Cullen - Bartlett Dynasty Collection

Chapter 7

Looking at John Carney’s sunken eyes, grey skin and lank, thinning hair, James Cullen wiped a tear from his eye. The lad’s health had deteriorated in the last two years. ‘Even though I’ve done most of his work and given him food from my plate, he looks like he’s dying.’

‘What’s the matter James?’

‘Nothing. Musta got something in my eye today, it’s a bit sore.’

Carney’s next comment was stifled before it left his mouth; one of the hulk’s senior guards stood outside the locked cell door calling for attention.

‘We are goin’ to be rid of ye all come tomorrow. Ye’ll be put on wagons in the mornin’ and taken to Portsmouth. Ye’ll be shackled all the way. Don’t want none of ye thinkin’ ye can make a run for it. And just in case ye haven’t got wind of it yet, the government has closed the West Africa post. Ye’ll going to New South Wales.’

The men closest to the steps heard the guard cackle as he climbed back to his authorised fresh air.

When Cullen looked at John’s face, he imagined looking in a mirror. Horror, fear, terror, were etched on the boy’s brow and around the corners of his mouth. ‘It will be all right, John. At least we’re not going to Africa.’

‘I’ve never heard of the place. What did he say?’ Carney’s voice croaked with the dryness brought about by dread.

‘He said New South Wales. All I know is Captain James Cook claimed some place ten or so years ago at the arse end of the earth for the King and called it New South Wales. It’s a long way.’

Cullen sat on the wooden floor that used to be covered with straw and now leached the lost lives of men and boys condemned to the other side of the world. ‘At least it’s not Africa,’ he said again.

‘Get up.’ The guard’s irritating screech pierced the quiet. ‘Line up near the steps.’

Cullen was awake. Worrying about what lay ahead and how John would cope nagged at his mind and kept him tossing most of the night. The threads of fear worked their way behind his eyes and pulsed there in a relenting throb of pain.

‘Make sure you got all your belongings. You ain’t comin’ back.’

Cullen got to his knees and pushed himself to a standing position. Lying on the floor for two years had made his back and knees creak like the old ship. He pushed John in front and shuffled behind him into the line.

John, remembering a trinket of his mother’s made to collect it from his sleeping space on the floor. Noticing the guard raise his cudgel, Cullen pulled the lad back.

‘I have to get something of my Ma’s,’ Carney complained.

‘You can’t lad. He was about to thrash you. I don’t want you dying on this s**t heap. You must keep it in your heart.’

Waiting for them at the top of the steps were rusted fetters and chains. When Cullen’s were fitted, he couldn’t stand up straight. Bent over like an old man with a hunch back he crawled and slid down the rope ladder that led to the tenders. The skin peeled off his palms as he tried to steady himself on the rungs. Above and below him, unable to coordinate their hands and feet and manage the chains, men fell into the inky water of the Thames. No attempt was made to rescue them. Cullen could hear John Carney, below him on the ladder, praying with each step that if he slipped, God would take him quickly.

Too tired, wet and terrified to complain, the prisoners slumped on their hands and knees on the floor of the small boats as their keepers took them ashore.

Thirty open horse-drawn wagons lined up in a convoy on the other side of the dock area. The rattling of chains and shackles as the broken souls made their way across the dockside area to their assigned transport echoed through the silence of the early morning.

Climbing into their assigned wagon, Carney collapsed on the floor. A cudgel meant for the young lad thumped on Cullen’s back as he bent to help John to his feet. Gasping for air, Cullen ignored the pain in his back, put his arms under Carney’s and lifted him to his seat. Sitting on the bench next to his young friend, Cullen leaned forward, head in his hands, trying to control the pain.

Once the provisions for the three-day journey to Portsmouth were loaded, guards chained the prisoners in place. From a position high above, they watched over their consignment of felons.1

Pulled by four horses, the wagons lurched forward, leaving Woolwich in a cloud of dust. A sadness not felt since his father died, closed Cullen’s throat and made it impossible to swallow. Looking back towards London, the grey pall that hung over the city and the port, mirrored in the colour of the Thames, seeped into his soul. ‘One way or another I won’t be coming back.’

With ice clinging to its edges, the wind penetrated the threadbare rags hanging on Cullen’s shrinking frame. Looking along the line of fellow prisoners, he knew he wasn’t suffering alone. Sitting next to him, Carney shivered so violently Cullen thought his teeth would fall out. ‘Here, lad. Move in close. That’s all I can offer you.’ Cullen wanted to put his arm around John to warm him, but with his own arms chained, closeness and an encouraging word would have to do.

As darkness and misery descended on the first day of travel the prisoners were unchained from the floor of the wagon and led, still shackled feet and wrists, into a large barn next to a highway inn.

Glancing over his shoulder at the welcoming, warm light coming through the windows of the inn, Cullen could hear the conversations and laughter of normal travellers. He wondered if he would ever again be a man free to travel where and when it suited him.

Dropping to his knees, Cullen managed to turn and sit on the floor with his legs slightly bent in front of him. The chains didn’t allow his legs to straighten and his knees throbbed from being in the same position all day. The skin around his wrists was broken and rubbing raw from the pressure of the cuffs.

‘At least the straw is clean,’ John said while positioning himself next to Cullen.

Cullen lay on his side on the straw, knees pounding, back aching, head throbbing.

‘Three days,’ thought Cullen watching the ships anchored at Portsmouth come into view. ‘It feels like three hundred.’ His eye travelled along the line of the other twenty-nine men shackled to the floor of the wagon. Ignoring John Carney who sat next to him, Cullen took in each man’s bearing and colour. To a man their faces were grey, their mouths flopped open trying to get air into their folded lungs and their wrists were red raw and bruised. ‘We have lost all hope.’

Although no force was required to remove the felons from the wagons onto the dock at Portsmouth, incorrigible, power hungry guards raised cudgels to strike the backs of those who moved too slowly, groaned, or complained. The prisoners lined up along the dock with their backs to the sea.

Walking up and down the line of felons, his hands clasped behind his back, the marine in charge spat his commands at the men.

‘I am Captain John Marshall, the master of Scarborough. You will be loaded on to my ship for the journey to New South Wales. However, there has been a delay in the fitting of the cells below deck so we will house you on HMS Gorgon until Scarborough is ready. The remaining chains will be removed once you are on board HMS Gorgon.’

ScarboroughHMS GorgonScarboroughHMS GorgonFinished his lecture, Marshall strode away from his charges.

The quarter deck of HMS Gorgon was scrubbed and organised. Cullen leaned against Carney to get his attention, ‘It’s not a prison hulk.’ Allowing his heart a glimmer of hope that their time on this ship might be bearable, he managed a smile.

HMS GorgonThe Gorgon’s captain stood in front of the convicts, back straight, uniform impeccable, a threatening look in his eyes. While he rambled on about the rules and punishments, about cleanliness and responsibility, Cullen watched the spittle fly from his mouth whenever he used “sh”, which was often. He noticed the right side of the captain’s lip curl up when he looked at the men and he put a kerchief over his mouth when one coughed or sneezed.

Gorgon’sWhen the speech finished, Cullen understood the ship was much more important to its captain, than the souls who would call it home for the next few months. The only comment Cullen remembered was that guards would remove the chains and fetters.

The time spent on HMS Gorgon gave the men an opportunity to regain some dignity and to physically recover from the depravations of the hulks. Down on his aching knees on the floor, Cullen scrubbed the boards of the sleeping quarters; even though getting up and down was an effort, the resulting cleanliness had improved the health of the inmates. The food although bland, was filling and most prisoners had gained a little weight. John Carney had colour in his face, fullness to his hair, and purpose in his walk. The stay on HMS Gorgon healed bodies, some souls, and a few minds. But Cullen’s mind filled with the dread of the unknown.

HMS GorgonHMS Gorgon