The Convict Ship, Volume 3 (of 3)

by William Clark Russell

Will gave him the number.

Tom made a grimace of pity, folded his arms and stood, with a stern face, watching what was happening in the gangway.

Mr. Bates was showing the convicts how to rig the accommodation-ladder over the side. I looked at Tom, and particularly noticed the change in his face, just as I had felt and witnessed the change in his nature and bearing. That change I had before observed, but not so clearly. The light was searching. He stood in repose, forgetting himself and viewing the proceedings on the main-deck. He was pale and thin and ill and haggard, yet his manly beauty lacked none of its old charms. Nay, there was a gain, I thought. He seemed the handsomer because of the severity of his expression. There was a fierceness that gave his lineaments a heroic cast. Suffering had deepened and accentuated all that was manly in his looks by an infusion of sternness that wanted not in scorn and haughtiness.

When all was ready with the long-boat, the armed convicts formed themselves into a lane betwixt the open gangway and the hatchway. They fell in with the precision of soldiers to the cries which commanded them, and stood erect and orderly, every man letting the butt of his musket rest upon the deck. A crowd of men, many of them armed with the small-arms which they had found in the ship, gathered around the main-hatch and obstructed the view. A fellow, with a fiddle in his hand, climbed on the bulwark-rail close to the yawn of the gangway, and putting the fiddle into his neck, screwed out a tune. He was the convict who used to play the prisoners round the decks at exercise. When the mass of felons heard this music, they burst into a great shout of laughter. Such a wild, dreadful shout of merriment has seldom gone up out of human throats. The few remaining revellers in the cuddy tumbled drunkenly out on the quarter-deck on hearing the fiddle and the shouts, and rent the air with another hideous burst of laughter.

I heard a man bawl instructions down the main-hatchway, but could not catch what he said. Abram and some others roared out an order for silence, and, tipsy as a number of them were, as great a stillness fell upon the convicts as ever had been observed in their time of discipline.

The first to come up was Doctor Russell-Ellice; he was dressed as a convict, and I did not recognise him until Will cried out. He was immediately followed by Captain Sutherland, who had also been forced into the felon’s garb. Next came Captain Barrett, dressed as a convict; then the sergeant and the soldiers of the guard, most of whom were habited in the prison apparel, though some were without coats. Neither the doctor nor the officers looked to right or left. They kept their eyes fastened upon the deck, and so passed through the rows of armed criminals to the gangway. Nothing was to be heard but the insulting squeaking music of the fiddle. The hush upon the great throng of men made the scene tragically impressive. I felt a deep pity for Captain Sutherland, and asked Tom in a whisper if his influence could not keep the poor fellow on board that he might escape with us if we got away; but Tom, without looking at me, held up his hand to warn me not to speak.

I went to the side and looked down at the long-boat. She was a large, roomy fabric, and sat high and buoyant despite her liberal equipment of food and water. These passed into her: the surgeon, the commander of the vessel, Captain Barrett, and eighteen soldiers, two of their number having been killed. They were all, as I have said, habited as convicts; and now I observed the degrading effect of the prison-dress upon the person, for the doctor, Captain Barrett, and most of the soldiers looked as sorry a set of rogues as any that were in the ship, and needed but irons and the barber to make you suppose them criminals of the most desperate kind.

A pause in the proceedings happened when the last of the soldiers had passed down the ladder and entered the boat. Abram shouted to the fiddler to stop his noise. So great was the silence among the convicts that everything said clearly reached the ear. The prize-fighter went into the gangway and looked over, and, turning to some of the people whom I had taken to be among the chiefs and ringleaders, called out: ‘There is roob for as bady agaid.’

Tom and Will came to the rail and looked down at the boat. The doctor sat in the stern-sheets with arms folded and head bowed. He exhibited no signs of life. Captain Sutherland’s posture was that of a crushed and broken-hearted man. I grieved and could have wept and entreated for the poor fellow; he was a good, harmless sailor, an excellent seaman, and his usage was barbarous, seeing that the convicts had no other cause to punish him and revenge themselves than his being in command of the ship.

When Abram called out as I have just said, Captain Barrett sprang to his feet and shouted: ‘Where are my men’s wives and children? You’re not going to send us adrift without them, are you?’