Half a World Away

By Janet Akroyd-Stuart

Ryan Baxter is a convict aboard the Neptune. Hes serving a seven-year sentence for rallying the poor against their employers.

Captain (Sir) Roland Delaney is also aboard the Neptune. His uncle, the earl of Rothsleigh, has bought him a commission in the Royal Marines because he suspects him of making several attempts on his life. The colony is starving and when a convict is found guilty of pilfering food hes hung. His guilt, however, is questionable, and Ryan sets out to prove his innocence, knowing little of the danger hes about to encounter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503501676

Janet Akroyd-Stuart

Janet Akroyd-Stuart was born in Stapleford, Nottingham, United Kingdom, in 1943. She migrated to Brisbane, Australia, with her parents and younger sister in 1953. She has been married for forty-seven years and has two daughters and four grandchildren. Retired for some years now, she is currently into her third year of a four year art course with U3A (University of the Third Age.)

Book preview

IN THE BEGINNING

30 June 1790

The dilapidated, battle-scarred transport ships Neptune, Scarborough, and Surprise, all carrying human cargo, successfully navigated the narrow entrance of the South Heads and sailed into Port Jackson. With their troublesome journey at an end, they finally dropped anchor in Sydney Cove to become the second such fleet to arrive there, in just over two years.

Down in the rotting, dank holds of these decrepit ships, contained like slaves, languished hundreds of British society rejects, all said to have violated the laws of their country, the Crown, and its people.

These felons, some with crimes no more serious than a stolen scrap of food, invariably carried a sentence of transportation for seven years. More serious crimes of poaching, treason, and murder carried sentences ranging from fourteen years to life imprisonment. Yet all felons, regardless of their crime, shared the same miserable existence in the bowels of these leaking vessels, where all were bound for the penal colony of New South Wales, a land few knew of—or cared about.

Over a thousand convicts—not including the female convict ship Lady Juliana, which had arrived in the penal colony on 3 June 1790—had been herded aboard this second fleet which had departed Portsmouth towards the end of 1789. On reaching the new land, eight months later, over a quarter of them had perished during the voyage and more were to die after going ashore. It was a miracle, given the atrocious conditions below, that any of these convicts survived at all, but surprisingly they did.

*

One such survivor, restrained in leg irons in the stinking hold of the Neptune, the worst of these disease-riddled ships, was Ryan Thomas Baxter. His chained companion, a petty thief known only as Murphy, declared jovially at the onset of sailing that anyone sounding as much like the bleedin’ king of England as Ryan did ought to be appropriately named, and thereafter, Murphy had refused to call him anything other than Rex.

When hustled aboard the Neptune, both had been hardy souls, an attribute that was to serve them well in withstanding the long, arduous voyage half a world away from the homeland. Others though, were not so fortunate. Those who were malnourished to begin with quickly succumbed to disease and died. Tragically, those chained to these dead companions were, in rough weather, tossed about like rag dolls and dragged under excreta-polluted waters and drowned.

No amount of bellowing from Ryan and Murphy had brought assistance from above. Either the wardens had not heard their pleas for help or if they had, they chose to ignore them.

Forced to watch this horrendous drama, Ryan was overcome with loathing and shame for the callous indifference of their jailers. He could only hope that when their day of judgment arrived, their maltreatment would be tenfold the atrocities they had intentionally inflicted on their charges.

*

At age twenty-two, Ryan’s future looked bleak, and questions in regard to his survival now played heavily on his mind.

For what purpose had he survived?

What did fate have in store for him once he stepped ashore, and was it going to be possible to maintain his existence for the remainder of his seven-year sentence? A term he served for his attempt to educate the poor in his village in the hope they would be able to negotiate better conditions from their wealthy employers.

His incarceration in London’s infamous Newgate Prison, for wilful sedition, as the magistrate had termed his crime, had been the onset of his nightmare, an injustice which, whenever it came to mind, never failed to cause a surge of resentment. Only this time when the thought arose, it was different. This time he experienced a return of his old tenacity.

‘Damn them to hell!’ Ryan muttered vengefully. To die was an easy way of yielding to the tyrants above. To live would cheat them of victory. A one-eyed victory perhaps, but a new land meant a new beginning. In a little over six years he’d be free.

From now on, he vowed, he’d take up whatever challenge fate had to offer and utilise this period in his life to ponder future goals. Those obstacles he encountered along the way, which he knew to be inevitable, would be dealt with accordingly and those goals he had set himself, adjusted to compensate.

*

Ryan was no fool! One glance around the hold told him the filthy, lice-infested bodies of his fellow inmates mirrored his own appearance. But that was where the similarities ended. Unlike the rest, he and Murphy had not languished in prison for years on end. The result being, they were not as skeletal. He therefore refused to see himself as pitiful as the others. Any such misconceptions were overridden by the mental image he had of himself, last seen through the cheval glass in the Reverend Thomas Baxter’s—his father’s—study.

That mirror had reflected a well-proportioned body some five feet ten inches tall. The fairish hair, tied back at the nape as always with a black velvet ribbon, emphasised high, though not prominent, cheekbones. The straight nose led to a full, generous mouth and observing all this were clear and alert brown hazel-flecked eyes. Eyes which certainly looked nothing like the dead fish ones of the other inmates that gaped death-like back at him. In total he recalled strong, masculine features, and if he disliked anything at all about his face, it had to be the indentation in the centre of his chin.

He would never have classified himself as handsome, but Alison Newman, the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman farmer, had once declared him pleasing to look upon!

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by a series of reverberating thuds against the hull, and beyond the ship’s exterior, voices could be heard yelling excitedly for news of England.

Ryan stared at the massive oak beams above his head as if to penetrate them. He’d almost forgotten what it was like to smell clean, fresh air, look upon sunlit surroundings, and feel solid earth beneath his feet. Eventually he averted his gaze and exchanged a sardonic half-smile with Murphy, while silently contemplating what miseries awaited them on shore.

*

On deck, just above Ryan’s head, stood a lone officer, immaculately attired in the distinctive red-and-white uniform of the Royal Marines. He was, for the moment, entirely oblivious to the activity going on around him, totally absorbed in the alien landscape some fifty yards ahead. That the captain did not like what he saw was evident in the mask of disgust contorting his ruggedly handsome face, together with the fact that every now and then, an involuntary shudder wracked his entire body.

Captain Roland Delaney had not known what to expect of the penal colony, but never in his wildest dreams could he have envisaged anything quite as hideous as the one now offending his vision.

His stony glare took in the dry, ugly shrubbery that dotted the rocky foreshore. Even the trees with their long, spindly branches were ugly and bore leaves that were khaki rather than green, and more bizarre still, hovering above them in the distance quivered a violet-blue haze.

The captain’s lips curled upwards while swearing inwardly. Not a damn hint of greenery anywhere—why, even the fauna was dull, grey, and hideous.

He had been watching rather odd, grey furry animals with short arms, long back legs, and tails that acted as props, noting with disdain nothing in this land conformed to the norm. It was as if he had dropped off the planet and stepped into another world.

A sob of frustration caught in his throat. The months of torture he had been forced to endure at sea now promised no respite on land.

His sullen gaze fell on the scattering of tents and wattle-and-daub (a blend of thin wattle branches packed with mud) huts, and he predicted contemptuously, one of them was most likely his.

Hadn’t it been enough, he thought savagely, that during the voyage he had been forced to share a cabin and the cot he had expected for a bed was a mere canvas hammock! He hadn’t known which was worse, the spotty young lieutenant that was his cabin mate or the crates of cackling hens, squealing pigs, and tethered goats, all kept in the passageway just outside his door.

The captain arched a hand across his eyes, shading them from the glare as he watched with revulsion a group of convicts in leg irons, shuffling their way down to the harbour.

This was a punishment more than he had a right to bear. What had his uncle been thinking, banishing him to a land which, if not one of God’s practical jokes, then surely one of His mistakes.

The feeling of hatred for his mother’s brother unleashed itself in a sob of fury. Why, he snorted vehemently under his breath, hadn’t he done away with the old coot when he’d still had the chance?

His dark eyes narrowed spitefully, casting a shadow of malevolence across his face. He’d spent most of the long, agonising journey, castigating himself over that lost opportunity. His own damn incompetence had gnawed like rats at his innards the entire voyage, knowing that another chance of doing away with his uncle would be a long time in coming.

He couldn’t be sure whether the shudder of revulsion that passed through his body was aimed at his uncle, the land, or both, but with effort he sought to pull himself together. There was not much point in worrying now about ways of perfecting plans of claiming what was rightfully his. Besides, it would give him something to contemplate over the next four years.

Oh, yes! He promised himself earnestly, his dark hair nodding agreement with his thoughts. The means of revenge would not only become a hobby, but also the means of maintaining his sanity in this godforsaken land.

*

A short, ruddy-faced corporal approached the captain and cautiously advised, ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sur, but the boat’s waitin.’

The captain remained motionless.

Thinking he hadn’t been heard, Corporal Vickers repeated a little louder, ‘Sur … Cap’n Delaney. The boats waitin’ ter take yer ashore.’

Still no reply!

Corporal Vickers cleared his throat. ‘Sur. They need ter get the prisoners ashore afore sundown.’

On approaching his superior, Vickers had anticipated an outburst of some sort and now stepped back a few paces just in case.

That the captain remained silent was unusual and left him perplexed, especially when he unexpectedly turned, strode purposefully to the gunwale, and descended the rope ladder, all without a murmur of protest!

The corporal’s face remained impassive. The captain was merely preoccupied, that was all. The tantrum he’d expected would erupt sooner or later. It always did, a fact of life he’d come to expect over the past eight months, but just to make certain the captain was underway, he leant against the timber rail and watched him being rowed ashore. It was only when the boat finally beached that he gave vent to a pent up sigh of relief.

Vickers rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Forty-eight hours!’ he whispered jubilantly. ‘Forty-eight hours of utter peace and freedom.’

There was a need in him to savour every one of those precious hours, for when he finally went ashore, he would be expected to resume his dance of attendance, seeing he was employed as the captain’s aide, a condition he had more than willingly agreed to at the time in exchange for the prison sentence he’d been serving.

Vickers pushed himself away from the rail.

With Delaney out of the way for a few days, there was an unfamiliar bounce in his step, a buoyancy he hadn’t experienced in a long, long time and he all but swaggered across the deck, whistling happily under his breath!

***

ONE

A cold wind howled down the hatch as Ryan queued to mount the ladder, and although the prisoners ahead of him kept the outlet obscured, he knew the heavens had opened, for every now and then, as the crush moved forward, his upturned face was spattered with blobs of rain.

Ryan inched forward.

A marine, stationed beside the stairs, stood watch while a crew member relieved those in front of him of their leg irons to enable them to scale the ladder. When his turn came to be freed of his shackles and surface from the hatch, the sky was indeed threatening, but the glare penetrating the dark clouds was unforgiving, stabbing behind his eyes and rendering them sightless.

‘Look lively, yer scurvy lag!’ a voice barked behind him as he was prodded, none too gently between the shoulder blades, with what felt like the butt of a Brown Bess.

Ryan shuffled across the deck, hands groping ahead of him, feeling the way until his fingers touched something solid. As he latched hold, he sent his foot forward, testing to make sure he had reached the side of the ship and only when satisfied he was safe did he let go of the rail to rub his eyes, now burning with salty tears.

A voice he recognised stood out from the mayhem around him.

‘Here. Over here, Murphy,’ he called urgently.

‘I can’t see a blasted thing!’ Murphy wailed.

‘I’ll keep talking. Walk towards my voice.’ Ryan had his hands outstretched, and when Murphy latched on to them, he guided him to the rail.

‘I’m blind, Rex. I can’t see,’ Murphy panicked.

‘Nor I,’ Ryan consoled him. ‘But I’m beginning to get blurred outlines. It’s the glare affecting our eyes. Give it time. They’ll adjust!’

As Ryan predicted, their sight slowly improved, although when it was fully restored, they wished otherwise, for the scene that unfolded before them was one of utter brutality.

Ryan swallowed down the lump in his throat while forced to watch in utter frustration as his fellow inmates crawled from the hellhole below deck. Poor, wretched beings who, should they drop on reaching the deck, were savagely dragged or booted aside so others could exit.

Bodies! Bodies everywhere!

Tears of pity pricked his eyes, threatening to spill.

He wanted to scream abuse at marines and crew alike. It was only when one poor soul collapsed halfway across the deck and a rough-necked sergeant looked set on tossing him overboard that he couldn’t and didn’t hold back.

In disregard of his own welfare, he went to his aid, but the snarling sergeant took exception to his meddling and viciously swiped him aside. Had it not been for the florid-faced corporal who intervened when Ryan became defiant, the sergeant most likely would have killed him.

Still irate, even after the corporal had escorted him back to the rail, Ryan rubbed moodily at that place where the sergeant’s musket had come in contact with his back.

‘Let it be, Rex. It ain’t worth it! We ain’t got strength enough ter take on any dog-faced marines!’ Murphy muttered anxiously beside him.

Ryan knew he was right. What he intended would have been futile. What impact could an enfeebled convict have against these burly, callous brutes!

Unable to observe the senseless scene any longer, he turned his back to concentrate on the rowboat waiting below. The normality of the scene, the boat rising and falling against the ship’s side on the slight swell, helped soothe him. He watched another rowboat return from its trip ashore, and as the one below drifted away, the other came to take its place. Ryan watched a crew member grab hold of the rope ladder, dangling the gunwale, and hold it steady for the lone passenger about to scale its rungs.

Judging by the amount of flattery oozing from the captain’s mouth on greeting the visitor as he came aboard, Ryan deemed him someone important. But the visitor seemed unimpressed, cutting short the captain’s spiel to deliver harsh criticism over the disgraceful state of felons arriving onshore.

The visitor, it appeared, was none other than the colonial surgeon, Doctor White, and as he did not bother to keep his voice down, snippets of his angry outburst, words to the effect of authorities in England hearing about such disgraceful conditions, were easily overheard. There was also mention of writing to the Home Secretary, with recommendation the captain never be assigned another vessel.

Ryan felt himself warming towards this fellow. Here at least was someone who appeared to be taking some interest in their plight.

The doctor, having spent the worst of his tirade, strode off to inspect the hold but was back sooner than expected, which didn’t surprise Ryan in the least. The stench alone down there was enough to make the hardiest of men vomit! His reappearance, however, saw him in a worse state of agitation and the captain was again subjected to another verbal attack, proclaiming conditions below unfit, even for pig habitation.

At this stage of his castigation, the disgruntled doctor, thoroughly exasperated, turned on his heel and stormed across the deck.

The doctor had to pass Ryan to reach the gangway.

Here was an opportunity, a possibility of reversing his fate or at least lessening its severity. That was, if what he intended proved successful.

With no time to consider his actions or, for that matter, what he was going to say, he actually startled himself when his voice croaked, ‘We’re indebted to you, sir, and on behalf of all who’ve survived this nightmare journey, we’d like to express our thanks for your display of compassion!’

Murphy could see the surgeon was definitely taken aback by Ryan’s impertinence and plucked a discreet warning on his sleeve.

‘And who in hell’s name might you be?’ White snapped, his voice still holding on to the anger of altercation with the captain.

‘Ryan Baxter, sir!’

White studied the insolent, bedraggled fellow whose speech belied convict status and wondered what a man of intellect was doing here, serving a term of pleasure on one of King George III’s decommissioned naval hulks.

The surgeon, Ryan thought, seemed to be taking an interminably long time assessing him. So long in fact, he was beginning to think his brashness may have earned him a flogging. Convinced this was the case, he couldn’t help a flinch of astonishment when White suddenly broke his silence to ask, ‘Any good at patching up wounds, Baxter?’

Any apprehension Ryan was harbouring suddenly vanished. He wasn’t about to taste the cat after all, the knowledge of which fully restored his confidence, enabling him to respond enthusiastically, ‘Sir! Under direction, I’m sure I can apply myself to just about anything!’

‘Ah! Well put, Baxter!’ White exclaimed. He was about to descend the ladder when he added, ‘Come with me!’

‘Sir! A moment please! Allow me to introduce Murphy! He too can be extremely adaptable. He turned to his friend, grabbed hold of his shoulder, and dragged him in front of the doctor. ‘Isn’t that so, Murphy?’

Murphy spluttered something obtuse to Ryan’s audacity, fearing they’d both be thrown overboard for impudence. But the surgeon, after angling his head to consider the wretch Ryan had dragged before him, muttered hesitantly, ‘Very well then, bring him along … if you’re sure!’

The last thing Ryan recalled as he carefully navigated his descent of the rope ladder was the fierce glare from the tyrannical sergeant. It was a disturbing look, one which made no mistake in Ryan’s mind he’d just made himself a mortal enemy. Although once he’d boarded the boat and they were underway, he soon forgot about him.

***

TWO

No sooner had they got underway than a crew member clipped something solid with his oar, dislodging it from its mounting. While they waited for him to replace it, a body suddenly popped up from beneath the boat and rode the swell alongside them.

‘Good Lord!’ the surgeon cussed in disbelief. ‘Where in hell’s name did that come from?’

‘The Neptune, sir. Take a look behind you!’ Ryan advised.

The surgeon swivelled on the bench seat in front of them.

‘God’s grief, do my eyes deceive me?’

Ryan solemnly shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, sir. Those who collapsed on deck were pronounced dead and tossed overboard. It was considered a waste of time rowing bodies ashore when the tide would eventually do the job for them!’

White sat for a moment in silent contemplation before stating doubtfully, ‘There weren’t any bodies in sight when I came alongside the Neptune!’

‘They were dumped starboard sir, to avoid the waiting rowboat. The tide was on the wane then, but having since turned, it’s now doing exactly as they intended,’ Ryan looked at White and raised a cynical eyebrow, ‘saving them the bother of all those trips ashore!’

White’s face turned crimson. ‘By thunder, someone’s going to pay for this!’ he swore, snapping orders for the crew to haul in the body before proceeding to shore.

As the boat beached, White jumped out and ordered the crew to find someone to remove the body and attend to its burial, then, spying a young, pasty-faced private, ordered him to show his new recruits where to collect rations and then escort them to the infirmary. White would meet them there later, after consulting with Governor Phillip, no doubt to complain about the welfare of the convicts, Ryan suspected.

But the convicts were not the only matter of grave concern on White’s mind. While in angry discourse with the Neptune’s captain, he’d discovered the supply ship HMS Guardian, after colliding with an iceberg, had been abandoned at the Cape of Good Hope. Not only had it carried provisions, but also medical supplies. How could he possibly treat the variety of illnesses this second fleet had brought with them, without these commodities?

White glanced back at the infirm, lying listlessly wherever they had dropped and tutted anxiously. If the fever didn’t take them, starvation would, for whatever supplies the rest of the fleet had brought with them would soon be depleted.

With these issues weighing heavily on his mind, White made for the commissariat, leaving Ryan and Murphy to scramble the shoreline cliff in the wake of the youthful private. But it wasn’t long before malnutrition and lack of exercise soon took their toll, and without bothering to seek permission, Ryan seated himself on a rocky outcrop, declaring as Murphy followed suit, ‘We’ll rest here awhile!’

‘It ain’t much further!’ the private said, nodding his head in the direction of some tents, not that far away. But rather than insist they continue, he parked his backside between the pair and blatantly asked Ryan, ‘What yer here fer then, matey? Did yer murder somebody?’

The question took Ryan aback. There was an unspoken law among the prisoners which considered this subject taboo, yet here was this lad indecently breaking a cardinal rule. It seemed a jailer’s code of ethics