The Never Ending Sleep

By Peter L. Lyons

"There's something I do not understand, Prisoner Robson. Your record speaks of a ruffian, a wild, uncontrollable convict who would have to be a lower class, uneducated peasant. Yet I see here before me a man who speaks with evidence of education, even culture, in his voice. It says in your record that you have spent thirty years in the prisons of New South Wales, yet I do not see evidence of that. I do not know what I should be seeing, but what I do see is not consistent with the evidence presented to me in your record." Campbell did not speak. He wondered what Herrington was leading up to. The commandant leaned forward and picked up the sheet of paper in front of him and waved it at Campbell. "Do you know what this is?" he asked quietly. Campbell stared. "No," he said shortly. "It is a ticket to freedom," Herrington said. "Or it could be, if someone named Campbell Robson was lucky enough."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781613090862

Book preview

Interlude

Mid-Summer 2015

He stood at the window looking out onto the lush, green lawns below. They spread like a carpet toward the lake where a fringe of eucalypts made the incongruity of the green lawns in the dry landscape even more absurd. The window was old, very old. Its timber frame was warped, leaving a small gap between the discolored glass and the wood. In winter, cold air would seep through, defying any heat that could come from the vast, open fireplace that dominated the opposite wall.

The room was decorated in the style of an old English manor house, with polished paneled walls and bookshelves overwhelming the bare timbers of the floor. A few scattered floor rugs did little to enliven the room and the heavy velvet drapes framing the window were showing signs of mould, wear holes and worn threads. All were in urgent need of repair and cleaning.

A dining table, heavy and polished, was surrounded by eight chairs, stentorian guards protecting two ornate, gilt candlesticks placed with military precision exactly one third from each end of the table. In the corner of the room, a large flat screen television set mocked the seedy elegance of the setting as it stood in grand splendor on a heavy woolen rug which bore the symbols of both antiquity and royalty, a remnant saved from more gracious days when outposts of empires straddled the earth.

Outside, the sun’s glare left few shadows. Those that existed in the noon heat gave little respite to the couple of workers who toiled on the lawn’s edge, striving to maintain the green freshness of the grass by pumping water from the deep lake, which alone stood as the sole means of survival for the property. Inside, the glare could not penetrate, at least until the late afternoon when the sun would pour its golden light from the horizon.

The man in the room was of middle height, slim without being skinny, but solid enough to indicate he had lived a hard life outside. His hands, though clean, bore the scars of labor. His hair was freshly brushed, and its fairness showed no signs of fading or grey. His clothes were casual, blue slacks, long sleeved white shirt, and black shoes. His age was indefinite, perhaps mid to late twenties, but it was difficult to assess at first glance. His deep blue eyes bore an intensity that indicated he could easily have been forty-five or more, but a second glance showed he had a bodily strength that was at least half that age.

After a while, he turned away from the scene outside and looked around the room, his eyes adjusting to the darker surroundings after the glare through the window.

There was a knock at the door.

Come in, he called.

Another man entered and went straight to the table where he drew out one of the chairs, dusted off its seat with a flourish of his hand and sat. He carried with him a flat notebook which he laid with precision on the table, at the same time taking a narrow felt-tipped pen from the inner pocket of his coat. He was unremarkable except for the white coat which he wore open at the front exposing a blue striped shirt and a nondescript tie which bore an image which could have been an old school emblem or a mass-produced image from one of the cheaper chain stores. Attached to the white coat was an identity card, one of those plastic plates bearing a miniature photograph of the bearer, which looked nothing like him, and bearing an illegible signature of someone who relished the authority to do so. The card simply identified this man as Director of Psychiatry, Department of Defence.

Well, Campbell, it’s time to get on with your story. The Director spoke with a husky accent, partly disguised by a forced use of a broad accent, which could have been mid-European or even South African.

Yes, I agree. It’s time, the man addressed as Campbell replied. He moved to the table and sat opposite the man in the white coat.

I’ll just make a note of the date and time, the Director said. Goodness, is it really a week since we last met? It was a statement, not a question.

The man called Campbell spoke, slowly at first, but gathering strength. My story goes back a long way. I know, I’ve told you some of it already, but I need you to understand how I came to be here. I’m as confused about it as you seem to be, yet I’m the one who has lived through it. I am the evidence of my own story.

Take your time, Campbell. We have all afternoon if necessary.

I seem to have considerably more time than that, Campbell retorted with sudden anger. I would like to start at the beginning again, he said. It will help me to focus on the whole story.

The Director nodded encouragingly. The beginning is always a good place to start, he said. Remember, I have to get the whole story for my report, which will contain certain recommendations to the Board about your position.

How could I forget, Campbell replied. He paused, bowed his head slightly, and then looked straight ahead, his eyes not seeing the fireplace, the bookshelves, the paneled timber wall, but far, far back in time. It all started so long ago, he began. It was at a time that seems so vastly different from today. Here I am, locked away in the luxury of this mansion, in a country that is so dry and yet so productive, thinking about my home land so far away. So far away, so far... His voice trailed off, his eyes closed and he bowed his head again.

The Director spoke again. Don’t forget, Campbell, we did agree that you are, or at least give a very good impression of being approximately twenty-five or twenty-six years of age and that what you say you remember from first-hand knowledge is simply not possible.

I know we agreed, Campbell said, but for the sake of the record, I must tell it my own way.

My records are very important in this case, the man agreed. So let us note that you are simply telling me a story. Try to keep it impersonal and maybe later we can explore your personal feelings about it.

Campbell shrugged. The story isn’t simple anyway and I can understand that you find it difficult to comprehend. He stood up and walked across to the fireplace where a large Chesterfield lounge was placed to one side. Its studded brown leather was badly in need of cleaning but it was by far the most comfortable seat in the room. He sat down, kicked off his shoes and stretched out his legs on the cushions.

So listen to my story. He fixed his eyes on a large painting of an English country scene. Its great oak trees, narrow village lane and gentle air, with the images of red coated riders urging their horses across lush green meadows were in stark contrast to the shimmering scene outside the room.

He spoke slowly. My name is Campbell Robson and I was born in the year of Our Lord, seventeen ninety-six.

Part One

1822 - Transportation

"I know not whether laws be right

or whether laws be wrong.

All that we know who be in gaol is

that the walls be strong

And each day be like a year,

a year whose days are long."

Oscar Wilde

Ballad of Reading Gaol

One

The black pit opened its yawning jaws to receive him as he stumbled down the wooden ladder. He tripped on the bottom rung, fell heavily to the deck and looked back to see the brightness of the day cancelled out by the heavy trap door clattering into place.

The blackness engulfed him, swallowed him, wrapped itself around him like some unwashed, slimy coat, stuffed its tattered edge into his throat, a gag which choked and stifled his breath. His eyes, pinpointed by the bright day he had left above, could not penetrate the suffocating shroud. He tried to stand and cursed as the back of his head struck a low slung beam. He stooped, felt around him until he grasped the ladder and then stood, leaning heavily on the rungs behind him. He reached up, feeling the outline of the beam over his head, traced its shape against the deck and moved forward, slowly, feeling his way with his hands and feet. Gradually, his eyes widened, shapes appeared before him and he saw the points of light where the pitch had not fully sealed the timber hull. With the aid of these needles of light linking him with the reality of the world outside, he began to distinguish the shapes of men, lying or sitting across the entire deck, save for a small area around the entrance ladder where he stood. No one spoke. No one looked in his direction with any sort of curiosity. To each of the more than two hundred men, locked in this gloomy, black hole of hell, he was simply another insect crushed by the heel of blackness which had overtaken them all. He was part of the mass, the grey squalor which was no longer a number of individual people, but a pulsating mattress of almost-life. He was just another thread which had been woven into their succumbed misery.

Still treading carefully, feeling his way amongst the tangle of legs, arms and bodies of the men before him, he made his way towards one of the pinpoints of light in the hull, seeking to look outwards, to breathe the air of the world he had just left. Leaning over several inert forms beneath him, he pressed his hands against the timbers and tried to see through to the warmth of the outside light, to breathe the air, to smell the salt of the rippling sea.

Don’t waste your energy, lad. You’ll be here a long time.

He spun around, peering through the gloom in the direction of the voice.

What did you say? he asked.

There’s nothing for you outside this ship, lad. We all be in this together now, and nor you or I are likely to see daylight again until we get to the other end.

The speaker, he finally made out, was seated with his back to the hull on his right. He could see the man’s beard was unkempt, his clothes torn. Tied across his brow was a filthy rag to catch the sweat which, mixed with the grime of his face, caused dark streaks to appear across his sallow flesh. He felt a rough hand grasp him by the wrist, pulling him to his knees facing the speaker. The blast of sour breath caught him unawares and he jerked backwards, throwing his arms out wildly to support himself. His elbow struck something soft and he was rewarded by a stunning blow to the back of his head. Voices cursed and he was struck again.

I’m sorry, I slipped, he said groggily as he turned to the man who had hit him, watching carefully for another blow. The man grunted, cursed again and told him to be more careful in the future.

Turning back to the man who had spoken to him, he moved forward on his knees, carefully avoiding the man’s breath.

It is difficult to keep one’s balance, he said carefully. The darkness plays tricks with my eyes and I didn’t notice my neighbor there. He pointed to the man on whom he had fallen.

Don’t you worry, lad. We all be fallin’ and trippin’ over ourselves. It’s what you, bein’ a toff like, might call a hazardous occupation. The man chuckled, waved his hand to encompass the ‘tween decks area and commented, That is, if you could be said to have an occupation in a paradise such as this. He laughed again. Anyway lad, take it careful like. You won’t be leavin’ here for a long time to come, so make the most of it. No use tryin’ to get out of them caulk ‘oles neither. Even a rat couldn’t make it, though it seems we got more than our fair share of those furry friends with us.

As if to accentuate his statement, a rat scurried across the deck towards some hidden corner in the dark. The man behind cursed again, Bloody rats! and fell silent.

The speaker leaned forward. M’ name’s O’Reilly, he proffered. Outa Dublin I be, lookin’ for work on the ships and helped myself to a coupla eggs from the wharf. The Runners caught up with me and I got me a sentence of transportation for seven years. Easy come, easy go, I say. At least I got me a job on a ship, even if the accommodation ain’t first class. He waved his hand again.

The newcomer to the prison ship, for that’s what it was, in part, looked around him, seeing in all directions the men whose lives were now the property of His Britannic Majesty’s colonial hell in a distant and unknown land called New South Wales. Above him he heard the tramp of the sentry who was supposed to keep order in the prison area beneath the deck, but who, because he was outnumbered two hundred to one, placed a liberal interpretation on his orders. So long as the prisoners kept reasonably quiet and did not fight or shout, he kept his distance with the trap door firmly shut and bolted. On their part, the prisoners maintained a semblance of order amongst themselves, releasing their pent-up feelings with an occasional curse and in some cases a muffled sob from the more youthful members of the group. There were more than a few children, boys of maybe eight or ten years, chained below with the men like shrunken rats in an unforgiving trap.

To the newcomer, the prison between the decks appeared to be about sixty feet in length and twenty wide. Its headroom was just low enough to prevent most men from standing upright. In the gloom, he saw that two rows of sleeping berths, one above the other, extended along one side. Each berth was about six foot square and held four men lying full length, giving each at best eighteen inches of personal space. He saw there was bed space for fewer than half the men present, and those who missed out simply squatted down on whatever deck space they could find. The bulkhead at one end of the prison, he was told, separated the men from the ship’s hospital. Although, if ye ends up in that particular little hellhole my lad, ye are already dead, O’Reilly told him knowingly. There was a narrow door in the bulkhead and this was the only access from the prison. The bulkhead was supported by six strong stanchions, thickly studded with nails and bolted right through into the hospital itself. One of these stanchions blocked the doorway, thus effectively preventing any use of the entrance at all.

In the center of the prison deck was a large stove with a funnel protruding through the timbers of the upper deck. It was lit with a meager supply of coals which were kept alight by the men hunched closest to the stove. In the ship’s sides, scuttle holes were cut, but these, like the hospital door, were effectively barred from use by heavy planks nailed into the very beams of the ship’s hull. The whole volume of the prison was lit by one smoky, oil-induced lamp and hardly compensated for the few lights through the hull from outside. Nevertheless the growing sense of enclosure that every man experienced was relieved by this tiny light. The frustrations, deaths, tears and despair of the voyage ahead were not once allowed to interfere with the light, which was for most of them to become their personal beacon of hope and sanity.

Inside this volume of foetid air, two hundred men and boys were trapped, caged like the animals they had become since the laws of England had declared them outcast from the mainstream of their own society. The Transportation Act of 1717 had declared England opposed to robbery, burglary and other felonies, including the unlikely acts of unlawful export of wool, stealing a shroud from a grave to keep your children warm while forced to sleep on the streets in winter, and petty larcenies and thefts of materials valued at less than one shilling.

The newcomer looked back at the man who called himself O’Reilly. I’m Campbell Robson, he said. I’ve been transported to New South Wales for life. I was convicted of killing a man, but it was all a mistake. It was an accident really, but the magistrates and judges didn’t believe me. My horse went over a hedge and we collided with the man and broke his back. But it really was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill him.

Campbell Robson stopped, grasped O’Reilly’s hand for a moment, and then released it. He looked away as he caught another exhalation of breath from the man, and then went on. In any case, I was convicted of manslaughter, so here I am. I was very lucky not to have been hanged, but it is all so unfair. When I think of what lies ahead, I think I would have been better off dead anyway.

Don’t let it get ye down, lad, O’Reilly breathed heavily on him once again. None of us here is really guilty of anything except that we was convicted of some crime or other. There’s no justice to it, not for the likes of us. Only our betters have justice, only the rich, the judges and the lawyers. Not us, you and me. We are not the sort of people who get justice, my lad. It would not look good if we got justice. We get whipped so the judges can feel good about justice. O’Reilly breathed deeply. But remember, lad. Always remember. Their justice will bring us to the end of days soon enough.

What do you mean? Campbell Robson asked.

I mean this, me lad. My dear old mum, bless ‘er soul, told me at ‘er knee that the Lord God would come again one day and when ‘e came it would bring with it death and despair. Well ‘ere we are, in the depths of despair. I’ve been lookin’ about for the good Lord God, but I ain’t seen ‘im yet.

But Campbell Robson was not listening to him. He was thinking of his trial, of the man he had killed. It really had been an accident, but why had it been that man? Even now he could see him lying there, back broken, in the mud of the roadway, eyes staring at him, mouth creased into a horrible grin in spite of the throaty gurgle as he spoke those last, dreadful words. Even in the man’s horrible death he could see a grim satisfaction of his face, the face of Sir James Bartholomew, land owner, Member of Parliament, stalwart of the nation.

Two

It was raining when Campbell Robson saw Sir James Bartholomew in action for the first time. Incessant rain, squalling across the moors in wild, wind-swept sheets, turned peat into bog, dusty roads into rivers of grey mud. The autumn of 1822 had taken upon itself to herald the fury of the winter yet to come. Ice lay on the waterways, and unseasonably early snows made the passage of traffic difficult, if not dangerous for the unwary. On the roads leading into London, where permanent bridges allowed passage across the swollen arteries of the River Thames, carriages became jammed as horses lost their footing on the slippery, muddy tracks which had been churned by the never ending stream of traffic. Gentry and ordinary folk alike walked, stumbled, shoulder to shoulder along the sodden roads, each suffering from the common complaints of dampness and cold.

Campbell Robson, heir to the small but growing merchant company of his late father, was in the Stranger’s Gallery when Sir James Bartholomew rose to present his Bill for the redistribution of lands and other properties held by convicted felons. The Bill, foreshadowed a year earlier by Sir James, whose own land holdings were already considerable, had caused a national uproar.

Campbell had travelled to London on business, and having concluded it some days earlier than expected, had elected to visit the Houses of Parliament to listen to the debate on the controversial Bill presented by Sir James Bartholomew. He had received an invitation to attend from a friend of his father, a Member of Parliament for many years, Sir Robert Angus, who was also due to speak in the debate.

Campbell was twenty-six years of age. Tall but not overbearing, he carried his weight better than most men of his age and occupation. His complexion would probably turn to ruddy later in life, but now the fitness of young manhood enlivened his face which was accentuated by brilliant blue eyes which defied description. Blond hair swept back in the style of the day contained more than a hint of an unruly nature, a spirit which, while held in check with extreme care, was likely to spill over into dangerous waters at the most unlikely provocation.

He took his seat in the gallery and leaned against the brass rail of the balcony with hands which were surprisingly large. They were firm hands, smooth but strong. They were more than capable of handling heavy bales, boxes and cargo which made up much of the business dealings of his family’s company.

Seated on the hard bench overlooking the narrow amphitheater of The Commons, he stared intently at the member who was speaking. This, his immediate neighbor whispered carefully, was Sir James Bartholomew. Campbell saw dark hair, bushy eyebrows which continued in an unbroken line across black eyes. Although the man had obviously shaved his beard that day, the shadow on his face was clearly evident against the pallor of his skin. Sir James Bartholomew was a tall man, inches above Campbell Robson, yet his shoulders were hunched over, his black frock coat hanging too low in the front, hitched high at the back. His hands, thrust far out of the sleeves, grasped the edge of the table in front of him, knuckles showing white with the intensity of his grip. His voice, raspy and hesitant, nevertheless carried clearly too all quarters of the chamber.

Mr. Speaker, I believe my Bill will solve not only the problems caused by wasted land use throughout the nation, but will also add to the productive efforts of our leading land holders, of whom there are a quite a few in the Chamber today. Mr. Speaker, honorable gentlemen. We have an opportunity today to settle once and for all a number of difficult and vexing problems.

He looked up into the gallery behind and above him as if his eyes saw into the hearts and minds of every person there, and turned back to the members who were all listening intently.

A person convicted of a transportable offence, Sir James went on, is obviously unable to take his real property with him, if in fact he owns any at all. Naturally, I suspect that most such people are destitute anyway, so we are talking about only a few people with land and other property. By his crime, he has ceased to have any rights in this land, and I believe his heirs and successors should also be subject to a similar status over any and all of that person’s property. Mr. Speaker, my Bill, in simple terms, is that upon conviction for an offence where the just punishment is transportation, the real property of that person should be allocated to the nearest substantial land holder with the capacity to turn that property into a productive element for the betterment of our national enterprise. In short, Mr. Speaker, it is time we looked at what England can do compared with what it is doing now.

As the man sat down amidst quiet applause from one side of the Commons and a growing growl of discontent from the other, Campbell wondered if such a Bill of blatant self-interest could ever pass through the hallowed halls of this Parliament.

He stared again at Sir James Bartholomew and wondered at the motivation of such a man. Why would he attempt to introduce a Bill when more than likely it would not—should not—succeed? What was his need to make such a move? How he would argue his case in private, in his own home, if indeed he had a home. Did he have a family, wife, children, servants, perhaps a favorite cat or dog? Looking at that dark brow, furrowed in concentration, it was difficult to read, to know. Campbell imagined a life for Sir James Bartholomew, a life where Bills, Acts of Parliament, debates and the problems of transported felons had no place, a life of quiet and peace, rural gentility and dynastic urges. But it was a difficult imaginative process, because the dark visage of the man kept intruding on the picture trying to form in Campbell’s mind.

Across the Commons Chamber, an elderly man dressed uncomfortably in a high-collared coat, rose unsteadily to his feet, was recognized by the Speaker and spoke quietly to an attentive Chamber and public gallery. He summarized the many points raised by Sir James. He counted them off on his fingers, emphasizing each one with an increasingly raised voice.

Mr. Speaker and Members, he said. This is no national security measure the honorable Member has raised. This is not a matter of national debate. It is not a matter of national interest.

He raised his hand above his head and brought it crashing down on the back of the seat in front of him. His voice broke as he cried out. No! Honorable Gentlemen, this Bill is a national disgrace. It will, once and for all, place the greatest amount of power in the hands of those magistrates who are also land holders, who most certainly would then have a vested interest in transportation.

He stopped, breathed deeply, coughed. He looked intently in the direction of Sir James Bartholomew who was affecting a pose of disinterest.

Mr. Speaker, he went on. I cannot ask anything of this House, except that members vote immediately and urgently against this vile Bill. Therefore, Sir, I move that the motion be put.

There was uproar as the members opposite rose in their seats, shouting to be heard. This was not what they wanted. The Speaker hammered with his gavel and shouted for order. Both sides of the House were now on their feet, neither side giving way to his demands for silence. The gavel finally got its way. As member after member was named,