Vice of Mutiny

The Liberty

‘Come all you sons of freedom, a chorus join with me, I’ll sing a song of heroes, and glorious liberty.’ - Frank the Poet

London. November, 1830.

William Swallow never called himself a swindler, for that’d be uncomfortably close to the truth, and Will was a better liar than that. Perhaps it was this affinity, a mutual trade in disguise that he sensed from the Old Bailey. It was a building resolute in reputation, determined to control the impression of every man it courted, whether summoned within its walls by consent or not.

Elevated at the far end of the court were the three black-robed “your honours”. They sat at their bench, ridiculously bewigged, taking up more room than their worth. They suited the hall’s grand size and décor: velvet and stone copulated freely over arch windows, birthing Edwardian Baroque sensibilities. Marble pillars loomed, as if eager to intimidate or bolster those who’d long ago confused outward dress for true authority.

Will stood at the bar, wrists fidgeting in irons. He was aware of the four prisoners in rank behind him, rattling their footlocks in a way which grated the nerves. But to turn and chastise them as a captain, to see their faces now, may cause him to waver from what he must do. This jury would not acquit five men, but on his luck, freedom may be granted to one.

Not too deep beneath Will’s skin, indelicately twined between the ventricles of his heart, was the fervent desire to survive. Formerly, the thought of existing without his family had not seemed a survival worth crediting. But with his mortality on trial, an inner, animalistic hunger clawed for his preservation. If these judges were to steal his life, crushing his windpipe and vertebrae with a short jerk, Will would take comfort in knowing that he’d done all he could to see his name live on after him.

That was, perhaps, the sentiment of a man who’d confused infamy for love.

The crown barrister stood and began his address. Announced as Dr. William Wightman, Will felt a momentary pang of resentment for the man’s mother, who like his own, had looked down at her red-faced, squalling newborn and somehow felt compelled to add another common William to the world.

‘… piractically and feloniously setting upon, breaking and entering a certain vessel, to wit, a brig called the Cyprus,’ Wightman declared.

To recall the Cyprus prodded a sour wound. She’d been a good brig, reliable and earnest, and had preserved Will and his men through torment, bravely crossing the globe’s oceans to see him home to his family. By her leave, he’d proven himself the navigator and captain few believed could come from his stock.

And he’d failed her. Now she lay scuttled and left to barnacle half-a-world-away. The chained men behind him had known her just as well, and only with great fortitude could Will successfully detach from his equal affection for them. They’d rallied to his cause, for like him, their instinct was to refuse their prescribed lot. They’d striven for more, and taken what was not given. They too, were gripped by the vice of mutiny.

‘William Swallow,’ Wightman said, and glanced down at his papers. ‘That is what we are to call you? Not by the alias of Brown, not Shields, not Waldon, not Todd, not …’ Wightman checked his notes again, ‘not Walker?’

Will flinched at the last. A true name was an easy scab to bleed. But seeming not to notice the blow he’d dealt, Wightman carried on. ‘From Sunderland, born in 1792—’

‘Impossible,’ interrupted another barrister, John Adolphus. ‘That’d make him thirty-eight. The lad doesn’t appear a day over twenty-seven!’

‘The salt air has preserved me.’ The sentence escaped Will before it could be helped.

‘Bill, is it? Do you prefer Bill?’ Adolphus asked.

‘Not particularly.’

‘Bill, no seafarer I’ve ever known looks younger than his years. Older, more like!’

The jurors, seated in the stalls, tittered.

‘Enough.’ Wightman was attempting to wrangle a court that, in less than a few minutes, had already lost its heading. Will had seen the inside of enough courts to be familiar with correct proceedings, and had endured enough plays to recognise a farce. Was it a leading man they wanted? William Swallow: the one they’d never kept captured. If God truly did punish the sinner, then He’d plainly forgotten about Will.

‘Your plea?’ the other William asked.

‘Not guilty.’

Will’s answer, which was counter-intuitive to prescribed legal advice, rippled a stir through the justice hall. Many of the clerks below the judge’s bench took to shaking their heads. One fellow had his face in his hands, and Will belatedly recognized him as his own counsel.

The presiding judge, Sir William Bolland, leaned forwards. This Honour’s reputation, whispered around the cells, described a man of painstaking deliberations, while not being overly burdened by supreme legal talent. He was also the son of a whore — this was evident by her decision to also name her son William.

He asked, ‘Master Swallow, do you understand the charge? These are hanging offenses.’

‘I understand.’ Will found confidence despite the cavernous pit which had, in mere seconds, eroded away his stomach. He’d show no fear before the men who sought to erase him; men whose pounds of muscle were worth no more than his own.

Someone behind Will spat. He felt the glop catch him in the back of his hair, followed by a low, slurry of words meant for his ears only.

‘You God-damned bastard, Swallow. Go bugger yourself to hell.’ That sounded like the rich poetry of George Davis: the one man for whom Will’s heart would not bleed. If not for Davis, the Cyprus would still be afloat, and none of them in chains.

Yet, Davis was not incorrect in his summary of Will’s person, but if the older man felt betrayed by Will’s regression, perhaps he best add naivety to his own list of failings. If there were a way to escape this pattern, Will would’ve done so long ago. When they wrote the ballad of his deeds, he could not unpromise tragedy. He’d left little room for tender portrayal, so actively he’d tossed aside friends as if they’d been ill-fitting hats.

A man who’d not watched his children grow could not be called a father. A man who’d seen his crew perish could not be celebrated as a captain. All that was possibly left to him were the threads of a man who could not be pinned down. The convict who could not be held; the bird who could not be caged.

For mutiny was in his blood, and it called to him as sweetly as the siren’s whisper.

* * *

Van Diemen’s Land. July, 1829.
Sixteen months before the trial at the Old Bailey.

The Cyprus was no elegant lady. She wore her red copper-sheathed hull like armour: a sun-kissed breastplate against ocean parasites. A brig of two masts capable of lugging a heavy load, she was slightly sheared, and boasted a voluptuous one-hundred-and-ten tonnes of one-and-a-half decks. Her rigging was new, as were her sails, anchors, and cables. She’d a fresh stripe of yellow paint, which accentuated her nine, neat portholes.

Yet the Cyprus did not strike Will as a woman of frivolity, to upgrade for no keen reason. No, she’d seen her share of harsher weather, battered about by a lover she was forever entangled with. Instead, her new accessories were badges of honour that proved her grit and spoke of battles endured and survived.

She was no dreamy Florida, but she was sturdy, and Will felt he already knew her from the moment he sighted her moored in Sullivan’s Cove. As far as days were endured in Van Diemen’s Land, today was not the worst. The sun was periodically blotted by moody storm clouds intent to spit — a refreshing change from the typical blanket-heavy warmth.

Will resented the itch hidden beneath the overgrown scruff on his jaw, and chaffed against the iron cuffs that tethered him to his fellows fore and aft. Prepared to be loaded aboard the Cyprus, each man was dressed in the gaudy, canary yellow of convicts. At least he was satisfactorily fed ahead of their already once-delayed voyage to Macquarie Harbour.

All knew the reputation of the place for which Will was lawfully bound — men were sent to die at the Sarah Island penal settlement, worked to death by hard labour. Once arrived, there was no escaping its bleak western coast, as all were storm-beaten by the Southern Ocean. Inland was no more appealing: hemmed in on all sides by dense and sheer, vegetated mountains.

As the convicts waited in file, a soldier was taunting the line regarding that very fact.

‘… call it Hell’s Gates. Men ‘ave begged me to throw them overboard, rather than go there. You’ve all had it rather good in Hobart Town. No such luck for you second offenders.’

Good? In Hobart Town? A dreary settlement found squatting in the shadow of Mount Wellington, it seemed rather proud of its pitiful huts and cottages. Its people had perhaps surprised even themselves when they’d learned to add a second storey atop a first. Will could not stand this wretched land at the arse-end of the world.

Fastened to the line, Will’s view was the back of Pobjoy’s bulbous skull. This man was a despisable, small cretin, and a Cockney at that. But for those reasons Will kept Pobjoy close.

Behind was Ferguson: a mountain of a black-haired Irishman who Will was glad to see chained, lest he find the nearest sharp object to implant into Will’s spine. He was the bare-knuckled Belfast-bellend whom you’d readily wager on in a melee against a bear. He spoke with a set of low pipes through which Will had to concentrate to decipher his thick accent.

He and Ferguson could both be described in civilised company as “natural leaders” with the innate ability to sense other “natural leaders” in their fellow men. This recognition was paired with the unflattering instinct to bare one’s teeth, pound one’s chest, and see their competitor drowned in the ocean.

Obeying an intrusive bark, the convicts shuffled forwards. Will neared the attending sheriff, who was speaking to his superior officer.

‘These here are a particularly desperate lot, some with mariner experience. They think they whisper soft, but we hear things,’ he said. ‘Be warned, they may have desires upon your vessel,’ the sheriff concluded gravely.

Will concealed his half-misstep.

Mercifully, the man who bore the Lieutenant’s cutlass appeared to take the warning in his stride. He soon introduced himself to his human cargo as Lt. William Carew. This William was a balding man, who compensated the affliction with a wide stance of the hips. He announced that the venture of transporting the convicts from Hobart Town to Sarah Island was his to oversee. Will sneered: as the Cyprus was a two-master, the navy often granted authority over this class of ship to their Lieutenants, entrusting toddlers to learn command through training vessels: and command the toddler did, with a fine speech.

‘Each morning, at half-past the ninth hour, you’ll be paraded in your irons, examined by our physician, and the roll called. All meals will be taken in the hold. This entry hatch is the only means by which you have access to fresh air and light. But I am not an unreasonable man. On good behaviour, you’ll be permitted to exercise on deck. The hatch will be left open, but sentried at all times. Only in rough weather will it be battened down, which may be a frequent necessity.’

Will thanked the recent storms for their fortnight delay. In fairer seasons, the journey to Sarah Island would’ve taken no more than five days. But evaluating the heavy clouds in the middle distance, he’d wager that their voyage could easily span a month.

Never before had a brig been taken by convicts on the stretch from Sullivan Cove to Macquarie Harbour: Will had asked around plenty. Many nay-sayers saw the feat as laughably implausible. It required a fully trained sea-faring crew to task such a vessel. What were the odds an entire band of convicts transported on the same date would have capable mariner experience?

On that front, the cynics were right. Will’s fellows were a sorry lot of small-town pasture types who wouldn’t know a schooner from the pint in their hands. There were only six among them who’d any true nautical experience: including himself, Pobjoy, and his most trusted “friend” Ferguson. This served as the regrettable anchor to their uneasy tolerance of one another.

Perhaps more cautious folk would take the lack of successful mutinies as a warning. Will, however — aware he was not made of cautious stuff — understood it to be an invitation. The lack of success would mean a lack of preparation against. Where prisoners were scared off, the gaolers were lulled into a sense of security. Besides, what better way was there to measure a man, than by attempting the unattempted?

Lt. Carew ordered the convicts be checked for concealed weapons. Once each man was declared suitably harmless, it was the physician’s turn to poke and prod. After all, the crown was invested in their wellbeing before condemning them to their ruin.

‘Convict nine-nine-nine,’ the physician said. Dr. Walter Williams squinted at Will in appraisal, as if searching for his convict number branded on his forehead.

‘About five-foot-eight?’ he asked.

‘And three quarters,’ Will added.

‘Blue eyes, brown hair. William Swallow … alias Brown? Scar on forearm, nose and chin. Your description matches, just so.’ Dr. Williams made a note, and turned to move on.

Will rattled his chains to recall the physician’s attention.

‘Sir, I’m worried I’m coming down with a fever.’

This alerted not only the physician, but Ferguson too. Be Buggered, Swallow, if you’re sick. I’ll remove your bollocks myself if you abandon the plan now — his expression read plainly.

The physician eyed him closely, and Will coughed for good measure.

‘You seem well by my assessment,’ he said, and stepped away.

Will offered another feeble cough in his wake and reassured himself that he’d have another chance to secure his alibi.

The convicts were jostled onto the main deck of the Cyprus and made to wait in the shade of her sails. Returning to vessel was a welcome lung-full of fresh air. How he’d yearned for a ship’s robust stride across the waves, for there was no vitality found when standing on the paralysed gravel of land. To dance upon the deck of any brig was to be in conversation with a part of the world that spoke back. It was a language in which Will was fluent.

Each man was loaded with new clothes — the coarse, crown-issued grey jackets and trousers of sea travel — as well as thread-worn blankets and mess kits. Their wrists were unbound, but their ankle locks remained. Those extra pounds would make a remarkable difference in a tussle, and quite a laughable one when at the end of a musket barrel.

Will gauged how many steps it would take to cross from hatch to rails. He counted the marine sentries, marked by military red and firearms on their shoulders. Eighteen weapons in total. In that case, Will would be sure to be the nineteenth of the lot to stir trouble when required.

These soldiers in red were a separate breed to the navymen — whose duty for this voyage concerned only the ship. Not that Will felt a kinship with this lot. They were nothing but slaves for the king, branded by their mismatched blue and white uniforms. But perhaps more alarming were the number of women and young children also joining the ship: the likely wives and family of the commanders.

Will spied the master of the brig, a one Captain Harrison — as he’d heard the passing shipmates name him. He wore his handsome captain’s jacket rather smartly: a deep naval blue, accentuated with gold trim and buttons. Will had always admired the look of the cut, even from a distance during his wretched navy days.

The sentries took their posts by the hatch, and barked at the line to hasten below.

Too soon. He needed more time on deck, to observe and learn. What would you do in this situation, John? Will asked himself. Beckoned on by the memory of a man with a fox-wise grin and a reputation far greater than Will’s own, he gambled a step forward. On the instant he drew wary looks from the redcoats, who appeared to fight the itch of their musket-ready fingers.

Will spoke hastily. ‘Lieutenant, sir, I am a mariner of many years, and apprenticed on brigs since thirteen. I can work any task you set me.’ He struck a delicate balance between a subservient bow, and a clear display of the able body his years at sea had granted him. Will had crewed every ship he’d ever been transported on, convict or no. No reason he shouldn’t again. No navyman worth his salt would turn away useful hands against dirty weather.

Carew studied Will as a man contemplates the leanest ewe at market. This little performance would do little to aid his promoted “fever”, but Will’s mouth often made decisions before his true desires were aware they’d been captured, bound, and overboarded.

‘Same ‘ere,’ interjected a gruff baritone. Ferguson, the whore’s mistake, stepped beside Will. ‘We work for air and exercise. Spare hands should the waters get rough.’

Carew considered the pair of them, stroking non-existent whiskers. He nodded. ‘You’ll be one less iron, to move about more freely. The other stays on.’

The lieutenant waved for a sentry to complete the instruction and withdrew to the quarterdeck. He was greeted by a lovely woman in puffy skirts, and two children still south of their schooling years. They jumped with eagerness as their father approached.

The sight of the family wrenched at Will’s nerves. It twisted his heart until he was forced to look away, left to wonder if his own children still remembered him. Was there a worse fate, than to no longer exist in the minds of others? Not that Will was a stranger to unwant and unlove. Long-ago sunken memories of his parents burbled to the surface.

Ferguson’s sour voice recalled him to the present.

‘I’m not lettin’ you out of pokin’ distance, Swallow.’

He looked to Ferguson: and was chastened by how far up he had to look to meet the man’s features. Will was used to being a tall man among his peers, often to his detriment. The affliction caused him to stand out in the memories of people who on their best day, usually retained fine details like cheese graters retained water.