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It was in a spirit of fervent thankfulness that Red O'Shaughnessy and his thirty-nine companions selected for the voyage to New South Wales descended the side-ladder of the prison hulk Retribution into the barge awaiting them alongside that unsavory floating inferno.

Dr. Moriarty's address had put new heart into all of them. His exhortation to "play the game" and the straightforward statement as to the severe treatment they might expect if they did not do so seemed to have somewhat cleared the sordid atmosphere in which all of them had been living for months. They realised vaguely that they had a man to deal with, and one who was also a gentleman—which could not be said of every naval surgeon of the period. Especially of those who had charge of convict transports.

But before they reached the Admiral Gambier they were to learn that Surgeon James Moriarty, R.N., was a man who could act promptly and ruthlessly as well as make inspiring little speeches.

Lower down the stream the Admiral Gambier was lying a hundred yards or so from the Kentish side of the Thames. As the barge, in tow of one of the transport's boats approached her a sudden commotion broke out in the bows, and one of the prisoners sprang up from his seat, placed a foot on the gunwale, and dived overboard.

"Sit still, you men!" cried Dr. Moriarty as he rose to his feet in the stern sheets. He grasped a musket from the hands of one of the military guard, and called out to the crew of the tow-boat to cease rowing.

"Come back!" he shouted, as the head and shoulders of the escapee appeared above the surface. "Come back immediately—or I'll shoot you!"

The man gasped in a hasty lungful of air and dived again. The doctor slowly raised the firearm to his shoulder and waited. In a few moments—that seemed an age to Red O'Shaughnessy—the man's head broke the surface again, some five or six yards farther inshore.

At once the musket cracked and the white smoke of the discharge drifted above the muddy water. The "bolter" threw up his arms, uttered a smothered scream as he sank, and disappeared.

"Give way!" commanded the surgeon, handing back the musket to its owner. "Alongside the ship!" he ordered peremptorily. The prisoners in the barge had no manner of doubt now as to the character of the man who was to take them to Botany Bay.

The transportation of prisoners from England, Scotland, and Ireland to New South Wales and Van Diemen's Land went on for more than half a century, and its conditions varied greatly. Its more horrible features have generally been emphasised by historical writers, but the fact remains that, with some evil exceptions, vessels employed as transports were generally ruled by their surgeon-superintendents with humanity and care of the convicts' health.

There had been some terrible hardships, with resultant mortality, in the earliest days of transportation—the Second Fleet, which arrived in Sydney in 1790, had a dreadful death-roll. The transport Neptune lost 158 out of 502 convicts, the Surprise 36 out of 256, and the Scarborough 73 out of 259. In 1799 the Hillsborough came into Port Jackson with about 200 survivors out of the 300 convicts who had begun the voyage. But such cases were exceptional, and most of the transports arrived with their compulsory passengers in fairly good condition, considering the length of the voyage and the difficulty of obtaining sufficient supplies of fresh provisions during its course through every sort of climate.

We may quote again from one of Edward O'Shaughnessy's letters home during his earlier years in New South Wales. It well describes the conditions of the convicts' existence in one of the better conducted transports, such as was the Admiral Gambier when under the superintendence of Dr. Moriarty.

"Before we left that damnable Retribution," he writes, "we were given new clothing and were ironed pretty securely, and 'twas queer to observe how comfortable some of the old-lags could make themselves in their anklets and bracelets. The accommodation aboard was closely packed, but like living in Dublin Castle compared to the hulk off Woolwich. "Two rows of sleeping-berths, one above the other extended on each side of the 'tween-decks in the transport vessel, each berth being six feet square, and calculated to hold four men, giving each of them 18 inches of sleeping-room, which you will admit, my dear Patrick, is none too much. But 'twas too good for some of those rapscallions with whom I made the voyage out to Sydney Town. The hospital was in the fore-part of the ship, with a bulkhead across separating it from the prison, having two locked doors to keep out trespassers, while there was a separate prison for the boys, to keep them away from the contamination of the older prisoners. Strong wooden stanchions thickly studded with nails, were fixed round the fore and main hatchways, between decks, in each of which was a door with three padlocks, to let the convicts out and in, and to secure them at night. The convicts by these means had no access to the holds through the prison, a ladder being placed in each hatchway for them to go up and down by, which is pulled on deck at night. "Scuttle-holes, to open and shut for the admission of air, were cut in the ship's sides; a large stove and funnel placed between decks for warmth and ventilation; swing doors and charcoal put on board, to carry about into the damp corners; and, in fact, everything possible done to secure comfort to the prisoners during the voyage. Each man was allowed a pair of shoes, three shirts, two pairs of trousers, and other warm clothing, besides a bed, pillow and blanket. "The rations were good and sufficient, three-quarters of a pound of biscuit being the daily allowance of bread, while each day we used to sit down to dinner of either beef, pork, or plum pudding, having pea-soup four times a week, and a pot of gruel every morning with sugar or butter in it. Vinegar was issued to the messes weekly, and, as soon as the ship had been three weeks at sea, each man was served with one ounce of lime-juice and the same of sugar daily, to guard against scurvy, whilst three or four gills of wine weekly, and three quarts of water daily was the general allowance. The sick were provided with all necessary medicines and comforts, as well as with warm clothing, spare bedding, sheets, and every description of hospital furniture. "The common diet allowance was certainly enough to keep us in good health, as there was no work to do. Two delegates, chosen in turn from the several messes, saw the provisions weighed out each day, and that everyone had his fair share. "The greater part of the main deck was made over to the use of the prisoners, who numbered upwards of 200. The guard consisted of two commissioned officers, six non-commissioned officers, and 40 soldiers, and the ship's routine was to arrange that, whilst at sea, the prisoners were allowed on deck from sunrise to sunset, under an armed guard. From the ranks of the convicts a boatswain and six mates were chosen by Dr. Moriarty, who were made responsible for the cleanliness and good order of the remainder. Water was the only thing that was restricted—of the food there was always an ample abundance."

The Admiral Gambier called at Rio de Janeiro and the Cape of Good Hope, and the voyage was without event, and made, for the most part, in good weather. Red O'Shaughnessy, having been made one of the convict boatswain's mates by Dr. Moriarty, found his lot a little better than that of most of the other prisoners, in that it was not quite so monotonous, and was ameliorated by certain small privileges. He was well-conducted and steady in the performance of his duties, and it soon became evident that the Surgeon-Superintendent had come to regard him with a favorable eye.

"O'Shaughnessy," he said to him one day at the ration inspection, "you're doing very well indeed, and maybe when we reach Sydney, I'll be able to recommend you for some better sort of employment than is made available to most prisoners when they land—something better than the gaol-gang or the road-making. Keep on as you've been doing, and you won't be sorry for it."

"Faith thin, sorr, 'tis grateful I am for y'r anner's kindness—but I suppose 'twould not be a passage home ye'd be recommindin' me for? I cud do with that same, sorr."

"You won't go home for a good while, my man," laughed the Doctor—"but don't give up hope. 'Tis not such a bad life in New South Wales, if you face it rightly, and you'll get home again in good time—so long as you don't make a fool or a rogue of yourself."

"Bedad, thin, I don't know at all, at all, sorr, which of the two I must be for to be makin' the voyage. But I'll be as careful as I know how to be, and not go lookin' for throuble."

"That's right, O'Shaughnessy. You're a young man, and there ought to be a decent future for you in New South Wales, if you look after yourself."

"I'll do me best, sorr—an' thankee for y'r kindness."

It was sometime in the hours of darkness when they made the Heads of Port Jackson, and the Master of the transport stood off and on until daylight, before attempting the entrance to the harbor. The sun was well up when O'Shaughnessy, with five or six others of the prisoners were summoned on deck to assist the crew in working the ship up to Sydney Cove. They were all the morning beating up the harbor against a light westerly breeze. There was little sign of the town in those days until an entering ship was abreast of Pinchgut. Its furthest outposts were on the western heights of Woolloomooloo. There were one or two outlying houses between them and the coast, belonging to officers of the garrison and the civil department, but they lay in an inhospitable wilderness of scrub and forest, and were as far removed from Sydney as are farms on the Hawkesbury in these days.

Just before noon, the ship dropped her anchor within the mouth of the little bay round which the town of Sydney clustered—a primitive, quaint little place it was then, straggling up the valley of the Tank Stream, and upon the low hills to east and west of it, for about a mile inland. There were a few public buildings, a fairly large military barracks, a gaol and Government House. There were a few good residences up on "The Rocks," to the west of the Cove, but for the most part the houses were small two or three-roomed cottages, with little vegetable gardens in front of them, and with no claim to architectural adornments of any sort. They were mostly the primitive "wattle-and-daub" structures which had been erected in the early days of settlement—and yet, considering that the place had only been occupied for about two dozen years, Sydney in 1812 was no disgrace to the British genius for colonisation. Such, in a few words, was the capital of all Australia, and the South Seas, when Red O'Shaughnessy made its acquaintance for the first time.

In our next chapter, we will see what a singular introduction the young Irish man had to the Sydney of Macquarie's day.