One Night In Sydney Cove

I have written this story for the one night in XXX story event. Thanks to Chloe Tzang for generating and organising the event and inviting anyone to enter. Please excuse any mistakes - I was racing against the clock to get this one finished.

***

6 February, 1788

Eleven ships have now been sitting at anchor in the sheltered waters of Port Jackson at the infant colony of New South Wales for two full weeks. The ships have travelled more than 15,000 miles across the oceans, carrying a human cargo of condemned men and women, most of whom have begun building a rudimentary penal settlement on the shores of Sydney Cove - an inlet of the harbour where the ships can berth close to shore and fresh water is aplenty. However, 189 females have been held on board the ships, most likely to keep the males focused on building their new home. These women are finally disembarking today.

Arthur Bowes Smyth, surgeon of the transport ship Lady Penrhyn will later write of this day in his journal:

"At five o'clock this morning all things were got in order for landing the whole of the women and three of the ships longboats came alongside us to receive them. Previous to their quitting the ship a strict search was made to try if any of the many things which they had stolen on board could be found, but their artifice eluded the most strict search and about six o'clock p.m. we had the long wished for pleasure of seeing the last of them leave the ship.

They were dressed in general very clean and some few amongst them might be said to be well dressed. The men convicts got to them very soon after they landed, and it is beyond my abilities to give a just description of the scene of debauchery and riot that ensued during the night. They had not been landed more than an hour before they had all got their tents pitched or anything in order to receive them, but there came on the most violent storm of thunder, lightning and rain I ever saw. The lightning was incessant during the whole night and I never heard it rain faster."

But right now it is late in the afternoon, on the cusp of evening, and still light despite the best efforts of the thick black clouds building over the mountains in the west to obscure the sun. And if you cast your eyes east across the calm waters of Sydney Cove you'll pick out the transport ship, Charlotte, moored among the other ships, with her red painted hull. She's the one with the boat leaving her side, right now. You can probably hear the voice of the coxswain drifting across the water as he bellows unnecessarily loud commands at the oarsmen, telling them to bring the boat about and row to the western shore of the cove. A keener eye may even notice the six women dressed in petticoats sitting on the benches between the oarsmen. The final load of women convicts from the First Fleet are coming ashore!

***

Dear Lord above, please make this moment last forever, because I can almost believe sitting in the centre of the ship's boat while burly sailors row us silently to shore is a pleasant experience. Almost. They row us away from the hell of the ship which has been my home for the past nine months, but at least I was familiar with that particular hell and all it entailed. I don't know what new hell we are to be delivered and so this boat ride is a temporary reprieve.

Closing my eyes to the world, the gentle bobbing of the boat feels tranquil, but just now the great white birds fly over with their awful screech assaulting my ears, startling me back to reality, as if they were sent by the Devil himself to destroy any calm I might savour. Captain Tench of the Marines calls the loud white birds 'cockatoos' and he takes delight in their antics when they fly by our ship, but they were surely sent by Lucifer to taunt us with the awful noise they make. Opening my eyes, and I'm still in the boat, looking up at the ship's red side looming over us.

The cockatoo's seemingly playful flight draws my attention, causing me to crane my head around in the direction of our boats travel, catching sight of the devil birds as they land in a scraggly orange-trunked tree, where they begin to shriek the loudest and most terrible raucous shriek I've ever heard any creature make.

As their awful harsh voices carries across the water, it's not hard to imagine the cockatoos are mocking us because I'm sure they know the next chapter in our lives, for below their perch are rows of the white canvas tents we will surely call home on this lonely shore. The tents contrast against the surrounding grey rocks and orange and grey trunked trees with their dull green-grey leaves drooping in the late afternoon light.

Mary Cleaver, sitting stiff backed on the bench next to me with her infant son James held to her breast, takes my hand and squeezes as I try to close my mind to fear, lest I fall into despair. I daren't show my fear and have mastered a face of stone so as not to betray my feelings of horror. I wish I were more stoic, like so many of my companions, but I do not know what will become of us. Like I said, I already know the horrors of the ship we leave behind all too well, and though I learnt to survive, I don't want to think what awaits us next. I know of what the convicts, the sailors, and marines are capable of, but I do not know the natives or anything about this foreign land.

The transport ship

Charlotte

, our former home, is further away now, and I focus my attention on my companions sitting on the bench in front of me, all of us facing the rear of the small boat where the coxswain sits lazily, occasionally looking at us with a smile. Ann Beardsley, who is among the gentlest and kindest of the women convicts, and Jane Fitzgerald, sitting at the rear of the boat, facing away from me. They're holding hands like Mary and me, and I can imagine they are thinking similar thoughts to my own: what horrors does the future hold for us now?

The seamen row steadily onward, their oars biting the water with a regular rhythm, and finally Mary relaxes her grip on my hand. I think of Charlotte Ware and Elizabeth Bason, sitting on the bench behind us, closer to the front of the boat, and feel somewhat comforted by their presence. I can afford to relax for a moment, again closing my eyes and I'm transported to the fleeting tranquil place between two hells out here on the water. My mind wanders, thinking about my fall from grace and long journey at sea, of nine or so months. Is this voyage in the ship's boat the beginning of my rebirth or taking me on to my next step of purgatory?

Many days ago I thought our journey may end when our ships laid anchor in a great bay, half a day's sail from here. It were fourteen days ago if Mary Broad is to be believed, and she likes to keep track of these things, so I do believe her. But after two days at anchor the Commodore Arthur Phillip decided to quit the bay and sailed us here instead, several hours away, to this vast harbour.

Mr White, our surgeon on the

Charlotte

, told me he believed the anchorage and the land here in this harbour are superior to the great bay, and he even said to me this is the finest harbour in all the universe. I'd joked with him he'd not seen the entire universe and he'd given me a smile and said he were sure I'd go far in this new land. But we women went nowhere as the men were unloaded, I suppose so we didn't distract them at their labours. I'm not sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

Then today Captain Gilbert, master of the

Charlotte

, promised we'd go ashore. He said it with relish, clearly delighted to be soon rid of us. He made the order for us to gather on the deck at first light, to prepare to disembark. Some of my companions, including Elizabeth Thackery, who we all call Betty and who prides herself to be the biggest trouble maker on board, were hustled immediately into the boat and taken ashore. I believe Captain Gilbert was most glad to see Betty leave his ship.

Indeed, it appeared he sent the most troublesome of our number ashore in that first boat, and we watched from afar as Betty jumped from the boat and into the arms of waiting men, followed closely by her other companions, who all disappeared into the ravenous crowd, who even from our station on the deck of the ship appeared to anticipate feminine company like a cat pouncing on a mouse emerging from its hole. However, I like to imagine it was Betty who was the cat among the mice this day and I wish I could be more like her when it came to dealing with the menfolk. She certainly has a knack for these things.

For some reason we remaining few sat on deck through the day, seeking shelter below one of the ship's masts, trying to find any shade we could from the ferocious sun, waiting our turn as we sweltered, dreading the boats but knowing they'd surely come back. Thank the Lord some sailors put up a sail to shade us at the recommendation of Mr White, because the sun here burns our skin red, like murder. Several other groups were taken ashore, but our boats were tasked elsewhere and so me and my companions in this very boat waited the longest. We are the final load of the day, or so we're told.

And now the shoreline is close, near where tents sit among trees, all set below a rise of grey rock above, behind which the sun is retreating and black clouds are forming, and some men are gathered to watch our progress. I shudder, because I honestly have no idea what to make of my new home. They call this land 'New South Wales', and though I never seen the Old South Wales, if it were anything like my home back in York, I doubt South Wales looks anything like this foreign place. The land here is more like where the devil stalks, I'm sure.

I know, in my heart of hearts I will never see my family or York again, despite my seven year sentence. I should be thankful, because my sentence was commuted from death. It has been nine months since we sailed from England and I've cried all the tears I can, yet still many days and nights I'd wish I'd hanged from the neck until I was dead, as the judge originally sentenced me. I'll always regret the stupidity of what I done, but I've long been resigned to my fate, joining the ranks of some of the toughest, roughest people I've ever met, including the ladies. Especially the ladies.

Ladies. We are not ladies. We are criminals. Even those of us who are innocent, which some most likely are. But some of my companions brag about their thievery. Especially the Londoners. They flaunt about like the tarts and strumpets in front of the sailors, almost as if they're proud of their reputations. The sailors wanted us off their boat the moment we first embarked, but it didn't stop them trading their food and rum rations from the first night on for what pleasures we women can give them. Many took up their offers, and some were given no choice.

And it won't stop them having a go at us tonight when we are ashore, like our companions who went before us earlier this day. It'll be either them or the rowdy convicts or the Marines or the sailors. Or perhaps the natives. I do hope Captain Tench will be posted ashore tonight. If he is, I know he'll try to protect me. I hope and pray he can protect me.

"Ship oars!" the coxswain bellows his command, his deep voice shocking me from my darkening reverie. I think the man enjoys the sound of his own voice and the small amount of power he has over the other sailors, who raise their oars to the sky, water dripping like shards of glass from the blades.

The sailors all have thickly muscled arms and it were their muscles I first noted when I arrived on board our ship in Portsmouth. Big and coarse intimidating men with barrel like chests and broad shoulders, and who are loud and rough and boisterous, and keen for excessive drinking, fighting and fornicating, which they'd all do out of habit if it weren't for the officer's keeping discipline. And yet, some still manage to regularly achieve all three.

When I first boarded the

Charlotte

the sailors frightened me, but I found I were curiously enamoured by them too. When we were allowed on deck I watched as they climbed the ship's rigging as if they were born to the task, or hauled on the ropes with their giant arms, and it were evident to me their labours were hard and they were hard men who went about their job with great heartiness. I confess I was enthralled and frightened by the sight of them.

I weren't the only one who noticed the sailors. Many of my companions took great interest in these men, and several of my friends even enjoy the company of seamen. Like I said, tarts and strumpets, but they do what they do because it helps them survive. I confess, I wasn't completely innocent in these activities, though I can't say I enjoyed the company of sailors much. Their coarse ways were not for me, and I much preferred the Marines. Particularly their handsome Captain, who takes time out of every day to speak with me and makes me gush with warm feelings.

Thoughts of Captain Tench vanish as I'm jolted backwards on the rowing bench when the boat nudges onto the sandy shoreline, and a big sailor with hairy arms covered in tattoos holds the boat steady as we disembark. The oarsmen remain seated at their benches, but watch us with greedy eyes. I don't like the way they're looking at us, but I try to act indifferent. Charlotte Ware hops from the front of the boat onto the shore and gives the sailors the two fingered salute and cackles, "Thanks for the ride, Jack."

"It's our pleasure, Miss Charlotte, but it'll be our pleasure again when we come back to see you tonight." The coxswain's voice is casual now, almost sounding comforting except we know the wicked meaning behind his smile and soothing voice. The oarsmen are grinning and leering at us, prompting the coxswain to bellow, "Right-oh you lot, stop staring at the wenches and let's get back to the ship and see the captain about our promised double rum ration and shore leave!"

"Hurah!" The men reply heartily. Sailors, rum and shore leave. What a terrible combination and I shudder at the thought, closing my eyes to pray a silent prayer that Captain Tench is ashore and nearby, for I fear what will happen to me if he isn't.

I look down at my feet, planted in the warm sand, the first time I've stood on dry land in a long time. There is laughter from the crowd of convict men gathered up the shore below the orange trunked trees where they stand around several fires in front of the tents, and now the white cockatoos are screeching again, as if they are adding their two pence worth on behalf of the devil.

"Follow me, ladies." The big sailor with the tattoos motions for us to join him and surprisingly he doesn't lead us towards the men in the camp, but begins out in the direction of the shoreline towards the head of the cove.

"Hey, Jack, where are you taking these girls?" calls one of the convicts who leaves the crowd of men and approaches our little group. It's James Squire, who I know from the

Charlotte

.

Another convict, short of stature but loud of voice, and who I do not recognise, joins James' side. "Yeah, Jack. Bring 'em this way. The girls are ours now!"

A big and stout lad who I don't recognise approaches the sailor, glancing at my companion, Mary, who's holding my hand again and clutching baby James to her breast. Poor James is crying and perhaps he senses the danger the men pose to his mother. The big man sounds almost casual when he addresses the sailor. "You're not going anywhere with my girl Mary. She's with me, Jack."

"John!" Mary calls out, letting my hand go and tries to push past the sailor, who reaches out his huge arm, blocking her.

"You're not going anywhere, luv," he tells her gruffly, then addresses John, who's moving towards Mary now, "You can have these tarts tomorrow, but tonight they're ours."

"Not this one," John growls at the man, who steps forward. "She's my girl and that's my boy she's carrying, so get out of me way."

"John!" Mary cries again, and the crowd of convict men milling about further up the shore begin to leave the camp and their fires below the trees, converging on us, either to support their comrade or watch the entertainment. The men's presence is oppressive, like the heat in this hellish place, and I note for the first time a distant rumble from the clouds beyond the great rocky ridge behind which the sun has disappeared, suggesting another night of fearsome wild storms is on its way.

"What's going on here, boys?" Several more stout sailors have come to rescue their lad and escort us, their prize. The leader of the approaching pack of sailors turns to the convicts. "No need for trouble, because it's like this, mateys. We have a special tent for these girls tonight, and then tomorrow they're yours. You have plenty other women now, so bugger off and all will be merry."

I shudder and watch John's face as he keeps his eyes on Mary and James. Poor little James; he's crying and didn't ask for this. John turns to the sailor who blocks their reunion. "She's my woman and you'll not touch her." He tries to push past the sailor and reach Mary but the sailor's a big man who won't budge.

"No chance, mate," he says with a smugness in his voice. The sailors are outnumbered, maybe twenty to one, but they appear confident the convicts won't attack them, because the Fleet Commodore, who is now our Governor, will come down heavily on these already condemned men if they cause a brawl. "These girls belong to us for the night, so piss off then before the Marine's come along and have you all flogged."

A man with a strong cockney accent calls from the men who are crowding ever closer. "Word is the Gov'na is nowhere to be seen, Jack, so I think you're out numbered and shit out o' luck."

My heart thumps hard, its beating sounds as drums in my ears, competing with the distant thunder that rumbles ever closer. Sweat runs down my face and arms and thighs, and another of my companions behind me faints, falling at my feet. One of the sailors laughs and two convicts step forward, as if to help my fallen companion. I turn and bend down, noting it's Jane Fitzgerald.

"Jane," I hiss-whisper through clenched teeth, trying to mask my fear from the men surrounding us. "Get up!" Ann Beardsley comes to help me with Jane, trying to raise her to her feet.

Two sailors intercept the two convicts, the budding quarrel distracting the first sailor, allowing John to snatch Mary and James away from him. Balling his meaty fist, the sailor throws a punch at John's face, who dodges, wheeling aside and taking a glancing blow on his shoulder before throwing his own fist, connecting with the sailor's cheek. The thud is sickening and the man grunts but launches a flurry of fists in the direction of John's face, hitting him more than once, causing a spray of blood which splatters onto Mary's petticoat and onto the distraught James, who's wailing cries are adding to the tension. Mary's face aghast with horror at the beating John's taking, and I imagine my face holds a similar expression.

"You fucking devil," Mary screams at the sailor in her Bristol accent, and the sailor's briefly checks his attack. "I hope the Governor has you strung to the triangle and deals you a good lash of the cat!"

Mary's tongue lashing distracts the man for a moment, who looks like he's going to laugh, before John beats his own meaty fist into the man's half-open jaw with a fearsome growl, sending the sailor backwards, where he falls in the dirt an arm's length from where I cradle Jane's head in my lap. The man is startled but he still has half his wits when he begins to rise. More sailors and convicts are now grappling, and there is a great cheering from the surrounding crowd who appear to enclose us, because they smell blood and entertainment.