The Warriors E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 413

Beschreibung

The tenth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country built on blood, passion, and dreams. Not only Englishmen come to the new country of Australia. A young American, the only survivor of a shipwreck, has also ended up there. She stands alone in this new and completely foreign world. Another American, who served in the British army against Bonaparte, has arrived as well — voluntarily. In this melting pot, everyone must establish a life for themselves. The obstacles are many, but the future is still bright ... Rebels and outcasts, they fled halfway across the earth to settle the harsh Australian wastelands. Decades later — ennobled by love and strengthened by tragedy — they had transformed a wilderness into a fertile land. And themselves into The Australians.

Leseprobe

The Warriors

The Australians 10 – The Warriors

© Vivian Stuart, 1983

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2021

Series: The Australians

Title: The Warriors

Title number: 10

ISBN: 978-9979-64-235-0

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

1

The transport Conway was ploughing through heavy seas, six weeks after leaving Capetown, when Murdo was summoned unexpectedly to the master’s cabin. It was after midnight, and he had been sleeping soundly; he wakened, bleary-eyed and resentful, to find Sergeant Holmes roughly shaking him.

“The devil fly away with you, Sergeant!” he exclaimed irritably. “What do you want at this hour?”

“It’s not me that wants you, sir,” the big sergeant returned, unperturbed by his reception. “’Tis Captain Barlow. And you’d best bestir yourself, Mr. Dean, for the matter’s urgent. There’s mutiny afoot!”

Murdo swore under his breath but, with visible reluctance, climbed out of his cot and reached for his breeches, shivering as he donned them. It was bitterly cold in these southern latitudes, and even below decks the icy wind struck chill into his bones.

“Captain Barlow, Sergeant,” he said, thrusting his feet into his boots and standing up, bracing himself against the” ship’s roll, “has claimed that the prisoners were about to mutiny no less than a dozen times since we sailed. It may be even more—I’ve lost count. But on every occasion in the past, his fears have proved to be groundless. The poor bloody prisoners are fettered and half starved.”

“Not this time, sir,” Sergeant Holmes asserted with grave conviction. “This time they mean it—one of ’em brought warning to the captain. I’ve turned our men out and posted ’em under arms, with full pouches.”

He went into careful detail of the precautions he had taken, but Murdo scarcely listened. On each of the previous occasions, the precautions had been precisely the same—the sentries doubled, every hatchway leading from the prisoner’s quarters on the orlop guarded, and two men, with loaded muskets, posted outside Captain Barlow’s cabin, at his specific request.

It was, however, a wonder that the poor devils of convicts had not attempted to take the ship long before this, Murdo reflected grimly, as Holmes handed him his damp, salt-encrusted scarlet tunic and he struggled into it. Heaven knew, they had been provoked almost beyond endurance during the past months. Barlow’s cargo of trade goods occupied space that should have been theirs, with the result that all one hundred and seventy of them were confined in foul, verminous darkness in the bowels of the ship, heavily chained, permitted little exercise, and compelled to exist on food that bore an unpleasant resemblance to hogswill.

George De Lancey had protested strongly and demanded improvement in the prisoners’ conditions, but Barlow had done little to meet his demands. True, he had ordered the orlop fumigated before the ship made port at Rio, but rather because he feared the censure of the port health authorities than because of De Lancey’s condemnation. The two men were no longer on speaking terms, and the atmosphere in the cuddy was, in consequence, somewhat strained, with the mate, Henry Fry, taking De Lancey’s part but afraid to do so openly, and the other ship’s officers ranging themselves aggressively against him.

He himself ... Murdo sighed, regretting the cowardice that, he freely acknowledged, led him to take a neutral stand. He liked and, indeed, greatly admired George De Lancey, but he had too much at stake to risk his neck; the danger was too great, the consequences—should his true identity be discovered—too hideous to contemplate. For God’s sake, they would throw him in among the convicts without a moment’s hesitation, were they to learn who he really was and what he had done!

Buckling on his belt, Murdo glanced uneasily at Sergeant Holmes. The sergeant, he sometimes feared, suspected him of duplicity. Certainly Holmes was prone to watch him, even at times to test him, and was a mite too ready to question his authority and to meet legitimate orders with a dumb insolence that fell just short of insubordination. His behaviour tonight was typical ... Holmes had posted the guard before coming to him to report and receive the order to post extra sentries. Probably, had Captain Barlow not sent for him, the sergeant would have let him sleep on, in ignorance of what, if anything, was afoot, in the hope that he might thus incur Barlow’s displeasure.

“Where is the captain?” Murdo asked, his tone deliberately sharp. “On deck or in his cabin?”

“In his cabin. I took the feller who brought the warning to him there. Had to smuggle ’im out, you see, sir, ’cause them Irish swine would’ve cut his throat if they’d had any inkling of what he was goin’ to do.” Holmes’s expression was smug, his manner self-satisfied, as if what he had accomplished had been a minor miracle. “He hinted early this afternoon that he’d somethin’ of great importance to tell the captain, but he was dead scared o’ the others, so I made out I was arrestin’ him for possession o’ intoxicating liquor, an’ his mates was wringing their hands an’ promisin’ to speak up for ’im. They—”

Murdo cut him short. “All right—I don’t want his whole history, Sergeant. What is his name?”

Sergeant Holmes drew himself up, looking offended. “MacBride, sir—Peter MacBride. Like I told you, he’s with the captain, and—”

“Then let us go and wait on the captain,” Murdo said, again cutting him short.

The two scarlet-coated sentries came to attention outside the door of Captain Barlow’s day cabin, and Holmes knocked on it loudly.

“Sar’nt Holmes, sir, and Mr. Dean,” he announced.

“And not before time,” Captain Barlow greeted sourly. He was only partially dressed, a thick flannel nightshirt tucked into the waistband of a pair of soiled white duck trousers, from which his stockinged, but unbooted, feet protruded in an oddly obscene manner. There was a pewter beaker of rum at his elbow—already almost empty, Murdo noted with contemptuous disapproval. The second mate, Charlie Lawrence, stood alert and fully clothed at his back, a pistol in his hand; and the convict informant, filthy and unshaven, crouched between them, eyes darting from one to the other, as if pleading for their compassion.

“Thanks to your sergeant’s vigilance, mister,” Barlow went on, addressing Murdo, “a dastardly plot to seize the ship and murder us all has been uncovered.” He gestured to the cowering prisoner. “This man risked his life to bring us warning, but you, I venture to suggest, will try to tell me it’s a false alarm and you knew nowt of it.”

“I knew nothing of it,” Murdo conceded. “But with my men posted under arms and the hatches closed, what can the convicts do? They’re fettered and unarmed ... they’ve no hope of taking the ship, Captain, still less of murdering anyone. They—”

The captain interrupted, red with annoyance. “The swine are armed, mister! Tell ’im, MacBride—tell this disbelieving King’s officer what you told me, for God’s sake! I want action, and I want it now!”

The convict responded with ingratiating eagerness. He was a thin, slovenly looking man of uncertain age, his appearance rendered the more unpleasant by the privations he had endured and by the fact that, although all the prisoners were permitted to hose themselves down after exercise, he had clearly not taken advantage of this concession for a long time.

“’Tis a God’s fact, yer honour,” he asserted. “Like I’m after tellin’ the sergeant here, more dan a score o’ men have armed themselves. They’ve made clubs, sorr, so they have, wid slats taken from the bunks—and the priest, Father Joseph, has a pistol. Sure, he keeps it hidden, but I’ve seen it wid me own eyes. An’ some o’ dem have filed through their leg-irons, an’ honed them, to make knives and de loike ...” The whining, heavily accented voice went on, naming names, making accusations for which, when pressed, he could offer no proof, and Murdo listened with unconcealed skepticism.

“How do they plan to break out?” he asked coldly. “Did they tell you that?”

Unhappily, MacBride shook his head.

“I was never in dere confidence, sorr. But I’ve seen what they’re doin’ an’ heard them whisperin’ amongst themselves. Seamus Burke an’ him they call Mr. Fitzroy and the father—they’re the ringleaders. Holy Mother of God, sorr, ye must believe me! ’Tis de truth I’m tellin’ yez.”

“I reckon it is, sir,” Sergeant Holmes put in forcefully. “You don’t go amongst the treacherous rogues down there like I do, when the rations are issued, so you’ll not have heard the whispers. But I have and I know they’re up to no good.” He turned to the captain. “’Tis my belief, sir, that they intend to break out when we sight land. And that will be very soon, will it not, sir?”

“Aye, within the next twenty-four hours we should pick up the South Cape of Van Diemen’s Land,” Barlow confirmed. He drained his beaker and set it down, his lips tightening. “The wind’s easterly and rising. And the glass is falling,” he added glumly. “We’re in for some dirty weather, and if it turns out to be as bad as I fear, we’ll maybe have to put in to Adventure Bay for shelter. If we do, Mr. Dean, you and your damned lobsterbacks will need to be on the alert day and night, you understand? No skulking in your berth—because, if Sergeant Holmes is right, the sight of land could incite those infernal Irish rebels to mutiny.”

“I know my duty, sir,” Murdo assured him stiffly.

“It’s to be hoped you do, mister,” the Conway’s master retorted. He jerked his head at the second mate and ordered gruffly, “We’ll show the swine what’s what, Mr. Lawrence. Give ’em a warning they’ll understand. Before you send the morning watch below, muster all hands to witness punishment, the way a King’s ship would do it. D’you think you can do that, eh?”

“Aye, sir,” Lawrence acknowledged. He passed his tongue nervously over his bearded lips. “But ... who is it that you intend to punish, if I may ask, sir?”

“You dimwit!” Barlow exclaimed, losing patience. “Use what brains the good Lord gave you! One o’ the ringleaders, of course—the papist priest, what’s his name? Father Joseph, ain’t it? Well, if MacBride’s telling the truth, he has a pistol concealed on his person or in his bedding. Get down there with Ensign Dean an’ a brace o’ his redcoats and find that pistol. Then bring Father poxy Joseph to me and I’ll sentence him to a flogging. That’ll teach them a lesson.”

Everyone in the cabin, with the sole exception of Sergeant Holmes, regarded him in dismay. Murdo started to protest, but Holmes interrupted him.

“Leave it to me, Captain Barlow, sir,” the sergeant offered. “I know how to handle the matter. If Mr. Lawrence will accompany me, as a witness, sir, an’ MacBride show me where the priest sleeps, it can be done without causing no disturbance. Indeed, sir, I’ll see to it that—”

The wretched MacBride gave vent to a squeal of terror. “Holy Mother o’ God, Sergeant, ye promised! Ye gave me your word that I’d not be sent back to the prison deck if I tell’t yez what ye wanted!” He was on his knees, trembling and wringing his bony hands, appealing to the indifferent Holmes, who eyed him scornfully and said nothing. “For pity’s sake, sorr,” the Irishman begged, directing his plea to the captain. “Dey’ll kill me for sure if I go back dere! I’ll work de ship, sorr, I’ll do anything you ask, so I will. But don’t send me back, sorr, for Christ’s sake don’t send me back!”

Captain Barlow shrugged. “Can you find the priest without the help o’ this miserable rogue, Sergeant?” he asked. Holmes nodded confidently, and the captain said, with contempt, “Very well—get him out o’ here, Mr. Lawrence. He can be put to work with the idlers. Send him below to the mess deck.”

As Lawrence was obeying these instructions, Murdo again attempted to voice his protest, but Barlow silenced him with an angry roar.

“I’m master o’ this ship, Mister Ensign, an’ don’t you forget it! I’ll not stand for a scurvy bunch o’ Irish scum threatenin’ to mutiny an’ take my ship from me. There’ve been too many o’ their blasted threats all this voyage, devil take them! Enough’s enough, an’ I’m goin’ to teach them a lesson they won’t forget.”

“But, Captain, flogging their priest will incite them to violence,” Murdo persisted despairingly. “Choose anyone except the father, sir, I beg you, if you are set on teaching them a lesson. If you hope to deter them, then—”

“Are you a bloody papist, mister?” Barlow sneered unpleasantly.

He had been brought up in the Catholic faith, Murdo recalled guiltily, but it was a long time since he had practised it. Before he could utter either assent or denial, the captain went on harshly, “Whatever you are, damn your eyes, you’ll obey my orders! Off with you down to the orlop, you insolent young puppy, and give your sergeant the backing he needs. I want that infernal pistol found in front of witnesses and the priest brought up here, understand? And if the Irish scum offer any resistance, you are to order your soldiers to open fire on ’em. Is that quite clear, mister, or must I spell it out for you?”

“That will not be necessary, sir,” Murdo managed stiffly. “Your instructions are clear enough.”

It was, he knew, useless to argue. Throughout the long, weary voyage, the Conway’s master had feared the possibility that the prisoners might attempt to seize his ship; he had admitted it openly, and had gone to brutal lengths to prevent any such occurrence. But now ... Murdo frowned in bewilderment as he left the cabin.

Now, it seemed, Captain Barlow was hell-bent on provoking a showdown; indeed, he appeared actually to want the wretched prisoners to resort to mutiny, and if they did it was evident that he would show them no mercy. He intended to put down any attempted insurrection with a ruthless disregard for the Irishmen’s lives or, come to that, for the lives of the soldiers whose duty it was to carry out his orders. And carry them out without question, God help them!

For a moment, standing there in the dimly lit passageway, Murdo was tempted to leave the priest’s arrest to Sergeant Holmes. The infernal sergeant had started it all; it was he who had brought MacBride from the prison deck and taken him to the captain, with his wild and—yes, his unsubstantiated tale.

But ... Holmes was waiting for him, he saw, with mock deference and an odd smile curving his lips. The fellow was not to be trusted down in the dark confines of the orlop, with armed men under his command ... he himself would have to accompany the arresting party, Murdo thought bitterly. He would have to be there, if only to stop Holmes from carrying out whatever sadistic plans he had made.

For Holmes had made plans; every instinct he possessed told Murdo that he had. A pox on the bastard! He was grinning now, clearly deriving perverse pleasure from the crisis he had brought about. Damn it, Murdo thought, why had he been so blind? It was not Captain Barlow who was seeking to provoke a mutiny ... it was Sergeant Holmes who had tricked him into believing that the prisoners were planning to break out!

As if to confirm his suspicions, the sergeant said, with unwonted solicitude, “No need for you to trouble yourself further, Mr. Dean, sir. Mr. Lawrence and I can do what’s necessary. It shouldn’t take us above ten minutes, and the orlop’s no place for a gentleman with sensitive feelings or a weak stomach.”

Usually he avoided the prison quarters like the plague, Murdo was forced to admit, conscious of shame. He hated the befouled air and the sight of the fettered convicts, and try as he would, he could never escape from the knowledge that—had fate not ordained otherwise—he might himself have been condemned to make the long voyage in similar conditions. The bumbling old judge at the assize court had sentenced him to deportation for the term of his natural life, and ... He thrust the bitter memory from his mind. He was Ensign Michael Dean, commissioned into his Majesty’s 46th Regiment of Foot and, he reminded himself, he—and not Sergeant Holmes—was in command of the regimental draft.

Murdo braced himself and snapped, an edge to his voice, “I shall come with you, Sergeant, in accordance with Captain Barlow’s instructions. He requires witnesses when the priest is searched.”

Holmes’s dark brows lifted in surprise, but he shrugged and said nothing, and when Lawrence reappeared, they both followed him to the midships companionway. The two sentries posted at its foot fell in behind them in obedience to the sergeant’s gruff command; Lawrence took a lantern from its hook on the deck beam, and by its flickering light they descended in single file to the orlop deck.

It was in virtual darkness, the stench—even in Captain Barlow’s purloined cargo space—so vile that Murdo was hard put to it not to retch, as a wave of nausea swept over him. A stout bulkhead, loopholed and studded with nails, cut off the prison quarters from the main hatchway, by which they had descended. The door was reinforced by iron stanchions, secured by three separate metal padlocks for which three different keys were required. Waving the two sentries posted in the narrow passageway to stand aside, Holmes produced the keys from his pocket with something of a flourish. He said, after glancing through the barred spy-hole in the door, “The priest has a bunk to himself—third or fourth on the starboard side, lower tier, if I remember rightly. There’s none o’ the scum stirring that I can see, so if we go in fast and I grab ’im, they shouldn’t give us no trouble.”

He addressed Lawrence, ignoring Murdo, and as he and the second mate started to unlock the door, Murdo found himself wishing that he had taken the time to rouse George De Lancey and prevail upon him to serve as an additional witness. But it was too late now, and in any case De Lancey was a civilian passenger, with less authority even than himself. He was a lawyer, it was true, but ... The heavy door creaked open, and Lawrence went into the prisoners’ quarters, holding the lantern at arm’s length in front of him.

Several inches of water, a relic of the last gale, covered the timbered floor and swished sluggishly from side to side with the ship’s roll, adding to the foulness of the air inside, which hung heavy and lifeless, since both air scuttles were closed. Two rows of wooden bunks, one above the other, extended forward from the mainmast, each six feet square and occupied by four men, a continuous chain running between them, to which the men’s leg-irons could, when necessary, be attached ... one of Barlow’s brutal refinements, Murdo recalled.

Roused by the creaking of the door and the mate’s lantern, the convicts began to stir, some sitting up in bemused silence and others greeting the unexpected intrusion with surly complaints and growled obscenities. Sergeant Holmes ignored them. He strode forward, deaf to abuse and question alike and, with Lawrence at his heels, made for the bunk where the priest was sleeping. Father Joseph was a young man, thin and pale, with a shaven head and a scar across one cheek. Huddled beneath the single thin blanket that was each convict’s allocation, he struggled vainly to free himself as the sergeant’s big hands seized him roughly by the shoulders and dragged him from his berth.

“What do you want of me, Sergeant?” he asked, startled, and then, remembering his calling, he added quietly, “If any man is dying and has need of me, I will come willingly. You have no call to use force. I know my duty to God, even in this hell ship, and—”

Holmes’s fist silenced the mildly voiced complaint, and the priest staggered back, his fettered hands raised to protect his face from further blows. Lawrence was searching the bunk, ripping the sodden straw mattress with his seaman’s knife, and he grunted his satisfaction when the object of his search came to light.

“Here we are!” he exclaimed. “A pistol—this scoundrel of a priest has a pistol! What price his duty to his God now, eh?” He held out his find for Murdo’s inspection, bringing the lantern closer, a taunting smile playing about his lips. “Witness it, mister—’tis a pistol right enough, is it not?”

It was an old duelling pistol, Murdo saw, rusty and in all probability liable to burst if, by some miracle, it could be fired, and he wondered, when a prolonged and dilligent search failed to reveal either ball or powder for its use, why the young father should have troubled to retain it. But, for all that, he was compelled to admit that it was a weapon and that it had been found in Father Joseph’s possession and undoubtedly concealed.

Pressed by Lawrence, he unwillingly stated as much, and Sergeant Holmes, without waiting for an order, grasped the priest by the collar of his ragged black robe and started to propel him towards the door of the prison.

Those convicts near and wakeful enough to realize his intention voiced angry demands that the father be released; others took up their cry, and pandemonium broke out, the Irishmen yelling wildly and beating their chains on the wood of their bunks. But the sight of the sentries’ levelled muskets deterred all but a handful of braver spirits, and Sergeant Holmes’s stern warning that they would open fire sufficed to discourage even these.

In tense, bitter silence, they had finally to watch their priest led away, but as the door slammed shut and the heavy padlocks were once again secured, they began to sing, and Murdo’s heart sank as the sound of the defiant voices echoed from end to end of the ship.

We trust in God above us,

And we dearly love the green;

Oh, to die it is far better

Than be cursed as we have been!

And then, gaining in volume as more voices joined in,

But we’ve hearts, oh, we’ve hearts, boys,

Full true enough, I ween,

To rescue and to raise again

Our own immortal green!

With sullen reluctance, Murdo attended the brief trial in the master’s cabin, gave his evidence, and heard Father Joseph sentenced to fifty lashes.

The savage sentence was carried out the next morning in the presence of the ship’s company and twenty of the convicts, heavily ironed and mustered under a strong guard on their exercise deck for the purpose.

The priest was cut down, unconscious, and before going below to break his fast, Captain Barlow warned those on the exercise deck that there would be worse to come at the first sign of trouble.

2

The first George De Lancey knew of the unhappy affair was when he came on deck to observe the flogging in progress.

Sickened and appalled—as much by the calling of the victim as by the punishment—he sought out Ensign Dean for an explanation and listened, with growing indignation, to the younger man’s account of what had led up to it.

He had slept through it all—his sleep induced by an over-liberal consumption of Cape brandy, in which he had, of late, taken to indulging—and his conscience plagued him unmercifully as the sorry tale unfolded.

“In heaven’s name, Michael, you should have wakened me!” he exclaimed reproachfully. “Why did you not?”

“What could you have done, sir?” the ensign countered, with a rueful shrug, “The father had a pistol—it was hidden in his palliasse. I was there when the second mate found it. And for all I know, some of the others have arms. The informer claimed they had. Truly, Mr. De Lancey, what could you have done?”

What indeed, George thought, unable to find an answer. He was a civilian and a passenger; and on board his own ship at sea, Captain Barlow had absolute authority. If he chose to order the flogging of a priest or layman—he was within his rights to do so, particularly if the convict in question was proven to have committed a crime.

“All the same,” he said, “Captain Barlow is inviting trouble, I fear. What was the mood of the other prisoners when you took the Father away?”

“It was ugly, sir,” Ensign Dean answered without hesitation. “And they were not then aware that Father Joseph was to be flogged. It will be a damned sight uglier now, I dare swear.”

“Ugly enough to spark off violence?” George suggested. “Or an attempt to take the ship, do you suppose? That was what the informer claimed, was it not?”

“I don’t know—but it wouldn’t surprise me. MacBride said they had been improvising weapons for some time past, and if they have, I fancy they’ll try to use them. They’re Irish, sir, and the Irish know how to hate.”

And with some reason, George was ready to admit. “The Irish regiments were among our best and bravest troops in the Peninsular campaign,” he said thoughtfully. “Damme, you could not have asked for better regiments than the 88th or the Royal Irish Dragoons, and the 6th were magnificent at Waterloo—we charged beside them. But ...” He sighed. “When they are denied freedom and privilege in their own country and condemned as rebels if they attempt to fight for these rights, then I suppose the result is inevitable. But it is not justice, is it? I wonder if it would help if I were to try to talk to them?”

“You’d be putting your head into a lions’ den, sir,” Ensign Dean returned with conviction. “And the master won’t listen, either.”

He was probably right, George thought regretfully, but in spite of it, he made an attempt to talk to Barlow later that morning, only to be met with ill-tempered abuse and an obstinate refusal to make even the smallest concession to the Irishmen’s outraged feelings.

“’Tis blowing up a gale, mister, and I’ve no time to waste on you or them convict scum. Likely they’ll be too wet an’ seasick to cause trouble before the day’s out ... three or four feet o’ salt water floodin’ their quarters ought to keep ’em quiet. They can have their pulin’ priest back, but that’s all. I’ve told Barney Shea to deliver ’im, as soon as he’s back to his senses.”

Father Joseph had taken his punishment with stoical courage and, until he had lost consciousness, had scarcely emitted a cry; but Surgeon Shea—supposedly present to call a halt to the flogging when the victim lost his senses—had not done so, George recalled with disgust. Instead he had caused buckets of salt water to be thrown over the unfortunate man and, when this had revived him, had waived permission for the lashing to be continued. By the time the full fifty lashes had been administered, the priest’s back had been reduced to a bloody pulp and, barely breathing, he had had to be carried below to Shea’s hospital in the fore part of the ship. And Shea had broken his fast and imbibed his customary half bottle of liquor before going below to attend to him ...

Turning his back on the Conway’s master, George controlled his rising anger with difficulty. He had seen men flogged before—the Duke had been a stern disciplinarian, and looters, thieves, and deserters in the ranks of his motley army had been punished with the full severity of military law. But they had been tough, physically fit soldiers, not half-starved prisoners, at the end of a five month voyage in a convict ship, whose bodies were skin and bone. And if the priest died ... He swore in exasperation, shocked by the realization that his sympathies were almost exclusively with the Irish rebels and that, of the Conway’s entire company, only Henry Fry, the first mate, and Lewis, the steward—and yes, young Michael Dean, the guard commander—had deserved his respect.

Perhaps, he reflected wryly, for all he had supported the loyalist cause in America, at heart he, too, was a rebel. At all events, he set a high value on justice and freedom for the individual; these were the only causes for which it was worth dying.

With this conclusion in mind, he sought out Surgeon Shea and found him, as usual, in the cuddy with a half-empty glass in his hand and his cravat stained and awry, his speech already a trifle slurred. But Shea was sufficiently alert to reject his request to be permitted to visit the priest in the sick bay.

“I’m sending the rogue back where he belongs after dinner, De Lancey,” he stated coldly. “If you happen to run into young Dean, perhaps you would be so good as to tell him that I’ll need a guard.” He pushed his bottle of brandy in George’s direction and added, suppressing a hiccup, “Have a drink, man, and forget the damned rogues of convicts. We’re in for the father and mother of a storm, if Captain Barlow’s to be believed—and he usually is. Told me he intends to run for Adventure Bay, in Van Diemen’s Land, as fast as the old tub will carry us. You’ll not be able to stand on deck in an hour.”

In this gloomy prediction the surgeon proved right. Within less than an hour, the Conway was battling against the mountainous seas, which the wind, rising rapidly to gale force, whipped to fury. At the best of times, the ship was a slow sailer, answering sluggishly to her helm; in anything approaching bad weather, she shipped water in tons, burying her blunt bows beneath the frothing whitecaps, so that they surged over her from stem to stern, menacing any and everything on deck that was not secured. The men on watch moved at their peril, clutching the lifelines that had been hurriedly rigged, and the two men at the helm were compelled to lash themselves to their dangerous post in order to maintain their footing and keep the ship’s head to the wind.

Anxious to reach shelter before conditions worsened, Captain Barlow kept as much sail on as he dared, and the old ship heeled under the wind’s savage assault as he tried vainly to keep her on course. An upper sail split, with a report like that of a distant gunshot, and two seamen were lost when the topmen were ordered aloft to take it in. In such a storm, no boat could be sent to their rescue, and the Conway lurched on, leaving them to their fate, their bobbing heads soon lost in sight in her hissing wake.

For all his corpulence, Captain Barlow was everywhere on deck, wind and water seemingly powerless against his bulk, and George, watching from the comparative safety of the chart house, was forced to admire the stout master’s courage and seamanship. Even when the foretopmast crashed down in a welter of torn rigging and shattered spars Barlow did not lose his head. His bellowed orders, magnified by his speaking trumpet, sent men staggering across the heeling deck, George himself among them, to tear the wrecked and twisted cordage free with axes, knives, and even their bare hands.

At the height of the storm, even the soldiers were called into service, to man the braces and work the pumps, but to George’s gasped suggestion that he enlist volunteers from the prison, Barlow swore wrathfully and shook his oilskin-covered head.

“Let them rogues loose? And with no soldiers to watch over ’em? By God, mister, that’s the last thing I’ll do! The swine can rot in hell, but they’re not being made free o’ my deck so long as I’m alive and in command! We’ll be out o’ this and in Adventure Bay in another couple of hours, if the wind don’t shift. Go and take a turn at them pumps, if you’ve nowt better to do than offer me bad advice.”

George did as he had been ordered, and with young Dean and his panting soldiers, he toiled at one of the pumps until close to dropping with exhaustion. The mate, Fry, relieved them at last.

“Not much longer, Mr. De Lancey,” he yelled, his mouth close to George’s ear, so as to make himself heard above the roar of the wind. “There’s land in sight, and if my calculations are correct, we’re not above ten miles from the bay. If we can keep her afloat for another hour, we’ll be safely inside and out of this.”

The lowering, windswept grey skies were yielding to the gathering darkness when the old ship, with her pumps creaking, limped into the shelter of the landlocked bay and came at last to anchor. A ragged cheer rose from the sorely tried men as the bower anchor splashed down into the black water and the Conway brought to, the tall, wooded hills rising steeply on either hand to cut her off from the gale, still raging furiously to seaward. There was much to be done before she could continue her voyage—a jury foremast to be rigged, damage to shrouds, halyards, and sails to be attended to, lost spars to be replaced, and the water she had shipped to be pumped out ... Henry Fry gravely listed these and a score of smaller defects that had to be made good. And it would take time, he warned.

But, for once, the taciturn master permitted his people to relax and celebrate their deliverance. The steward issued rum to the seamen and soldiers; and Barlow himself, changed into dry clothing and in buoyant mood, came to the cuddy, inviting his officers and the passengers to drink with him and accepting their congratulations with gruff pleasure.

Only the surgeon, Dr. Shea, and Fry, the mate, were absent from the convivial gathering, but no one questioned the reason for their absence. George, aching with weariness and on his third brandy, was dimly aware of the fact that the surgeon’s chair was empty—almost for the first time since the ship had sailed from Cork.

It was Sergeant Holmes who brought an abrupt end to the cuddy’s celebration. He came staggering in, bleeding from an ugly head wound and ashen faced with mingled pain and anger, to make the alarming announcement that the prisoners had made a bid to seize the ship.

“The treacherous bastards called for the surgeon, sir,” he told Barlow. “Claimed there was several of ’em badly injured. Surgeon Shea went down with Mr. Fry and one o’ my men, sir, and they jumped the lad, took his musket an’ bayonet an’ seized the other two. Holding them hostage, they say, an’ threatenin’ to kill them, unless you come down an’ parley with ’em.” He paused to regain his breath and then gestured to the wound on his head. “I was by the bulk’ead door when some o’ the sods rushed me. ’Twas all I could do to get the hatch closed an’ the padlocks secured.”

Leaving the hostages inside, George thought, to save his own skin ... but perhaps he was being unjust. To have done anything else would have been to liberate the convicts, giving them the opportunity to overrun the ship and her exhausted crew. He glanced at Ensign Dean and saw that he was white with dismay.

“Will you parley with ’em, sir?” Holmes asked.

“No, by God I will not!” the master thundered, and his, gaze went, as George’s had, to Dean. “Well, mister?” he demanded harshly, all trace of his earlier benevolence gone. “Are you going to get your damned redcoats down there to deal with this? I want an end to it, even if you have to open fire on the bloody Irish scum, understand?”

Before Ensign Dean could reply, the big sergeant, recovering his lost bombast, put in quickly, “I’ve mustered our men, sir. They’re ready.” He added vindictively, “’Twill be a simple matter to bring the swine to heel. The bulk’ead’s loopholed. No need to risk opening the door.”

Captain Barlow nodded. Impatiently, he challenged Dean. “Well, Mister Ensign? You’re in command o’ the convict guard, ain’t you?”

“Yes, I am, sir,” Dean acknowledged unhappily. “But what of the hostages? What of Mr. Fry and the surgeon? Will you not at least listen to whatever the convicts have to say—what terms they’re offering, in exchange for the lives of the hostages? If we fire on them, even if we attempt to rush them, sir, they could still murder both men, and we’d be powerless to prevent it.”

“Mr. Dean is right, Captain Barlow,” George said, aware that his intervention would be resented, but unable to restrain himself. He held no brief for the drink-sodden Shea, but Henry Fry was a good man and a fine seaman, and neither Holmes nor the captain appeared to recognize the danger in which precipitate action would place them. “I’d be willing to parley with the prisoners and inform you of their demands, if you—”

Barlow’s clenched fist crashed onto the top of the bar in angry frustration, cutting him short. “I’ll strike no bargain with blasted convicts, Mr. De Lancey! But you can tell ’em my terms, if you’ve a mind to—you can warn ’em that they’ll hang, every man jack o’ them, if they harm my mate or my surgeon.” His eyes blazing, he turned to Dean. “If they won’t listen to this gentleman, then you warn the scum—fire over their heads! Go on, get down there, Mister Ensign! Or are you too lily-livered to do what His Majesty pays you to do?”

Dean flushed indignantly, but George grasped his arm. “Come on,” he urged, in a tense whisper. “Let’s see what we can do to make the Irishmen see reason.”

In the malodorous confines of the orlop, an unexpected silence prevailed. But the convicts were on the alert, George realized, when a hoarse challenge halted him at the foot of the companionway and the lantern he was carrying revealed the barrel of a musket protruding from one of the loopholes in the door of the prisoners’ quarters. The spyhole was open, and from behind it a voice with only a faint trace of an Irish accent bade him state his business.

“Stand where you are and tell us why you have come. We are asking to parley with the ship’s master. You’ll be aware that we are holding two officers and one of your redcoats as hostages, no doubt?”

“I’m aware of that, and the master has been informed of it.” Conscious of Holmes’s big body pressing impatiently against him, George took a pace forward.

“I have you in my sights. Come no closer,” the Irish voice warned. “Have you the authority to negotiate the release of the men we hold?”

“I’ve been given no such authority,” George admitted. “But I—”

“Then faith, man, why have you come?”

“In the hope that bloodshed can be avoided. And to acquaint you with the consequences if any of the hostages are harmed. Release them to me now, unharmed, and no action will be taken against you. But if you do not ...” George started to repeat the captain’s threat, but with a muffled oath the man on the other side of the bulkhead interrupted him.

“If that is all you have to say, then you are wasting your breath. In the name of God, man, we are not fools, and we are not playing games! We’ve no intention of harming our hostages unless we are driven to it. And we are not engaged in a mutiny or in an attempt to take the ship. We’ve all of us had experience of English Justice, by heaven, and we know all too well the consequences—you’ve no need to spell them out! Sure you’d hang as many of us as you could, and you’d flog the rest, would you not? Well, we have borne enough. We will release your officers and the soldier, if the master agrees to our terms.”

“What are your terms?” George asked. Against all reason, his hopes rose, and beside him he heard Michael Dean expell his breath in a long-drawn sigh of relief.

“They’re simple enough,” the Irishman answered. “We want decent food and the removal of our chains and fetters for what remains of the voyage. We want clean water and adequate time and space for exercise in the fresh air ... all things we’ve a right to and of which we’ve been deprived. We’ve sick men in here who’ve been given no treatment.” His tone changed, taking on a note of bitter irony as he added, “The longest your miserable surgeon has spent with us has been since we seized him forcibly this evening! I fancy he’ll agree now that our quarters are verminous and foul and, when we release him he’ll send us all the vinegar and sulphur we’ve begged for in vain since we left Rio. We’re asking no more than to be able to land in Botany Bay like human beings instead of animals ... and that is all we are asking.”

“He’s lying,” Sergeant Holmes growled. “Don’t you believe him, Mr. De Lancey. They’re armed and they’ll be on us the first chance they get. They—”

George silenced him sharply. He moved closer to the door, and this time the menacing musket remained still. “I will convey your terms to the ship’s master. In the presumption that you speak for the rest, may I know your name?”

“Sure, for what it is worth, sir. I am Patrick Fitzroy, brother of the poor young priest your people flogged almost to death this morning.” The Irishman paused, to let his words sink in, and then he went on evenly, “I should warn you that if the master is unwilling to accept our terms, Mr. De Lancey—”

His quick ears had picked up Holmes’s mention of his name, George realized, and he prompted warily, “What then, Mr. Fitzroy?”

“Why then, sir, we shall carry out our threat. The surgeon will be shot ... and after him, if necessary, the other two. And damning the consequences, we shall try to take the ship.”

His reply, firmly uttered, carried conviction. Patrick Fitzroy was no wild rebel from the Irish bogs but an educated man, and George felt both sympathy and respect for him. He was turning away, with the intention of going to report the result of his attempt at mediation to the captain, when, to his shocked dismay, Barlow himself came bounding down the companion ladder, thrusting the waiting soldiers aside in his haste to reach its foot.

Evidently he had overheard Fitzroy’s last words, for he repeated them at the pitch of his powerful lungs. “Shoot my surgeon, will you, you cursed rogues! Try to take my ship! I’ll see you in hell first, the whole scurvy lot o’ you! Get his musket, Sergeant Holmes—grab it, I say!”

Holmes needed no second bidding. He hurled himself forward, keeping to the left of the pointing barrel, and George’s attempt to intercept him was met with a heavy shoulder charge that left him on his knees, winded and gasping for breath.

The musket went off, but Holmes had his hand on the barrel, and the ball lodged itself harmlessly in the upper deck beams. The explosion of the charge, unnaturally loud in so confined a space, reverberated like thunder, and instantly the prisoners’ voices, silent until now, rose in shocked and angry protest. Then, as suddenly, they again fell silent and George, struggling dazedly to his feet, heard Fitzroy’s voice yelling urgently.

“No! You crazy fool, no! Leave him be!”

A second shot rang out—but inside the prison this time—followed by an agonized scream and the thud of a falling body.

Fitzroy spoke again, his tone shamed and apologetic. “De Lancey ... I am sorry. Your surgeon has been shot—in error. I regret to tell you that he is dead. But the others are safe. They’ll not be harmed if—”

Whatever proposal he had been about to make was cut off by an imperious bellow from the captain.

“Man the loopholes, Mr. Dean!” he ordered. “By God, I’ll hang the murdering swine! Fire a volley over their heads and tell ’em to release the mate. If they don’t, get that door open an’ rush them!”

“They will release him, sir,” George began. “Let me—

But Barlow ignored his plea. “Get on with it, Mr. Dean!” he roared. “You heard me!”

Dean, George knew, had no choice but to obey. He gave the order, having to shout it above the hubbub of shouts and curses coming from inside the prison. From where he stood, held back by the captain’s heavy hand, George had no means of knowing whether or not the soldiers obeyed Dean’s instruction to aim high with their first volley, but more screams and cries of pain led him to doubt whether all of them had done so.

Then they reloaded, and the door was unlocked to reveal a crowd of ragged convicts, shadowy, scarecrow figures in the dim light of the lantern suspended from the deck beams above their heads. Fitzroy had clearly lost control of them or else, in desperation, had yielded to their decision to risk their all in an attempt to break out. They surged forward in a struggling mass, but despite their numbers they stood no chance against the armed and disciplined soldiers. Dean’s men went in, the front rank opened fire, and as the thunderous echoes died down, the rest charged in after them, using their musket butts like flails.

They emerged, minutes later, bearing the body of Surgeon Shea and with Fry, the first mate—apparently unscathed—in their midst, leaving the prison quarters a shambles in their wake. George caught a brief glimpse of it before the door clanged shut, and he turned away, his stomach churning, to find himself confronted by the Conway’s master.

“They’ll not mutiny now, mister,” Barlow observed, with thinly disguised satisfaction. “And they’ll not take my ship, damn them to perdition!” His gaze lit on Dean, who was standing, white of face and badly shaken, by the prison door, the keys to it in his hand. “Did you get your sentry out?” he asked curtly. The ensign nodded.

“Yes, we got him, sir. He wasn’t hurt.”

“Then put them padlocks back an’ lock ’em, mister, What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, there are dead and dying men in there—a score of them, maybe more. Can we not attend to them?”

“Attend to bloody mutineers?” Barlow exclaimed contemptuously. “Give ’em the chance to take more hostages, for the Lord’s sake? You’re out o’ your mind, mister! In any case, the scum murdered the only man who could bind up their wounds, did they not? They killed the surgeon, so let ’em rot. They brought it on themselves, the devil take them.”

Once again, George attempted to intervene.

“Captain Barlow, they killed poor Shea in error ...one man got out of hand; it was not intended. They were willing to release all three hostages unharmed, in return for a few concessions, which you could have granted them, sir, with no risk of trouble whatsoever. I beg you, allow me to go in—with Ensign Dean, if he’s willing, and a guard of his men. To remove the dead, at least, and give the wounded fresh water and bandages and what succour we can.

Captain Barlow eyed him suspiciously from beneath scowling brows. “A veteran o’ Waterloo, and you want to give succour to blasted rebels?”

“In common humanity, Captain ... yes.”

Barlow’s mention of Waterloo sparked off the memories George De Lancey had sought vainly to erase from his mind ... memories of the dreadful carnage that had been the aftermath of victory, of suffering men and mutilated horses and of his own predicament, pinned down beneath the body of his charger and powerless to help himself. As helpless as the unfortunate Irish rebels were now ... He said tautly, “They are human beings, damn it, Captain Barlow.”

To his credit, young Dean came to his support. “I’m willing, sir. And I can post a strong guard at the door.”

Barlow’s scowl lifted. “Very well, then. But let them rogues make a concession in return. Tell ’em they’ll be given succour if they hand over the man who murdered my surgeon, so’s I can hang him. And make sure they know he’ll hang, mister. Punctually at eight bells o’ the morning watch.”

With extreme reluctance, George called Patrick Fitzroy to the door of the prison deck and explained the captain’s conditions. The convicts’ spokesman groaned when he heard them.