 Section 7 of, for the term of his natural life. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. For the term of his natural life, by Marcus Clarke. Book 1, The Sea, 1827. Chapter 7, Typhus Fever. The felon Rufus Dors had stretched himself in his bunk and tried to sleep. But though he was tired and sore and his head felt like lead, he could not but keep broad awake. The long pull through the pure air, if it had tired him, had revived him, and he felt stronger. But for all that, the fatal sickness that was on him maintained its hold. His pulse beat thickly, and his brain throbbed with unnatural heat. Lying in his narrow space, in his semi-darkness, he tossed his limbs about and closed his eyes in vain. He could not sleep. His utmost efforts induced only an oppressive stagnation of thought, through which he heard the voices of his fellow convicts. While before his eyes was still the burning irispes, that vessel whose destruction had destroyed forever all trace of the unhappy Richard Deveen. It was fortunate for his comfort, perhaps, that the man who had been chosen to accompany him was of a talkative turn. For the prisoner insisted upon hearing the story of the explosion a dozen times over, and Rufus Dors himself had been roused to give the name of the vessel with his own lips. Had it not been for the hideous respect in which he was held, it is possible that he might have been compelled to give his version also, and to join in the animated discussion which took place upon the possibility of the saving of the fugitive crew. As it was, however, he was left in peace, and lay unnoticed trying to sleep. The detachment of fifty, being on deck, airing, the prison was not quite so hot as at night, and many of the convicts made up for their lack of rest by snatching a dog sleep in the bayard bunks. The four volunteer oarsmen were allowed to take it out. As yet, there had been no alarm of fever. The three seizures had excited some comment, however, and had it not been for the counter excitement of the burning ship, it is possible that Pine's precaution would have been thrown away. The old hands, who had been through the passage before, suspected but said nothing, save among themselves. It was likely that the weak and sickly would go first, and that there would be more room for those remaining. The old hands were satisfied. Three of these old hands were conversing together just behind the partition of Dors' bunk. As we have said, the birds were five feet square, and each contained six men. Number ten, the berth occupied by doors, was situated on the corner made by the joining of the starboard and centre lines, and behind it was a slight recess, in which the scuttle was fixed. His mates were at present but three in number, for John Rex and the cockney tailor had been removed to the hospital. The three that remained were now in deep conversation in the shelter of the recess. Of these, the giant, who had the previous knight asserted his authority in the prison, seemed to be the chief. His name was Gabbett. He was a returned convict, now in his way to undergo a second sentence for burglary. The other two were a man named Sanders, known as the Mucha, and Jemmy Vetch, the Crow. They were talking in whispers, but Rufus' doors, lying with his head close to the partition, was enabled to catch much of what they said. At first the conversation turned on the catastrophe of the burning ship and the likelihood of saving the crew. From this it grew to an anecdote of wreck and adventure, and at last Gabbett said something which made the listener start from his indifferent efforts to slumber into sudden, broad wakefulness. It was the mention of his own name, coupled with that of the woman he had met on the quarter-deck, that roused him. I saw her speaking to doors yesterday, said the giant, with an oath. We don't want no more than we've got, I ain't gonna risk my neck for Rex's woman's fancies, and so I'll tell her. It was something about the kid, says the Crow in his elegant slang. I don't believe she ever saw him before, besides, she's nuts on Jack and ain't likely to pick up with another man. If I thought she was gonna throw us over, I'd cut her throat as soon as look at her, snort Gabbett savagely. Jack'd have a word in that, snuffled for Mucha, and he's a curious crow to quarrel with. Well, stow your gaff, grumbled Mr. Gabbett, and let's have no more chaff. If we're for business, let's come to business. What are we to do now, asked the Mucha. Jack's on the sick list, and the gal won't stir us out in. I returned, Gabbett, that's it. My dear friends, said the Crow, my Cayenne and the Colistian friends. It is to be regretted that when Natana gave you such tremendously thick skulls, she didn't put something inside of them. I say that now's the time. Jack's in the hospital. What of that? That don't make it no better for him, does it? Not a bit of it. And if he drops his knife and fork, why then? It's my opinion that the gal won't stir a peg. It's on his account, not ours, that she's been maneuvering, ain't it? Well, says Mr. Gabbett, with the air of one who was but partly convinced. I suppose it is. All the more reason of getting it off quick. Another thing. When the boys know there's fever aboard, you'll see the romp as they'll be. They'll be ready enough to join us then. Once get the snapper chest, and we're right as nine pen worth are apents. This conversation, interspersed with oaths and slang as it was, had an intense interest for Rufus' doors. Flunged into prison hurriedly tried, and by reason of his surroundings ignorant of the death of his father and his own fortune, he had hitherto, in his agony and sullen gloom, held aloof from the scoundrels who surrounded him, and repelled their hideous advances of friendship. He now saw his error. He knew that the name he had once possessed was blotted out, that any shred of his old life, which had clung to him hitherto, was shriveled in the fire that consumed the Idaspis. The secret for the preservation of which Richard Devine had voluntarily flung away his name and risked a terrible and disgraceful death would be now forever safe. For Richard Devine was dead, lost at sea with the crew of the ill-fated vessel in which, deluded by a skillfully sent letter from the prison, his mother believed him to have sailed. Richard Devine was dead, and the secret of his birth would die with him. Rufus' doors, his alter ego, alone should live. Rufus' doors, the convicted felon, the suspected murderer, should live to claim his freedom, and work out his vengeance. Rufus' doors, the convicted felon, the suspected murderer should live to claim his freedom, and work out his vengeance, or rendered powerful by the terrible experience of the prison sheds, should seize both in defiance of jail or jailer. With his head swimming and his brain on fire, he eagerly listened for more. It seemed as if the fever which burnt in his veins had consumed the grosser part of his sense, and given him increased power of hearing. He was conscious that he was ill, his bones ached and his hands burned, his head throbbed, that he could hear distinctly, and he thought reason on what he heard profoundly. But we can't stir without the girl, Gabbett said. She's got to stall off the sentry and give us the office. The crow's shallow features lighted up with a cunning smile. Dear old caper merchant, ear him talk, he said, as if he had the wisdom of Solomon in all his glory. Look here, and he produced a dirty scrap of paper over which his companions eagerly bent their heads. Where'd you get that? Yesterday afternoon, Sarah was standing on the poop, throwing bits of toke to the gulls, and I saw her looking at me very hard. At last she came down as near the barricade as she dared, and throwed crumbs and such like up in the air over the side. By and by, a pretty big lump, doughed up round, fell close to my foot, and, watching a favourable opportunity, I pouched it. Inside was this bit of rag bag. Ah, said Mr. Gabbett. That's more like. Read it out, Jimmy. The writing, though feminine in character, was bold and distinct. Sarah had evidently been mindful of the education of her friends, and had desired to give them as little trouble as possible. All is right. Watch me when I come up tomorrow evening at three bells. If I drop my handkerchief, get to work at the time agreed on. The sentry will be safe. Rufus' doors, though his eyelids would scarcely keep open, and a terrible lassitude almost paralysed his limbs, eagerly drank in the whispered sentence. There was a conspiracy to seize the ship. Sarah Purfoy was in league with the convicts, was herself the wife or mistress of one of them. She had come on board, armed with a plot for his release, and this plot was about to be put in execution. He had heard of the atrocities perpetrated by successful mutineers, story after story of such nature that often made the prison resound with horrible mirth. He knew the characters of the three Ruffians, who separated from him by the two inches of planking, gestured and laughed over their plans of freedom and vengeance. Though he conversed but little with his companions, these men were his birthmates, and he could not but know how they would proceed to wreak their vengeance on their jailers. True, that the head of this formidable chimera, John Rex, the forger, was absent. At the two hands, or rather claws, the burglar and the prisonbreaker were present, and the slimly made effeminate crow, if he had not the brains of the master, yet made up for his flaccid muscles and nerveless frame by a cat-like cunning and a spirit of devilish volatility that nothing could subdue. With such a powerful ally outside as the mock maid servant, the chance of success was enormously increased. There were 180 convicts and but 50 soldiers. If the first rush proved successful, and the precautions taken by Sarah Purfoy rendered success possible, the vessel was theirs. Rufus Dors thought of the little bright-haired child who would run so confidingly to meet him, and shuddered. There, said the crow with a sneering laugh, what do you think of that? Does the girl look like nosing as now? Nose as the giant, stretching his great arms with a grin of delight as one stretches one's chest in the sun. That's right, that is. That's more like business. England, home and beauty, said Vetch, with a mock heroic air, strangely out of tune with a subject under discussion. You'd like to go home again, wouldn't you, old man? Gabbard turned on him fiercely. His low forehead wrinkled into a frown of ferocious recollection. You, he said, you think the chains find sport, don't you? But I've been there, my young chicken, and I know what it means. There was silence for a minute or two. The giant was plunged in gloomy abstraction, and Vetch and the mutra interchanged a significant glance. Gabbard had been ten years at the colonial penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour, and he had memories that he did not confide to his companions. When he indulged in one of these bits of recollection, his friends found it best to leave him to himself. Rufus Dors did not understand the sudden silence. With all his senses stretched to the utmost to listen, the cessation of the whispered colloquy affected him strangely. Old artillerymen have said that, after being at work for days in the trenches, accustomed to the continued roar of the guns, a sudden pause in the firing will cause them intense pain. Something of this feeling was experienced by Rufus Dors. His faculties of hearing and thinking both at their highest pitch seemed to break down. It was as though some prop had been knocked from under him. No longer stimulated by outward sounds, his senses appeared to fail him. The blood rushed into his eyes. He made a violent main effort to retain his consciousness. But with a faint cry fell back, striking his head against the edge of the bunk. The noise roused the burglar in an instant. There was someone in the berth. The three looked into each other's eyes in guilty alarm, and then Gabbett dashed round the partition. Its doors said the Mucha, we had forgotten him. He'll join us, mate, he'll join us, cried Vetch, fearful of bloodshed. Gabbett uttered a furious oath, and flinging himself onto the prostrate figure, dragged it head foremost to the floor. The sudden vertigo had saved Rufus Dors's life. Robert twisted one brawny hand in his shirt, and, pressing the knuckles down, prepared to deliver a blow that should forever silence the listener. When Vetch caught his arm, he's been asleep, he cried. Don't hit him, see, he's not yet awake. A crowd gathered round. The giant relaxed his grip, but the convict gave only a deep groan, and allowed his head to fall on his shoulder. You've killed him, cried someone. Gabbett took another look at the purpling face and the bedewed forehead, and then sprang erect, rubbing his right hand as though he would rub off something sticking there. He's got the fever, he roared, with a terror-stricken grimace. The what? asked twenty voices. The fever ye grinning fools, cried Gabbett. I've seen it before today. The typhus is aboard, and he's the fourth man down. The circle of beast-like faces stretched forward to see the fight widened at the half-uncomprehended ill-ohmed word. It was as though a bombshell had fallen into the group. Rufus' doors lay on the deck, motionless, breathing heavily. The savage circle glared at his prostrate body. The alarm ran around, and all the prison crowded down to stare at him. All at once, he uttered a groan, and, turning, propped his body on his two rigid arms and made an effort to speak, but no sound issued from his convolved jaws. He's done, said the mutra brutally. He didn't hear nothing. I'll pound it. The noise of the heavy bolts shooting back broke the spell. The first detachment were coming down from exercise. The door was flung back, and the bayonets of the guard gleamed in a ray of sunshine that shot down the hatchway. This glimpse of sunlight, sparkling at the entrance of the fettered and stifling prison, seemed to mock their miseries. It was as though heaven laughed at them. By one of those terrible and strange impulses which animate crowds, the mass, turning from the sick man, leapt toward the doorway. The interior of the prison flashed white with sudden turned faces. The glooms scintillated with rapidly moving hands. Air, air, give us air. That's it, said Sanders to his companions. I thought the news would rouse them. Gabbard, all the savage in his blood stirred by the sight of flashing eyes and wrathful faces, would have thrown himself forward with the rest. The vetch plucked him back. It'll be over in a moment, he said. It's only a fit they've got, he spoke truly. Through the uproar was heard the rattle of iron on iron as the guard stood to their arms, and the wedge of gray cloth broke in sudden terror of the levelled muskets. There was an instant's pause, and then old pine walked, unmolested, down the prison and knelt by the body of Rufus' doors. The sight of the familiar figure, so calmly performing its familiar duty, restored all that submission to recognized authority which strict discipline begets. The convicts slunk away into their berths, or officiously ran to help the doctor, with affectation of intense obedience. The prison was like a school room into which the master had suddenly returned. Stand back, my lads, take him up to a view, and carry him to the door. The poor fellow won't hurt you. His orders were obeyed, and the old man, waiting until his patient had been safely received outside, raised his hand to command attention. I see you know what I have to tell. The fever has broken out. That man has got it. It's absurd to suppose that no one else will be seized. I might catch it myself. You are much crowded down here, I know. But, my lads, I can't help that. I didn't make the ship, you know. Ear ear. It is a terrible thing, but you must keep orderly and quiet and bear it like men. You know what the discipline is, and it is not in my power to alter it. I shall do my best for your comfort, and I look to you to help me. Holding his grey head very erect indeed, the brave old fellow passed straight down the line without looking to the right or left. He had said just enough, and he reached the door amid a chorus of Ear ear, bravo, true for you, doctor, and so on. But when he had got fairly outside, he breathed more freely. He had performed a ticklish task, and he knew it. Ah, get them. Grabbed the butcher from his corner, a cheerin' at the bloody noose. Wait a bit, sir, the cuter intelligence of Jenny Vetch. Give him time. There'll be three or four more down a four night, and then we'll see. End of chapter seven. Section eight of for the term of his natural life. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. For the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book one, The Sea, 1827. Chapter eight, A Dangerous Crisis. It was late in the afternoon when Sarah Perfoy awoke from her uneasy slumber. She had been dreaming of the deed she was about to do and was flushed and feverish. But mindful of the consequences which hung upon the success or failure of the enterprise, she rallied herself, bathed her face and hands and ascended with this calm and air as she could assume to the poop deck. Nothing was changed since yesterday. The sentry's arms clitted in the pitiless sunshine. The ship rolled and creaked on the swell of the dreamy sea and the prison cage on the lower deck was crowded with the same cheerless figures disposed in the attitudes of the day before. Even Mr. Maurice Freer, recovered from his midnight fatigues, was lounging on the same coil of rope in precisely the same position. Yet the eye of an acute observer would have detected some difference beneath this outward varnish of similarity. The man at the wheel looked round the horizon more eagerly and spit into the swirling unwholesome looking water with a more dejected air than before. The fishing lines still hung dangling over the cat heads, but nobody touched them. The soldiers and sailors on the forecastle, collected into knots, had no heart even to smoke, but gloomily stared at each other. Vickers was in the cuddy writing. Blunt was in his cabin, and Pine, with two carpenters at work under his directions, was improvising increased hospital accommodation. The noise of mallet and hammer echoed in the soldiers' berth ominously. The workmen might have been making coffins. The prison was strangely silent, with the lowering silence which precedes a thunderstorm, and the convicts on deck no longer told stories nor laughed at obscene jests but sat together, moodily patient, as if waiting for something. Three men, two prisoners and a soldier, had succumbed since Rufus' doors had been removed to the hospital, and though, as yet, there had been no complaint or symptom of panic, the face of each man, soldier, sailor or prisoner, wore an expectant look, as though he wondered whose turn would come next. On the ship, rolling ceaselessly from side to side, like some wounded creature on the opaque profundity of that stagnant ocean, a horrible shadow had fallen. The Malabi seemed to be enveloped in an electric cloud whose sullen gloom a chance of spark might flash into a blaze that should consume her. The woman who held in her hands the two ends of the chain that would produce this spark, paused, came up upon deck and, after a glance round, lent against the poop railing and looked down into the barricade. As we have said, the prisoners were in knots of four and five, and, to one group in particular, her glance was directed. Three men, leaning carelessly against the bulwarks, watched her every motion. There she is right enough, growled Mr. Gabbard, as if in continuation of a previous remark, flashes ever and looking this way too. I don't see no wipes at the practical moocher. Patience is a virtue, most noble knuckler, says the crow, with effected carelessness. Give the young woman time. Float if I'm going to wait no longer, says the giant, licking his coarse-blue lips. Here we've been bluffed off day out a day, and kept dancing round the dandies wenched like a parcel of dogs. The fevers are bored, and we've got all ready. What's the use of waiting? Orphous or no orphous, I'm for business at once. There, look at that, yadded with an oaf, as the figure of Maurice Freer appeared side by side with that of the waiting maid, the way up the deck together. It's all right, you confounded muddle-head, cried the crow, losing patience with his perverse and stupid companion. How can she give us the office without cove at her elbow? Gabbards only replied that this question was a ferocious grunt and a sudden elevation of his clenched fist, which caused Mr. Vetch to retreat precipitately. The giant did not follow, and Mr. Vetch, folding his arms and assuming in attitude of easy contempt, directed his attention to Sarah Perfoy. She seemed an object of general attraction, for at the same moment a young soldier ran up the ladder to the forecastle and eagerly bent his gaze in her direction. Maurice Freer had come behind her and touched her on the shoulder. Since their conversation the previous evening, he'd made up his mind to be fooled no longer. The girl was evidently playing with him, and he would show her that he was not to be trifled with. Well, Sarah? Well, Mr. Freer. Dropping her hand and turning round with a smile. How well you were looking today, positively lovely. You have told me that so often, says she with a pout. Have you nothing else to say? Except that I love you. This in a most impassioned manner. That is no news, I know you do. Curse it, Sarah, what is a fellow to do? His profligacy was failing him rapidly. What is the use of playing fast and loose for the fellow this way? A fellow should be able to take care of himself, Mr. Freer. I didn't ask you to fall in love with me, did I? If you don't please me, it is not your fault, perhaps. What do you mean? You soldiers have so many things to think of. Your guards and sentries and visits and things. You have no time to spare for a poor woman like me. Spare, cries Freer an amazement. Why, dammy, you won't let a fellow spare. I'd spare fast enough, if that was all. She cast her eyes down to the deck, and the modest flush rose in her cheeks. I have so much to do, she said, in a half whisper. There are so many eyes upon me. I cannot stir without being seen. She raised her head as she spoke, and to give effect to her words, looked around the deck, her glance crossed out of the young soldier on the forecastle. And though the distance was too great for her to distinguish, his features she guessed who he was. Miles was jealous. Freer, smiling with delight at her, change of manner came close to her and whispered in her ear. She began to start and took the opportunity of exchanging a signal with Crow. I will come at eight o'clock, said she, with modestly averted face. They relieved the guard at eight, he said, deprecatingly. She tossed her head, very well then, attend to your guard, I don't care, but Sarah, consider. As if a woman in love ever considers, said she, turning upon him a burning glance, which in truth might have melted a more icy man than he. What a fool he would be to refuse to get her to come was the first object. How to make duty fit with pleasure would be considered afterwards. Besides, the guard could relieve itself for once with how to supervision. Very well, at eight then, dearest, hush, she said, here comes that stupid captain. And as Freer left her, she turned and with her eyes fixed on a convict barricade, dropped the handkerchief she held in her hand over the poop railing. It fell at the feet of the amorous captain, and with a quick upward glance, that worthy fellow picked it up and brought it to her. Oh, thank you, Captain Blunt, said she, and her eyes spoke more than her tongue. Did you take the Lordnam, whispered Blunt, with a twinkle in his eye? Some of it, said she, I will bring you back the bottle tonight. Blunt walked aft, humming cheerily, and saluted Freer with a slap on the back. The two men laughed, each at his own thoughts, but their laughter only made the surrounding gloom seem deeper than before. Sarah Perfoy, casting her eyes toward the barricade, observed a change in the position of the three men. They were together once more, and the crow, having taken off his prison cap, held it at arm's length with one hand, while he wiped his brow with the other. Their signal had been observed. During all this, Rufus' doors, removed to the hospital, was lying flat on his back, staring at the deck above him, trying to think of something he wanted to say. When the sudden faintness, which was the prelude to his sickness, had overpowered him, he remembered being torn out of his bunk by fierce hands, remembered a vision of savage faces, and the presence of some danger that menaced him. He remembered that, while lying on his blankets, struggling with the coming fever, he had overheard a conversation of vital importance to himself and to the ship. But, of the purport of that conversation, he had not the least idea. In vain, his will, struggling with delirium, brought back snatchers and echoes of sense. They slipped from him again as fast as caught. He was oppressed with the weight of half-recollected thought. He knew that a terrible danger menaced him. That could he but force his brain to reason connectedly for ten consecutive minutes. He could give such information as would avert that danger and save the ship. But, lying with his hot head, parched lips and enfeebled body, he was, as one possessed, he could move nor hand nor foot. The place where he lay was but dimly lighted. The ingenuity of pine had constructed a canvas blind over the port to prevent the sun striking into the cabin, and this blind absorbed much of the light. He could but just see the deck above his head and distinguished the outlines of three other births, apparently similar to his own. The only sounds that broke the silence were the gurgling of the water below him and the tap-tap-tap-tap of pine's hammers at work upon the new partition. By and by the noise of these hammers ceased, and then the sick man could hear gasps and moans and mutterings, the signs that his companions yet lived. All at once a voice called out, of course his bills are worth four hundred pounds, but my good sir, four hundred pounds, to a man in my position is not worth forgetting why I've given four hundred pounds for a freak of my girl, Sarah. Is it writer, Jezebel? She's a good girl, though, as girls go. Mrs. Lionel Crofton of the Crofts, seven oaks, Kent, seven oaks, Kent, seven. A gleam of light broke in on the darkness which wrapped Rufus' doors' torches' brain. The man was John Rex, his birthmaid. With an effort he spoke, Rex! Yes, yes, I'm coming, don't be in a hurry. The sentry's safe, and the howitzer is but five paces from the door. I rush upon the deck, lads, and she's ours. That is, mine, mine and my wife's. Mrs. Lionel Crofton of seven Crofts. No, oaks, Sarah Perfoy, lady's maid and nurse. Aha, lady's maid and nurse. This last sentence contained the name clue that the labyrinth in which Rufus' doors' bewildered intellects were wandering. Sarah Perfoy, he remembered now each detail of the conversation he had so strangely overheard, and how imperative it was that he should, without delay, reveal the plot that threatened the ship. How that plot was to be carried out he did not pause to consider. He was conscious that he was hanging over the brink of delirium and that, unless he made himself understood before his senses utterly deserted him, all was lost. He attempted to rise, but found that his fever-thralled limbs refused to obey the impulse of his will. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth and his jaws stuck together. He could not raise a finger nor utter a sound. The boards over his head waved like a shaken sheet and the cabin whirled round while the patch of light at his feet bobbed up and down at the reflection from a wavering candle. He closed his eyes with a terrible sigh of despair and resigned himself to his fate. At that instant the sound of hammering ceased and the door opened. It was six o'clock and Pine had come to have a last look at his patience before dinner. It seemed that there was somebody with him for a kind, though somewhat pompous voice remarked upon the scantiness of accommodation and the necessity, the absolute necessity of complying with the King's installations. Honest vickers, though agonised for the safety of his child, would not abate a jot of his duty and had sternly come to visit the sick men aware as he was that such a visit would necessitate his isolation from the cabin where his child lay. Mrs. Vickers, weeping and bewailing herself coquettishly at garrison parties, had often said that poor dear John was such disciplinarian, quite a slave to the service. Here they are, said men, six of them. This fellow going to the side of Rex is the worst. If he had not a constitution like a horse, I don't think he could live out the night. Three, eighteen, seven, four knotted Rex, dot and carry one. Is that an occupation for a gentleman? No, sir. Good night, my lord. Good night. Hark, the clock is striking nine, five, six, seven, eight. Well, you've had your day and can't complain. A dangerous fellow, says Pine with the light upraised. A very dangerous fellow, that is, he was. This is the place, you see, a regular rat hole. But what can one do? Come, let us get on the decks at Vickers with a shudder of disgust. Roofers doors felt the sweat break out into beads on his forehead. They suspected nothing. They were going away. He must warn them. With a violent effort, in his agony he turned over in the bunk and thrust out his hand from his blankets. Hello, what's this? Cried Pine, bringing the lantern to bear upon it. Lie down, man. Eh, water, is it? They're steady with it now, and he lifted a panic into the black and froth-fringed lips. The cool draft moistened the parched gullet, and the convict made a last effort to speak. Sarah Perfoy, tonight the prison mutiny. The last word almost shrieked out in any sufferers' desperate efforts to articulate recalled the wandering senses of John Rex. Hush, he cried. Is that you, Jimmy? Sarah's right. Wait till she gives the word. He's raving, said Vickers. Pine caught the convict by the shoulder. What do you say, my man? A mutiny of the prisoners. With his mouth agape and his hands clenched. Roofers doors incapable of further speech made a last effort to nod ascent. But his head fell upon his breast. The next moment the flickering light, the gloomy prison, the eager face of the doctor and the astonished face of Vickers, vanished from before his straining eyes. He saw the two men stare at each other in mingled incredulity and alarm, and then he was floating down the cool brown river of his boyhood on his way, in company with Sarah Perfoy and LaTente Friar to raise the mutiny of the Ida Spies that lay on the stocks in the old house at Hampstead. End of Chapter 8 Section 9 of For the term of his natural life This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org For the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book 1 The Sea, 1827 Chapter 9 Woman's Weapons The two discoverers of this awkward secret held a council of war. Vickers was for at once calling the guard and announcing to the prisoners that the plot, whatever it might be, had been discovered. But Pine, accustomed to convict ships, overruled this decision. You don't know these fellows as well as I do, he said. In the first place there may well be no mutiny at all. The whole thing is perhaps some absurdity of that fellow Dawes, and should we once put the notion of attacking us into the prisoner's there is no telling what they may do. But the man seemed certain, said the other. He mentioned my wife's maid too. Suppose he did. And, begard, I dare say he's right. I never liked the look of the girl. To tell them that we have found them out this time won't prevent them trying it again. We don't know what their scheme is either. If there is a mutiny half the ship's company may be in it. No, Captain Vickers, allow me as surgeon, a superintendent to settle our course of action. You are aware that that by the king's regulation you are invested with full powers, interrupted Vickers. Mindful of the discipline in any extremity. Of course I am merely suggested and I know nothing about the girl except that she brought a good character from her last mistress, a Mrs Crofton I think her name was. We were glad to get anybody to make a voyage like this. Well, says Pine, look here. Suppose we tell these scoundrels that their design, whatever it may be had known. Very good. They will profess absolute ignorance and try again on the next opportunity when perhaps we may not know anything about it. At all events we are completely ignorant of the nature of the plot and the names of the ringleaders. Let us double the centuries and quietly get the men under arms. Let Miss Sarah do what she pleases and when the mutiny breaks out we'll nip it in the bud, clap all the villains we get in irons and hand them over to the authorities I am not a cruel man, sir, but we have got a cargo of wild beasts aboard and we must be careful. But surely, Mr Pine, have you considered the probable loss of life? I, really, some more humane course perhaps? Prevention, you know. Pine turned round upon him with that grim practicality which was a part of his nature. Have you considered the safety of the ship, Captain Vickers, you know or have heard of the sort of things placed in these mutinies? Have you considered what will befall those half-dozen women in the soldiers' birds? Have you thought of the fate of your own wife and child? Vickers shuddered. Have it your way, Mr Pine, you know best perhaps, but don't risk more lives than you can hope. Be easy, sir, says old Pine. I am acting for the best. Upon my soul I am. You don't know what convicts are, or rather what the law has made them, yet. Poor wretches, says Vickers, who, like many mutinettes, was in reality tender-hearted. Kindness might do much for them. After all, they are our fellow creatures. Yes, return the other. They are. But if you use that argument to them, when they have taken the vessel, it won't avail you much. Let me manage, sir, and for God's sake say nothing to anybody. Our lives may hang upon a word. Vickers promised and kept his promise cheerily, with blunt and freer, dinner. Only writing a brief note to his wife to tell her that, whatever she heard, she was not to stir from her cabin until he came to her. He knew that with all his wife's folly she would obey unhesitatingly when he couched an order in such terms. According to the usual custom onboard convict ships, the guards relieved each other every two hours, and at 6pm the poop guard was removed to the quarter-deck, and the arms which, in the daytime, were disposed on the top of the arm chest, were placed in an arm rack, constructed on the quarter-deck for that purpose. Trusting nothing to free her, who, indeed, by Pind's advice, was, as we have seen, kept in ignorance of the whole matter, Vickers ordered all the men, say those who had been on guard during the day, to be under arms in the barrack, forbade communication with the upper-deck and placed as a sentry at the barrack door his own servant, an old soldier on whose fidelity he could thoroughly rely. He then doubled the guards, took the keys of the prison himself from the non-commissioned officer, whose duty it was to keep them, and saw that the howitzer on the lower deck was loaded with grape. It was a quarter to seven when Pine and he took their station at the main hatchway, determined to watch until morning. Out of quarter past seven, any curious person looking through the window of Captain Blunt's cabin would have seen an unusual sight. That gallant commander was sitting on the bed place, with a glass of rum and water in his hand, and the handsome waiting maid of Mrs. Vickers was seated on a stool by his side. At a first glance it was perceptible that the captain was very drunk. His grey hair was matted always about his reddened face, and he was winking and blinking like an owl in the sunshine. He had drunk a larger quantity of wine than usual at dinner, in sheer delight at designation, and having got out the rum bottle for a quiet settler just as the victim of his fascination glided through the carefully adjusted door he had been persuaded to go on drinking. Cuck-cuckum, Sarah, he hiccuped. It's all very fine, my last, but you needn't be so proud, you know. I'm a plain sailor, plain slaw, Sarah. Finvus Bub Blunt, captain of the Malmal Malabi. Was she a good talking? Sarah allowed a laugh to escape her, and artfully protruded an ankle at the same time. The amorous Finvus lurched over, and made shift to take her hand. You love me, and I hicc love you, Sarah. And a precious tight little craft you hicc are. Give she kiss, Sarah. Sarah got up and went to the door. Watch this, going? Sarah, don't go. He staggered up, and with the grog swaying fearfully in one hand made at her. The ship's bell struck the heart hour. Now or never was the time. Blunt quarter round the waist with one arm, and hiccuping with love and rum, approached to take the kiss he coveted. She seized the moment, surrendered herself to his embrace, drew from her pocket the loudenham bottle, and passing her hand over her, and passing her hand over his shoulder, poured half its contents into the glass. Think I'm hick drunk, do ya? None, not I, my wench. You will be if you drink much more. Come, finish that, and be quiet, or I'll go away. But she threw a provocation into her glance as she spoke, which belied her words, and which penetrated even the sodden intellect of poor Blunt. He balanced himself on his heels for a moment, and, holding by the moulding of the cavern, stared at her with a fatuous smile of drunken admiration. Then, looked at his glass in his hand, hick up with much solemnity thrice, and, as those struck with a sudden sense of duty unfulfilled, swallowed the contents at a gulp. The effect was almost instantaneous. He dropped the tumbler, lurched toward the woman at the door, and then, making a half turn in accordance with the motion of the vessel, fell into his bunk, and snored like a grampus. Sarah Purfoy watched him for a few minutes, and then, having blown out the light, stepped out of the cavern, and closed the door behind her. The dusky gloom, which had held the deck on the previous night, and velled all forward of the main mast. A lantern swung in the forecastle, and swayed with the motion of the ship. The light at the prison door threw a glow through the open hatch, and, in the cuddy, at her right hand, the usual row of oil lamps burned. She looked mechanically for vickers, who was ordinarily at hour, but the cuddy was empty. So much the better, she thought, as she drew her duck cloak around her, and tapped at Fria's door. As she did so, a strange pain shot through her temples, and her knees trembled. With a strong effort, she dispelled the dizziness that had almost overpowered her, and held herself erect. It would never do to break down now. The door opened, and Maurice Fria drew her into the cavern. So you have come, said he. You see I have, but oh, if I should be seen. Seen? Nonsense. Who is to see you? Captain Vickers, Dr. Pine? Anybody. Not they, besides, they've gone down to Pine's cabin since dinner. They're all right. Gone off to Pine's cabin, the intelligence struck her with dismay. What was the cause of such an unusual proceeding? Surely they did not suspect. What do they want there, she asked. Maurice Fria was not in the humour to question her probability. Who knows, I don't, confound him, he added. What does it matter to us? We don't want them, do we, Sarah? She seemed to be listening for something, and did not reply. Her nervous system was wound up to the highest pitch of excitement. The success of the plot depended on the next five minutes. What are you staring at? Look at me, can't you? What eyes you have, and what hair? At that instant, the report of a musket shot broke silent. The mutiny had begun. The sound awoke the soldier to a sense of his duty. He sprang to his feet, and disengaging the arms that clung about his neck made for the door. The moment for which the convict's accomplice had waited approached. She hung upon him with all her weight. Her long hair swept across his face. Her warm breath was on his cheek. Her dress exposed her round, smooth shoulder. He, intoxicated, conquered, had half turned back when suddenly the rich crimson died away from her lips, leaving them an ashen grey colour. Her eyes closed in agony. Losing her hold of him, she staggered to her feet, pressed her hand upon her bosom, and uttered a sharp cry of pain. The fever which had been on her two days, and which, by a strong exercise of will, she had struggled against, encouraged by the violent excitement of the occasion, had attacked her at this supreme moment. Deathly pale and sick, she reeled to the side of the cabin. There was another shot, and a violent clashing of arms, and Freya, leaving the miserable woman to her fate, leapt out onto the deck. End of Chapter 9 Section 10 of for the term of his natural life. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org for the term of his natural life. By Marcus Clarke. Book 1, The Sea 1827. Chapter 10 Eight Bells At seven o'clock, there had been also a commotion in the prison. The news of the fever had awoken the convicts, all that love of liberty which had slumbered during the monotony of the earlier part of the voyage. Now that death menaced them, they longed fiercely for the chance of escape which seemed to free man. Let us get out, they said, each man speaking to his particular friend. We are locked up here to die like sheep. Gloomy faces and desponding looks met the gaze of each, and sometimes across this gloom shot a fierce glance that lighted up its blackness, as a lightning flash renders luridly luminous the indigo dullness of a thunder cloud. By and by in some inexplicable way it came to be understood that there was a conspiracy afloat, that they were to be released from their shambles, that some amongst them had been plotting for freedom. The tween decks held its foul breath in wondering anxiety, afraid to breathe its suspicions. The influence of this predominant idea showed itself by a strange shifting of atoms. The mass of villainy, ignorance, and innocence began to be animated with something like a uniform movement. Natural affinities came together and like allied itself to like, falling noiselessly into harmony as the pieces of glass and coloured beads in a kaleidoscope assume mathematical forms. By seven bells it was found that the prison was divided into three parties, the desperate, the timid, and the cautious. These three parties had arranged themselves in natural sequence. The mutineers headed by Gabbat, Vetch, and the Mucha were nearest to the door. The timid, boys, old men, innocent poor wretches condemned on circumstantial evidence, or rustics condemned to be turned into thieves for pulling a turnip. We're at the father end, huddling together in alarm, and the prudent, that is to say, all the rest, ready to fight or fly, advance or retreat, assist the authorities or their companions as the fortunes of the day might direct, occupied the middle space. The mutineers proper numbered perhaps some thirty men, and of these thirty only half a dozen knew what was really about to be done. The ship's bell strikes the half hour, and as the cries of the three centuries passing the word the quarter-deck die away, Gabbat, who has been leaning with his back against the door, nudges Gemi Vetch. Now Gemi, he says in a whisper, tell him. The whisper being heard by those nearest the giant, a silence ensues which gradually spreads like a ripple over the surface of the crowd reaching even the bunks at the further end. Gentlemen, says Mr. Vetch, politely sarcastic in his own hangdog fashion. Myself and my friends here are going to take the ship for you. Those who like to join us had better speak at once, for in about half an hour they will not have the opportunity. He pauses and looks round with such an impertently confident air that three waverers in the Cartier midships slip nearer to hear him. You needn't be afraid, Mr. Vetch continues. We have arranged it all for you. There are friends waiting for us outside, and the door will be open directly. All we want, gentlemen, is your vote and interest. I mean your gaffin' again, interrupts the giant angrily, come to business, Cartier. Tell him they may like it or lump it, but we mean to have the ship, and them as refuters to join us we mean to chuck it overboard. That's about the plain English of it. This practical way of putting it produces a sensation, and the conservative party at the other end look in each other's faces with some alarm. A grim murmur runs round and somebody near Mr. Gabbitt laughs a laugh of mingled ferocity and amusement, not reassuring to timid people. What about the sogers? Ask the voice from the ranks of the cautious. Damn the sogers! cries the mooch, moved by a sudden inspiration. They can shoot ya, and that's as good as dying of typhus anyway. The right cord had been struck now, and with a stifled draw the prisoner admitted the truth of this statement. Go on, old man, cries gemmy vetch to the giant, rubbing his thin hands with ill-derick glee. They're all right, and then his quick ears, catching the jingle of arms, he said, stand by now for the door. One rush'll do it. It was eight o'clock, and the relief guard was coming from the after-deck. The crowd of prisoners round the door held their breath to listen. It's all planned, says Gabbitt in a low growl. When the door opens we rush, and we're in among the guard before they know where they are. Drag them back into the prison, grab the harm rack, and it's all over. They're very quiet about it, says the crow suspiciously. I hope it's all right. Stand from the door miles, says Pine's voice outside, in its usual calm accents. The crow was relieved. The tone was an ordinary one, and miles was the soldier whom Sarah Purfoy had bribed not to fire. All had gone well. The keys clashed and turned, and the bravest of the prudent party, who had been turning in his mind the notion of risking his life for a pardon, to be won by rushing forward at the right moment, and alarming the guard, checked the cry that was in his throat as he saw the men round the door draw back a little for their rush, and caught a glimpse of the giant's bristling scalp and bareed gums. Now cries Jemmy Vetch, as the iron-plated oak swung back, and with the guttural snarl of a charging wild boar, Gabbett hurled himself out of the prison. The red line of light which glowed for an instant through the doorway was blotted out by a massive figures. All the prison surged forward, and before the eye could wink five, ten, twenty of the most desperate were required. It was as though a sea breaking against a stone wall had found some breach through which to pour its waters. The contagion of battle spread, caution was forgotten, and those at the back and seeing Jemmy Vetch raised upon the crest of that human billow which reared its black outline against the indistinct perspective of struggling figures responded to his grin of encouragement by rushing furiously forward. Suddenly a horrible roar like that of a trapped wild beast was heard. The rushing torrent choked in the doorway, and from out the lantern glow into which giant had rushed a flash broke followed by a groan, as the perfidious sentry fell back shot through the breast. The mass in the doorway hung irresolute, and then by sheer weight of pressure from behind burst forward, and as it so burst the heavy door crashed into its jams, and the bolts were shot into their places. All this took place by one of those simultaneous movements which are so rapid in execution so tedious to describe in detail. At one instant the prison door had opened, at the next it had closed. The picture which had presented itself to the eyes of the convicts was as momentary as are those of the thormatoscope. The period of time that had elapsed between the opening and the shutting of the door could have been marked by the musket shot. The report of another shot and then a noise of confused cries mingled with the clashing of arms informed the imprisoned men that the ship had been alarmed. How would it go with their friends on deck? Would they succeed in overcoming the guards or would they be beaten back? They would soon know, and in the hot dusk straining their eyes to see each other they waited for the issue. Suddenly the noises ceased and a strange rumbling sound fell upon the ears of the listeners. What had taken place? This. The men, pouring out of the darkness into the sudden glare of the lanterns rushed bewildered across the deck. Miles, true to his promise, did not fire. But the next instant, Vickers had snatched the firelock from him and, leaping into the stream turned about and fired it down toward the prison. The attack was more sudden than he had expected but he did not lose his presence of mind. The shot would serve a double purpose. It would warn the men in the barrack and perhaps check the rush by stopping up the doorway with a corpse. Beaten back, struggling and indignant amid the storm of hideous faces his humanity vanished and he aimed deliberately at the head of Mr. James Bech. The shot, however, missed its mark and killed the unhappy Miles. Gabbitt and his companions had, by this time, reached the foot of the companion ladder there to encounter the cutlasses of the doubled guard, gleaming readily in the glow of the lanterns. A glance up the hatchway showed the giant that the arms he had planned to seize were defended by ten firelocks and that behind the open doors of the partition which ran above the Misenmast, the remainder of the detachment stood to their arms. Even his dull intellect comprehended that the desperate project had failed and that he had been betrayed. With the roar of despair which had penetrated into the prison he turned to fight his way back just in time to see the crowd and the gangway recoil from the flash of the musket fired by Vickers. The next instant, Pine and two soldiers taking advantage of the momentary cessation of the press shot the bolts and secured the prison. The mutineers were caught in a trap. The narrow space between the barracks and the barricade was choked with struggling figures. Some twenty convicts and half as many soldiers struck and stabbed at each other in the crowd. There was barely elbow room and attacked the attackers fought almost without knowing whom they struck. Gabbett tore a cutlass from a soldier, shook his huge head and calling on the mutia to follow bounded up the ladder, desperately determined to brave the fire of the watch. The mutia, close at the giant's heel, flung himself upon the nearest soldier and, grasping his wrist, struggled for the cutlass. A brawny bullnecked fellow next to him gashed his clenched fist in the soldier's face and the man, maddened by the blow, let go the cutlass and, drawing his pistol, shot his new assailant through the head. It was this second shot that aroused Maurice Freer. As the young lieutenant sprang upon the deck he saw by the position of the guard that others had been more mindful of the safety of the ship than he. There was, however, no time for explanation. For, as he reached the hatchway, he was met by the ascending giant who uttered a hideous oath at the sight of this unexpected adversary and, too close to strike him, locked him in his arms. The two men were drawn together. The guard on the quarter-deck dared not fire at the two bodies that twined about each other, rolled across the deck, and for a moment Mr. Freer's cherished existence hung upon the slenderest thread imaginable. The butcher, spattered with the blood and brains of his unfortunate comrade, had already set his foot upon the lowest step of the ladder, when the cutlass was dashed from his hand by a blow from a clubbed firelock, and he was dragged roughly backwards. As he fell upon the deck, he saw the crow spring out of the mass of prisoners who had been, an instant before, struggling with a guard, and gaining the cleared space at the bottom of the ladder, holed up his hands as though to shield himself from a blow. The confusion now became suddenly stilled, and upon the group before the barricade had fallen that mysterious silence which had perplexed the inmates of the prison. They were not perplexed for long. The two soldiers who, with the assistance of Pine, had forced to the door of the prison rapidly unvolted that trapped door in the barricade of which mention has been made in a previous chapter, and at a signal from Vickers, three men ran the loaded howitzer from its sinister shelter near the break of the barric birds, and training the deadly muzzle to a level with the opening in the barricade stood ready to fire. Surrender, cried Vickers in a voice from which all the humanity had vanished. Surrender and give up your ringleaders or I'll blow you to pieces. There was no tremor in his voice, and though he stood with Pine by his side at the very mouth of the levelled cannon the mutineers perceived, without cuteness, which imminent danger brings to the most stolid of brains, that did they hesitate an instant he would keep his word. There was an awful moment of silence broken only by a scurrying noise in the prison, as though a family of rats disturbed at a flower cask was scampering to the ship's side for shelter. This scurrying noise was made by the convicts rushing to their birds to escape the threatened shower of grape. To the twenty desperados cowering before the muzzle of the howitzer it spoke more eloquently than words. The charm was broken, their comrades would refuse to join them. The position of affairs at this crisis was a strange one. From the opened trapdoor came a sort of subdued murmur, like that which sounds within the folds of a seashell, but in the oblong block of darkness which it framed nothing was visible. The trapdoor might have been a window looking into a tunnel. On each side of this horrible window almost pushed before it by the pressure of one upon the other stood pine, vickers and a guard. In front of the little group lay the corpse of the miserable boy whom Sarah Purfoy had led to ruin and forced close upon, yet shrinking back from the trampled and bloody mass, crouched in mingled terror and rage the twenty mutineers. Behind the mutineers, withdrawn from the patch of light thrown by the open hatchway, the mouth of the howitzer threatened at destruction, and behind the howitzer, backed up by an array of brown musket barrels, suddenly glowed the tiny fire of the burning match in the hand of Vickers' trusty servant. The enchapped men looked up the hatchway, but the guard had already closed in upon it, and some of the ship's crew with that carelessness of danger sailors were peering down upon them. Escape was hopeless. One minute cried Vickers, confident that one second would be enough, one minute to go quietly or... Surrender, mates, for God's sake, shrieked some unknown wretch from out of the darkness of the prison. Do you want to be the death of us? Jemmy Vetch, feeling by that curious sympathy which nervous natures possess, that his comrades wished to act as a spokesman, him to act as a spokesman, raised his shrill tones. We surrender, he said. It's no use getting our brains blown out. When raising his hands, he obeyed the motion of Vickers' fingers and led the way toward the barrack. Bring the irons forward there, shouted Vickers, hastening from his perilous position. And before the last man had filed past the still-smoking match, the Kling of Hammers announced that the crow had resumed those fetters, which had been knocked off his dainty limbs a month previously in the bay of Bitskay. In another moment, the trapdoor was closed, the howitzer rumbled back to its cletings and the prison breathed again. Section 11 of for the term of his natural life. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org for the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book 1 The Sea 1827 Chapter 11 Discoveries and Confessions The shock was felt all through the vessel and pine who had been watching the ironing at the last of the mutineers at once divined its cause. Thank God, he cried. There's a breeze at last and as the overpowered gathered, bruised, bleeding and bound, was dragged down the hatchway. The triumphant doctor hurried upon deck to find the Malabar plunging through the whitening mortar under the influence of a 15 knot breeze. Stand by to roof, top sails away aloft men and fill the royals. Cry as best from the quarter deck and in the midst of the cheery confusion Morris Free briefly re-capitalated what had taken place. Taking care, however to pass over his own dereliction of duty as rapidly as possible. Pine knit his brows. Do you think that she was in the plot? He asked. Not she, says Freya. Eager to avert inquiry. How should she be? Plot? She's sickening a fever or I'm much mistaken. Sure enough on opening the door at the cabin they found Sarah Perfoy lying where she had fallen a quarter of an hour before. The clashing of cut lasses and the firing of muskets had not roused her. We must make a sick bay somewhere, says Pine looking at the senseless figure with no kindly glance. Though I don't think she's likely to be very bad couldn't found her. I believe that she's the cause of all this. I'll find out too before many hours are over for I've told those fellows that unless they confess all about it before tomorrow morning I'll get them six dozen apiece the day after we anchor in Hobart town. I've a great mind to do it before we get there. Take her head, Freya and we'll get her out of this before Vickers comes up. What a feel you are, to be sure. I knew what it would be with women aboard ship. I wonder if Mrs Vee hasn't been out before now. There, steady past the door. Why, man, one would think you never had your arm round a girl's waist before. Poo! Don't look so scared. I won't tell. Make haste now before that little parson comes. Parsons are regular old women to chatter and thus muttering Pine assisted to carry Mrs Vickers made into her cabin. By George but she's a fine girl, he said viewing the intimate body with the professional eye of a surgeon. I don't wonder at you making a fool of yourself. Chances are you caught the fever though this breeze will help to blow it out of us. Please God. That old jackass blunt too. He ought to be ashamed of himself at his age. What do you mean? Ask Freya hastily as he heard a step approach. What is blunt to say about her? Oh, I don't know. Return Pine. He was smitten too. That's all. Like a good many more. In fact, a good many more. Repeted the other with a pretense of carelessness. Yes, laugh Pine. Why, man? She was making eyes at every man in the ship. I called her kissing a soldier once. Murrah's Freya's cheeks grew hot. The experience prolificate had been taken in. Deceived. Perhaps laughed at. All the time he had flattered himself that he was fascinating the black eyed maid. The black eyed maid had been twisting him round her finger. And perhaps imitating his lovemaking for the gratification of a soldier lover. It was not a pleasant thought. And yet, strange to say, the idea of Sarah's treachery did not make him dislike her. There is a sort of love if love it can be called which thrives under ill treatment. Nevertheless, he cursed with some appearance of disgust. Vickers met them at the door. Pine, blunt, has the fever. Mr. Best found him in his cabin groaning. Come and look at him. The commander at the Malabar was lying on his bunk in the betwisted condition into which men who sleep in their clothes contrived to get themselves. The doctor shook him, bent down over him, and loosened his collar. He's not sick, he said. He's drunk. Blunt, wake up! Blunt! But the mass refused to move. Hello, says Pine, smelling at the broken tumbler. What's this? Smells queer. Rum? No. Ah. Lordenham. By George, he's been hokest. Nonsense. I see it, slapping his thigh. It's that infernal woman. She's drugged him, and meant to do the same for Freya gave him an imploring look. For anybody. For anybody else who would be feel enough to let her do it. Dawes was right, sir. She's in it. I'll swear she's in it. What my wife's made. Nonsense, said Vickers. Nonsense. Echoed Freya. It's no nonsense. That soldier who was shot, what's his name? Miles. He, but, however, it doesn't matter. It's all over now. The men will confess before morning, says Vickers. And we'll see. And he went off to his wife's cabin. His wife opened the door for him. She had been sitting by the child's bedside, listening to the firing, and waiting for her husband's return without a murmur. Flirt, fribble, and shrew as she was, Julia Vickers had displayed in times of emergency that glowing courage which women of her nature at time possesses. Though she would yawn over any book above the level of a genteel love story, attempt to fascinate Vickers' assumption of girlishness, boys young enough to be her sons, shudder at a frog, and scream at a spider, she could sit throughout a quarter of an hour of such suspense as she had just undergone with as much courage as if she had been the strongest minded woman that ever denied her sex. Is it all over? She asked. God, said Vickers, pausing on the threshold, all is safe now, though we had a narrow escape, I believe. How's Sylvia? The child was lying on the bed with her fair hair scattered over the pillow, and her tiny hands moving restlessly to and fro. A little better, I think, though she has been talking a good deal. The lips parted, and the blue eyes, brighter than ever, stared vacantly around. The sound of her father's voice seemed to have roused her, for she began to speak a little prayer. God bless Papa and Mama, and God bless all on board this ship. God bless me, and make me a good girl, for Jesus Christ's sake, the sound of the unconscious child, simple prayer, had something awesome in it, and John Vickers, who, not ten minutes before, would have sealed his own death warrant unhesitatingly to preserve the safety of the vessel, felt his eyes fill with unwanted tears. The contrast was curious. From out the midst of that desolate ocean in a fever smitten prison ship, leagues from land surrounded by ruffians, thieves, and murderers, the baby voice of an innocent child called confidently on heaven. Two hours afterwards, as the Malabar escaped from the peril which had menaced her, plunged cheeringly through the rippling water, the mutant nears by the spokesman, the James Bech, confessed. They were very sorry and hoped that their breach of discipline would be forgiven. It was the fear of the typhus which had driven them to it. They had no accomplices either in the prison or out of it, but they felt it but right to say that the man who had planned the mutiny was Rufus Dawes. The malignant cripple had guessed from whom the information which had led to the failure of the plot had been derived and this was his characteristic revenge. End of section 11 section 12 of for the term of his natural life. This is a Lubrovox recording. All Lubrovox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Lubrovox.org For the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke Book 1 The Sea 1827 Chapter 12 A newspaper paragraph extracted from the Hobart Town Courier of the 12th November 1827 The examination of the prisoners who were concerned in the attempt upon the Malabar was concluded on Tuesday last. The four ringleaders Dawes, Gabbett, Vetch and Sanders were condemned to death but we understand that by the clemency of his Excellency the Governor of Britain has been commuted to six years at the penal settlement of Macquarie Harbour. End of section 12 Book 1 Section 13 of for the term of his natural life This is a Lubrovox recording. All Lubrovox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit Lubrovox.org End of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book 2 Macquarie Harbour 1833 Chapter 1 The Topography of Van Demensland The southeast coast of Van Demensland from the solitary moose-stone to the besalted cliffs of Tasman's Head from Tasman's Head to Cape Pillar and from Cape Pillar to the rugged grandeur of Pirates Bay resembles a biscuit at which rats have been nibbling. Eaten away by the continual action the ocean, which, pouring round by east and west, has divided the peninsula from the mainland of the Australasian continent and done for Van Demensland what it has done for the Isle of Wight the shoreline is broken and rugged. Viewed upon the map the fantastic fragments of Ireland and Premontary which lie scattered between the south-west Cape and the Great Swanport are like the curious forms assumed by melted leads built into water. If the supposition were not too extravagant one might imagine that when the Australian continent was fused a careless giant upset the crucible and spilt Van Demensland in the ocean. The coast navigation is as dangerous as that of the Mediterranean passing from Cape Boganville to the east of Maria Island and between the numerous rocks and shoals which lie beneath the triple height of the three psalms the mariner is suddenly checked by Tasman's peninsula hanging like a huge double-dropped earring from the mainland around under the pillar rock through Storm Bay to Storing Island we sight the Italy of this miniature Adriatic. Between Hobart Town and Sorrel Pitwater and the Derwent a strangely shaped point of land the Italian boot with its toe bent upwards projects into the bay and separated from this projection by a narrow channel dotted with rocks the long lengths of broony island makes between its western side and the cliffs of Mount Royal the dangerous passage known as Dentrocasto Channel. At the southern entrance of Dentrocasto Channel a line of sunken rocks known by the generic name of the Actaean Reef attests that broony head was once joined with the shores of Recache Bay while from the south Cape to the jaws of Macquarie Harbour the white water caused by sunken reefs or the jagged peaks of single rocks abruptly rising in mid-sea worn the mariner offshore. It would seem as though nature jealous of the beauties of her silver derwent had made the approach to it as dangerous as possible but once through the archipelago of the Dentrocasto Channel or the less dangerous eastern passage of Storm Bay the voyage up the river is delightful. From the sentinel solitude of the Iron Pot to the smiling banks of New Norfolk the river winds in a succession of reaches narrowing to a deep channel cleft between rugged and towering cliffs. A line drawn due north from the source of the Derwent would strike another river winding up from the northern part of the island as the Derwent winds out from the south. The force of the waves expended perhaps in destroying the Isthmus which, two thousand years ago probably connected Van Diemen's land with the continent has been here less violent. The rounding currents of the southern ocean meeting at the mouth of the Tamar have rushed upwards over the Isthmus they have devoured and pouring against the south coast of Victoria have excavated there that inland sea called Port Phillip Bay. If the waves have gnawed the south coast of Van Diemen's land they have bitten a mouthful out of the south coast of Victoria. The bay is a mill pool having an area of nine hundred square miles with a race between the heads two miles across. About a hundred and seventy miles to the south of this mill race lies Van Diemen's land fertile, fair and rich from the clouds which, attracted by the Frenchman's cup Wild's Crag or the lofty peaks of the Wellington and Geometry range pour down upon the sheltered valleys their fertilising streams. No patching hot wind the scavenger, if the torment of the continent blows upon her crops and corn. The cool south breeze ripples gently the blue waters of the Derwent and fans the curtains of the open windows of the city which nestles in the broad shadow of Mount Wellington. The hot wind born amid the burning sound of the interior of the vast Australian continent sweeps over the scorched and cracking plains to lick up their streams and withers a herbage in its path until it meets the waters of the great south bay. But in its passage across the straits it is ref to its fire and sinks exhausted with its journey at the feet of the terrace slopes of Launceston. The climate of Van Diemen's land is one of the loveliest in the world. Launceston is warm, sheltered and moist and Hobart Town protected by Bruny Island and the archipelago of Dentricosto Channel and Storm Bay from the violence of the southern breakers preserves the mean temperature of Smyrna. Whilst the district between these two towns spreads in a succession of beautiful valleys through which glide clear and sparkling streams. But on the western coast from the steeple rocks of Cape Grim to the scrub encircled barrenness of Sandy Cape and the running entrance to Macquarie Harbour the nature of the country entirely changes. Along that ironbound shore from Pyramid Island and the forest-backed solitude of Rocky Point to the great ramhead and the struggling harbour of Port Davie all is bleak and cheerless. Upon that dreary beach the rollers of the southern sea complete their circuit of the globe and the storm that has devastated the Cape and united in its eastern course from the unknown terrors of the southern pole crashes unchecked upon the hewn pine forests and lashes with rain the grim front of Mount Direction. Furious gales and sudden tempests affright the natives of the coast. Navigation is dangerous and the entrance to the hell's gates of Macquarie Harbour at the time of which we are writing, 1833 in the height of its ill fame as a convict settlement is only to be attempted in calm weather. The sea-line is marked with wrecks. The sunken rocks are dismally named after the vessels that have destroyed. The air is chill and moist. The soil prolific only in prickly undergrowth and noxious weeds while fetid exhalations from swamp and fen cling close to the humid spongy ground. All around breathes desolation. On the face of nature is stamped a perpetual frown. The shipwrecked sailor crawling painfully to the summit of basalt cliffs or the iron convict dragging his tree-chunk to the edge of some beatling plateau looks down upon a sea of fog through which rise mountaintops like islands or sees through the biting sleet a desert of scrub and crag rolling to the feet of Mount Heamskirk and Mount Zehan crouched like two sentinel lions keeping watch over the seaboard. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org reading by Landy for the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book 2, Macquarie Harbour 1833 Chapter 2 The Solitary of Hell's Gates Hell's Gates formed by a rocky point which runs abruptly northward almost touches on its eastern side a projecting arm of land in the middle of the gates is a natural bolt that is to say an island which, lying on a sandy bar in the very jaws of the current creates a double whirlpool impossible to pass in the smoothest weather. Once through the gates the convict, chained on the deck of the inward-bound vessel sees in front of him the bald cone of the Frenchman's Cup piercing the moist air at a height of 5,000 feet while, gloomed by overhanging rocks and shadowed by gigantic forests the black sides of the basin narrow to the mouth of the gordon. The tabulant stream is the colour of indigo and, being fed by numerous rivulets which ooze through masses of decaying vegetable matter is of so poisonous a nature that it is not only undrinkable but absolutely kills the fish which in stormy weather are driven in from the sea. As may be imagined the furious tempest which beat upon this exposed coast create a strong surfline after a few days of northwest wind the waters of the gordon will be found salt for 12 miles up from the bar. The headquarters of the settlement were placed on an island not far from the mouth of this inhospitable river called Sarah Island. Though now the whole place is desolate and a few rotting posts and logs alone remain mute witnesses of scenes of agony never to be revived. In the year 1833 the buildings were numerous and extensive on Philips Island on the north side of the harbour was a small farm where vegetables were grown for the use of the officers in the establishment and on Sarah Island were saw pits, forges, dockyards jail, guard house barracks and jetty. The military force numbered about 60 men who, with convict waters and constables took charge of more than 350 prisoners. These miserable wretches deprived of every hope were employed in the most degrading labour. No beast of burden was allowed in the settlement. All the pulling and dragging was done by human beings. About 100 good-conduct men were allowed the lighter-toil of dragging timber to the wharf to assist in shipbuilding. The others cut down the trees that fringed the mainland and carried them on their shoulders to the water's edge. The denseness of the scrub and bush rendered it necessary for a roadway perhaps a quarter of a mile in length was constructed, and the trunks of trees stripped of their branches were rolled together in this roadway until a slide was made down which the heavier logs could be shunted towards the harbour. The timber thus obtained was made into rafts and floated to the sheds or arranged for transportation to Hobart Town. The convicts were lodged on Sarah Island in barracks flanked by a two-storey prison whose cells were the terror of the most hardened. Each morning they received their breakfast and salt, and then rode under the protection of their guard to the wood-cutting stations where they worked without food until night. Their launching and hewing of the timber compelled them to work up to their wastes in water. Many of them were heavily ironed. Those who died were buried on a little plot of ground called Halliday's Island from the name of the first man buried there, and a plank stuck into the earth and carved with the initials of the deceased was the only monument that saved him. Sarah Island situated at the south-end corner of the harbour is long and low. The commandant's house was built in the centre having the chaplain's house and barracks between it and the jail. The hospital was on the west shore and in a line with it lay the two penitentiaries. Lines of lofty palisades ran round the settlement giving it the appearance of a fortified town. These palisades were built for the purpose of warding off the terrific blasts of wind which, shrieking to the long and narrow bay as through the keyhole of a door, had in former times torn off roofs and leveled boat-sheds. The little town was set, as it were, in defiance of nature at the very extreme of civilisation and its inhabitants maintained perpetual warfare with the winds and waves. But the jail of Sarah Island was not the only prison in this desolate region. At a little distance from the mainland is a rock over the rude side of which the waves dash in rough weather. On the evening of the 3rd of December, 1833, as the sun was sinking behind the treetops on the left side of the harbour, the figure of a man appeared on the top of this rock. He was clad in the coarse garb of a convict and wore round his ankles two iron rings connected by a short and heavy chain. To the middle of this chain a leavened strap was attached which, splitting in the form of a T, buckled round his waist and pulled the chain high enough to bring over it as he walked. His head was bare and his coarse, blue-striped shirt opened at the throat, displayed an em-browned and muscular neck. Emerging from out of a sort of cell or den contrived by nature or art in the side of the cliff, he threw on a scanty fire which burned between two hollowed rocks a small log of pine wood and then returning to his cave and bringing from it an iron pot which contained water, which was placed in place for it in the ashes and placed it on the embers. It was evident that the cave was at once his storehouse and larder and that the two hollowed rocks formed his kitchen. Having thus made preparations for supper he ascended a pathway which led to the highest point of the rock. His fetters compelled him to take short steps and as he walked he winced as though the iron bit him. A handkerchief or stoop of cloth was twisted round his left ankle and the circlet had chafed a saw. Painfully and slowly he gained his destination and flinging himself on the ground gazed around him. The afternoon had been stormy and the rays of the setting sun shone redly on the turbid and rushing waters of the bay. On the right lay Sarah Island on the left the bleak shore of the opposite coast and the tall peak of the Frenchman's cup while the recent storm hung sullenly over the barren hills to the eastward. Below him appeared the only sign of life. A brig was being towed up the harbour by two convict manned boats. The sight of this brig seemed to rouse in the mind of the solitary of the rock a strain of reflection. Four, sinking his chin upon his hand, he fixed his eyes on the incoming vessel and immersed himself in moody thought. More than an hour had passed yet he did not move. The ship anchored. The boats detached themselves from her side. The sun sank and the bay was plunged in gloom. Lights began to twinkle along the shore of the settlement. The little fire died and the water in the iron pot grew cold yet the watcher on the rock did not stir. With his eyes staring into the gloom and fixed steadily on the vessel he lay along the barren cliff of his lonely prison as motionless as the rock on which he had stretched himself. This solitary man was Rufus Dawes. End of Chapter 2, Book 2 Section 15 of For the Term of His Natural Life This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Reading by Landy For the Term of His Natural Life by Marcus Clarke Book 2, Macquarie Harbour 1833 Chapter 3 A Social Evening In the House of Major Vickers Commandant of Macquarie Harbour III. Unusual Gayety Lieutenant Morris Freyre late in command at Maria Island had unexpectedly come down with news from headquarters. The Ladybird, Government Schooner visited the settlement on ordinary occasions twice a year and such visits would look forward to with no little eagerness by the settlers. To the convicts the arrival of the Ladybird meant arrival of new faces, intelligence of old comrades, news of how the world exiled was progressing. When the Ladybird arrived the chained and toil-worn felons felt that they were yet human that the universe was not bounded by the gloomy forest which surrounded their prison but that there was a world beyond where men like themselves smoked and drank and laughed and rested and were free. When the Ladybird arrived they heard such news as interested them that is to say not me foolish accounts of wars or ship arrivals but matters appertaining to their own world how Tom was with the road gangs Dick on a ticket of leave Harry taken to the bush and Jack hung at the Hobart Town jail. Such items of intelligence were the only news they cared to hear and the newcomers were well posted up in such matters. To the convicts the Ladybird was Town Talk, Theatre, Stock Quotations and Latest Telegrams she was their newspaper and post office the one excitement of their dreary existence the one link between their own misery and the happiness of their fellow creatures. To the commandant and the free men this messenger from the art of life was scarcely less welcome there was not a man on the island he did not feel his heart grow heavier when her white sails disappeared behind the shoulder of the hill. On the present occasion business of more than ordinary importance had procured for Major Vickers this pleasurable excitement it had been resolved by Governor Arthur that the convict establishment should be broken up. A succession of murders and attempted escapes had called public attention to the place and its distance from Hobart Town rendered it inconvenient and expensive. Arthur had fixed upon Tasman's Peninsula the earring of which we have spoken as a future convict depot and naming it Port Arthur in honour of himself had sent down Lieutenant Morris Freyre with instructions for Vickers to convey the prisoners of Macquarie Harbour thither. In order to resolve the magnitude and meaning of such an order as that with which Lieutenant Freyre was entrusted we must glance at the social condition of the penal colony at this period of its history. Nine years before Colonel Arthur, late Governor of Honduras had arrived at a most critical moment. The former Governor, Colonel Sorrell was a man of genial temperament but little strength of character. He was, moreover, profligate in his private life and encouraged by his example his officers violated all rules of social decency. It was common for an officer to openly keep a female convict at his mistress not only would compliance purchase comforts but strange stories were afloat concerning the persecution of women who dared to choose their own lovers. To put down this profligacy was the first care of Arthur and in enforcing a severe attention to etiquette and outward respectability he perhaps erred on the side of virtue. Honest, brave and high-minded, he was also pernurious and cold and the ostentatious good humour of the colonists dashed itself in vain against his polite indifference. In opposition to this official society created by Governor Arthur was that of the Free Settlers and Ticket of Leavemen. The latter were more numerous than one would be apt to suppose. On the 2nd of November, 1829 thirty-eight free pardons and fifty-six conditional pardons appeared in the books and the number of persons holding tickets of leave on the 26th of September the same year was 745. Of the social condition of these people at this time it is impossible to speak without astonishment. According to the recorded testimony of many respectable persons government officials, military officers and free settlers the profligacy of the settlers was notorious. Drunkenness was a prevailing vice. Even children were to be seen in the streets intoxicated. On Sundays men and women might be observed standing round the public-house doors waiting for the expiration of the hours of public worship in order to continue their carousing. As for the condition of the prisoner population that indeed is indescribable. Notwithstanding the severe punishment for sly grog-selling it was carried on to a large extent. Men and women were found intoxicated together and a bottle of brandy was considered to be cheaply bought at the price of twenty lashes. In the factory a prison for females the vilest abusers were committed while the infamous current as matters of course in chain gangs and penal settlements were of too horrible a nature to be more than hinted at here. All that the vilest and most bestial of human creatures could invent and practice was in this unhappy country invented and practiced without restraint without shame. Seven classes of criminals were established in 1826 when the new barracks for prisoners at Hobart Town were finished. The first class were allowed to sleep out of barracks and to work for themselves on Saturday. The second had only the last named indulgence. The third were only allowed Saturday afternoon. The fourth and fifth were refractory and disorderly characters to work in irons. The sixth were men of the most degraded possible character to be worked in irons and kept entirely separate from the other prisoners. While the seventh were the refuse of this refuse the murderers, bandits and villains whom neither chain nor lash could tame they were regarded as socially dead and shipped to Hell's Gates or Maria Island. Hell's Gates was the most dreaded of all these houses of bondage. The discipline at the place was so severe and the life so terrible that they risked all to escape from it. In one year of eighty-five deaths there only thirty were from natural causes. Of the remaining dead twenty-seven were drowned eight killed accidentally three shot by the soldiers and twelve murdered by their comrades. In 1822 169 men out of 182 were punished to the extent of two thousand lashes. During the ten years of its existence 112 men escaped out of whom 62 only were found dead. The prisoners killed themselves to avoid living any longer and if so fortunate as to penetrate the desert of scrub, heath and swamp which lay between their prison and the settled districts preferred death to recapture. Successfully to transport the remnant of this desperate band of doubly convicted felons to Arthur's new prison was the mission of Morris Freyre. He was sitting by the empty fireplace with one leg carelessly thrown over the other entertaining the company with his usual indifferent air. The six years it had passed since his departure from England had given him a sturdier frame and a fuller face. His hair was coarser, his face redder and his eye more hard but in demeanour he was little changed. So would he might be and his voice had acquired that decisive insured tone which a voice exercised only an accent of command invariably acquires but his bad qualities were as prominent as ever. His five years residence at Maria Island had increased that brutality of thought and overbearing confidence in his own importance for which he had been always remarkable but it had also given him an assured air of authority which covered the more unpleasant features of his character. He was detested by the prisoners as he said it was a word and a blow with him but among his superiors he passed for an officer, honest and painstaking though somewhat bluff and severe. Well, Mrs. Vickers he said as he took a cup of tea from the hands of that lady. I suppose you won't be sorry to get away from this place, eh? Trouble you for the toast, Vickers? No, indeed, says poor Mrs. Vickers with the old girlishness overshadowed by six years. I shall be only too glad a dreadful place. John's duties, however, are imperative but the wind, my dear Mr. Frey, you've no idea of it. I wanted to send Sylvia to Hobart Town but John would not let her go. By the way how is Miss Sylvia? asked Frey with the patronising air which men of his stamp adopt when they speak of children. Not very well, I'm sorry to say, returned Vickers. You see it's lonely for her here. There are no children of her own age with the exception of the pilot's little girl which she cannot associate with her. But I did not like to leave her behind and endeavour to teach her myself. Um, there was a her governess or something was there not, said Frey, staring at his teacup. That maid, you know, what was her name? Miss Perfoy, said Mrs. Vickers, a little gravely. Yes, poor thing. A sad story, Mr. Frey. Frey's eye twinkled. Indeed, I left, you know, shortly after the trial of the mutineers and never heard the full particulars. He spoke carelessly, but he awaited the reply with keen curiosity. A sad story, repeated Mrs. Vickers. She was the wife of that wretched man, Rex, and came out as my maid in order to be near him. She would never tell me her history, poor thing. Though all through the dreadful accusations made by that horrid doctor I always disliked that man. I begged her almost on my knees. You know how she nursed Sylvia and poor John, really, a most superior creature. I think she must have been a governess. Mr. Frey raised his eyebrows abruptly as though he would say, governess, of course. Happy suggestion. Wonder it never occurred to me before. However, her conduct was most exemplary. Really, most exemplary. And during the six months we were in Hobart Town she taught little Sylvia a great deal. Of course, she could not help her wretched husband, you know. Could she? Certainly not, said Freyre heartily. I heard something about him, too. Got into some scrape, did he not? Half a cup, please. Miss Perfoy, or Mrs. Rex, as she really was, though I don't suppose Rex is her real name, either. Sugar and milk, I think you said? Came into a little legacy from an old aunt in England. Mr. Freyre gave a little bluff nod, thereby, old aunt, exactly, just what might have been expected. And left my service. She took a little cottage on the New Town Road, and Rex was assigned to her as her servant. I see, the old dodge, says Freyre, flushing a little. Well? Well, the wretched man tried to escape, and she helped him. He was to get to Lawnceston, and so on board a vessel to Sydney, but they took the unhappy creature away. She was only fine, but it ruined her. Ruined her? Well, you see, only a few people knew of her relationship to Rex, and she was rather respected. Of course, when it became known what with that dreadful trial and the horrible assertions of Dr. Pine, you will not believe me, I know, but there was something about that man I never liked. She was quite left alone. She wanted me to bring her down here but John thought it was only to be near her husband and wouldn't allow it. Of course it was, said Vickers, rising. Freyre, if you'd like to smoke, we'll go on the veranda. She will never be satisfied until she gets that scoundrel free. He's a bad lot, then, says Freyre, opening the glass window and leading the way to the sandy garden. You will excuse my roughness, Mrs. Vickers, but I have become quite a slave to my pipe. Ha-ha! It's wife and child to me. Oh, a very bad lot, returned Vickers. Quiet and silent, but ready for any villainy. I count him one of the worst men we have. With the exception of one or two more I think he is the worst. Why don't you flog him, says Freyre, lighting his pipe in the gloom. By George Sir, I cut the hides off my fellas if they show any nonsense. Well, says Vickers, I don't care about too much cat myself. Barton, who was here before me, flogged tremendously, but I don't think it did any good. They tried to kill him several times. You remember those twelve fellows who were hung? No? Ah, of course, you were away. What do you do with them? Oh, flog the worst, you know, but I don't flog more than a man a week as a rule, and never more than fifty lashes. They're getting quieter now. Then we iron and dumb-cells and maroon them. Do what? Give them solitary confinement on Grummit Island. When a man gets very bad, we clap him into a boat with a week's provisions and pull him over to Grummit. There are cells cut in the rock, you see, and the fellow pulls up his commissariat after him, and lives there by himself for a month or so. It tames them wonderfully. Does it, said Freyre, by a jove it's a capital notion. I wish I had a place of that sort at Maria. I have a fellow there now, says Vickers. Daws, you remember him, of course. The ringleader of the mutiny in the Malabar. Had dread for Ruffian. He was the most violent the first year I was here. Barton used to flog a good deal and Daws had a childish dread of the cat. When I came in, when was it— in twenty-nine. He had made a sort of petition to be sent back to the settlement. Said that he was innocent of the mutiny and that the accusation against him was false. The old dodge, said Freyre again. A match? Thanks. Of course, I couldn't let him go, but I took him out of the chain-gain and put him on the osprey. You saw her in the dock as he came in. He worked for some time very well and then tried to bolt again. The old trick— Ha! Ha! Don't I know it, says Mr. Freyre, emitting a streak of smoke in the air, expressive of pret and natural wisdom. Well, we called him and gave him fifty. Then he was sent to the chain-gain, cutting timber. Then we put him into the boats, but he quarrelled with the cockswain, and then we took him back to the timber-rafts. About six weeks ago he made another attempt, together with Gabbett, the man who nearly killed you, but his leg was chafed with the irons, and we took him. Gabbett and three more, however, got away. Haven't you found him? Asked Freyre, puffing at his pipe. No, but they'll come to the same fate as the rest, said Vickers, with a sort of dismal pride. No man ever escaped from Macquarie Harbour. Freyre laughed. By the Lord, said he, it will be rather hard for him if they don't come back before the end of the month, they? Oh, said Vickers, they're sure to come, if they can come at all, but once lost in the scrub a man hasn't much chance for his life. When do you think you'll be ready to move? asked Freyre. As soon as you wish. I don't want to stop a moment longer than I can help. It is a terrible life, this. Do you think so? asked his companion, in unaffected surprise. I like it. It's dull, certainly. When I first went to Maria I was dreadfully bored, but one soon gets used to it. There is a sort of satisfaction to me by George in keeping the scoundrels in order. I like to see the fellow's eyes glint at you as you walk past them. And he laughed grimly as though the hate he inspired was a thing to be proud of. How shall we go? asked Vickers. Have you got any instructions? No, says Freyre. Get him up the best way you can, Arthur said, and pack him off to the new peninsula. He thinks he too far off here by George. He wants to have you within hail. It's a dangerous thing taking so many at once, suggested Vickers. Not a bit. Batten him down and keep the sentries awake, and they won't do any harm. But Mrs. Vickers and the child? I thought of that. You take the ladybird with the prisoners and lead me to bring up Mrs. Vickers and the osprey. We might do that. Indeed, it's the best way, I think. I don't like the notion of having Sylvia among those wretches, and yet I don't like to leave her. Well, says Freyre, confident of his own ability to accomplish anything he might undertake, I'll take the ladybird and you the osprey. Bring up Mrs. Vickers yourself. No, no, said Vickers, with the touch of his own pomposity. That won't do. By the king's regulations, all right, interjected Freyre. The officer commanding is obliged to place himself in charge. All right, my dear sir. I have no objection in life. It was Sylvia that I was thinking of, said Vickers. Well, then, cries the other as the door of the room inside opened and a little white figure came through into the broad veranda. Here she is. Ask her yourself. Well, Miss Sylvia, will you come and shake hands with an old friend? The bright-haired baby of the Malabar had become a bright-haired child when she was eight years old, and as she stood in her simple white dress in the glow of the lamp-light, even the unesthetic mind of Mr. Freyre was struck by her extreme beauty. Her bright blue eyes were as bright and as blue as ever. Her little figure was as upright and as supple as a willow-rod, and her innocent, delicate face was framed in a nimbus of that fine golden hair, dry and electrical, each separate thread shining on the ladders and dowed and glorified their angels. Come and give me a kiss, Miss Sylvia, cries Freyre. You haven't forgotten me, have you? But the child, resting one hand on her father's knee, surveyed Mr. Freyre from head to foot with the charming impertinence of childhood, and then, shaking her lovely hair, inquired, Who is he, papa? Mr. Freyre, darling, don't you remember Mr. Freyre, who used to play ball with you on board ship when you were kind to you and you were getting well? For shame, Sylvia! There was, in the childing accents, such an undertone of tenderness that the reproof fell harmless. I remember you," said Sylvia, tossing her head, but you were nicer then than you are now. I don't like you at all." You don't remember me," said Freyre, a little disconcerted and effecting to be intensely at his ease. I am sure you don't. What is my name?" You knocked down a prisoner. He picked up my ball. I don't like you. You're a forward young lady upon my word," says Freyre, with a great laugh. So I did, big guard. I recollect now. What a memory you've got. He's here now, isn't he, papa? Went on Sylvia, regardless of interruption. Rufus Dawes is his name and he's always in trouble. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him. Denny says he's queer in his mind. And who's Denny? Ask Freyre with another laugh. The cook," replied Vickers, an old man I took out of hospital. Sylvia, you talk too much with the prisoners. I have forbidden you once or twice before. But Denny is not a prisoner, papa. He's a cook," says Sylvia, nothing abashed, and he's a clever man. He told me all about London where the Lord Mayor rides in a glass coach and all the work is done by free men. He says, you never hear chains there. I should like to see London, papa. So would Mr. Denny. I have no doubt," said Freyre. No, he didn't say that. But he wants to see his old mother, he says. Fancy Denny's mother. What an ugly old woman she must be. He says he'll see her in heaven. Will he, papa? I hope so, my dear. Papa. Yes. Will Denny wear his yellow jacket in heaven or go as a free man? Freyre burst into a roar at this. You're an impertinent fellow, sir, cried Sylvia, her bright eyes flashing. How dare you laugh at me! If I was papa, I'd give you half an hour at the triangles. Oh, you impertinent man! And crimson with rage, the spoilt little beauty ran out of the room. Vickers looked grave, but Freyre was constrained to get up to laugh at his ears. Good! Porn honour, that's good. The little vixen. Half an hour at the triangles. Ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! She is a strange child, said Vickers, and talks strangely for her age, but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see, and her education has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place in its associations, what can you expect from a child bred in a convict settlement? My dear sir, says the other, she is delightful. Her innocence of the world is amazing. She must have three or four years at a good finishing school at Sydney. Please, God, I will give them to her when we go back, or send her to England if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polishing sadly, I'm afraid. Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted. What is it, Troke? Prisoner given himself up, sir. Which of them? Gabbitt. He came back to-night. Alone? Yes, sir. The rest have died, he says. What's that? Asked for air, suddenly interested. The bolterer was telling you about Gabbitt, your old friend. He's returned. How long has he been out? Nice six weeks, sir, said the constable, touching his cup. God, he's had a narrow squeak for it, I'll be bound. I should like to see him. He's down at the sheds, said the ready Troke. A good conduct burglar. You can see him at once, gentlemen, if you like. What do you say, vickers? Oh, by all means. End of Chapter 3, Book 2. Section 16 of For the Term of His Natural Life. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Landy. For the Term of His Natural Life by Marcus Clarke. Book 2, Macquarie Harbour 1833 Chapter 4, The Bolter. It was not far to the sheds, and after a few minutes' walk through the wooden palisades, they reached a long stone building, two stories higher, from which issued a horrible growling pierced with shrilly screamed songs. At the sound of the musket-butts clashing on the pine-wood flagging, the noises ceased, and a silence more sinister than sound fell on the place. Passing between two rows of waters, the two officers reached a sort of anti-room to the jail, containing a pine-logged stretcher on which a mass of something was lying. On a roughly made stool by the side of this stretcher sat a man in the grey dress worn as a contrast to the yellow livery of good-conduct prisoners. This man held between his knees a basin containing gruel, and was apparently endeavouring to feed the mass on the pine logs. "'Won't he eat, Steve?' asked Vickers. And at the sound of the commandant's voice Steve arose. "'Don't know what's wrong with him, sir,' he said, jerking up a finger to his forehead. He seems just muggy-pated, I can't do nothing when.' "'Gabbitt?' The intelligent trope, considerably alive to the wishes of his superior officers, dragged the mass into a sitting posture and woke it. Gabbitt, for it was he, passed one great hand over his face, and leaning exactly in the position in which trope placed him, scowled bewildered at his visitors. "'Well, Gabbitt,' says Vickers, "'you've come back again, you see. Where are your mates?' The giant did not reply. "'Do you hear me? Where are your mates?' "'Where are your mates?' repeated trope. "'Dead,' says Gabbitt. "'All three of them?' "'Aye.' "'And how did you get back?' Gabbitt, in eloquent silence, held out a bleeding foot. "'We found him on the point, sir,' said trope, jauntily explaining, and brought him across in the boat. He had a basin of gruel, but he didn't seem hungry. "'Are you hungry?' "'Yes.' "'Why don't you eat your gruel?' Gabbitt curled his great lips. "'I have eaten it. "'Ain't you got enough and better "'nall that to flog a man on?' "'Ugh, you're a mean lot. "'What's it to be this time major, fifty?' "'And laughing, he rolled down again on the logs. "'A nice specimen,' said Vickers with a hopeless smile. "'What can one do with such a fellow?' "'I had flogged his soul out of his body,' "'if he spoke to me like that.' Trope and the others, hearing the statement, conceived an instant respect for the newcomer. He looked as if he would keep his word. The giant raised his great head and looked at the speaker, but he did not recognise him. He saw only a strange face, a visitor, perhaps. "'You may flog and welcome, master,' said he, "'if you'll give me a figure to backie.' Frey laughed. The brutal indifference of the rejoinder suited his humour. And with a glance at Vickers, he took a small piece of cavendish from the pocket of his pea-jacket and gave it to the recaptured convict. Gabbett snatched it as a curse snatched it at a bone and thrust it whole into his mouth. "'How many mates had he?' asked Morris, watching the champion jaws as one looks at a strange animal, and asking the question as though a mate was something a convict was born with, like a mole, for instance. "'Three, sir?' "'Three, eh? We'll give him thirty lashes, Vickers. "'And if I had three more,' growled Gabbett, mumbling at his tobacco, "'you wouldn't have had the chance.' "'What does he say?' Betroke had not heard, and the good conduct man, shrinking as it seemed, slightly from the prisoner, said he had not heard either. The wretch himself, munching hard at his tobacco, relapsed into his restless silence, and was as though he had never spoken. As he sat there, gloomily chewing, he was a spectacle to stutter at. Not so much on account of his natural hideousness, increased a thousandfold by the tattered and filthy rags which barely covered him. Not so much on account of his unshaven jaws, his hair-lip, his torn and bleeding feet, his haggard cheeks, and his huge wasted frame. Not only because, looking at the animal, as he crouched with one foot curled round the other, and one hairy-arm pendant between his knees, he was so horribly unhuman, that one shuddered to think that tender women and fair children must, of necessity, confess to fellowship of kind with such a monster. But also because, in his slavering mouth, his slowly grinding jaws, his restless fingers, and his bloodshot, wandering eyes, there lurked a hint of some terror more awful than the terror of starvation. A memory of a tragedy played out in the gloomy depths of that forest which had formatted him forth again, and the shadow of this unknown horror clinging to him repelled and disgusted as though he bore about with him the reek of the shambles. Come, said Vickers, let us go back. I shall have to flog him again, I suppose. All this place, no wonder they call it hell's gates. You are too soft-hearted, my dear sir, said Frere, half way up the palisaded path. We must treat Brutes like Brutes. Major Vickers, in your audacity was to such sentiments, sighed. It is not for me to find fault with the system, he said, hesitating, in his reverence for discipline to utter all the thought. But I have sometimes wondered if kindness would not succeed better than the chain and the cat. You old ideas, lost his companion. They nearly cost us our lives on the Malabar. No, no. I have seen something of convicts. Though, to be sure, my fellows were not so bad as yours, and there's only one way with them. Keep them down, sir. Make them feel what they are. They're there to work, sir. If they won't work, flog them until they will. If they work well, wiretasted the cat now and then keeps them in mind of what they may expect if they get lazy. They had reached the veranda now. The rising moon shone softly on the bay beneath them and touched with her white light the summit of the grummet rock. That is the general opinion, I know, returned Vickers. But consider the life they lead. Good God, he added, with sudden vehemence, as fair pause to look at the bay. I'm not a cruel man, and never, I believe, inflicted an unmerited punishment. But since I have been here, ten prisoners have drowned themselves from yonder rock rather than live on in their misery. Only three weeks ago, two men with a woodcutting party in the hills, having had some words with the overseer, shook hands with the gang, and then, hand in hand, flung themselves over the cliff. It's horrible to think of. They shouldn't get sent here, said practical friar. They knew what they had to expect. Serve them right. But imagine an innocent man condemned to this place. I can't, said friar, with a laugh. Innocent men be hanged. They're all innocent if you'd believe their own stories. Hello, what's that red light there? Doors is fire and gum at rock, says Vickers, going in. The man I told you about. Come in and have some brandy and water, and we'll shut the door in the place. End of chapter four, book two.