The Art of Dodging

CHAPTER ONE

Forty-four!

A bead of sweat trickled from under Jack Dawkins’ cap and slid down the back of his neck. Idly batting a fly hovering around his face, Dawkins crossed his ankles beneath the small wooden desk and shifted his weight on the wonky stool.

Forty-five! bellowed Captain Mallis as the flagellator slapped the lash across the back of the convict strapped to the frame. Nine thin strips of leather tipped with beads of lead slashed across the man’s bloodied back.

Dawkins looked down at the ledger lying open on the desk and read the entry: 18th February 1845; William Edward Bunning; Insubordination; 50 strokes; Sgt. Wm. Nagle, flagellator.

Billy Bunning, thought Dawkins, handy with his fists, but no great thinker. He should have known better than to talk back to that cruel bastard, Mallis.

Forty-six!

Dawkins raised his head and looked around the quadrangle. At one end of the small square about 180 prisoners were gathered, many of them manacled at their ankles. At the opposite end, two lines of uniformed soldiers, ten in total, stood at attention in their bright red jackets and white trews, watching the flogging impassively.

Forty-seven!

A triangular frame standing some eight feet high stood at the centre of the square. The hapless William Edward Bunning dangled from the frame by his bound wrists, his legs splayed and anchored at the base of two of the struts. Nearby, Mr. Goomes, the prison surgeon, drunk as usual, rocked back and forth on unsteady legs.

Forty-eight!

A few paces to the left of Surgeon Goomes, young Trooper Pike the drummer, a fiery eruption of acne splashed across his sun-scorched face, counted the lashes with deft flourishes to the battered drum hanging at his waist.

Forty-nine!

The quadrangle was bounded by twenty-foot high stone walls, topped with fragments of broken glass. Here and there, whirling dust devils danced over the reddish dirt of the square, where patches of dry, spiky grass, burnt yellow by Sydney’s fierce summer sun, struggled to survive in the inhospitable space.

At the eastern end of the square, Prison Governor Ogilvy stood in the shade watching the final half dozen lashes.

Fifty! called Captain Mallis. Take him down.

Two of the soldiers strode forward and cut the thongs that held Bunning suspended from the frame. Surgeon Goomes lurched toward the frame as Bunning slumped to his knees with a groan.

Steady, man, slurred Goomes, kneeling beside him. Sit yourself up.

Oh, mother. Oh, mother, moaned Bunning.

Dawkins took his watch from his waistcoat pocket and noted the time. He dipped his pen into the inkwell then added the time to Bunning’s entry in the ledger. Forty minutes, thought Dawkins. Forty minutes to reduce a man from cocksure and blustering to a bleeding wretch calling for his mother. And truth be told, Bunning would likely be strung from the frame again before the summer was out.

Gathering up the ledger, Dawkins stood and nodded toward the prisoners. One of the convicts separated from the group and jogged over to him. Like most of his fellow prisoners, the man wore ill-fitting black and yellow striped trews stencilled with distinctive upward pointing arrows, and a grey cotton shirt.

Good day to you, Mr. Woolfe, said Dawkins.

Good day to you, Mr. Dawkins, said the man with a sly grin.

Would you be so kind as to help with the table and stool, Mr. Woolfe?

As Dawkins strode away Woolfe upended the stool and dropped it with a clatter onto the top of the table. He hefted the table and trotted after Dawkins across the now deserted quadrangle.

Woolfe followed Dawkins into the gloom of the main prison building, up a narrow stairway and along a dimly lit corridor. Reaching the end of the corridor, Dawkins opened a low door and entered the prison clerks’ office.

Still holding the table and stool, Woolfe glanced around the office. At one end of the room, sun streamed through a high window. Shelves stuffed with ledgers and documents reaching almost to the ceiling took up an entire wall of the room. In one corner, a roll-top desk butted against a battered and care-worn safe, its door ajar. In the opposite corner of the room, Dawkins dropped the ledger onto a simple desk laden with folders, sheets of paper and rolled-up documents secured with red ribbons. Beneath the window a man sat stooped at a more elaborate desk, his nose inches from the sheet of paper on which he was writing. The man looked up at Dawkins with watery eyes.

Mr. Quince, said Dawkins, by way of a greeting.

Dawkins, acknowledged Quince. Put the table there, he said to Woolfe, gesturing to a clear space in the corner of the room. How did the punishment go? The man, Bunning?

Oh, he’ll live. He’s a tough nut, for sure. He’ll be tucked away in his cell lying in his piss, already plotting further misdeeds.

Come, come, Dawkins. Bunning will learn something from his painful lesson. Fair and just punishment is the cornerstone of our system of justice.

Woolfe sniggered as he placed the table and stool where directed. Quince shot him a look, but Woolfe was seemingly engrossed in carefully positioning the stool beneath the desk.

I think you should go for a walk, Mr. Quince, said Dawkins.

Quince looked at him for a long moment while he considered protesting, then rose slowly from his chair. I... I think I’ll take some air. Make sure you return the ledger to its rightful place, Dawkins. We don’t want a fuss like last time.

Dawkins had worked with Quince since landing at Sydney Town. The master and surgeon of the ship that carried Dawkins to New South Wales had sent letters to Prison Governor Ogilvy outlining Dawkins’ exemplary behaviour during his incarceration while at sea. They had both recommended that he be given a position with some responsibility, perhaps where his facility with numbers could be utilised.

While almost all of his former shipmates were now manacled together and sent to build roads or break rocks, Dawkins was put to work under the dour stewardship of Obadiah Quince, Pyrmont Prison’s Chief of Clerks.

Ogilvy thought it ‘unseemly’ for a clerk to wear conventional prison garb, so permitted Dawkins to wear clothing more befitting his role as a clerk.

Dawkins soon became indispensable to Quince. Using an almost magical skill with numbers discovered on the long voyage to the colony, Dawkins could point out to Quince the leaks and discrepancies in the prison’s accounts – where monies had gone from one column but failed to arrive in another. Quince used this information to further his own standing with Governor Ogilvy and he acquired a reputation as a formidable Chief of Clerks. Unfortunately for Quince, his reliance on Dawkins’ skills meant that his authority over him had slowly diminished. Dawkins used his talents to his advantage by withholding or divulging information as he saw fit.

Dawkins also discovered that his role as a clerk gave him enough freedom to visit the city whenever it was considered necessary. Papers had to be located, documents duplicated, accounts verified. Dawkins soon made the acquaintance of other clerks and employees of Sydney’s justice system. He would visit the Police Magistrates office and the Military Barracks on York Street, the Commissarial Office at the Sydney Cove dockyard, the numerous watch houses and police offices dotted around the city, and the courthouse on Elizabeth Street. He had also been to the Secretary’s Office at Government House, although Quince usually reserved those visits for himself.

Nevertheless, once Dawkins had established himself at the prison, he began to build an extensive network of contacts and informants. By the time he had reached the age of eighteen and secured his ticket-of-leave, he had earned the trust of many of Sydney’s criminal underworld and the support of a number of prominent members of the New South Wales law enforcers and judiciary.

At the same time, Dawkins worked to develop a persona of a young gentleman about the town. He diligently practiced his way of speaking and used his meagre wages to purchase clothes that would enhance his appearance.

But Dawkins was no fool. While some may have thought he looked like a dandy, those who found themselves on the receiving end of his fury discovered he could be a vicious and unforgiving opponent.

Dawkins sat back in his chair. What have you got for me today, Gus? he asked, putting his hands behind his head.

Not much to report, Jack. I heard that Caleb Ferrit’s boys have squeezed the Cove Gang off their patch.

I know Ferrit well. He’s a cruel bastard, but fair. What else?

The Excise ’ave cracked an opium smuggling crew on the East Side. They bailed-up a ship carryin’ a cargo of tea from China by way of Brisbane. They was told it was carrying tea chests full of dirt and they got suspicious. Dirt? Who sends dirt anywhere?

Who’s the scurf?

No-one we know. The gang’s land-bound sailors mostly, and of no account now seein’ as they’re likely be resident at Pyrmont before too long.

But, keep your ears out, Gus. I like to know what’s going on. What else have you got for me?

Gimpy Meeks been seen hangin’ round one of the Native camps east of town, down the coast a bit, Woolfe replied.

Meeks the bushranger?

Aye. Been on the cadge, I hears. Lookin’ to his old mates to take him in. Don’t like livin’ in the bush no more.

Perhaps Meeks can be persuaded to, uh, give himself up, said Dawkins.

Woolfe laughed. I doubt it. He’ll be for a floggin’ and a trip to Norfolk Island if he ever shows his face again.

Could be a good catch for Governor Ogilvy, though.

Aye. And what would a dangle of the bait be worth, Mr. Dodger, said Woolfe, the sly smile returning to his lips, to lure this prize fish from the water?

Dawkins took a key from his waistcoat and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a small calico bag – the opening roughly tied with twine – and placed it on the desktop. Baccy, he said.

Could be more convenient, said Woolfe, eyeing the bag, if Meeks could be convinced of help from someone in a high place, especially if there was promise of a passage out. Might need more time to make him see the benefit, though.

Dawkins reached into the drawer again and took out a dark green half-pint bottle. Rum, said Dawkins. From the West Indies. Not watered. Woolfe reached forward to gather up the bottle. Dawkins laid his hand lightly on Woolfe’s wrist, slowly increasing his grip. See to it, Mr. Woolfe. Reel him in and leave him flopping at my feet. You’ve got three days. Don’t let me down.

Not long after Woolfe had left, there was a light tap on the door. The door cracked open and Quince entered looking cowed. Your friend left, then? he said. Dawkins, now seated at his desk writing, ignored him.

Obadiah Quince was a man assailed by disappointment. A free settler, Quince had arrived in Sydney with his wife some ten years before. He had left a dull and lowly paid job as a scrivener’s assistant for the prospect of a better life in a new, God-blessed country and found instead a harsh, unforgiving land, where convicted criminals were given the freedom to walk the streets and every day the merciless sun beat down upon his head. Over the intervening years, his wife had failed to give him children, his meagre savings were lost to failed investments and his hopes and dreams lay shattered at his feet.

For the first four years, work proved difficult for Quince to find. Convict labour accounted for nearly every aspect of life in the growing colony and prospective employers seemed reluctant to take him on in any capacity, let alone that for which he believed himself to be best suited. Then, when Quince had lost nearly all hope, an acquaintance secured him a job at the newly completed Pyrmont Prison, a splendid representation of modern architecture overlooking Black Wattle Bay.

Quince worked first as a clerk before being promoted to the position of Chief of Clerks, when the then Chief fell dead into a ditch after drinking too much of the locally concocted gin.

To Quince’s barely suppressed disdain, he was required to work alongside convicted felons – thieves and sheep-stealers, dregs and scum. The two ex-convicts he was presently allotted, Dawkins and Crabb, were respectively a pickpocket and a house-breaker. George Crabb, just twelve years of age and fearful of Quince’s every glance, was his run-about lad. A boy to fetch and carry and be at Quince’s beck and call. Dawkins, however, was of a very different stripe. Quince knew him to be about twenty-one years of age and coming to the end of his sentence of seven years, having been given his ticket-of-leave after four. Snub-nosed and flat-browed, he had about him a fierceness that struck fear deep into Quince’s heart. He was slightly shorter than average with coarse dark hair flopping rakishly across his forehead and he strutted about confidently on somewhat bowed-legs. Dark complexioned like a Gypsy, he took in the world about him with sharp, dark eyes.

Despite his fearsome demeanour, Dawkins had proved to be an invaluable asset to the Clerks' Office. While his handwriting was only passable at best, he did have an almost supernatural talent for numbers. He could cast a glance down a column of figures and deduce the answer without the apparent need of adding or subtracting. He would simply state the answer as if it were written there, down to the half-farthing. Where Dawkins could have acquired such a facility Quince could only speculate, but his uncanny gift had often proved a godsend.

Mr. Quince!

Dawkins’ harsh voice shook Quince from his reverie.

Mr. Quince!

Yes, yes. I hear you, fellow. What is it? responded Quince tersely.

The documents you gave me aren’t complete, sir. Where are the rest? Dawkins asked. He had swung about in his chair and sat with his legs spread out, filling the space between the two desks.

You have all you need, don’t you? Quince replied, puzzled.

No, sir. No, Mr. Quince, these figures make no sense. None at all, Dawkins said, shaking his head. See here, I’ll show you, he added, rising from his seat.

No! Quince exclaimed, reeling back as if stung. No, there’s no need. He dabbed his upper lip with his kerchief. We’ll just get whatever is missing sent over from the Magistrate's Office.

Dawkins sighed demonstratively and rolled his eyes. Governor Ogilvy will be none too pleased about our failure. He was expecting a detailed summary from us by tomorrow. What am I to do? I’d hate to think we’ll let him down, seeing as he holds you in such high regard, Mr. Quince.

Fiddlesticks, Dawkins! What would you have us do?

If a cart can be arranged, I could travel into town, find the documents I need and be back before nightfall. If needs be, Dawkins added, I can report to the Police Office if I need to stay over.

Stay over! Good Lord, man, I’m sure there would be no need for that. Quince looked thoughtful for a moment. Yes, he said decisively, I think it would be best if you get into town as quick as you can. He dabbed at his upper lip again. Finding a cart will likely take too long. Go down to the stables and requisition a horse.

I’ll need a pass, then, Mr. Quince.

Oh! Quite so. Quite so, blustered Quince, reaching into one of the shelves above his desk.

Perhaps make it a two-day pass, in case I get delayed, added Dawkins, leaning back in his chair. I’m sure you don’t want the responsibility of explaining why I’ve been brought back in leg irons.

Quince studied Dawkins for a long moment. No, he said quietly, scribbling out the pass. We wouldn’t want that. Not that.

Dawkins gathered up some papers from his desk and stuffed them into a worn leather satchel. Mr. Quince, he said carefully, taking from Quince the proffered pass, should I need to stay over I may need some victuals. Perhaps a few shillings could be spared for the eventuality.

I think not, man. I’m sure you have a few pennies salted away for just such an occasion. If needs be, I’ll reimburse you on your return.

Ha, ha! Well put, sir, laughed Dawkins, moving toward the door. So be it, then. I’ll see you again first thing in the morning – noon at the latest.

Before Quince could speak further, Dawkins was gone, the door swinging closed behind him.

CHAPTER TWO

Dawkins swung the satchel over his shoulder and wound his way through the narrow corridors until he reached the Governor’s kitchen.

Good day to you, Mrs. Minogue. said Dawkins, removing his cap.

Mr. Dodger! You’ll be on the blag again, sir, I’ll be bound. Lookin’ to filtch somethin’.

Mrs. Minogue had arrived in New South Wales as a young woman of barely sixteen. Wild and fiery, she had been transported for fourteen years for sticking a knife into a respected gentleman who was making inappropriate overtures to her. Luckily for her, he survived the wound and she escaped the gallows. Now a middle-aged woman with broad hips, grey hair and a ready smile, Mrs. Minogue ran the Governor’s kitchen with a kindly heart and an iron hand. Nevertheless, she had succumbed to the charms of Dodger Dawkins and would happily spare him an occasional treat when he came looking.

Mrs. Minogue! said Dawkins with a broad grin. You think the worst of me, Mother. Could it not be that I’m here to enjoy the presence of your company? He dropped onto a stool and helped himself to an apple from a large wicker basket set on the massive table that dominated the centre of the kitchen.

And how are your pretty girls, Mrs. Minogue? You’re not being unkindly to them? Three young women toiled as kitchen hands under the watchful eye of Mrs. Minogue. Hearing Dawkins’ comments all three giggled and nudged each other.

Now don’t be givin’ my girls any ideas, Mr. Dodger. There’s enough dogs sniffin’ round without you adding to the pot, she said, wiping her hands on her capacious apron. Now, come along, sir. We’ve got dinner to prepare. What is it you want from me or are you here to waste my time?

I’m going into town to get some documents and talk with some of my friends, and seeing as how I’m likely to be away for the night, I thought you might be able to spare something for the journey. Dawkins gave Mrs. Minogue a look that was at once charming and roguish.

Hah! And off to see your girl, I’ll be bound, she snorted. When are you going to marry that girl and make her an honest woman?

Perhaps my girl is not the marrying kind, said Dawkins with a shrug.

Every girl is the marrying kind, young Jack, she admonished, wagging a finger, and don’t you forget it.

She has her own life and her own living to make. I’ll not take her independence from her.

The living Essie Jenkins makes is a shortcut to the pox and an early death, Jack, she said sadly. The sooner she’s out of that house of ill reputation the better. Ask for her hand, Jack. She won’t turn you down. On that I’ll lay money.

Well, time will tell, Mother.

Will you be swinging by the Riley’s house.

Oh, I’ll likely take a look-see – make sure they’re looking after the property. I might check up on some other things as well, if I’ve the time.

Well, if you do happen upon them, please convey my regards. They’ve shown a kindness by helping my girls when they leave here. They are good people, and charitable.

Then, I shall. Now, I must be off, so what chance some victuals?

With an overly dramatic sigh, Mrs. Minogue turned to one of the girls. Nancy, put a small loaf and a few slices of ham into a gunny, she said, and a peach. And take yourself another apple, she added, smiling indulgently at Dawkins. Before he could respond, she said, And before you ask, no. No brandy. His worship the Governor keeps a tight track of every drop of liquor, even for the cooking. She tossed the bag to him. Now, off with you. There’s work to be done and you’re a distraction. Safe journey, sir.

Dawkins rose from his stool and quick as a striking snake, landed a kiss on Mrs. Minogue’s cheek, causing her to squeal with mock outrage and the three girls to laugh boisterously. With an exaggeratedly courtly bow, he donned his hat and left the kitchen.

For a long time, Quince gazed hatefully at the door through which Dawkins had just exited. A rage long harboured boiled impotently in him, making his face flush scarlet and his jaw clench painfully. With a strangled sob, he slammed his fist onto the desktop, making the inkstand jump and scattering documents to the floor. Reaching for his kerchief, he wiped the beads of sweat dotting his brow.

He rose from his chair, crossed the room and stood looking down at Dawkins’ desk, his pulse beating harshly at his temple. Although somewhat disordered, nothing incriminating or untoward lay on the desk, just papers and manifests – the mundane accounting of life in a modern prison.

Dipping into one of the small pockets of his waistcoat, Quince pulled out a small key. He contemplated the key as it lay in the palm of his hand. Returning to his desk, he used the key to unlock the bottom drawer of his desk and remove a small tin case, no larger than a snuff box. He opened the case and removed an object concealed in a small square of slightly soiled linen. Carefully unfolding the linen, he regarded another key lying at the centre of the cloth. The key was made of brass, tarnished to a dull greenish colour. Seeing the key lying there, Quince allowed a hint of a smile to play on his lips.

He went over to the open safe. Kneeling and reaching into the furthest recesses of the safe he took out a polished wooden box. Returning to his desk, he sat down and considered the box before him. Constructed from finely dovetailed walnut, the box measured some thirteen inches by five inches, and was about three inches deep. At the rear of the box, two brass hinges holding the lid of the box to the body were each held by three tiny flat-head screws. At the front of the box was a small brass plate, at the centre of which was a keyhole. Quince turned the key and the lock clicked softly.

For several moments, Quince did nothing. As he had done on numerous occasions when Dawkins had manipulated him into giving him leave then disappearing on some fabricated errand, he looked at the walnut box – the fine grain of the wood, the buffed surface, the shiny brass lock. Sometimes, just taking the box from the safe was enough to steady his resolve. Sometimes he needed more. Sometimes he needed to open the box to regain his confidence.

Holding his breath, Quince lightly gripped the sides of the box’s lid and slowly tilted it up. A familiar and comforting smell flooded his senses, making him shut his eyes. The metallic tang, the bitter smell of oil, the soft sulphurous reek of powder made him gasp and close the lid. A full minute passed before he felt restored enough to lift the lid again. This time he did so with firm self-assurance and determination.

The inside of the box was lined with gold silk fitted over what Quince knew to be an array of small wooden blocks glued to the bottom of the box. Sadly, Quince always thought when he had proceeded this far, the lining had a small ragged tear at one of the corners, diminishing slightly the perfection of the craftsmanship. But not the power, thought Quince. Not the power.

Lying seductively on its side in the box, held in place by the array of wooden blocks and encased in gold silk, was an 1820 Rigby flintlock pistol. The stock of the weapon lay at the left side of the box, while the barrel pointed to the right. The closed firing mechanism faced upwards, the iron surface slightly mottled, but still glinting with indomitable power. Beneath the pan, against which the goose-neck hammer rested, the name of the pistol’s maker was sharply stamped. The stock was made of dark walnut, almost black, with a brass butt-plate. Along the underside of the barrel, the iron ramrod was sheathed inside a brass pipe.

Quince carefully – almost lovingly – lifted the pistol from its case and held it flat in both palms. The gun weighed about one-and-three-quarter pounds and was cool in Quince’s hands. He gripped the stock with his right hand, inserted his right index finger through the brass trigger guard and laid his finger against the iron trigger. Slowly, he raised the gun and held it at arm’s length, pointing the weapon at Dawkins’ empty chair.

Pah, he whispered, squeezing the trigger. A loud explosion and a cloud of acrid smoke filled his imagination.

After some time had elapsed, Quince laid the pistol on its imperfect silken bed, closed the lid and turned the key in the lock.

Pah, he whispered again, cold hatred gripping his heart.

CHAPTER THREE

Dawkins relaxed comfortably into the saddle as his horse followed the rutted track along the edge of Black Wattle Bay. To his right, the outgoing tide left broad expanses of rippled mud flats and meandering streams reflecting back the glaring early afternoon sun. Across the bay, a handful of stunted elms marked the great house, Lyndhurst, home of the mad doctor, James Bowman. On his right, the land was still mostly wild scrub, despite the proximity of habitation and grazing animals. The ubiquitous gum trees, with their bark around their ankles like a harlot’s petticoats, provided the only shade from the fierce sun. At the head of the bay, the mud flats narrowed to a point where the brackish water from a creek seeped sluggishly over the mud and into the bay. Dawkins continued along the track until it met the main thoroughfare connecting Sydney and Parramatta.

Dawkins reined the horse to a halt and dismounted. Removing his cap and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his pocket handkerchief, he looked first toward the west, to Parramatta, then east to Sydney. The road in each direction was completely deserted. A hot breeze swirled eddies of reddish dust along the rutted and pot-holed road. He retrieved the gunny bag from one of the capacious pockets of his jacket and fished out the peach. Biting deep into the ripe fruit, he sat down on the fire-blackened stump of a long-departed gum tree. Deep in thought, he consumed the peach, its sticky juices trickling down his chin.

When he had consumed the peach, Dawkins dug deep into the opposite pocket and brought out his clay pipe and a bag of baccy. While he smoked his pipe, he listened to the vast silence. No matter how long you live in this God-forsaken land, he thought, you never get used to its bigness – its distant flat horizons, its great empty sky. The nothingness.

Not like London, he thought with a fond smile – its leaden sky, towering tenements, swarming streets. With a heavy sigh, Dawkins rested on the blackened stump and recalled his enforced departure from England.

Despite his vigorous and, to his ears at least, highly amusing protestations from the dock, Dawkins was sentenced to transport to New South Wales. After being led from the court with a rough hand on his collar, Dawkins was held for several months on a rotting hulk beached on the stinking mud at Woolwich.

Already overcrowded, the hulk was a festering stew of disease and desperation. Like its neighbours dotted along the mud of the Thames, the hulk had seen service in the war with France, but its usefulness as a warship had expired and it was deemed too inconvenient to break up the hulk. Now with its tall masts and upperworks removed, the once proud three-decker warship looked more like a giant neglected barge. Washing hung where gallant flags once flew, and where seamen and marines had fought bravely against the French foe, turnkeys roamed the decks now crowded with manacled convicts. A rough cabin had been added to the fo’c’sle from which a chimney-pipe extended and the few gun ports that were held ajar had sturdy iron grills fitted to the openings.

Before boarding the hulk, Dawkins and his fellow prisoners were stripped of their clothes, had their hair cropped to rough stubble and their bodies scrubbed down by the hulk’s guards using hard-bristle scrubbing brushes and lye soap, leaving the skin of the convicts red-raw and bleeding. The convicts were then issued with ‘magpie’ suits, one side black and the other side yellow, with buttons arrayed down the sides of the trews. The freshly attired convicts were next marched off to the blacksmith, where iron rings were riveted closed around the convicts’ ankles. The iron rings were connected by eight links to a larger ring at the centre, to which was fastened a cord hanging from the waist-belt, keeping the links from dragging on the ground. Finally, the prisoners were issued with knee garters to which the chains were strapped, so that the weight of the leg irons extended from calf to calf.

As autumn turned to winter, Dawkins was put to work picking apart tarry rope to make oakum, which was used by the Navy for caulking in its ships. At first, the ends of his fingers tore open against the tough fibres, but over the next few weeks, hard calluses formed and the work slowly became less gruelling.

During that time, Dawkins was never without the leg irons and like every other adversity he encountered, he grew used to them and the ungainly shuffle they induced.

Over the winter, even though outside the freezing rain and snow blustered around the hulk, inside their prison the convicts were by and large well cared for. Heated by so many bodies confined in a small space and fed at least regularly if not much, Dawkins was, for the first time in his life, given some kind of daily routine.

His age had been guessed to be about thirteen or fourteen years, so he had been put amongst the younger prisoners and given some responsibility as their overseer. Roused at dawn, Dawkins and his troop of boys would make their way to the forward hold and sit in a circle, picking oakum for the next several hours until at midday they assembled in a cramped dining area where they were given broth, beef, and potatoes, sometimes bread or biscuit and cheese, and a half-pint of ale.

Sometime during the final weeks of winter, Dawkins was taken to the Naval Dockyard at Sheerness on the River Medway, close to the mouth of the Thames and, along with two hundred and seventy of his fellow prisoners, was transferred to the ship that would carry them to the far side of the world.

Already weighed down by leg-irons, the convicts were chained together in groups of twelve and loaded aboard long boats and rowed out to their waiting ship. The sailors at their oars were grim and silent as they propelled the boat toward the prison ship, while the uniformed soldiers, armed with long muskets with bayonets affixed, watched over their charges with harsh eyes.

Oh! the sickness he felt as he looked up at the masts towering above him. A ghastly sinking feeling possessed him as the soldiers and prison guards clubbed and butted the chained convicts down the gangways into the dark and foetid hold.

Loading the prisoners aboard and furnishing the ship with provisions for the journey took several weeks, by which time the hold had already become a stinking sewer. By the time the ship let loose its moorings, sickness and fevers were already sweeping through the ranks of despairing men.

A three-masted two-decker barque, the Bengal Merchant had been fitted out to deliver convicts to the Australian colony. The transporting of convicts was considered by ship owners to be similar to the carrying of any other goods – spend no more than is necessary to ensure the cargo arrives at its destination in as good condition as possible. Regrettably, sometimes goods are damaged or lost during the course of the journey, in which case the financial losses must be borne by the owners. As an additional safeguard – and to help defray the costs of the transport – the master of the vessel was also held accountable for the delivery of the cargo and would forfeit part of his fee if any losses were incurred.

The Bengal Merchant was under the command of William Campbell, a seafarer of more than thirty years’ experience as ships master, who had three times before conveyed prisoners to New South Wales and once to Van Diemen’s Land. He was assisted by a first, second and third mate, a bosun and bosun’s mate – who was also the ship’s cook – a steward, a sail-maker and a carpenter, several boy apprentices and thirty-two seamen. The health and welfare of the convicts was the responsibility of the ship’s surgeon-superintendent, Isaac Noott, a distinguished Royal Navy surgeon now in his early sixties, while the security of the prisoners was attended to by Lieutenant Gavin and twenty-nine soldiers.

After nearly three weeks at sea, the ship stopped at Tenerife, off the coast of North Africa. For several days, the ship lay off shore as it was loaded with final provisions for the voyage. However, for the duration of the ship’s stay in the harbour, the convicts were held chained below decks, silently listening to the activity going on above.

Eventually, sometime during the second week of April, the ship slipped out of the harbour and recommenced its journey south.

A few days after leaving Tenerife, nearly all the convicts were taken in groups of a dozen to the middle deck where they had their leg irons struck off. This was followed by a stern warning from the first mate to behave or the irons would be refastened for the rest of the voyage. This unexpected liberation from their manacles resulted in the prisoners being more courteous to the guards and the crew, and more exuberant in their proceeding about the ship.

Over the next several weeks, life for Dawkins settled into familiar routine – rise at dawn, attend the schooling for the convicts under the age of seventeen, join the main convict body for midday victuals, scrub and hose down the decks and the holds, then lock-up for the night. Every Saturday, the convicts were taken to the middle deck where they were required to strip down and bathe. On Sundays, they were gathered together for prayers and singing, and every Tuesday the entire contingent of prisoners was shaved. The hours were marked by the ringing of the ship’s bell, the days by the rising and setting of the sun.

The young convicts’ schoolmaster, Ben Tomkins, had been sentenced to seven years’ transportation for embezzlement, after getting himself deep into debt through a fondness for gambling and using his school’s pecuniary resources to fund his endeavours to recoup his losses.

As soon as Dawkins had perfected the skill of making scratches with chalk on slate that were recognisable as words, he was introduced to the world of mathematics. Here he uncovered his rare and uncanny facility for numbers. Once he had mastered the basic concepts of adding and subtracting, dividing and multiplying, he moved on to fractions. He found to his delight and Ben Tomkins amazement that he could provide an answer to any calculation of numbers that Tomkins wrote upon the blackboard – twelve and three-fourths plus nine and one third? Simple. Twenty-four and three-sixteenths divided by nine and five-eighths? Child’s play. To Dawkins, the answer seemed obvious without having to think about it. It just appeared before him like a vision. Geography, religious instruction, and the history of England’s glorious victories at sea – none of these interested him. But numbers? In numbers Dawkins saw redemption – a pathway to betterment.

It was during this time that Dawkins discovered that, after a lifetime of picking pockets, information was more valuable than pilfered trinkets.

Like so many of the convicts on their voyage to Australia, Dawkins was afflicted occasionally with loosened bowels.

Returning from one of his numerous trips to the head, deep below decks at the bow of the ship, Dawkins passed by a storeroom, its door slightly ajar. Inside the room, a convict and two sailors were furtively pouring spirits from a large earthenware jar into smaller bottles. Dawkins backed away silently from the door and slipped into shadow. He had recognized the convict and had heard one of the sailors referred to as Pug, probably because of his squashed-in nose.

A shiny sixpence a dram, my mates, said the convict, his voice harsh. These men’ll pay over their pittance for an extra drop.

Nay, a shillin’, chuckled the sailor, Pug. They’ll be gaspin’.

Sweet Jesus, hissed the third man. Keep your damned voices down, and hurry. It’ll be the cat for sure if we’re caught.

Silent as a shadow, Dawkins slipped away and made his way back to the classroom.

For the rest of the morning, Dawkins mulled over what he had seen and overheard. He