The Conviction Of Hope

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The Conviction Of Hope - book excerpt

Chapter 1

London 6th April 1785

“Case number 449 JAMES BRYAN CULLIEN (sic) indicted for feloniously stealing, on the 12th day of March last, one pair of thickset breeches, value 1s. 6d. two cloth coats, value 18s. one fustian waistcoat, value 2s 6d. one pair of leather boots, value 6s. one pair of leather breeches, value 10s. 6d. one pair of cotton stockings, value 2s. one linen shirt, value 1s. one pair of leather shoes, value 5s. one pair of worsted stockings, value 3s. and three muslin neckcloths, value 3s. the property of John Crandell; two cotton caps, value 2s. one woollen cloth, value 1s. one silk and cotton waistcoat, value 12s. three cotton waistcoats, value 19s. three pair of worsted stockings, value 7s. three pair of worsted stockings, value 6s. one pair of breeches, value 17s. one linen shirt, value 6s. two handkerchiefs, value 1s. one pair of silver knee buckles, value 5s. one pair of leather shoes, value 5s. and one silk handkerchief, value 2s. the property of John Shingler.”

At forty-three, James Bryan Cullen was past his prime. Walking into the court room at the Old Bailey, determined to appear frail and elicit pity from the judge, he played on the features of age. Dropping his shoulders he stooped, and limped into the dock. Shoved by a guard, he fabricated a coughing fit.

Cullen fidgeted while the bailiff read the charges against him. Difficult to get his defence to sound plausible, in his own head he knew convincing the judge would be difficult, especially since John Crandell, someone he thought he could trust, squealed like a pig.

Directed by the judge to ask his questions of the witnesses, Cullen rested his hands on the edge of the dock, pretending he needed its support to stay upright, dropping his head lower and lower.

‘Are you well?’ the judge asked

Cullen nodded.

‘Get on with your questions then.’

Cullen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He knew the gavel would bang on the bench with the word “guilty” echoing in its wake. But the sentence of seven years to Africa had him clinging to the edge of the dock, willing his hands to stop shaking.

The bowels of the prison hulk Ceres reeked of desperation, fear and hopelessness. Cullen could see his breath against the darkness of the walls. Breathing faster because of his own dread, he looked around to see if others in the group were doing the same. Smoke-like puffs of breath left the mouths of all the men dumped below deck on the rotting old ship. The scurrying of rats as feet shifted on the cold floor added to the terror.

They were to sleep on straw on the floor. No pillow, no mattress. Cullen held the blanket they had given him up to the light, wondering how much warmth a threadbare piece of wool would offer. One privy bucket in the corner to service all the men crammed into a space designed for half as many, was already overflowing. Cullen made his way to the side of the old ship trying to steal a breath of air from the outside: the stench of vomit, urine and shit seeped into his skin.

At the ringing of the morning bell the convicts, backs aching from lying on the floor and necks cramping from the draughts creeping through the cracks in the hulk’s sides, struggled to their feet. The hatch opened and a drizzling rain filtered in through the morning light. A wave of anticipation moved through the men. It rolled along carrying with it the hope of a reprieve from the suffocating odours that cloaked them. The mood lightened. But when guards did not appear to unlock the door to the cage, the hope flittered away through the open hatch.

Cullen turned to the boy standing next to him, a young boy, still with the faint look of hope in his eyes. ‘Do you know what’s to happen?’

‘No more than you. Haven’t even had a chance to say goodbye to me ma.’

‘I’ve got no one to worry about saying goodbye to, the woman I called my wife turned on me at the trial to save her own skin. Can’t blame her I suppose. Name’s James Cullen.’

‘John Carney. You goin’ to Africa?’

‘That’s what the judge said. Sentenced to Africa for seven years. No one has come back from Africa, you know. I’m thinking I might have to do myself in before I get there.’

‘I don’t want to die in Africa, either.’

‘How old are you, John?’

‘Born in 1769 in winter. Don’t know. Can you work it out?’

The rage that bubbled up in his gut as Cullen worked out the boy was sixteen and had been in custody since he was thirteen, threatened to lurch out of his mouth like vomit. Taking control of himself Cullen told the boy he was sixteen. ‘I’m old enough to be your father, lad. I don’t’ have a son of my own, so if you like, I’ll do my best to look out for you.’

The hatch opened every day for five days; it was the only way to judge the passing of time. On the fifth morning Cullen cast a wary eye at John Carney. The lad looked sickly on the first day, today his pale face was dotted with red blotches, his eyes sunk into their sockets, and he stooped like an old man when standing and walking.

‘You’re not looking fit, John.’

Carney shrugged. ‘I’ve been sickly most of my life. The time spent in the gaol in London sucked any of the health I had left, right out of me. There’s nothing I can draw on. And without my Ma’s remedies and cooked suppers, I don’t know how long I’ll last. Ma brought food to me in prison when she could. I don’t see myself making it to Africa.’

Lumbering down the steps from the upper deck a guard yelled orders ‘Get ye up and get ye stuff. Ye goin’ to the hulk Censor, while ye wait to go off on ye merry way to Africa.’

The thirty men held below for five days climbed the ladder to clean air. Cullen moved his hand to shield his eyes from the crisp light of a London winter.

‘Put ye hand down, ye no good convict,’ yelled a guard with a cudgel. The weapon landed on Cullen’s arm with a thump that vibrated up towards his head.

His first response, to hit the guard in the face, made its way down his arm almost to his already clenched fist. Hearing orders from beyond the line of prisoners ahead of him, he unclenched his fist and took deep breaths to calm himself. Hitting the guard would mean lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails, and probably a death sentence. Forcing his fingers to relax, Cullen shuffled with the other prisoners to the edge of the hulk’s deck.

The transfer from the Ceres to the Censor, both anchored on the Thames at Woolwich took the best part of the day. Cullen supported John Carney when he could. Owned privately and under contract to the British Government, the prison hulk Censor, like the Ceres was a floating dungeon. As his eyes became used to the dark below deck, despair settled in the pit of Cullen’s stomach; there were twice as many men on this vessel, confined to the same amount of space.

‘Listen up you vagabonds,’ a voice roared from the top of the steps which led to fresh air and freedom. ‘On Ceres we gave you a linen shirt, brown jacket and breeches. You’ll get a new set each year. We don’t know how long you’ll be here. You are all going to West Africa and when you need to know, we’ll tell you. While you’re on the prison hulk Censor you’ll work. This time of year, winter, you’ll work seven hours a day. In summer it’ll be ten to twelve hours. You’ll work on either river cleaning projects, stone-collecting, timber cutting or embankment and dockyard work. If you prove you can’t be trusted, you will do this work in chains and be fettered twenty-four hours a day. Best make sure you eat the food you’re given; you’ll need your strength to work. You’ll get two pints of ale four days a week.’

Finished with his instructions, the man attached to the voice disappeared into fresh air and freedom. The hatch closed behind him. While their eyes readjusted to the darkness Cullen listened. He could hear some men sobbing, some dry retching, some mumbling to themselves and others speaking quietly to those around them.

Moving to stand next to Cullen, John Carney asked him what was to happen to them.

‘I don’t know, lad. All we can do is work where and when we’re told, keep out of their way, and not get flogged or fettered.’

‘I’ve already been in custody since July 1782, James. I got seven years in Africa instead of being hanged. It’s already been three years.’

Putting his arm around John, Cullen pulled him in close. ‘I know lad, it’s not right. We’ll keep looking for the opportunity to do ourselves in rather than go to Africa.’

Chapter 2

Last week of February, 1787

Looking at John Carney’s sunken eyes, grey skin and lank, thinning hair, James Cullen wiped a tear from his eye. The lad’s health had deteriorated in the last two years. ‘Even though I’ve done most of his work and given him food from my plate, he looks like he’s dying.’

‘What’s the matter James?’

‘Nothing. Musta got something in my eye today, it’s a bit sore.’

Carney’s next comment was stifled before it left his mouth; one of the hulk’s senior guards stood outside the locked cell door calling for attention.

‘We are goin’ to be rid of ye all come tomorrow. Ye’ll be put on wagons in the mornin’ and taken to Portsmouth. Ye’ll be shackled all the way. Don’t want none of ye thinkin’ ye can make a run for it. And just in case ye haven’t got wind of it yet, the government has closed the West Africa post. Ye’ll going to New South Wales.’

The men closest to the steps heard the guard cackle as he climbed back to his authorised fresh air.

When Cullen looked at John’s face, he imagined looking in a mirror. Horror, fear, terror, were etched on the boy’s brow and around the corners of his mouth. ‘It will be all right, John. At least we’re not going to Africa.’

‘I’ve never heard of the place. What did he say?’ Carney’s voice croaked with the dryness brought about by dread.

‘He said New South Wales. All I know is Captain James Cook claimed some place ten or so years ago at the arse end of the earth for the King and called it New South Wales. It’s a long way.’

Cullen sat on the wooden floor that used to be covered with straw and now leached the lost lives of men and boys condemned to the other side of the world. ‘At least it’s not Africa,’ he said again.

‘Get up.’ The guard’s irritating screech pierced the quiet. ‘Line up near the steps.’

Cullen was awake. Worrying about what lay ahead and how John would cope nagged at his mind and kept him tossing most of the night. The threads of fear worked their way behind his eyes and pulsed there in a relenting throb of pain.

‘Make sure you got all your belongings. You ain’t comin’ back.’

Cullen got to his knees and pushed himself to a standing position. Lying on the floor for two years had made his back and knees creak like the old ship. He pushed John in front and shuffled behind him into the line.

John, remembering a trinket of his mother’s made to collect it from his sleeping space on the floor. Noticing the guard raise his cudgel, Cullen pulled the lad back.

‘I have to get something of my Ma’s,’ Carney complained.

‘You can’t lad. He was about to thrash you. I don’t want you dying on this shit heap. You must keep it in your heart.’

Waiting for them at the top of the steps were rusted fetters and chains. When Cullen’s were fitted, he couldn’t stand up straight. Bent over like an old man with a hunch back he crawled and slid down the rope ladder that led to the tenders. The skin peeled off his palms as he tried to steady himself on the rungs. Above and below him, unable to coordinate their hands and feet and manage the chains, men fell into the inky water of the Thames. No attempt was made to rescue them. Cullen could hear John Carney, below him on the ladder, praying with each step that if he slipped, God would take him quickly.

Too tired, wet and terrified to complain, the prisoners slumped on their hands and knees on the floor of the small boats as their keepers took them ashore.

Thirty open horse-drawn wagons lined up in a convoy on the other side of the dock area. The rattling of chains and shackles as the broken souls made their way across the dockside area to their assigned transport echoed through the silence of the early morning.

Climbing into their assigned wagon, Carney collapsed on the floor. A cudgel meant for the young lad thumped on Cullen’s back as he bent to help John to his feet. Gasping for air, Cullen ignored the pain in his back, put his arms under Carney’s and lifted him to his seat. Sitting on the bench next to his young friend, Cullen leaned forward, head in his hands, trying to control the pain.

Once the provisions for the three-day journey to Portsmouth were loaded, guards chained the prisoners in place. From a position high above, they watched over their consignment of felons.

Pulled by four horses, the wagons lurched forward, leaving Woolwich in a cloud of dust. A sadness not felt since his father died, closed Cullen’s throat and made it impossible to swallow. Looking back towards London, the grey pall that hung over the city and the port, mirrored in the colour of the Thames, seeped into his soul. ‘One way or another I won’t be coming back.’

With ice clinging to its edges, the wind penetrated the threadbare rags hanging on Cullen’s shrinking frame. Looking along the line of fellow prisoners, he knew he wasn’t suffering alone. Sitting next to him, Carney shivered so violently Cullen thought his teeth would fall out. ‘Here, lad. Move in close. That’s all I can offer you.’ Cullen wanted to put his arm around John to warm him, but with his own arms chained, closeness and an encouraging word would have to do.

As darkness and misery descended on the first day of travel the prisoners were unchained from the floor of the wagon and led, still shackled feet and wrists, into a large barn next to a highway inn.

Glancing over his shoulder at the welcoming, warm light coming through the windows of the inn, Cullen could hear the conversations and laughter of normal travellers. He wondered if he would ever again be a man free to travel where and when it suited him.

Dropping to his knees, Cullen managed to turn and sit on the floor with his legs slightly bent in front of him. The chains didn’t allow his legs to straighten and his knees throbbed from being in the same position all day. The skin around his wrists was broken and rubbing raw from the pressure of the cuffs.

‘At least the straw is clean,’ John said while positioning himself next to Cullen.

Cullen lay on his side on the straw, knees pounding, back aching, head throbbing.

‘Three days,’ thought Cullen watching the ships anchored at Portsmouth come into view. ‘It feels like three hundred.’ His eye travelled along the line of the other twenty-nine men shackled to the floor of the wagon. Ignoring John Carney who sat next to him, Cullen took in each man’s bearing and colour. To a man their faces were grey, their mouths flopped open trying to get air into their folded lungs and their wrists were red raw and bruised. ‘We have lost all hope.’

Although no force was required to remove the felons from the wagons onto the dock at Portsmouth, incorrigible, power hungry guards raised cudgels to strike the backs of those who moved too slowly, groaned, or complained. The prisoners lined up along the dock with their backs to the sea.

Walking up and down the line of felons, his hands clasped behind his back, the marine in charge spat his commands at the men.

‘I am Captain John Marshall, the master of Scarborough. You will be loaded on to my ship for the journey to New South Wales. However, there has been a delay in the fitting of the cells below deck so we will house you on HMS Gorgon until Scarborough is ready. The remaining chains will be removed once you are on board HMS Gorgon.’

Finished his lecture, Marshall strode away from his charges.

The quarter deck of HMS Gorgon was scrubbed and organised. Cullen leaned against Carney to get his attention, ‘It’s not a prison hulk.’ Allowing his heart a glimmer of hope that their time on this ship might be bearable, he managed a smile.

The Gorgon’s captain stood in front of the convicts, back straight, uniform impeccable, a threatening look in his eyes. While he rambled on about the rules and punishments, about cleanliness and responsibility, Cullen watched the spittle fly from his mouth whenever he used “sh”, which was often. He noticed the right side of the captain’s lip curl up when he looked at the men and he put a kerchief over his mouth when one coughed or sneezed.

When the speech finished, Cullen understood the ship was much more important to its captain, than the souls who would call it home for the next few months. The only comment Cullen remembered was that guards would remove the chains and fetters.

The time spent on HMS Gorgon gave the men an opportunity to regain some dignity and to physically recover from the depravations of the hulks. Down on his aching knees on the floor, Cullen scrubbed the boards of the sleeping quarters; even though getting up and down was an effort, the resulting cleanliness had improved the health of the inmates. The food although bland, was filling and most prisoners had gained a little weight. John Carney had colour in his face, fullness to his hair, and purpose in his walk. The stay on HMS Gorgon healed bodies, some souls, and a few minds. But Cullen’s mind filled with the dread of the unknown.