“There, there,” soothed Donovan, suddenly very Irish, for all that he said he was a good Protestant Ulsterman. “Johnny, ’tis too late to cry. Remember the cat and get yourself home the minute your sentence is over.”
“My dad will be dead by then.”
“Ye cannot say that for sure. Now do what Mr. Shortland told ye to do, else ye’ll be back to idleness.”
The rage simmered down, the pain did not. John Power surveyed the tall fourth mate with eyes full of tears, then marched away.
“It is a wonder,” said Richard thoughtfully, deciding it was high time things were brought into the open, “that ye do not fancy him. Why a stringy old man like me?”
The too-handsome face aped astonishment but the eyes danced. “If I do fancy ye, Richard, ’tis an unrequited passion. Even a cat can look at a king.”
“Bog trotter.”
“Mud skipper.”
“What is a mud skipper?” asked Richard, intrigued.
“A miraculous fish-out-of-water I read of. Maybe ’twas Sir Joseph Banks described it, I do not remember. It skips on mud.”
More deaths had occurred; there were now 188 convicts left on board Alexander.
At about the moment that Thomas Gearing from Oxford was in extremis, Teneriffe loomed out of fog and drizzle so quietly that the inmates of the prison, ordered below, scarcely knew when their ship made harbor.
Having had little to do for three weeks save feed the convicts and dwell upon their own injuries, the marines now went seriously on duty. Their most onerous task at sea was to boil up kettles of the salt beef chunks which Sergeant Knight was supposed to weigh up on the scales Lieutenant Shortland, the naval agent, had himself checked. As the naval agent was not present to witness this ritual, however, Sergeant Knight simply chopped the beef or pork into half-pound bits for the convicts and pound-and-a-half pieces for the marines. The convicts were supposed to get pease or oatmeal as well, but Sergeant Knight confined such treats to Sundays after prayers had been said. He was fed up with playing nursery maid to a lot of felons before Alexander put to sea—scales, for pity’s sake! Even if Lieutenant Shairp came down to watch, Knight made no attempt to weigh or be fair about the rations, and Shairp said not a word. Better fucken not say a word!
Above and beyond the differences natural in a group of almost forty men unable to escape from each other’s company, the marines were very unhappy. Moving up into steerage should have mollified them, but it did not. Oh, it was a great deal more comfortable to occupy that peculiarly shaped space wherein the ceiling was far larger than the floor, admittedly. But the tiller came inboard along the ceiling—and groaned—and screeched—and clattered hollowly—and occasionally walloped a body swinging aloft in his canvas nest when the helmsman swung the wheel hard over just as the sea was running the wrong way. They had air and light from several ports, the stink was not unbearable, and the crew had been decent enough to leave steerage relatively clean.
Yet what they did not have far outclassed all of these improvements: they were not getting their full half-pint of rum every day. Captain Duncan Sinclair, in whose purlieu the liquor lay, had taken it upon himself to water the rum down to what was known as “grog.” There had been a furious outcry about it before Alexander left Portsmouth and for a few days thereafter the rum was served the way it was supposed to be served—neat. Now they were back on watery grog, had been since the Scillies. No dreamless sleeps despite the tiller, and definitely no kindly thoughts. On board ship rum was the beginning and end of all earthly pleasures to a sailor or a marine, and now both kinds of seafaring man were on grog. The hatred for Sinclair among crew and marines was as immense as it was intense. Not that Sinclair cared, dwelling on high in a roundhouse he had turned into a fortress. A little further into the voyage he intended to start selling the rum he was currently hoarding. If the bastards wanted a full half-pint of neat rum, then they could pay for it. He had to pay for his roundhouse, as he knew perfectly well that the Admiralty would not.
Now, with port in Santa Cruz attained, was the prospect of going ashore to find as much rum as a marine could drink—and Major Ross issued orders that no marine was to have much shore leave! Lieutenant Johnstone had informed them in his languid voice that a full guard would have to be mounted during daylight hours, as Governor Phillip did not want the convicts confined below decks interminably. Further to that, Johnstone announced, Governor Phillip and his aide-de-camp Lieutenant King were expected to come aboard at some unpredicted time while at Teneriffe. So woe betide the marine whose choking black leather stock was not properly fastened around his neck or whose knee-length black leather spatterdashes were not properly buttoned. The ship was stuffed with the most desperate criminals, said Lieutenant Johnstone with a weary wave of his hand, and Teneriffe was not far enough away from England to relax. Sergeant Knight, facing court martial over his grog protests, was not a happy man. Nor were his underlings.
To make matters worse on Alexander, the ship had not inherited one of the senior officers. Now that they were deliciously tucked into cabins on the quarterdeck, Lieutenants Johnstone and Shairp were not in any way dependent upon their subordinates for any of their creature comforts. They had servants (officers’ servants were always crawlers) and a galley of their own, the chance to keep their own livestock on board to supplement their table, and the use of a ship’s boat if they felt like visiting friends on one of the other transports while Alexander was at sea. What the privates, drummers, corporals and lone sergeant had not taken into account was the remorseless nature of their task, to feed and guard nearly 200 felons. Port, they had been sure, would see the felons locked up. Now they discovered that this lunatic governor insisted the felons have freedom of the deck even in port!
Of course the rum came on board the moment the crew was set at liberty, the marines having contributed to a pool which ensured that, shipbound or no, they would still be able to moisten their parched throats with something stronger than Sinclair’s fucken grog. Luck served them another good turn when, late in the afternoon of the 4th of June, Alexander was the first ship Governor Phillip and his party boarded to inspect. Captain Sinclair actually waddled out of his roundhouse to converse politely with the Governor while the convicts were lined up on deck under the eyes of the marines on duty, eyes bloodshot and breath reeking, but leather stocks and spatterdashes perfect.
“It is a tragedy,” said Phillip, walking around the prison, “that we cannot afford better accommodation for these fellows. I see fourteen too sick to parade and I doubt there is room for more than forty men at a time to get a little exercise in these aisles. Which is why they must be given as much freedom of the deck as is possible. If ye have trouble,” he said to Major Robert Ross and the two Alexander lieutenants, “double-iron the offenders for a few days, then see how they go.”
Lined up with the other convicts on deck wherever there was space to stand, Richard found himself looking at a man who could have been Senhor Tomas Habitas’s brother. Governor Phillip had a long, curved, beaky nose, two vertical worry lines hedging in the bridge of that nose, a full and sensuous mouth, and a balding dome of head; he wore his own hair, curled into rolls above his ears and confined in a queue on the back of his neck. Richard remembered that Jem Thistlethwaite had said that the Governor’s father, Jacob Phillip the language teacher from Frankfurt, had fled Lutheran-inspired persecution of German Jews. His mother was respectably English, but her relative Lord Pembroke had not seen fit to assist the promising young man educationally or financially, nor had he given Arthur Phillip a push up the naval ladder. All done the hard way, including a long stint in the Portuguese navy—yet another link with Senhor Habitas. As he stood there understanding that this was as close as he would ever get to His Excellency the Governor of New South Wales, Richard felt oddly comforted.
