmouth man arrived to make the twelfth for Woolwich and informed them that he was William Edmunds.
“Christ!” cried Bill Whiting. “There are twelve of us for Woolwich and five of us are fucken Williams! I lay claim to Bill, and that is that. Wilton from Bristol, ye remind me of Weeping Willy Insell, so ye’re Willy. Connelly from Bristol, ye’re Will. Earl from Wiltshire, ye’re Billy. But what the devil are we to do with the fifth? What did you do to get here, Edmunds?”
“Stole a heifer at Peterstone,” said Edmunds with a Welsh lilt.
Whiting roared with laughter and kissed the outraged Welshman full on his lips. “Another bugger, by God! I borrowed a sheep for the night—only wanted to fuck it. Never thought of a heifer!”
“Do not do that!” Edmunds scrubbed at his mouth vigorously. “You can fuck whatever ye like, but ye’ll not fuck me!”
“He is a Welshman and a thief,” said Richard, grinning. “We call him Taffy, of course.”
“Did ye get the gallows?” Bill Whiting asked Taffy.
“Twice over, Da.”
“For one heifer?”
“Nay. I got the second for escaping. But the Welsh ain’t too happy at the moment, would not have liked to see a Welshman hanged even in Monmouth, so they reprieved me again and got rid of me,” Taffy explained.
Richard found himself drawn to Taffy as much as he was to Bill Whiting and Will Connelly. He had Welsh moods like clouds chasing the sun in and out on a heath-purple hillside. But then, Richard’s own roots were Welsh.
&
nbsp; Cousin James-the-druggist made it to Gloucester just in time on the 5th of January, loaded down with sacks and wooden boxes.
“The Excise Office paid over your five hundred pounds at the end of December,” he said, burrowing. “I have six new dripstones, five of them with their brass frames and catching dishes because I felt that you must keep the five friends around ye safe and well.”
“Why five friends, Cousin James?” Richard asked, intrigued.
“Jem Thistlethwaite said in his letter to me that the men on the Thames hulks are separated into groups of six who live and work together.” He did not go on to tell Richard any of the other things Jem had explained about the hulks; he could not bring himself to. “That is why there are five new boxes, all containing what yours does, save not in the same quantity. I brought your tool box too.”
Richard sat back on his heels and thought about that, then shook his head. “Nay, Cousin James, not my tools. I will need them for this Botany Bay, but there are enough rays of enlightenment dancing inside my head to feel very strongly that did I take them with me now, they would not survive to see Botany Bay. Keep them until ye know what ship I will be on, then send them to me.”
“Here are more books from the Reverend James. He has concentrated this time on books about the world, geography, voyages. Heavier, because most are on ordinary paper and leather bound. But he thinks they may help, and hopes that ye’ll be able to carry them and all your others to Botany Bay.”
After which Cousin James-the-druggist could find nothing to say about practical matters. He got to his feet. “Botany Bay is at the other end of the world, Richard. Ten thousand miles if ye could fly, more like sixteen thousand as a ship must sail. I fear that none of us will ever see you again, and that is a terrible grief. All for something you never meant. Oh dear, oh dear! Remember that you will be in my prayers every day for the rest of my life, and your father’s, and your mother’s, and the Reverend James’s. Surely so many good intentions cannot be lost upon God. Surely He will preserve ye. Oh dear, oh dear!”