Never to Return

Copyright © 2014 by Marjorie Mcardell Davey.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-4990-1271-2

              eBook           978-1-4990-1272-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Original cover artwork by Marlon Zarins

Front cover photography by Yolanda Zarins

Back cover photography of author by Genevieve Davey

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/28/2014

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Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

"

for all my children"

Foreword

The story begins with the protagonist 14 year old Fred Smith, and sixty-six other boys on the sailing ship that would bring them to Van Diemen’s Land. The boys had fallen foul of the law, many with minor offences, and had been sent out to the new colony to serve time till they were eighteen. They would then be released if they had committed no further offences, but were forbidden never to return to England.

They arrived at Point Puer, Van Diemen’s Land opposite the Port Arthur penal colony, were discipline was strict and hard labor the order of the day. For boys who were unused to discipline, this and the lack of freedom was hard to bear. For some it became an intolerable burden, so they tried all means of escape. It was only when the system changed and probation to an employer took place that he was sent to the mainland and a chance came to escape.

He took this opportunity but with scant knowledge of this new wild, country he would not have survived. He had heard that savage blacks, probably cannibals, infested the forest, along with wild animals and poisonous snakes. His luck changed when he met and befriended a young, aboriginal boy who had been separated from his own family, due to the notorious Black-line that had swept the island State rounding up all the aborigines.

Together they made for the north of the island, Fred hoping to board a ship for mainland Australia. Whilst they boys were together, they dodged settlers, shepherds, bushrangers, and the ever-present risk of soldiers. His aboriginal companion would make for the east coast where he hoped some remnants of his mob might have escaped death or capture and transportation to Flinders Island.

In the meantime Fred’s attitude had changed somewhat: from ‘every man for himself ’to the sharing everything with his aboriginal companion. A bizarre set of circumstances led to him being taken on board a ship which would take him to Port Phillip. Never to return.

Chapter 1

Fred wakened in darkness. He felt the narrow bunk tilting, sliding, so that he was sliding with it, down, down till his feet pressed against the footboard. There was a moment when terror gripped him. The fear of dying, trapped as he was, like all the others. No way of escape. Fear of drowning in those icy green depths. He grabbed for the side rail. Gripped it. Then a shudder shook the ship, and he felt it beginning to rise again. He felt his heart slowing from its scurrying pace, and he could breathe again. Just a storm, he thought, as the vessel dipped again, seeming hell-bent on diving headfirst to the bottom of the sea. The violent pitching had woken him. Now that he was fully awake he could anticipate the moment when the ship would begin to right itself, creaking and groaning in all its ancient timbers. It would rise with each mighty roller, pause, then that fearful descent. But it’ll come up again, he comforted himself. It always has.

His breathing had steadied. His heart slowly resumed its normal beat, instead of hammering at his ribs in the pitch darkness of the low-ceilinged wooden space he seemed to be the only one awake. If someone else had shared his terror, had spoken, they could have laughed it off, pretended they were not scared. But Charlie, beside him, was still sleeping. He shared his narrow bunk with Charlie Barnes, whose skinny legs were entangled with his own. Fred was small, uncertain of his age, and had been given the approximate age of thirteen by the magistrate who had sentenced him. That same magistrate had decided that Charlie Barnes was twelve. Fred was pleased that he had been allotted Charlie to share his bunk, as he took up less space than most of the other sixty-six boys who were crammed into what had been a cargo hold, but was now their living quarters on the six months voyage to Van Diemen’s Land.

He tried to untangle his cramped and chilly legs without waking Charlie; not from any consideration for the other boy, but knowing that once awake he would move and take up more of the scant space they shared. Things always seemed worse at night, he thought now, as the ship kept up its pitching, rising with each wave and descending with a force that had not the boys been so tightly packed, they would risk being thrown out of their narrow bunks. He cautiously slid a hand down the side farthest from Charlie and scratched the itching lumps on his thigh that the bedbugs had left. He dozed awhile, trying to put off facing another day in the crowded conditions, reeking of ordure, urine and vomit, as the hatches had been closed throughout the days of storm.

Stinks were part of life. In the narrow alleys where his life had been spent, with open sewers carrying their burden of human and animal waste to the river, stinks were just something that was always there. Crowded conditions were another fact of life. But he had been free—free to roam wherever he chose; free as the rats and sparrows that shared his life as a scavenger in the sprawling, bustling city. Always hungry, often cold, with chilblained feet and fingers, but free. He had been careless. For the first time he had been caught, and held. Caught with his hand in the coat tail pocket of what had seemed a harmless old gentleman, but had turned out to be a decoy for a peeler. The not so old gent who would turn on him, hold him till the police grabbed him and now he was here, with all the other boys who had been careless or perhaps unfortunate. On a ship bound for the other side of the world, to a place called Van Diemen’s Land, to serve out his time till he was eighteen in some sort of gaol, and ordered never to return. Fred was roused from his drowsing by the sound of the hatches being thrown open and a loud voice shouting, ‘Wake up! Yer lot o’ layabouts! Sharpish now! Yer’ve ’ad enough o’doin’ nothin’. Yers got to work today.’

He realised that the ship was steadier now, its pitching lessened to a sideways rolling. With groans and grumblings the boys tumbled out of bunks to mill around the small space fetid with vomit and spilt food. They had always slept in their clothes for warmth and to guard against having clothes stolen while they slept. Those that had boots had taken the precaution of taking these into their bunks, so boots were hurriedly pulled on.

Orders were shouted. ‘All youse bigger boys will clean up this pigsty. Youse tiddlies ’as ter line up on deck. Yer goin’ ter wash yerselves. First time ever I’ll be bound. Jump to it! Hup that ladder!’ Seamen were waiting with buckets, brushes and mops—and vinegar, as the last of the boys climbed the ladder. Fred wrinkled his nose. ‘W’ot’s that smell?’ he asked.’ Sour. Worse’n the sick.’ ‘Vinegar’, replied Charlie. ‘They use it ter kill things.’ ‘Them bedbugs, I ’opes’ said Fred. The boys formed a line. From below came the sounds of activity as the older boys went to work to scrape and swill the filth that had accumulated in their quarters, accompanied by much grumbling. They knew better than to refuse to work, with two burly guards keeping watch at the top of the ladder. Buckets of refuse were hauled up to be thrown overboard, floors scrubbed, then swilled with vinegar. Meanwhile the smaller boys were edging closer to a line of tubs filled with seawater. A misty sun had just risen over a grey sea, but the waves had abated, and the wind had dropped to an occasional chill breeze.

‘Take off yer jackets,’ came the order. They obeyed, then took off shirts, leaving them standing in the chill air in breeches rolled up to the knee. ‘Nah then,’ yelled one of the guards, ‘Yer’ll wash yer ‘air, then yer bodies.’As each one came abreast of a tub, he picked up from the deck a bar of coarse soap, dipped his head in a tub and soaped his hair. One boy ahead was slow getting started, so was seized by the guard, and his head ducked and held under. He came up spluttering and bawling, to the laughter of the other boys and the guards.

Charlie, ahead of Fred, wasted no time in hair washing, but Fred had a problem. He had taken off jacket and shirt, and tossed them on the heap to be washed, but still had on a woollen undershirt. This was a garment originally many sizes too big for him. At some time in the past, a woman—an aunt?—had pulled it over his head when he had gone back to the room where she lived suffering a heavy cold. Had stitched it firmly to fit his skinny frame, sewing it in folds with heavy thread. He had not had it off since, and had come to think of it as a second skin. As he hesitated at the tub, a guard seized him, ripped off the shirt, and plunged his head deep into the tub of salt, soapy water. He opened his mouth to protest and swallowed a mouthful of the foul brew, as the guard rubbed soap into his hair and ducked him again. When he recovered his breath and hastily washed his upper body, then tried to dry it with a cloth damp from many usages, he looked for his undershirt. ‘Where is it? Me wool shirt? I’ll catch me death wivout it!’ he howled. The guards roared with laughter. ‘Yer’ll never git that rag clean again’ one man said. ‘Here matey, gimme a length o’line. We’ll sling it overboard and drag it be’ind the ship for a day or so. Some o’ the muck might wash offen it by then!’

The undershirt was unearthed, and thrown overboard, tied to a rope. Fred protested loudly, but was sternly ordered to begin washing his cast off shirt. With shirts spread to dry, and the blankets put to air, the ordeal of washing was over. Fred was never to see his undershirt again. When he complained of its loss, he received varied replies. A shark ate it, said one. That same shark had been seen floating belly-up, said another, poisoned, no doubt by the filth on the shirt. Seabirds had been seen fighting over it, taking it for a lump of rotting fish. He had come to accept that the shirt had probably just been lost, as had other clothing treated the same way. From then on, the boys were lined up twice a week when the weather permitted, to wash their bodies and shirts. Fred’s first experience had given him such a loathing of washing that he dreaded washdays, but there was no escape from them as long as the voyage continued.

The cargo of boys was made up of many age groups, some as young as nine or ten. These fared the worst. Although both Fred and Charlie were small they were listed as average thirteen and twelve year-olds. Charlie was skinny, tow-haired, and pale faced with almost colourless brows and lashes and eyes of pale blue. Fred had a shock of brown hair, brown eyes, and a body thin but wirey, as his life on the streets for as long as he could remember had made him not only streetwise but as agile as a cat. He had learned that his survival depended on himself alone. He was expert at snatching up food from street stalls and shops. He would steal anything that was food or could be traded for food. He had also learned that when a fight threatened, usually over stolen goods, it was best to get in first with one hard blow to a belly, then run. Now, with nowhere to run to, he had to learn new tricks.

There were gangs among the boys. Biggest and most aggressive of the leaders was a lad named Jack Maumill, who terrorised the smaller and more timid of the boys. Several of his front teeth were broken—a legacy of the many fights he had been in. No other of the gangs would take on Jack’s, so it seemed to Fred that if he could be included in Maumill’s gang, he would have some protection. But Jack was choosey. He only admitted boys whom he could use. Each of the boys were given duties to keep them occupied. They had to keep their quarters as clean as possible, help the cooks in the galley, distribute meals and wash dishes and the heavy iron pots and boilers used to prepare meals for the boys. Several of the boys were also given duties in seeing to the needs of the officers and seamen.

These were much sought after jobs, not easy to obtain; scoffed at by some of the more unruly of the boys as boot-licking, but they had the advantage of a means of leaving the overcrowded quarters, even for short periods. Fred thought long about his plans to get accepted by Jack’s gang. If he could become one of the trusties who waited on the officers, that would be an influence. It was common talk that those boys could pick up extra food—better food than that served to the boys. He turned his attention to being always as neat as their conditions allowed; to slicking his hair back from his forehead with water, instead of allowing it to flop almost covering his eyes. He practiced his long disused smile. There had never been much to smile about in his short life; and he kept in mind his ‘yes, sir’s’ if he was ever spoken to by an officer. In a short time his efforts were rewarded. The third mate wanted a boy to clean the tiny cabin he shared with another officer; in particular he wanted his bedding aired regularly to discourage bedbugs. So when he selected a boy at random, and that boy actually met his eyes and ventured an uncertain smile, as well as answering ‘Yes, sir!’ to his command to clean his cabin, the job was Fred’s.

The officers ate together. They usually cleaned up their plates. Anything left over was eaten by the cook. There was not much chance of pilfering food to satisfy Jack Maumill. But Jack, ever alert, approached Fred as soon as he finished his first shift in the officers’ quarters. ‘Yer’ll be gettin’ hextra grub now’ he said, with that gap-toothed grin.’It’s good manners ter share, yer know.’ Fred gulped. ‘There don’t seem much chance o’ that’, he blurted out. Jack seized him by the collar and shook him.’ Yer’ll share wiv me!’ he hissed. ‘Them officers don’t leave nuffin.’ Fred managed to gasp out. ‘Well, yer can get somethin’. What abart baccy?’ ‘They keeps it locked hup.’ ‘Yer just waits till they leave it unlocked. I could do wiv a nice bit o’chewin’ baccy. ‘Yer gets me some an’ I can see yer right wiv the others.’ He gave Fred a final shake, and went off. Now it was spelled out.

If he could pinch a bit of food or tobacco, he would be accepted into Jack Maumill’s gang. In a few days’ time, while he was tidying the officer’s bunk, Fred’s eyes lighted on a plug of tobacco just sitting there in