Читать книгу Botany Bay - James Norman Hall - Страница 8

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I had thought Newgate a foul place, but the conditions in the Portsmouth gaol were even worse. There was but one pump for the whole of the prison, in a brick-walled yard at the back. Oakley and I had tried to get a wash there when we first came in, but the crowd was so great we could not get near it. Early the next morning before the others were stirring we went down again and found the yard empty.

“The Lord be thanked!” Tom exclaimed. “Now, if only we could strip and have a proper scrub! The filthy beasts, to grudge us that small comfort!”

The irons we wore comprised a length of chain linked through collars about three inches wide which were fixed above the ankles with iron pins riveted in place, and they could be struck off only by a blacksmith. We had worn the cursed things since our arrival in Newgate, and only twice in all those many weeks had we been freed from them so that we could wash without being hampered by clothing. But we could have a bath of a kind by dropping our breeches whilst we soaped and scrubbed our bodies; then we would wash the breeches as well as we could, wring them out and let them dry on our bodies.

We were hard at this task when a strong-made fellow of about thirty crossed the yard leading a small boy by the hand. He stood looking on whilst we soaped and scrubbed our soiled shirts and put on fresh ones. Tom was humming to himself in the joy of being clean once more. The newcomer smiled.

“Aye, it’s a rare treat, is water,” he remarked.

“Ye wish to freshen the lad?” asked Oakley. “Come along; I’ll pump.”

The father removed the boy’s clothes and stood him in the tub beneath the spout. Oakley pumped vigorously, and the lad jumped up and down for the pleasure he took, throwing back his head to catch the stream of water full in his face. He was about eight years old, a handsome little fellow, but with a delicate look about him.

“There, Tommy, ye shine like a new penny,” his father said as he lifted him out and tossed him in the air at arm’s length.

“Tommy, is it?” said Oakley. “Would ye believe it, now! There’s two of us with that same uncommon handle!”

“I’m Tom Goodwin,” said the boy.

“And a good name that is. Ye’ll win through to anything, I’ll be bound, when ye’ve growed a bit.”

When his father had toweled and dressed him in fresh clothing, he said, “Run along now to yer ma whilst I have a scrub.”

For the next five minutes the father thought of nothing but the treat of clean water. It was as good as having a wash all over again to see the delight he took in his own. He was powerfully built, his arms and shoulders knotted with muscle. His head, covered with short curly brown hair, was set on a short muscular neck.

“Dan Goodwin’s my name,” he said.

When we had given our own, Oakley said: “Ye don’t look to have been in long.”

“Long enough,” said Goodwin. “Better than five years—in the hulks on the Thames. But I’ve kept my health, being abroad by day, working on the stone barges.”

“And where away now? Botany Bay?”

“Aye.” An expression of grimness passed over Goodwin’s face. “And with scarce a year left to serve of the seven given. I’d hoped to finish it out here.”

“Man, ye’re lucky for all that, alongside of us. We’re sent for life.”

Goodwin made no comment for a moment; then he asked: “D’ye know the transport ye’re booked for?” We shook our heads. “I’m for the Charlotte. We’re to go aboard to-day.”

“The lad goes with you?” I asked.

“Aye, and his mother, though she’s a free woman. But she would come and bring the boy, for all I could say against it. She got the permit unbeknownst to me.”

Goodwin put out his hand. “Well, lads, the best of luck! Mebbe we’ll go in the same ship; but we’ll meet down yonder, if not afore.” Then, with a nod, he left us.

Oakley stood looking after him, thoughtfully.

“What d’ye think of him, Hugh?” he asked.

“The salt of the earth, if I’m a judge of men,” I replied.

“Ye can lay to that,” said Oakley. “No flaw in the metal there, whatever he’s done. Let’s hope we’re sent in the Charlotte. We’ll do well with a two-three like Goodwin for friends.”

Upon returning to our quarters we found our companions gathered around Sabb, who was seated at the table, gazing dolefully at a sheet of paper he held in his hand.

“What’s amiss, Nick?” said Tom. “Will there be nothing for breakfast?”

Sabb peered at us over the top of his spectacles, which he wore, I think, not so much for use as because they gave him so perfect an appearance of respectability. Seeing him now, you might have thought he was some honest merchant who had received news of a fall in stocks.

“The food’s to come directly,” he said, “but Tom, it looks to be the last meal you’ll take with some of us for many a long day.”

The warden had come in our absence, leaving the orders received for our going aboard the transports. The Thynnes, with Oakley, were down for the Friendship; the rest of us were to go in the Charlotte. This was sad news for all, for we had hoped to go in the same ship.

“Curse ye, Nick!” said Tom. “Didn’t ye draw the pouch and jingle it about? ’Twould be worth a guinea or two, surely, to have us all together.”

Sabb shook his head. “Money will mend nothing here. The orders came from above—the Home Office like as not. We must go as ordered.”

“So be it,” said Tom, cheerfully. “What can’t be helped must be endured. Liven up, old pinch-guts! Mr. Thynne and I will have ye nightly in our prayers. Now then, where’s breakfast?”

“Coming, Tom, coming,” said Thynne, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “And such a breakfast!”

“As what?”

“Eggs, just minted, warm from the hens—let us hope. And rashers, and pig’s liver, and grilled kidneys, and veal-and-ham pie. Is there something more you might fancy? There’s still time to send out.”

“Can we manage, Hugh, with what’s ordered?” said Tom.

“We can try,” I replied. “Mr. Sabb, Mr. Thynne, our hearty thanks. You’ve done more than well by us these many months. We’ll do as well by you at Botany Bay, if there’s fish and game to be caught.”

“Just what Thynne and I was thinking,” said Sabb, his eyes twinkling. “We’re not so simple as we look, may be. Payment, with interest, at Botany Bay, eh, Thynne?”

“Precisely,” said Thynne, with a laugh. “Fish and fowls and beasts of the forest, brought daily to our doorsteps, if doorsteps there will be.... What is it, my love?”

Mrs. Thynne, who was standing at the window, gave a little shriek of pleasure. “The girls, Mortimer! Here they are!”

Ever since Thynne had first spoken of them, I had been wondering what kind of daughters such a pair would have. We hurried to the window to see an elegant coach, drawn by two horses in shining harness, pull up before the entrance to the prison. There were a coachman and a footman in tawny-coloured livery with gold braid to match the trimmings of the carriage.

Oakley, who was beside me, gave a gasp of astonishment as the girls got down; and well he might have, for they were lovely creatures as elegantly dressed as though on their way to take the air in St. James’s Park. A striking contrast they and their equipage made in those wretched surroundings.

“Here we are, my loves!” Thynne called, thrusting a hand through the bars of the window and waving to them. “Tell the keeper to fetch you up directly.”

In his excitement Oakley had pushed me to one side, so that I could not see them as they glanced up, but I heard one reply, with a merry laugh: “Gracious, Papa! Where’s your wig? You haven’t lost it?”

“No, no! Of course I’ve not lost it. Make haste! We’re about to sit down to breakfast.”

“Poor dears,” said Mrs. Thynne. “I fancy they’ve only just come. They look dreadfully disheveled.”

“Disheveled? Nonsense, Florentia! They’re as fresh as rosebuds.”

Sabb stood back, hands on his hips, gazing at Thynne with an air of wonderment and unbelief. “Thynne, they’re your daughters?” he asked.

“Dear me! Whose else would they be? It’s no great compliment you pay Mrs. Thynne, sir, to doubt it.”

“I crave pardon, ma’am,” said Sabb. “So handsome a mother would be bound to have daughters to match ... but ... well, I’m beat to think of their coming here.”

“Where else would they go?” asked Thynne. “Phoebe is to share the exile of her unfortunate parents, and Doris wishes to bid us good-bye. You would not deprive us of a last reunion, Mr. Sabb?”

The Thynnes understood Sabb’s bewilderment well enough, I think. At any rate, Mrs. Thynne smiled with a little air of triumph and flattered vanity. The lovely apparitions did not, certainly, fit the setting, yet neither of the parents appeared to think there was anything remarkable in their coming here. Oakley and I hastened to put on our neckcloths, waistcoats, and coats, and Tom stood waiting with an air of intense expectancy. I knew as well as though he had told me that he would have given the world and all to be dressed at the top of his bent at that moment.

A moment later the door was unlocked and the young ladies entered. Phoebe, the smaller of the two, was dressed in a little bonnet and a gown of pale blue silk that suited her to perfection. She had thick corn-coloured hair, meticulously dressed, and her eyes, of a deep blue, would have sent a flutter into the heart of any young man. She rushed to her mother’s arms, and then kissed her father lightly on both cheeks. Doris had the brown hair and fine dark eyes of her mother and would have been about twenty-one or twenty-two at this time. Her mother held her at arm’s length for a moment, regarding her critically; then she gave a little nod.

“You’ll do quite well, my dear,” she said; “quite well indeed.”

“I’m so glad you think so, Mama. Heavens! What a place!”

“The ‘Thynne’s Arms,’ my love,” said her father with a gay laugh. “We’ve only just moved in, and the comforts are not yet all that could be wished.”

“And Doris, love, I’d have you notice the Thynne’s feet,” said her mother. With a dainty movement she lifted her frock a little and thrust out her legs, stretching them apart to the length of the chain that shackled them, making the links rattle at a great rate. Doris’s eyes widened, then she and Phoebe burst out laughing, their parents joining heartily, as though it were the greatest joke in the world.

“Now you must look at mine,” said Thynne, and he did a little caper that made them laugh even more. “I’ve a set of little bells ordered for your mama’s, and I shall have mine handsomely gilded before we reach Botany Bay.”

“What do you think of my bonnet, Papa?” Phoebe asked.

“Perfect, perfect. I could not have made a better choice for you myself.”

“There, Doris!” said Phoebe, wrinkling her nose and thrusting her tongue out at her sister. “She called it hideous, Papa.”

“It doesn’t suit her at all,” said Doris.

“Jealous thing!” said Phoebe. “She’s eaten up with envy because she didn’t see it first.”

“There, my loves, no quarreling. You’re both perfect. Now tell us: when did you come?”

The Thynnes, parents and daughters, seemed for the moment to have forgotten the presence of the rest of us. They had eyes only for one another, and seemed as carefree as though sitting cozily at home, the world shut out. Presently Phoebe raised her eyes for the most demure and winning glance at Tom and me. “Papa, aren’t you forgetting yourself?” she asked. “You’ve not introduced your friends.”

“Bless me, so I haven’t!” Thynne exclaimed. “Mrs. Garth, ma’am—my daughters. Messrs. Sabb, Oakley, Tallant, and Inching—my daughters. The world at large—my daughters.”

Nellie Garth was as taken by the strangeness of this domestic scene as ourselves. She greeted the girls very civilly, and the rest of us bowed with our best manners, Phoebe and Doris glancing from one to another of us with a slight inclination of their comely heads. Phoebe had the practice of looking at you, shyly and trustfully, then dropping her glance in a most demure and engaging way. Doris had the manners, at least, and the self-possession of a lady. Both daughters had their mother’s fine complexion and teeth as white as milk. I was young and vain enough to feel a little stir of envy at the very particular, though discreet, regard Phoebe bestowed upon Oakley. As for Tom, he had been hard hit from the moment of her coming and had eyes for no one else.

One of the turnkeys now appeared, followed by two female prisoners bringing our breakfast, in two large baskets. Places were made for the daughters, and Mr. Thynne, in honour of the occasion, took his seat at the head of the table, with his wife opposite. Phoebe sat across from Tom, and besieged him with such skill that the poor fellow scarcely noticed his food; but there was nothing forward or bold in Phoebe’s glances. Instead, she gave the impression of a modest young girl whose heart had been caught for the first time, and who is all wonder and confusion at the strangeness of the experience. And for all I knew then, or know now, that may have been true.

Mr. and Mrs. Thynne were in their gayest mood. What always impressed me about them was their self-possession, their lack of any sense of strangeness or incongruity upon whatever occasion, in whatever company. Their daughters had it as well. On the present occasion they ignored the miserable room with its bare brick walls and iron-barred windows. They ignored the shouts and oaths and bawdy talk we could hear only too plainly, coming from the room below where the female felons were confined. Only once was notice taken of the latter. In a brief pause in our conversation, we heard one of the trollops, with a voice like a fishwife, yell to another: “Is it so, ye ha’penny upright! Ye’ve a Jack in the cellar at the very moment and well ye know it, but who was so daft as to board an old fire-ship like yerself is more than I could say!”

Mr. Thynne raised his eyebrows with an air of mild concern.

“Dear me!” he said. “The language is allusive, yet scarcely so veiled as might be wished.”

“What creatures,” Doris remarked, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders. “Mama, I hope you won’t have to associate with them on the voyage.”

Mrs. Thynne gave a little sigh. “I’m afraid I shall,” she replied, “and Phoebe with me. Your father will be in the same ship with us, of course, but they tell us we shall be lodged in different parts. There’s no avoiding it.”

“Alas, no,” said Mr. Thynne. “The orders are very strict, but I shall, of course, try what money can do, once we are embarked.”

“How awful!” said Doris. “Papa, can’t you make Phoebe stay behind? Her wanting to go is perfectly ridiculous!”

“It is, my love: your mama and I are of the same opinion.”

“It really is absurd, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Thynne. “You don’t know how foolish you are. Why, there isn’t even a town in Botany Bay. Nothing, I believe, but the empty land.”

“I’m going,” said Phoebe, quietly. “Doris may do as she pleases, but I love my parents, and I mean to share their hardships.”

“You see?” said Doris. “Phoebe would have you think me a heartless, selfish creature, but I’m not, Papa, you know I’m not. I can do far more for you in London than ever I could in that wretched Botany Bay.”

“You can, my dear child,” said her father, patting her hand. “There, we’ll call the matter settled and say no more about it. Doris shall be our urban goddess of plenty, mindful always of her dear parents in the wilderness, and sending us news from afar of the gayeties and splendours of London. Mind that you write whenever occasion offers!”

“Papa! To be sure I shall!”

“If ever occasion offers, which I doubt ... And Phoebe shall be our nymph of the glades and forests. Even now, Phoebe my love, I see thee, the spirit of delight and youthful grace, in thy little kirtle of grasses ...”

“That will do, you wretch!” said Mrs. Thynne, with a faint smile. “Would you trick us into thinking we are bound for a very Eden?”

“No, Florentia! But, Botany Bay ... the mere name is a promise. Doris, you have brought, I hope, your mother’s things and mine, our poor trifles and oddments for the voyage?”

“Yes, Papa. Three huge boxes, with Mama’s things in two of them and yours in one. Phoebe has her own in a fourth.”

“Four boxes! My loves, I doubt if we shall be permitted to carry so many.”

“Oh, but you will. They are already aboard the Friendship.”

Her father gazed at her admiringly.

“Doris, I have always known your capabilities, but this surpasses expectation. How did you know that we are to embark in the Friendship?”

“I inquired, of course. Phoebe and I met a very agreeable young officer in the company of marines who are to guard you. He took us directly to a Major Ross, in charge of all the soldiers: such a nice man ...”

“Oh, Doris!” Phoebe exclaimed, with a little laugh.

“But he is, Phoebe, you know he is.” She smiled. “He was very obliging, at least. He gave orders for the boxes to be sent out immediately and we saw them go.”

“You have done us a great service, my loves,” said Thynne. “Now your mama and I can face the future in better heart. It is indeed gratifying to find benevolence amongst the military.”

“She’s to have supper with him to-night, Papa. At the Golden Cross. She promised,” said Phoebe.

“Doris! Was it necessary?” her mother asked, reproachfully.

“Yes, Mama; but what does it matter? I know very well how to take care of myself.”

Directly the meal was finished the girls hastened away to lay in an additional supply of comforts for their parents’ and Phoebe’s use during the voyage. No restrictions had been placed by Government upon what the convicts could carry with them in the way of extra food, clothing, and the like, and all but the friendless and penniless brought with them parcels, bundles, and boxes filled with articles to the limit of their means. The larger of these, too heavy to be carried by hand, were marked and taken in charge by the agent for the transports, to be delivered aboard ship. Sabb doubted whether their owners would ever see them again, but the chance of that had to be taken.

Mr. and Mrs. Thynne bustled about the room, busy with their own preparations. They must have felt as low-spirited as the rest of us but were resolved not to show it. Thynne was urging his wife to don her plainest, meanest gown, but she would not hear to the proposal.

“No, Mortimer. If the monsters have the inhumanity to lead a lady through the streets, the townspeople shall know, at least, that I am a lady. I will not shame my husband and my daughters on our last day in England.”

“And quite right, ma’am,” said Sabb, who failed to notice the odd nature of this display of pride. He stopped short to stare at Ned Inching, who was gathering his scanty belongings into a bundle. “Ned, what have ye there?” he exclaimed.

Inching glanced warily at the door, then turned his head toward Sabb.

“Bit o’ luck on the way down from Lunnon,” he said, and with that he displayed a fine gold watch and chain and an enameled snuffbox.

Sabb slapped his thigh and Mr. Thynne halted in the middle of the floor.

“Thynne, had I told ye he was clever?” Nick asked, proudly. “Let’s have a look at ’em, Ned.”

Inching laid the articles in his hand, standing by with a grin on his face while Sabb opened the case of the watch and examined the works with a practised eye.

“Wuth twenty guineas if it’s wuth sixpence,” he said. He beamed at the pickpocket like a schoolmaster commending a promising scholar. “Ned, where and when could ye have nabbed ’em?”

“Four Crowns, in Petersfield, w’en we stopped to bait,” said Inching. “Party in the blue velveteen coat, standin’ by the pump.”

Thynne paid his fellow artist the tribute of an admiring glance; then he turned to his wife, shaking his head wistfully. “Thynne, Inching, and Thynne—what a firm for business they would make, my love!”

“I fear it’s a little late to suggest it,” said Mrs. Thynne.

“Dear me, dear me!” her husband added, in the same wistful voice. “And with you, Nick, for the fence ...” He became almost melancholy as he thought of this splendid combination of talent in the light of the present situation, but a moment later he was speaking eagerly and hopefully of the future, as though they were all at the close instead of at the threshold of their terms. Upon returning from transportation they would form such a combination, and draw in with them half a dozen more, the most gifted pickpockets in London. Sabb loved a discussion of this kind: he would forget time and place while laying plans for action against the movable property of London’s more prosperous inhabitants. In the present case, he saw, in fancy, the firm of Thynne, Inching, and Thynne already at work, and a rich stream of watches, gold snuffboxes, jewelry, and such disposable treasure passing through his hands on the way to merchants in his own line of business in Amsterdam, Antwerp, and other Continental cities.

The dream was rudely broken in upon. The bolts of the door were shot back and the warden appeared with an officer of marines who held a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“All ready here?” said the warden. “Look alive then!”

We were taken down to the street where some fifty convicts were already lined up two and two, with a file of soldiers on either side of them. Directly in front of us were the females who had come with us from Newgate. They were of all ages, from women of seventy to girls in their teens, clad in the same filthy rags in which they had entered the prison months before. A few had shawls and bonnets that looked as though they had been salvaged from dustbins, but most of them were bareheaded and wearing for their one garment the quilted petticoat, of cotton or flannel, fastened high under their arms, the common article of dress for women of Wapping, St. Giles, and other miserable quarters of London. Several had infants in their arms and I noticed one big with child. These women had been culled out at Newgate as the lowest and vilest there and so to be gotten rid of first, and yet the sight of them would have stirred to pity the heart of any thoughtful observer. Their laughter, oaths, and shameless talk offered them the only means of defense they could find against a savage pitiless world that cared nothing whether they lived or died.

In our company behind were Mr. and Mrs. Thynne, Sabb, Oakley, Inching, and myself, with about a dozen other convicts, both men and women. Among the latter were Daniel Goodwin and his little boy, and a small, decently dressed woman with a sallow, sharp-featured face, whom I took to be Goodwin’s wife. With this company he moved off toward Portsmouth Harbour. Although we proceeded slowly, the march was a torture to Nick Sabb, who weighed well over sixteen stone. Sweat streamed down his fat face, his lips were tightly set, and he stared glassily ahead. The rattle and chink of fetters made a dismal music for a fine May morning, but mingled with it, half drowning it came the yells and hoots of the women in front. I could see Moll Cudlip’s shaven head well above those of her companions, and her screaming voice dominated all others as she shot taunting remarks right and left, giving back with interest what was sent by the crowds along the shop fronts, in entryways, or leaning on their elbows from first-floor windows. For there are always people to make sport of human misery, human degradation, and these Portsmouth crowds were no exception; but it would not be true to say that such folk were in the majority. On the contrary, most of the spectators stood in silence as we passed, and their pitying glances and whispered comments were harder to bear than taunts and abuse.

Nellie Garth was walking stolidly on, her gaze straight ahead. Of a sudden I heard a cry of “Nellie! Nellie!” from the crowd lining the footway. Garth stopped short, and turned with an expression on her face that I can see to this day. The voice was that of Mrs. Windle, her friend and neighbour at Wood End, but before the little woman could push her way through the crowd, Nat was in his mother’s arms, clinging to her without a word, his face pressed against her bosom. Garth lifted the boy, holding him close, and walked on with him held so.

“There, Nat,” she said, in a trembling voice. “All’s mended now. You’re here ... God bless ye, Sarah Windle! I might ha’ knowed ye’d find me, soon or late.”

Mrs. Windle was laughing and crying in the same breath.

“I was bound ye shouldn’t miss him, but oh, Nellie, my heart’s sick to see chains to the feet of as honest and decent a woman as ever drew breath! He’s all right, is Nat, though he’s been to the point of death through grievin’ for ye. Set the lad down now and I’ll tell ye the whole of it from the day your letter came.”

We moved on, Nat clinging to his mother’s hand, and Mrs. Windle talking as fast as her tongue could move. She began with the day when we had left Garth’s farm, but the sum of the matter was that Nat had grieved his heart out during the whole of the time he had been absent from Nellie. But I could see that Mrs. Windle was holding back what she wished Garth to understand but could not tell her in Nat’s presence. She tried to convey the information with nods and woebegone shakes of the head and piteous glances at the boy, who seemed conscious only of the fact that he held his mother’s hand once more. Then Garth understood, and a look of profound despair came into her eyes. Nat believed that he was going with his mother. Mrs. Windle had not had the courage to tell him the truth.