Spam

Captain Royce came up on deck for the hanging. Clouds billowed above the same square-rigging that had once ran slaves from Africa. The fetters and fixtures and fittings needed little adaptation to make the convicts feel at home. After the ups and downs of fifteen- thousand miles of ocean, dysentery and sickness had winnowed the crew and the cargo. ‘Who is to be hanged this time Harold?’ he asked.

Despite the tropical heat the young midshipman wore full dress uniform. There seemed to be nothing of him but enough collarbones to carry a wool coat and an enormous nose that looked big as a weather-beaten red flag. He flapped at his brow with his coat sleeve, mopping up sweat, before answering.

‘Munn. James Munn, found guilty of stealing one crust of bread from the colony’s stores.’

‘Convict or crew?’ asked Royce.

‘Convict,’ replied the midshipman, ‘originally sentenced for assaulting members of His Majesty’s Press Gang at Shadwell Dock as they were going about their lawful duty.’

‘Ah,’ said Royce. Near the shore a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoo took flight tattooing the sky with the colours of paradise, with a noise like muzzle fire. Royce squinted into the sun, the peeling skin on his forehead itching his head and his eyes drawn to the bow of his ship. The sideways slick shadow of a man was propped against the raised arm of foremast, a knotted rope around his neck. Two jack-tars, stripped to the waist were sitting like angel’s wings, each side of him, holding his bound wrists, waiting for their captain’s nod.

‘Perhaps an amnesty.’ Royce puckered his lips as he thought it out and his legs shook so that he thought he may have to return to his cabin to lie down in the shade. ‘In celebration of our long voyage. It would be best to simply flog him. After all, if every black rat below deck that had eaten a crust or morsel were to be hung our good ship would be sunk with the weight three times over. English law can be a tad harsh.’

‘Whittaker Sir.’ Harold cut in, his Northern accent somehow reminding Royce of home. ‘One-hundred-and-fifty lashes for refusing to obey an order and leave his bunk. Shoulder blades exposed. Already dead when we got to two-hundred. Munn is thinner on the bone than him Sir.’

A bald-eyed corella landed on top of the ship’s nest, but took off in sudden fright at the vibrations from the jerking body of a man’s neck snapping below.

‘Goddammit. I never gave the order.’

‘He jumped Sir.’

The infernal heat was running through Royce’s body. Nothing more needed be said. He skedaddled below for a brandy, his stomach gawky and loosened stool running down his leg.

Below deck Jay Abrahams, whom other convicts called ‘The Jew’, clanged to a halt as far as he could go—two steps, which was really one step. The ladder in the hold had been shortened and taken up into the waist of the ship. The disk of light on his wan face grew dinger, smaller and narrower and his life seemed longer and more pointless as the hatch was dragged into place. Nothing Jay did or said changed that. In the heat his past fell away from him sweated out by every weeping pore. The rats grew bolder in the darkness and the muggy heat inspired a biting frenzy

The Jew listened to men talking and cursing, and it sounded the same. The same subject was whispered and passed from tongue to tongue. The religion of food had many acolytes and followers. ‘You pray for more then you borrow then you beg,’ was all The Jew said during the crossing, making many turn against him. Jay knew now it was better not to talk of such things. The noise grew thick as honey. He had been one of the initial party on the beach when they’d met the natives. Seventeen bodies he’s counted after the volley of gunfire. Children as naked as Adam. And little Eves that spooked and ran the wrong way, towards them. He’d picked up a stone or shell from the beach and brought it back to the hold of The Tyndale, a marker for each body. If the stone-picking continued at the present rate he figured he’d be able to step onto deck, soon enough, without a rope ladder. It was the Governor-in-Chief’s order. ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ he’d said. ‘There’ll only be enough food for us all if we don’t kill off the vermin first.’

Turning over the shell in his pocket the sudden silence when it came sweetened his thoughts and not having to share gave them space to grow. Nine months at sea. The rough nub of sand and sediment of the shell fed the hard skin on his fingers, bringing with it memories of the sun glinting off the water of Loch Awe. The taste of fresh clean air cleansed him, the hiss of the wind cutting through the hills, the stream lapping his toes and laughing and prancing through the silent weeds. Miles of larch and beach sprung up in his mind. Ferns greened the hillside and whispered of home, gathering him in.

The sound of the hatch being dragged across the timbers and pegged into place made Jay splay his fingers and reach out as he opened his eyes, but there seemed only an increse in inky darkness. Those that worked a full day, sun-up to sun-down, got half the ration of a marine. He dragged his left leg throwing it through the hulk and arch of the slave’s quarters as he followed the others on deck. He’d eight more years to do for stealing a lamb, and then he could go home. God willing.