Remember Me

  It was on the following day that they discovered how the other prisoners had found out about them. A forger by the name of Harry Hawkins came to see them. Like many others in Newgate, he expected to be transported. He was a slimy character, small and thin, with a beak-like nose and strangely unkempt long hair for a man who dressed well.

  ‘I read about you in the London Chronicle,’ he said, and proceeded to prove it by fishing a dog-eared cutting from his pocket.

  All of them had assumed the news about them had merely passed by word of mouth, that was the usual way in prisons. It was a shock to find someone had written about them in a newspaper.

  James read it aloud, then passed it back. ‘It’s not completely accurate. It was the Governor’s boat we stole, not Captain Smith’s,’ he said airily.

  Mary was astounded that James could be so blasé about such a florid and admiring account of their escape.

  ‘Who wrote it?’ she asked. She hadn’t for one moment expected anyone in England to be sympathetic to them.

  ‘It don’t say,’ James replied, looking at it again. ‘But whoever it was, he knows a lot. He might have got it wrong about who owned the cutter. But everything else is right.’

  The five friends had no further chance then to discuss where all this information came from, because Harry Hawkins wanted to talk about his plight. It was clear that what he wanted from them was inside information about officials in Botany Bay.

  It amused Mary somewhat that this man, and everyone else waiting for transportation, still thought the settlement was in Botany Bay. Apparently no one here knew that place had been rejected by Captain Phillip. In fact it seemed that very little information had yet reached England about the colony. Mary suspected most of it had been withheld purposely as the government wouldn’t want to publicize their terrible mistakes. That made the situation even better for her and her friends.

  ‘It isn’t like this place,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘You can’t buy a better hut or bigger rations, the only way you can advance yourself is by having a skill they need.’

  Hawkins looked disappointed. ‘But you must’ve had some inside help, or slipped someone a back-hander!’ he retorted.

  ‘We didn’t,’ James said indignantly. ‘It was all down to Mary charming the Dutch sea captain for the navigational instruments and charts.’

  Hawkins gave her a disbelieving look and Mary blushed. She supposed he couldn’t imagine a plain and worn-looking woman being able to charm anyone.

  ‘The captain was lonely,’ she said by way of an explanation. ‘Me and my husband used to talk to him. He would come and have supper with us sometimes.’

  ‘So he’ll be the one who paid for you to have this cell?’ Hawkins asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  Mary and her cellmates looked askance at each other.

  ‘Paid for this cell?’ James exclaimed. ‘No one paid for it.’

  ‘Someone did, before you even got here,’ Hawkins said, looking a bit uncomfortable. ‘You’d have been put on the common side otherwise.’

  An hour later, when Hawkins left, Mary turned to her friends. ‘Who could have paid for it?’ she asked them.

  Hawkins had been happy to explain the prison system to them. Everyone, unless someone had intervened on their behalf prior to their arrival, got put in with the common criminals, hence the name ‘common side’. These cells were filthy, stuffed to capacity and hotbeds of infection. The prisoners were at the mercy of the insane and the dangerous, and you’d be lucky to wake to find you still had your boots on your feet. Young women and boys were certain to be raped on their first night, and rarely by only one person.

  Hawkins then went on to explain that as long as a prisoner had some money or goods to sell they could buy their way into somewhere cleaner and safer, and get the extras they’d already discovered for themselves. The merriment in the courtyard was proof of all this; the people they’d seen were either wealthy or had rich and influential friends. But once a prisoner had run out of money, it was back to the common side for him or her.

  Hawkins had cited a highwayman who had his own feather bed brought in, hot water for a bath brought up to him each morning, his shirt laundered, meals with fine wine, and during the afternoons he was visited by his mistress. He was eventually hanged, but as Hawkins pointed out, bribes couldn’t get you out of everything.

  ‘Do any of you know anyone in London?’ Mary asked the men in bewilderment. None of them had any idea who their mysterious benefactor could be.

  ‘I used to know a few people,’ James replied. ‘But not the kind who’d even buy me a pint of ale, let alone a decent cell.’

  ‘Maybe it was someone who felt sorry for us after reading that in the Chronicle?’ Sam suggested.

  ‘That would be it,’ Bill said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘There was a man murdered in Berkshire when I was a boy, he left a wife and five children, and when people heard the story they sent money for them.’

  ‘That’s fair enough. But who told the story about us in the first place?’ James asked, looking puzzled. ‘That paper was four or five days old. We were still on the ship in the English Channel. How could they have got the story?’

  ‘Someone must have talked when the ship docked at Portsmouth,’ Sam said, and his face broke into a wide grin. ‘Captain Edwards left then, and he would have informed the authorities about us. A big number of people left the ship there too, anyone of them could’ve talked to a newspaper.’

  All at once Mary realized the story could only have come from Watkin Tench. Captain Edwards had no sympathy with them or the mutineers he’d caught, so any information from him would have cast them in a very bad light. As for any of the other officers who went ashore at Portsmouth, their accounts wouldn’t have been so accurate.

  Tench would also know about corruption in prisons from his time on the Dunkirk, and how to go about fixing a cell for them in Newgate.

  Instantly Mary decided to say nothing to the others. She was a little surprised they hadn’t considered Tench, but then none of them had been as closely involved with him as she had. To tell them what she thought now would only raise questions she didn’t want to answer. Besides, if Tench had done it in secret, he wanted it to stay that way – it might put his career at risk if it got out. Better that they continued to think it was a benevolent stranger.

  ‘Luck’s smiling on us again,’ James chortled gleefully, not even noticing Mary had made no comment about it all. ‘Maybe if the money keeps rolling in we’ll end up like that highwayman, sleeping in feather beds.’

  ‘Bless you, Watkin,’ Mary thought, and she had to turn away from the others so they didn’t see the tears of gratitude in her eyes.

  In the days that followed they had many visitors to their cell. Some wanted to hear only of their escape, but more were facing transportation themselves and wanted to know what to expect.

  Mary felt a little guilty that they were taking money from these people. It was bad enough for them to face parting from their loved ones, without compounding their misery by telling them of the dreaded flogging triangle, of hunger and unremitting heat. But as James said, it was better for them to spend some of their money on preparation for what lay in store for them than to drink it away, and she supposed he was right.

  The first time they were allowed out into the prison yard, Mary felt she was entering a select party. People greeted them with genuine warmth, offering drink from the tap-room, advice and friendship. James and the three other men accepted this with alacrity, especially the overtures from women prisoners. But Mary hung back.

  While it felt good to be admired, rather than scorned or pitied, her emotions were too raw to want to talk and laugh with strangers, however well-meaning. All she wanted was to sit quietly in the sun, but this was denied her, for everyone wanted something of her.

  Some were after details of the escape, others asked her about their friends and relatives who had been transported, some women even wanted to know her experiences
in childbirth. Then there were men either trying to court her or making lewd suggestions.

  Within a few hours Mary had seen and heard enough. She didn’t want to be a performer in this circus, or even part of the audience.

  She had never before considered her feelings about the criminal world which she’d belonged to for so many years. Whether on the prison hulk, on the ship or in the penal colony, she was just another convict serving her time, doing whatever was needed to survive. As such she was loyal to her fellow prisoners, covering up, aiding and abetting sometimes in thefts from the stores and other wrong-doing, because that was the code by which they all lived.

  But losing both her children had opened her mind wider.

  She had never really been sorry she stole that woman’s bonnet in Plymouth. She was sorry she was caught, angry with herself for being so reckless. But she’d never put herself in that woman’s shoes and imagined how it was for her to be struck and robbed.

  Now, when she thought about it, Mary felt deeply ashamed. She wasn’t actually starving at the time, she didn’t need the bonnet. She could look back on good people she’d known in her childhood, like Martha Dingwell in the baker’s who gave the unsold bread at the end of the day to those unable to buy any, or Charlie Allsop, the gravedigger, who would do little unpaid jobs for the bereaved, his way of showing his sympathy. These two, and others like them, had little enough themselves, and there were those who had sneered at them. But Mary could see now that the Marthas and Charlies of this world enriched life. Criminals only made it frightening and ugly, contaminating everything with their selfish lust for money and goods they hadn’t worked for.

  As she looked around the prison yard, all she could see was people who cared for nothing but themselves. They had no remorse about lying, cheating, stealing or killing. The fact that they had money to bribe their way out here to boast drunkenly about their crimes proved that.

  These were, she thought, without doubt some of London’s worst villains and thugs, hard-bitten whores and the most cunning of thieves. Whether from wealthy backgrounds or the gutter, they all used that flash lingo, the underworld language she’d become so familiar with in the colony. She could also sense a dangerous undercurrent flowing around in the yard – jealousy, sexual frustration, pent-up violence and unsettled old scores, simmering as people drank.

  Mary was no prude. She knew drink was a powerful remedy for alleviating misery and fear. But however desperate she felt, she knew she would never sell herself for a glass or two of gin, and allow the sexual act to take place in full public view. That was what some women were doing, and with their own children looking on.

  She had averted her eyes several times during the afternoon as men rutted like beasts with women so drunk they were almost unconscious, but it appeared some of them had a taste for children too. An elderly woman, who came and sat by Mary for a while, told her that some of the men bribed the gaolers to bring them a constant fresh supply of children from the common side. She had cackled with laughter, and Mary might not have believed it, but later she saw a burly man fondling a ragged little girl of no more than six.

  Mary’s heart ached at the number of young girls in the yard. They reminded her of herself at the same age – the same fresh complexions, that same curious mix of innocence and courage. They were too busy flirting with the more gentlemanly prisoners to talk to her. Perhaps they thought the elegantly dressed fops would take them with them when they bribed their way out of Newgate.

  Mary knew better. The girls would have lost their innocence after a week or two in here, and their courage would fail them on the transportation ships. A few years out in Sydney and they’d look like her. A bag of bones, all hope and spirit gone.

  They had all been in Newgate for over a week when Spinks came to the cell and told Mary a gentleman wanted to see her.

  Mary had struck up a wary kind of friendship with Spinks. She couldn’t really like him, he was too wily, always on the lookout for a way to bleed money out of the prisoners. Yet when he’d found out about her children dying he’d shown real sympathy. He often came along when she was alone, sometimes bringing her a mug of tea or a piece of fruit, and for these there was no charge, he just wanted to chat for a while. Perhaps he was as lonely as she was.

  Spinks found her alone more often than not, for after seeing a stabbing on her second visit to the yard, she had decided the gloomy cell was a better place to be. She was alone that day too, for the men were all down in the yard.

  ‘Who is this gentleman?’ she asked. Spinks called all men with money ‘gentlemen’.

  ‘By the name of Boswell,’ he replied with a smug grin. ‘’E said ’e’s a lawyer.’

  ‘You mean he’s from outside Newgate?’

  ‘Well, we don’t get many lawyers staying in ’ere,’ Spinks retorted, and laughed at his little joke. ‘Now, do yer want ter see ’im or not? Makes no difference to me.’

  Mary sighed. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, but someone from outside might distract her from her melancholy. ‘Bring him up,’ she said wearily.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ Spinks said affectionately. ‘Now, why don’t you comb that pretty ’air of yours while I’m gone? Look, I’ve brought you a ribbon fer it too.’

  He pulled a red satin ribbon from his pocket, thrust it into her hand and was gone. A lump came up in Mary’s throat as she ran it between her fingers, remembering her father. He always brought her and Dolly ribbon when he came back from sea. She’d been such a tomboy then, and she never really appreciated it. But she did appreciate this one; she needed something bright and feminine to cheer her.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Bryant!’

  Mary spun round at the sound of the melodious voice. She was so engrossed in tying the ribbon at the nape of her neck that she hadn’t heard the man coming along the landing.

  Spinks was right for once, this one was a gentleman. Perhaps fifty or so, very stout with a red-tinged face, of middling height and wearing very fine clothes – a dark green three-cornered hat trimmed with gold braid, and a coat made of fine brocade. He was also out of breath and wheezing from the stairs.

  ‘I’m known as Mary Broad now,’ she said sharply, glancing down at his spotless white stockings and shoes with fancy buckles. ‘Why have you come to see me?’

  ‘I want to help you, my dear,’ he said, and held out his hand. ‘Boswell’s the name, James Boswell. I am a lawyer, though better known for my book on Dr Samuel Johnson, my dear departed friend.’

  Mary recognized his accent as being Scottish, for there had been a couple of officers in Port Jackson who spoke just the same. But the part about his book on his dead friend meant nothing to her. She was more impressed by his gold watch-chain and extravagant silk waistcoat. She thought even the King couldn’t be dressed so well.

  She shook his hand, and was astounded by any man having one so soft. It felt like a piece of warm dough. ‘I’m beyond help,’ she said. ‘But it’s kind of you to offer me some when I am unable to even offer you a chair.’

  He smiled, and she noticed his eyes were large and almost luminous dark pools. As he wore a wig, she couldn’t see what colour his hair was, but she guessed by his bushy eyebrows it had once been as dark as hers.

  ‘I don’t believe you are beyond help,’ Boswell said stoutly. ‘I wish to defend you. So I would suggest you tell me your story. All I know is the extraordinary tale I read in the Chronicle.’

  Chapter eighteen

  James Boswell strode away from Newgate prison, his feathers ruffled because Mary hadn’t fallen at his feet and seen him as her saviour. It hadn’t for one moment occurred to him that she wouldn’t welcome his offer of help.

  ‘Damn her,’ he muttered. ‘A heroine she may be, but she’s clearly lacking a brain.’

  A dear friend had once claimed years ago that ‘Bozzie’ was addicted to lost causes. He was referring to his passion for whores in that instance, but it was a well-known fact that Boswell was extraordinarily sympathetic
to anyone he considered was being treated unjustly. He had often defended poor people without charge, and took on cases that no one else would.

  In truth, nothing excited him more than a case everyone said he couldn’t win, or a woman who was hell-bent on self-destruction. And Mary Broad was both rolled into one.

  What all his worthy friends who poked fun at him didn’t really appreciate was that he felt he had a great deal in common with his clients and his whores. He knew what it was to be forced into an unwanted career; he was often misunderstood, he made errors of judgement, and he was reckless.

  His father, Lord Auchinleck, a judge in the Supreme Courts in Scotland, had insisted his son become a lawyer, despite his desire to join the Guards. As soon as he’d finished school, Boswell ran away to London and became a Roman Catholic, which appalled his dour Presbyterian family. Indeed, he flirted briefly with the idea of becoming a monk too. But a Catholic couldn’t become an Army officer or a barrister, nor even inherit his father’s estate, so he soon abandoned Catholicism and reluctantly went along with his father’s wishes and entered the Inns of Court. But this wasn’t a real change of heart, it was more so he could stay in London and use his allowance to cut a dash in society.

  Boswell himself would concede that he was a poor student. He spent more time in the theatre, at the races, and drinking and picking up women than he did at his studies. His father also expected him to make an advantageous marriage, but Boswell disappointed him there too by marrying his cousin Margaret, who had no money of her own. But he married for love, and that to him was far more important than money.

  Then his friendship with Samuel Johnson was misunderstood. People claimed he was worming his way into the great man’s affections for self-advancement. They said Boswell was a snob, a social climber, a womanizer, a drunk and a hypochondriac.