Chapter 14
Sydney, New South Wales, Australia. 1835
A week had passed since Jack Finch had received his flogging. In solitary confinement he'd had plenty of time to think. He was determined to survive his sentence. He had things to do. He had plans. None of them would come to fruition if he allowed the rigours of the penal system to grind him down, to crush his spirit, or ravage his body. Unlike his fellow convicts, he had advantages. Not only did he know that he would survive but, more importantly, he had secret knowledge denied to anyone else in the whole world.
He took another mouthful of skillet, a repugnant-tasting rough porridge which he would have liked to tip over the head of the guard who stood threateningly close to the crude table at which Jack was sitting. The other convicts had finished their meal and left the table. Although the skillet was so unpalatable, Jack knew that he had to eat it. Fussy eaters didn't last long in the penal settlement of New South Wales. He thought of the sort of breakfast to which he was accustomed in his past life. Or is it my future life? he asked himself. There's no answer to that enigma, he decided. I used to understand the concepts of past and future — but not any more.
'Back to work, Finch!' a gruff voice commanded him.
He quickly lifted the wooden bowl and tipped the remainder of the skillet into his mouth. Trying hard not to let his gullet heave it back up, he pushed himself away from the table and shuffled as quickly as possible back to his work station. It was a little after nine (not that he had a watch, but he had been told that the short morning break always started at that time). He had been at work for three hours, although it felt more like six. For a relatively young and fit man, his work for the next day or so consisted of comparatively light duties. Once he'd been declared fit, however, it would be hard labour which would await him each morning. For now, he was cutting out shapes from sheets of leather using a pair of shears which, he thought, looked similar to those once used for shearing sheep. Other convicts were taking his cut-out pieces of leather and fashioning them into shoes. He sat down on the ground and, with a groan, picked up his shears and a fresh hide upon which the cutting lines had already been marked.
'You'll be getting accustomed to it. 'Tis not so bad — after the first year.'
Jack didn't turn to look at the speaker. Joseph had already warned him that the guards, forever on the lookout for 'a wee bit o'sport', were always ready to aim a kick at anyone who appeared to be slacking. 'Don't you be giving them any excuse to clobber you,' had been his invaluable advice.
At first, Jack had wondered whether it was customary for convicts to talk about their past lives and their crimes. He soon realised, however, that that was all they did have to talk about. Life as a convict provided very few opportunities to chalk up new experiences worth talking about. So, apart from prison gossip and advice to newcomers, it was the past which formed the subject of many conversations.
Joseph Gaven, a native of County Wexford in Ireland, had been found guilty of forgery at County Carlow Spring Assizes at the age of 59, and had received a 14 year sentence. 'To nap fourteen penn'orth for a wee bit o'forgery. Now where's the fairness in that, I'm asking?'
Jack had to agree, 'There's no fairness in it, my friend.'
Some time passed before either of them spoke again. Jack was learning that there was no need to rush a conversation. A good chat that would have been over in an hour in his old life, could probably be made to last the whole of the working day here — 6am until 6pm.
'Can I ask you a question, Joseph?'
After a long pause, Joseph replied, 'Well — seeing that 'tis a fine summer's day, I was thinking of taking me wife to do a wee bit o'shopping in the town. Now how am I going to explain to her that you wants to keep me here for a bit of idle chitchat?'
Happy to play the game, Jack waited a while before saying, 'I appreciate your problem, Joseph. Keeping a wife contented can be an irksome business. I do believe, though, that there is going to be a storm this afternoon. I am sure your wife would not be too happy if she were to find her best silk dress was dragging in the mud.'
'That is a consideration to be sure. I'll put it to her and see what she has to say on the matter.'
Jack, for the first time in months, felt a genuine smile coming. Better not let the guards see it, he thought, or they'll be trying to scrub it off my face.
Eventually, Joseph 'returned' from speaking with his wife. 'You'll be pleased to hear,' he reported, 'that Mrs Gaven will be staying at home this afternoon. So what was it you were wanting to ask o'me?'
'Assignment,' Jack said grimly. 'I know I am to be assigned any day now — and I think I shall miss your company, by the way. What I want to know is where I'm likely to be assigned to.'
'Ah now. That is a poser to be sure. I'm thinking they'll be putting you down as a Special.'
'What's a Special?' asked Jack.
'A Special is a man who has a bit of education. A man like yourself, unless I'm very much mistaken. Sometimes a Special does well. Other times . . . he does not.'
'How do you mean?'
'There is some as would like to have an educated man working for them — keeping their books, adding up figures, writing accounts. But there's others who think an educated man is a dangerous man — and want to punish him for his learning.'
For the rest of the afternoon Joseph said very little. He knew that Jack was preoccupied with thoughts of his assignment. Just before six o'clock, Joseph nudged Jack while no-one was looking and asked, 'What do you fancy for your supper tonight?'
'You mean there's a choice.'
'To be sure there's always a choice — you can take it or you can leave it. And if you think you'll be leaving it, you can sit by me. The older I get the hungrier I get.'
'What's the meal likely to be?'
'Now why would you be asking me that? I thought you were the clever one who could tell what was going to happen in the future.'
Forgetting the advice given to him earlier, Jack jerked his head towards Joseph and sharply demanded of him, 'Who told you that!'
Believing Jack to be playing games again, Joseph took no offence, but simply said, 'Why, 'twas you who told me. You said you knew there was going to be a storm. So, if you know when it's going to rain, you might know what's for supper.'
Jack breathed a sigh of relief. 'I can only smell weather, Joseph. Food I can't smell.'
'Then you're a lucky man, to be sure — for I can smell beef and I'm wishing I could not.'
Joseph was right about the beef — the taste was as bad as the smell. But at least the smiggins (a soup thickened with barley) was palatable — to someone who had been on bread and water for a week.
As the convicts licked their plates clean, a loud clap of thunder boomed overhead. Joseph looked at Jack and said, 'Mrs Gaven will be very grateful to you. She hates that dress o'hers getting muddy.'
There was a second boom, but this time from a guard. 'Finch! You've been assigned. Great North Road. You leave on the morrow.'
Jack looked straight at Joseph but saw that he had closed his eyes. He reached across the table and shook his arm. 'Joseph!' he whispered as loudly as he dared. 'What does that mean?'
Very slowly, Joseph opened his eyes and looked steadily at Jack. For a while he said nothing — and then, 'I'm sorry, Jack. You'll not enjoy that work.'