The Sarsaparilla Souvenir

By Jo Anne Rey

Genre: Historical Fiction

The Sarsaparilla Souvenir is fiction based on the true story of the life of Mary Broad, a girl from Cornwall, who becomes a First Fleet convict exiled from her home. Through her courage, determination and intelligence she organises the first successful escape from Port Jackson with her husband, William Bryant and their two children, four-year-old Charlotte and one year old Emmanuel. They are accompanied by seven other convicts, escaping in Governor Phillips cutter, making a voyage along the east coast of Australia to West Timor, a navigational feat said to be equal in brilliance to that of the Bligh voyage after the mutiny on the Bounty. In so doing Mary shines as the 'one who got away' - the first female convict expatriate of Australia. Although they defy storms, starvation, thirst and savage aborigines to succeed in this endeavour, betrayal within their own ranks leads to their recapture. During the course of their shipment back to Newgate Prison, six of the party die, including Will Bryant and the two children. Upon Marys much publicised return, James Boswell, lawyer and biographer of Sir Samuel Johnson, takes an interest in her case, assisting in obtaining her release and that of the remaining convicts, whereupon they must re-enter English life.

While these are the main events in the story, the historical facts are the bare bones of The Sarsaparilla Souvenir. This is not just another convict life. She is the female Ned Kelly we have been looking for.

The four-part structure of The Sarsaparilla Souvenir mirrors Marys emotional voyage. From loss of innocence and liberty, she sinks into the criminal world of prison hulk and convict ship, sailing down to be submerged in the antipodean destitution and subjugated within the impregnable confines of Port Jackson. The process of surfacing once more is played out in the emotional buffeting she takes from the lofty success of their escape, plunging to the depths of despair with their recapture and the deaths of her children, till she finally climbs to acceptance in her defeat. Along with her unexpected freedom in Part Four, Mary finds hope and a future in which she can soar.

The Sarsaparilla Souvenir is a story with all the elements of epic drama, covering the full gamut of emotions as expressed through the strengths and weaknesses of the characters. Its appeal lies in the very ordinary human heart withstanding great suffering, in the very ordinary human being struggling and defeating an unjust and brutal system, and in the knowledge that two frail sarsaparilla leaves, relics of this great adventure, now rest quietly on a shelf in the Library of New South Wales two hundred years later, having survived an equally remarkable voyage. The fact that this is so defies sunny logic but brings Starlight to our Blackest Night.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 10, 2005
• ISBN: 9781465328779

Jo Anne Rey

Genre: Historical Fiction The Sarsaparilla Souvenir is fiction based on the true story of the life of Mary Broad, a girl from Cornwall, who becomes a First Fleet convict exiled from her home. Through her courage, determination and intelligence she organises the first successful escape from Port Jackson with her husband, William Bryant and their two children, four-year-old Charlotte and one year old Emmanuel. They are accompanied by seven other convicts, escaping in Governor Phillip’s cutter, making a voyage along the east coast of Australia to West Timor, a navigational feat said to be equal in brilliance to that of the Bligh voyage after the mutiny on the ‘Bounty’. In so doing Mary shines as the 'one who got away' - the first female convict expatriate of Australia. Although they defy storms, starvation, thirst and savage aborigines to succeed in this endeavour, betrayal within their own ranks leads to their recapture. During the course of their shipment back to Newgate Prison, six of the party die, including Will Bryant and the two children. Upon Mary’s much publicised return, James Boswell, lawyer and biographer of Sir Samuel Johnson, takes an interest in her case, assisting in obtaining her release and that of the remaining convicts, whereupon they must re-enter English life. While these are the main events in the story, the historical facts are the bare bones of ‘The Sarsaparilla Souvenir’. This is not just another convict life. She is the female ‘Ned Kelly’ we have been looking for. The four-part structure of ‘The Sarsaparilla Souvenir’ mirrors Mary’s emotional voyage. From loss of innocence and liberty, she sinks into the criminal world of prison hulk and convict ship, sailing down to be submerged in the antipodean destitution and subjugated within the impregnable confines of Port Jackson. The process of surfacing once more is played out in the emotional buffeting she takes from the lofty success of their escape, plunging to the depths of despair with their recapture and the deaths of her children, till she finally climbs to acceptance in her defeat. Along with her unexpected freedom in Part Four, Mary finds hope and a future in which she can soar. ‘The Sarsaparilla Souvenir’ is a story with all the elements of epic drama, covering the full gamut of emotions as expressed through the strengths and weaknesses of the characters. Its appeal lies in the very ordinary human heart withstanding great suffering, in the very ordinary human being struggling and defeating an unjust and brutal system, and in the knowledge that two frail sarsaparilla leaves, relics of this great adventure, now rest quietly on a shelf in the Library of New South Wales two hundred years later, having survived an equally remarkable voyage. The fact that this is so defies ‘sunny’ logic but brings ‘Starlight to our Blackest Night’. ***

Book preview

THE SARSAPARILLA

SOUVENIR

Image416.PNG

JO ANNE REY

Copyright © 2005 by Jo Anne Rey.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation 1-888-795-4274

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Contents

PART 1

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

PART 2

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

PART 3

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

PART 4

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

Dedication

To Jono, Toby and Claire,

we are always journeying beyond

breathing new worlds

dreaming infinite possibilities.

mjb

Strange dark river, which quenches the bright flame of life, buries in oblivion the agony and heroism of the human heart, and casts at our feet a packet of withered leaves.

‘Boswell and the Girl from Botany Bay’, by Frederick Pottle, 1938.

Since November 1956 two humble leaves have sat quietly on a shelf in the State Library of New South Wales. Like delicate shells thrown onto the shore from a vast ocean, surviving by pure chance then casually collected because of a beautiful marking or shiny surface, so these two ‘sweet-tea’ sarsaparilla leaves have also survived in spite of their fragility. The fact that these frail remnants returned to their place of origin 165 years after being collected as part of a convict escape-kit defies logic but in doing so provides enormous comfort. They are the remaining souvenirs of Mary Broad’s remarkable life.

PART 1

SINKING

CHAPTER ONE

Proverb: Fact be stranger than Fiction

Sunday 22nd October, 1803.

Dolly has just gone leaving me some quiet moments before I face Richard downstairs. Today I must make a good impression. How many times in my life have I needed to do this? He is now waiting for my answer. It rests here, a page of portent, demanding attention since its creation yesterday.

Tregellis Farm, Breage, Cornwall. Saturday, 21st October, 1803.

My Dearest Richard,

This correspondence comes to you after much consideration because I believe your recent proposal demands my utmost honesty. Your generosity, since first we met some ten years ago, is something for which I cannot begin to thank you enough, except to say, that I hope having read this memoire you do not regret teaching me my letters.

Many aspects of this story, I am sure, will shock you. Its creation in those early days after my return was an exercise to alleviate my soul. It was never meant for others’ eyes and I blush to think what you must make of its uneducated style. But I offer it to you as it stands, for its poor Cornish manner reflects not only my origins but also my true heart. I hope it shows you how far I have travelled in my efforts to overcome the chains of my early life.

I realise now this is no true memoire—not like those published by more formally educated souls, but I have included the other trifles and snippets to show the ‘joys’ of daily life in the settlement of Botany Bay. Humour has been one of my best tools for surviving not only the terrible years but also the memories.

I have also included Will Bryant’s journal so that you will possess the most complete picture of those astounding years. Should your recent proposal still stand, I can only say that our hearts will be bound in Freedom, the surest bond of all. Freedom and trust, I am afraid, are the only chains that I can now bear.

I remain, your trusting companion, Mary Broad.

I continue to ignore its call a little longer.

As I look at my reflection in the glass Dolly’s comforting words come back.

‘Mary, you look lovely. Richard will be so proud of you, as will we all.’

I did not reply. I know she is sincere but I also know that if she heard half the things that have happened in my life she would be so shocked that the word ‘proud’ could never be used again. How can I imagine that for Richard it will be any different? I must face the fact: although my life is spread across these pages, and when writing them down I craved the freedom of the private blank page, yet, a part of me has longed for a sympathetic audience—one who will acknowledge my sufferings and pardon my excesses. I fear I ask too much.

Grey clouds fold over the blustering cliff tops as the gulls scream and dive. Downstairs I can hear the family. The deep belly-jangling laugh of Uncle John and the pitter-patter tittering of his wife, demure Aunt Jane, swirl up the stairs like ghosts echoing a memory. Scrapings of chairs on wooden floors reverberate down my spine spreading a cold sweat across my brow and upper lip.

The face that looks back at me is sombre but not sad. it shows two deep lines running from the sides of my nostrils like brackets down to the curves of my lips making my cheeks seem to sag a little. These cheeks are red enough with only a trace of ruddiness so that with some powder they still look quite fresh to the quick glance. The lips are fine. They’re sufficiently full to soften the effect made by the lines and my smile will continue to win the day. My best features, my eyes, carry the tiny beginnings of wrinkles along the soft pouches lying gently above my cheekbones.

Can I do it?

In the stillness of the room, running footsteps and squeals of children’s laughter fly through my heart bringing Charlotte and Emmanuel’s little faces on the wind. Following along I can see Jack’s laughing eyes and Jamey’s sheepish grin.

Then Will stands, windswept and melancholy, before me. The seagulls are crying, ‘Go on, Mary. Go on.’

Enough! Now we will see the mettle of the man.

THE MEMOIRS OF MARY BROAD, CONVICT,

SENTENCED TO TRANSPORTATION

ON HIS MAJESTY’S VESSEL ‘CHARLOTTE’,

BEING PART OF THE FIRST FLEET TO BOTANY BAY".

It has been said by Samuel Pepys that ‘Memoirs are true and useful stars’ but it be only Blackest Night that bears the Star’s real brilliance. When me darkest prison be black as Night I seek Freedom in the Starlight of me Mind. (M.B.)

The sounds of the gulls drift over me head. I don’t want to open me eyes. I can smell the sea. Me legs are hurting from the irons. All bruised they be, just above me ankles, but I should count me blessings, at least the skin’s not all torn and infected at the moment. Me neck is stiff from lying crookedly in the cell. Me hips are aching from the cold and constant bouncing in the cart. Not that it’s been so long. We’ve been lucky. Some poor souls come all the way from Newcastle. We’ve only had a half hour from the Devonport Quays to the warehouses below the Citadel, but it’s been long enough. I’ve heard the ship is called the ‘Charlotte’. She and the others in the Fleet are now lying off shore. Maybe I’ll call the baby ‘Charlotte’ if it’s a girl. What about ‘Charles’ for a boy? No, not that. Jesus, how will I cope? Will it be like the ‘Dunkirk’? If it’s like the ‘Dunkirk’, I’m not sure I’ll survive.

Listen girlie, all this worrying will get you nowhere. Look sharp now, the cart’s stopping.

‘All right, ladies get your arses out of there. You’ve arrived at your new lodgin’s. And it’ll be makin’ me day when I sees the back of yer.’

It be cold and pitch black on this 8th day of January, 1787 and must be about four in the morning. Just about a year now, since getting caught stealing bloody Agnes Lakeman’s bonnet and trinkets. One year of hell. I should be celebrating—only six to go! The guards haul us off the cart prodding us with their musket butts, like cattle, to hurry us up. How they expect a body to move quicker chained together like this, I don’t know.

Eliza trips on the hanging hem of her flannel skirt, tearing it in the process. ‘Jesus, Mary, Mother of God … .’

‘Keep it down, will you? We don’t want no trouble now. We’ve got to make a good impression with the new Captain.’

Mary Eaton picks up her cue. ‘Hey, Annie, did yer hear Missy?’ She wants to make a good impression on the new Cap’n, like. We all know what kind of impression he’ll be wantin’, no doubt,’ and gyrates her abundant hips wantonly.

‘Shut that mouth, slut,’ orders the nearby guard.

We move on after that. The noise of dragging chains scraping the cobblestones and the grunting of the miserable lot moving towards God-knows-what attracts the attention of a couple of the Castle Street girls who are hanging around for the next seaman or docker. The girls relieve their boredom by chatting with Anne Mather and Mary Allen, both strumpets themselves.

After about five minutes we get shuffled into a corner of one of the warehouses and told to sit down and wait. Waiting. It seems all we be doing. Waiting for what? Waiting for food and water; waiting for exercise time; waiting for the chains to come off; waiting for sleep, waiting for the end to this hell.

After a while, the cart carrying the men from the ‘Dunkirk’ pulls up. Will and Jamey will cheer me up if I can just be lucky enough to get within talking distance.

That Will Bryant’s a lad—always bragging about himself and all his smuggling. Such a good smuggler, he’s here waiting to go to Purgatory with the rest of us. He were good, though, when I found out the baby were coming. He makes me laugh, and seeing how he’s coming from Boconnoc, and all, well, you could say he’s almost like family. His parents used to come down to Fowey to the monthly markets so we got to know each other quite early.

I remember when he got done. It was around me nineteenth birthday, in March, 1784. It really came as a shock. Hardly anyone gets thrown in the clink for being in the ‘trade’, as smuggling is known around these parts, but it were his second time caught and he tried to fool them by signing himself as Tim Carey. So they actually got him on forgery as well. He’s been in Launceston Gaol since then and from what he says it was a real hellhole.

Jamey Martin, on the other hand, now he’s Irish. We first met on the day of sentencing at the Exeter Assizes, along with that mongrel, Joe Paget. Jamey’s all right. He went up for theft at the Viscount Courteney’s place at Exeter, where he were working. He’s less of a loudmouth than Will, and to be sure, a lot kinder, but he don’t have that special spark that makes Will such a character. He’s not as good looking either, but fair enough for a thief.

And what jinni be you then, to start judging others? You’re up to your neck in it, just like them so don’t start getting above yourself, now. Just you be grateful for their friendship. There’s not too many in this bunch who wouldn’t be putting a knife in your ribs if they thought they could profit from it. Will and Jamey may not be the kind of fellows me Dad would want hanging about but it’s beyond all that now.

I’m shivering so much me teeth are chattering. When will they ever be giving us some warm clothes? Me day dress were once a lovely green wool. Me mother, Grace, bought the fabric especially for the journey to Trogh Hall. Now look at it. It be filthy from the mud and stains of prison life, with all the embroidery on the bodice all in tatters. She’d be shocked to see the condition I’m in. They be killing us by neglect and they call us the criminals. When can we get on board this floating hole? At least it will be warmer than here.

I can hear Dorothy crying again. Her old bones can’t stand this cold. She be eighty if she’s a day. How can it be called justice for someone her age to be sent out just for telling a lie? How must she be feeling? It’s not like she’s got a life in front of her. At her age she’s just waiting to die and wanting a nice warm bed in which to do it.

It sounds like the fellows are coming. Please God, let Will and Jamey come nearby. It’s still so dark I can’t be making out one from the other.

‘Hey, Will Bryant? Is that your ugly face over there?’

‘And who’s asking, maid? Show us your pretty one and maybe I’ll own up for you.’

‘You know well enough. Is Jamey with you?’

‘I’m here. Not that I have too much say in the matter, mind you. It’s not the fleas and the chains that be givin’ me hell, but this two-legged crab beside me that’s beyond endurance.’

‘It won’t be me doin’ any bitin’, but if it’s that what you’re lookin’ for, there’s a few around here I know who’ll oblige you, now.’ Jamey ignored him and the two of them settled down to wait for daylight.

‘So. Tell me now, what news have you heard?’ I asked.

‘Nothing that would be puttin’ a smile on your face. This fleet has a Captain, by the name of Arthur Phillip … .’

‘What did he do to deserve this post? Sink his last ship?’ That be Sam Bird, one of Will’s cronies.

‘… and our old mate Watkin Tench is going to be joining us for the ride. We’re going to the other side of the world to a place no Christian has ever before settled, and there they can forget about us, knowing we can’t swim back home. We’ll be sharing our marine accommodation with pigs, also of the four-legged kind, and all manner of items our new prison will require.’

Am I shivering now from the cold or his words? I can’t imagine what such a place must be like but it sounds like a key turning in a lock, closing me off from all I know. Me stomach is turning. What kind of a prison is it where the land itself is the gaol, where all society is of the criminal class and where there is no hope of seeing family and friends once more? Will the forests be like ours? I’ve heard that in far off countries there are strange animals beyond imagining and jungles so thick daylight can’t find its way to the ground.

Perhaps it won’t be so bad. After all, they can’t just leave us to starve can they? They have to feed the soldiers, the sailors and all the others, so they’ll have to think of us too. Who knows, maybe it will be warm.

I’m happy to dream. Good food, warm clothes, a nice country cottage, maybe I can make a little vegetable garden. The baby will be born by then. It will be free, even if the mother is not. They will have to look after her (or him). It’s nice here, in this space inside me head. It’s warm in here and safe. Here I can be whatever I want. A lady with fine clothes, the mistress of me own house with a couple of maids. Of course, I’d be kind but I’d be strict, too. Those girls would have to do their work well, no slacking off.

Wake up girlie. At last we’re starting to move. It’s not quite dawn but I can make out the rowboats down at the quay as the first shouts from the guards get everyone moving. I just wish they’d stop looking me over like that. They’re so ugly Satan himself wouldn’t want them.

‘Can I help ya, ducky?’

‘I don’t need help from the likes of you, that’s for sure.’

‘A spirited little thing are we? I likes ‘em with a bit of fight in ‘em, eh Jimmy?’

‘Get on with it Mister Jones, we haven’t got all day. Get these prisoners on board, processed and put below decks, before we all freeze to death.’

‘Yessir, Cap’n. Tench.’

‘Good morning, Captain Tench, it’s me, Mary Broad.’ I give him a big smile.

There’s one thing that can be said. Captain-Lieutenant Watkin Tench is a fair—minded man. If I can, it would certainly serve me well to get on the right side of him. If I can show him how good I am maybe he will help me out sometime. Fancy him being sent to Botany Bay as well. Talk about all the family going … Catherine Fryer and Mary Haydon, me partners in crime; Mary Eaton, who was also at Exeter with us; Will, Jamey, Sam, Joe Paget, (he’s no blessing),Jim Cox, another mate of Will’s, and now Captain Tench, too. All me old mates from the ‘Dunkirk’ and all on the same ship as well. Now, there’s one thing for sure. I’m going to make the best of things. If I’m smart I’ll keep me head down, not get too involved with the riff raff, and try to find people who will help me survive. Certainly with Will and Jamey close by things shouldn’t be too bad. But what’re we going to do when we get there?

We climb into the boats and are rowed out to the ‘Charlotte’. She looks pretty new but awfully small for such a long journey. It may be around dawn but with this fog there’s no sun to brighten me mood. I promised meself I wouldn’t cry, but as I step into that boat and me foot leaves dry land, the tears come down knowing me feet will perhaps never touch England’s shores again. Me life is gone. Me family and friends will never be knowing what become of me and me never seeing them again. I know I’m only sentenced to seven years but it feels like it’s going to be forever. Even if I do get back I won’t be the same person they knew and loved.

I have to fight this gloom. The hills are starting to show themselves, the fog is lifting from them too. The black shadows of night are lightning to greys and silvers. Looking back over the Quays the huddling buildings release trails of wafting smoke from early morning chimneys.

No, Mary Broad, you cannot go under. No self-pity. When you turn your back on this place, when this ship sails, you can’t be thinking back. You’ve got to face the future and with your baby you’ll smile. That’s the job and that’s me determination. Me life will not be wasted. I will grow strong and survive. I’ll bloom where I’m planted. That’s what I tell meself, but I don’t like it when an eerie ‘Sure you will’

keeps blowing back in me face on the wind.

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She’s small, all right. I can just stand. Will and Jamey certainly couldn’t. The women are separated from the men, thank God, and although its new, conditions are so cramped it won’t be long before it’s as foul smelling as the ‘Dunkirk’ were. I’m lucky. I’m sharing me bed, if you can call it that, with three other country girls. Thank your lucky stars girlie it’s not with the two Elizabeths, Barber and Dudgeon. I’ve heard their names be like their characters. Elizabeth Barber stabbed a man in his own house to steal his watch and a guinea, while Elizabeth Dudgeon’s anger knows no bounds. Their reputation’s gone before them. It’s said they organised a rebellion and escaped from the ‘Mercury’ off the coast of Devon when it were about to go down in a mighty storm. Unluckily, they were recaptured shortly after. How anyone thinks they can get far with cut irons weighing them down I don’t know.

Me bed companions, Mary Eaton and Eliza Pulley, seem all right. They both were in service before being caught lifting some of their mistress’ clothes, while Ann Davies hasn’t said where she’s from or what she got done for. She’s keeping very close to herself.

I can’t seem to find out when we’re supposed to be leaving. When will they bring us some light? It’s so dark in here. There are hatches but they’re keeping them locked due to the foul weather. The noise is deafening. Gales blowing. The wind whipping the water against the hull makes a constant slapping sound that shrinks me stomach. Without any light I can hardly make me way to the necessary. They treat us like pigs, they do. Giving us just a bucket that only gets emptied once a day. The stink is unbelievable. They won’t give us any candles, they say because they’re scared we’ll burn ourselves. It seems they think we’re idiots as well. But I think the worst thing is the suffocation. This air is as stale as an old man’s armpit. I never knew how much I would miss the wind blowing in me hair, full fresh in me face, standing on the top of the cliffs of Fowey Harbour.

Those childhood days I see now as being near perfect for they were not tarnished with the cruelty or loneliness as be an adult’s lot. Me childish memories cloak me with the warmth of family love.

Me parents be simple folk. Me father, William, spent many nights away on the open sea searching for the pilchards needed to make ends meet, but when he be at home, it seems like he were always sitting at the head of the table in the old kitchen. The fire be never out in those good times.

With me older sister, Dolly, I’d carry the water from the town tap each morning. I always used to stop off at Readymoney Cove just to see if anything had come up out of the sea the night before. Sometimes you could be lucky but not often. I used to dream that one day the fairies would send me something really special and I would rush up the Rope Walk, along Fore Street, into our house in the Passage and imagine the look on me mother’s face as I handed her me treasure. Of course it really weren’t anything much that I’d find, an old shell or a piece of driftwood, but she would always make an effort to be impressed.

Our mother, Grace, worked endlessly trying to keep us looking clean and respectable preparing us for the future she saw for Dolly and me: service in a gentleman’s house. She did a fine job with Dolly but when it came to meself, I were smitten with the lust for adventure, distant shores and the wider world. Ships in the harbour would always bring on a thrill of excitement. Where had they come from? Who and what did they bring? Cries of the seagulls echoed me dreams and mirrored me ambition to fly far a field, but in those days I had no idea what lay in store.

Of course me father be in ‘the trade’, like everyone with an ounce of a brain. He had shares in the cutter ‘Bright Eyes’ with his brothers, Peter and John. They often did trips to Guernsey, getting all manner of things from France, then bringing them back to Mevagissey or Par right under the nose of old Flamank and his other customs officers. I used to really enjoy the tea. Whenever there be a new shipment in Grace would make us some saffron cake and a great pot o’ tea. That be heaven.

Uncle Peter were the wealthy one and the brains of the family. He be the organiser for the sale of the goods. Me dad and John were the fishermen, the workers and the risk-takers. In those days if they weren’t getting around the customs and excise, they were avoiding being caught by the impressers to fight with His Majesty’s royal marines. Kidnappers I call them. Like many others, Dad got hauled off into the Navy and were gone for three years.

Uncle John and Peter had to help us survive. Me mother were beside herself when it happened but, like all Cornish women, she didn’t give up and when the pilchards were on she’d go down and help salt them while Dolly and I did the work around the house.

There be nothing to spare in those days. The ‘starving times’ everyone called them. The government just kept raising the taxes on everything. Every time there be a new war, they’d keep making our lives harder, until some folk were eating limpets off the rocks in order to have a meal. But it were the tax on the salt that really killed us. Without salt we couldn’t cure the pilchards and they were our life-blood. It were thanks to Mother’s efforts, the little money Dolly could spare and Uncle Peter’s donations, that kept us from the same.

But even so I were always hungry. I watched the gulls swarm around the fishing boats going crazy for the guts and scraps from the catch. Sometimes I ‘d be so jealous of those birds—they were better fed than us. Aark … . Aark. The noise be a backdrop to me life. There were always one or two who flew above and beyond the group. When the rest were flocking around the boats, they didn’t. They be too busy playing on the breeze. I used to want to be like them, so well fed they didn’t have to be part of the pack. I’ve never been one of the mob and have not suffered from loneliness like some, but when times got bad and I’d be longing for some of the pleasures of life other girls from richer families had, I’d head to St. Catherine’s castle overlooking the harbour and let the water’s movement soothe me. Funny to think I’ve been living on the water for the last year and who knows for how much longer I’ll be on it this time. I’ll probably die on it or spend me eternal days in it.

‘Hey, Mary Broad, where are you, me maid? It’s Will Bryant, trying to find you.’

‘Yeah, we all know what for, an’ all,’ came Joe Paget’s slimy voice from the other side of the grill that separated men from women.

‘I’m over here, Will. Can you scramble over those useless logs you’ve got for company?’

‘I’d scramble across the mightiest mountain for your pretty face, lass.’

‘Yes, well, cut the palaver Will Bryant. How goes it for you? Is Jamey with you?’

‘You know you can never get rid of a bad smell when you want. It’s not a bleeding paradise that’s for sure, but with a chance to talk to you occasionally, it’ll keep me heart beating’

‘How many more days before we get moving? I can’t stand this waiting all the time. I know I should be used to it by now, but stuck in here listening to the storm in the dark, it’s making me blood stand still.’

‘Did I tell yer the story about the time we brought in some beautiful Brandy from France. We had got it into the cellar of me companion’s squire, for safekeeping like, as we figured the old boy would never notice it amongst his own overly large collection. Well, it was just around Christmas and one of our fellows, John Swallows, having primed himself well previously in the nearby tavern, started for home, when he happened upon a group of the little people practising pranks in the shelter of a cavern along the cliff path …’

I interrupted him before he could get carried away.

‘And what be you thinking, Will Bryant? Am I not as Cornish as you and do you think I haven’t had a good education in all the fairy stories from me grandma’s knee since Jesus put breath in me? If you’re going to entertain me at least make it one I haven’t heard before, and if you’re trying to impress me, then at least be telling me something that we can benefit from.’

‘Hold onto your hair, Mary Broad. It be neither entertainment nor impression that’s keeping me here, or you for that matter, so we may as well make the best of it. If it’s something useful you want to be knowing, then I can tell you I’m probably the most useful fellow on this ship and you’d do well to heed that when we get to Botany Bay. I’ve been doing some talking with the others around here and there’s not one of them who can catch a fish with any sense of surety. Now it’s to me way of thinking that this new settlement is going to be needing someone to help feed us all. It’s all very well to say we’ll be carrying our food with us, but its not going to last forever, and they will be needing us to become self sufficient and grow or catch our own. I be reckoning me skills will be very much in demand and don’t you think for a moment that I’m not going to make the most of it. So don’t be getting too high and mighty, maid.’

‘Now Will, you don’t have to be getting your feathers ruffled. I’ve certainly noticed quite a few of your talents and it’s not just the fishing I’m talking about here. You’re right though, if we can be working out what they’re going to be needing and make sure we are the ones to be providing it, we could do very nicely for ourselves.’

‘What’s this we business? Since when have you and I become a we? I’ll not be tying meself down with any particular female when I’ll be having the choice of any I want.’

‘Now don’t you be thinking I meant it like that. I meant in general like, the three of us, Jamey, you and me. All of us. We’ll all have to be looking out for ourselves, and I’m sure if we help each other out now and then, we’ll all benefit by it. We can’t be totally working alone now, you can see that, can’t you?’

‘Of course I can see that but what special offerings will you be bringing to the party, I’d like to know?’

‘Well now, Will Bryant. Wasn’t I brought up by the sea all me life? Can’t I work a boat as good as any man, excepting perhaps yours truly, of course? Don’t you worry, you and the others will find me skilled enough, and I’m not talking about in the bed, either.’

‘Yes, you don’t need to be telling us you’ve got some experience already in that area.’ Will grinned lecherously.

‘She can always come and practice on me, any time she likes.’

‘Shut your mouth, Joe Paget, you slimy worm.’

Will’s right though. He will be needed and if he plays his cards right he could get himself a very good deal going. After all, in order to catch the fish, he will have to have access to the boats. A good catch should result in a few for his personal supply. If he’s smart he’ll sell a few and be making a nice little piece on the side. But if he had a wife and child, he could argue a case for a nice little house, near the water, not far from the boats. He’d live a much better life than in the barracks with the other fellows. Will Bryant, with me beside you we could go far, and who knows just how far that may be? But you’re a bit touchy so I’ll have to be taking you very gently. I’ve certainly got the time.

CHAPTER TWO

Proverb: If you lie down with dogs you get up with fleas.

You see life changed for me when I were twenty. Until then I managed to stay with me family helping out with the pilchards in season and doing a bit of domestic work where I could get it around the village. But with all the problems at home, me father being gone, not enough food or work, too many taxes, so much so that candles became a luxury, I had to get work wherever I could. So Mother talked to me Uncle Peter who had connections in Plymouth.

I remember the day he came down to announce me future. It were 21st August, 1785. I was lazing in the sun on the pier when me name was called from up the hill. It were me sister Dolly, as always neatly dressed with apron on, calling for me to come home.

‘There’s a visitor for you back at the house,’ she announced. ‘It’s Uncle Peter. Come quick, for goodness sake. You want to make a good impression, don’t you? Tidy yourself up now, Mary. If you want this job, you’re going to have to try hard to be a lady, even if it hurts.’

I dragged meself up, wondering how it was that she could always remain so neat and I always ended up with spots and stains on me skirts, hair bedraggled and generally looking a sight. I made one more attempt at being presentable patting down me dress and playing with me hair in an effort to get it under control.

I followed Dolly up to the house where I found me father’s brother seated at the table in our small dark kitchen. He were dressed in his morning suit looking like a gentleman of reasonable wealth. He looked me up and down, conspicuously sniffing, making me feel quite uncomfortable. I wiped me hands on the back of me skirt before making