The Convicts Read online

  Perhaps I only saw what I cared to see. But a hope formed in my mind, and then a certainty, that this fellow was coming to save me. I imagined that he'd spent his whole life fishing with his son in the foul shadow of the hulk, that he'd come to loathe it, to teach his son to fear it. Perhaps he had waited years for the chance to help a boy escape.

  “Stay here,” I told Midge. “Lie low and wait.”

  I crawled from the grass to the mud of the bank, then got to my knees and waved both arms. The child—it was surely a child balanced high on the net—pointed toward me. The fisherman rowed even harder, driving into the waves until the spray hurled up and enveloped all three—the boat, the man, and the child.

  I stood up for an instant. The soldiers were coming, still far across the marsh, but coming shoulder to shoulder in a line that stretched clear across the island. Their red shoulders, their tall black hats, rose above the grasses.

  The boat came ashore. Up sprang the fisherman, dropping his oars. He leapt into water up to his knees, grabbed the boati and hauled it in. Waves broke on its side and pushed it around. Then the eMld gtoodtq-butriot a child at all. Wrapped in oilskins was a wizened old woman, a shrunken hag who must have had the eyes of a hawk.

  “It is Mm,” she cried. “Didnt I say That's Jacob there?”‘

  “That you did.” The fisherman pushed back the big, broad hat he wore. “Saints preserve me! It's him right enough.”

  “Not Jacob, sir,” I said. “I'm Tom.”

  The old woman cackled. “Well, Jacob you were born. Didn't I name you that myself? Didrit I haul you from the water, you as blue as blazes, with the devil already inside you?”

  “No,” I said. “I—”

  “That she did.” The fisherman loosened his coat, and the wind tore it off. He swirled it around and over my shoulders, like a great ragged bird covering me with an enormous wing. “So this is where you've come to, Jacob. Out in the marshes, fleeing from the hulks.”

  I had no doubt who Jacob was. It seemed that wherever I went, however I ran, my dead twin would come shambling after. He had pursued me all the way from London, and bit by bit I was coming to know him. Now he had a name.

  “Please listen,” I said. “I live in London, in Camden now, and—”

  “Weren't you born below the Beacon Hill?” The woman stood in the wind, and it pulled at her clothes as she pointed across the marsh. “Right there? On a dark night, in a howl of wind, in the storms of harvest time?”

  She knew more than was natural. Myfather's village had been just below that hill. I had been born there in November. “But—”

  “Didn't your mother put you in the river? Straight in the river like a cat to be drowned, when she saw the devil inside you?”

  “No!” I shook my head.

  “Didn't I haul you out from the fishes myself? Didn't we care for you like our own, until the law took you off at the age of six? Oh, you were a smart little man at six, Jacob boy, striking the fear of God into all of us.”

  The fisherman crossed himself. Then he turned his head toward the marshes, and with a startled cry he asked, “Who's that?”

  It was Midgely, half hidden in the grass. Caked in black, his dead eyes staring, he looked more like a lizard than a boy. I told him, “Come out,” and he blundered from the marsh on his hands and knees. The sight of him would have roused pity in anyone else, but the fisherman quickly crossed himself again.

  “Tom?” bleated Midgely. “Where are you, Tom?”

  I went to his side, and the old woman came too. She stamped through the water, through the mud, rushing toward us. For one mad moment I thought she would say she knew Midgely too, by some other name and some wild story. But suddenly she seemed to soften. She laid her coat over Midgely. “Poor wee thing,” she said.

  The soldiers were running. Pale light gleamed on their buttons and badges. Their red coats rippled.

  “Quickly, Isaac,” said the woman. “Put the boys in the boat.”

  The fisherman did what he was told. He picked up Midgely, chains and all, and set him atop the net. I hobbled toward him, and he came back for me. He gathered me up as easily as he'd taken Midge. Then the woman got in, and the man shoved the boat from the mud, and soon we were tossing across the water.

  “Don't you move now, Jacob boy,” said the woman. “Don't you move a muscle.” She arranged the oilskins on top of us, hiding our heads and feet. “Didn't I say it would be a lucky morning?” she asked the fisherman.

  “That you did.” Spray flew up and pelted against the cloth.

  “Where will you take us?” I asked.

  “Home,” said the woman. “Now lie still, Jacob boy, and not another word.”

  I wondered where they lived. It might be the same little village where I had been bora; it was bound to be nearby. I would meet people who had known my father. Surely there would be someone to help me.

  I lay covered in the oilskins, atop the hard coils and corks that smelled offish. Slowly I warmed, my shivers becoming less violent. But along with my warmth came the seasickness. The slamming of the boat, its dizzying rolls and lurches, wrapped my innards into their old, familiar knots. For once, though, I didn't mind. It was worth all the woozi-ness and all the trembles—and more—to be on my way to London,

  Rain pattered on the heavy cloth, and now and then a burst of spray ran fivers down its edges. Midgely's little hand found mine, and I held it. I was frightened and sick, but happy as could be.

  Then the fisherman stopped his rowing.

  The old woman pulled away the oilskins, and my heart fell when I saw what she had meant by “home.”

  Midgely came out from the old woman's coat like a turtle. His head and hands appeared. “Where are we?” he asked.

  I couldn't bring myself to tell him. We were back at the hulk, at the Lachesis. The boat plunged at the foot of the steps, on waves that rolled over the landing, over the boots of soldiers and guards. It surged up the steps to the feet of the Overseer.

  “Haul them out,” he said. “Put them in the black hole.”

  We were shifted like baggage, out of the boat and up to the deck. The fisherman's woman was shrieking at the Overseer. At the top of her voice she demanded a reward for delivering us home.

  The guards locked us into the black hole, each into our own narrow space. It was hard enough for me to be put in there, but for Midge it was almost torture. He cried out, “I can't see!” And then, “Are you there, Tom?” And I answered him, “Yes. Oh, Midge, I'm so sorry”

  For days and dayswe-were kept in theblack hole. I could neither stretch out on the floor nor stand beneath the ceiling. I had to curl like a bug, or crook myself against the curve of the wall. There was no day and no night, nothing but a never-ending darkness. Even the quaver of the ship's bell didn't reach medown there. Time meant nothing.

  If it weren't for Midgely, the black hole might have made me a drooling, mumbling lunatic. It was my worry for him, at first, that set me talking nonstop. But soon I needed the sound of his voice, and thought I might go moony without it. “Tell me about your islands,” I said. “Tell me about the one with the village.” Tell me of this one, I would say; tell me of that one. And Midge went on and on, sometimes quoting whole paragraphs straight from the book. I learned the names of the islands, their harbors and tillages.

  I began to see them and smell them, and when I wasn't tramping across those islands with Midge, I was dreaming myself upon them. Deep in dark jungles I would come across my father, and we would wander down winding trails to beaches of sand so bright in the sun that my eyes ached froni the gleam.

  To wake from that to utter blackness was almost too much Sometimes. As often as not, I would hear Midgely weeping, calling for me. “I'm here,” I'd say, and off we'd go again:

  When at last we were let out, I couldn't stand up. It was as though my legs had forgotten how to hold me. My brain, so used to seeing lush islands, couldn't make sense of the wooden walls and wooden decks.

  Two guards
dragged me along, and another dragged Midgely. The workday had just ended, and the convicts were gathering for their meal. They watched us come in, our chains rumbling, and watched us being slumped in our places. Midgely had to grope for the edge of the table, though his eyes were open. They looked gray and cheesy now, like old half-rotted hardboiled eggs.

  He whispered at me. “Are they here, Tom? Oten and that horrible boy, are they back?”

  “No,” I said. I had almost forgotten that Oten Acres wouldn't be there—couldn't be there ever again. I remembered his drowned body in the river, but it seemed so very long ago. And Benjamin Penny? What had happened to him?

  Weedle was in his place at the head of the table. The bruises I had given him were still not completely healed. His eyes were as dark as ever, his twisted scar as evil-looking, yet there was something different in his manner.

  “Eleven days,” he said.

  I didn't understand. Beside me, Midgely squirmed. “Eleven days,” he echoed, then looked at me and grinned. He was already his old self. “Holy jumping mother of Moses, Tom. That's more than anyone ever.”

  “Was it that long?” I asked. I could hardly believe it. Christmas had passed. The whole year had ended and a new one begun.

  Weedle touched his tongue to his lips. He was collecting his shares from the boys, and it was nearly my turn. Perhaps he saw in my eyes that I wouldn't give up so much as a spoonful. Perhaps he never meant to ask. But he passed over Midge and me, and told the redheaded Carrots, “Give a share to him. To Smasher there.” He even tried to smile at me. “Bygones, eh, Smashy? Forgive and forget?”

  He was scared of me now; it was fear in his eyes. Like any bully, Weedle was afraid of being beaten twice.

  “Don't call me that,” I said. “Don't call me Smashy.”

  “Sure, Tom.” He nodded and twitched, then snapped at the boy “Hurry up, Carrots, Give him your share.”

  “No,” I said. “Eat your own. Everyone; eat your own.”

  That was the end of sharing. In our little kingdom in a filthy ship, a little king had toppled. I saw such a wretched look on Weedle's face that I nearly pitied him; He had lost his treasured throne, and most of his faithful army. Inside, he must have boiled with rage at what I had done to him. But outwardly, he was now—in llidgely's words—-a meek. He was the meekest of the meek, bobbing up when I came near, as though ready to scurry away.

  There was no chapel that evening; the kindly old chaplain was gone. Carrots said he'd been taken away to be shot, but I didn't really believe it. Carrots seemed to know everything and nothing all at once. So instead of chapel, I spent my time with Midgely's book. We sat in our same old place, but everything else was different. No longer could Midgely see the pictures He touched Iris finders to the pages, as though to feel the image in the ink. “Oh, Tom,” he said. “I wish I had one more day to look at them.”

  I didnt read a single word. All Midgely wanted was for me to describe the pictures—every detail, every line. But I couldn't see in the smudges what he wanted me to see, and it was a sad hour for the both of us. I was glad when the time ended, and the ship began to loek down for the night. In my doubled irons, I felt too weak to walk on deck. I looked at Weedle, told him, “Fetch my hammock,” and saw hinj nod.

  “Sure, Tom,” he cried.

  “Midgely's too,” I said.

  Up he went and down he came, then held out the bundles toward me. I had only to look toward the grated window to set him nodding again. “Sure, Tom,” said he. “I'll hang them there. No fear.”

  I spent the night as Oten had spent his—gazing out at black water, at things I couldn't see. I dreaded the additional punishment that would surely come in the morning. I feared the cat-o’ -nine-tails.

  It was still dark when Weedle carried my hammock away. Weedle fetched my breakfast, and even washed my bowl. At ten o'clock he looked at me in worry, as though I meant to send him in my place to see the Overseer.

  I went up with Midgely. We crossed the deck below a gray sky of torn clouds, with the sun behind them like a smear of mustard, and were left to wait at the Overseer's door. On the far side of the river, a boat was drawn up on the beach, its rowers sitting like men at a picnic. In the marsh above them, a boy was being buried. By the size of the bundle that was all he'd become, it must have been Oten Acres. Wrapped in brown cloth, he was heaved into the ground with only a guard and a gravedigger for mourners.

  I wondered if Worms would get him, if old Worms would come riding out with his three-legged horse and bear Oten away, at last, to the city he had hoped to see. “I been out to Woolwich and the Medway now and then to fetch the ones from the ships,” Worms had told me.

  I looked away, down the river toward the distant trees. A ship was working around the bend, its white sails fluttering. As much as I hated the sea, and anything that moved upon it, the sight of that ship gliding over the water was a picture of freedom itself. Three masts soared up front the marsh, dazzling sails moving along above the grass like the banners of a marching army. Then the dark hull emerged, growing long and graceful, bearing the towers of white canvas.

  To my surprise, Midgely turned toward it. “Is there a ship coming, Tom?” he asked.

  “Can you see it?” I said.

  “I can hearit,” he said. “I can hear the wind in the sails.” He tugged my arm. “How many masts has she got? Topgallants, Tom? Royals? Has she got skysails, Tom? Can you count the yards?”

  “Count the what?” I said. He had taught me a bit about ships, but nothing like that. I asked hiiri, “What are yards?”

  “Spars, Tom.” Then he sighed and said, “Them sideways sticks what holds the sails.”

  It pained him, I saw, to put it like that. But I counted them off, six on each mast, and he whistled. “Holy jumping mother of Moses. She's a ship, Tom. A real ship.”

  I didn't know then that not every ship was a ship. But as Midgely rubbed his eyes and stared toward it, I wished he could see more clearly. There was beauty and grace in that thing.

  “You know why she's here?” said Midge. “She's come to take us to Australia. Sure as eggs, we'll be transported.”

  His words robbed the ship of its beauty. They turned it to a lurking horror, a black beast creeping up the river.

  “All's Bob now,” said Midge. “No more hulk. No more guards and nobs and Weedles. Yes, all's Bob now.”

  “It will be just the same somewhere else,” I said.

  “Oh, no,” said he. “It will have to be a better place where we're going.”

  The Overseer called us in. He sat in his wooden armchair, dressed in white. His shirt was fine and ruffled, his breeches and stockings tight as skin. He looked like a fat poodle close-cut round the legs and wooly at the head. He frowned at Midgely. “What's wrong with your eyes?” he said.

  “It was an accident, sir,” said Midge. “I fell on a needle.”

  “Twice on the same needle?”

  Midgely nodded. “It was an accident, sir.”

  The Overseer leaned toward him, then away in disgust. “This accident, boy. Tell me his name.”

  “Please, sir, it was just an accident.” Midgely bit his lip. “And Tom here, sir, he don't know his name neither.”

  “I see. You boys can pick a pocket and cut a throat, but never tell a tale. Is that it?” The Overseer's hands came together on the bulge of his belly. “You caused me a great deal of trouble. I shall have to enter all this in the Occurrence Book. One boy dead and another missing, and a ruddy big hole in my ship. What have you to say for yourselves?”

  Midge looked down at the deck, a study in remorse. It was surely what the Overseer wanted. He would be pleased by that, delighted if we begged for mercy. But I found myself annoyed by his foppish clothes, incensed by the finery of a cabin so near to our misery. Not minding what punishment he gave me, I squared my shoulders and said, “I'm sorry Oten died. He was a friend of mine, and I liked him. But he was dying already, because your ship was killing him, and I gave him a bit of
hope, and I'm proud of that.”

  Midgely trembled, and the Overseer looked astonished. His fingers ran up through the ruffles on his shirt, up to his chin. “Why, you're fiill of guts, aren't you, boy? A frumper, you are,” he said. “I could give you a flogging for an outburst like that. But there's worse in store for you, my boy.”

  The Overseer wetted his lips. He stretched his fat legs, and the chair creaked below him like the timbers of the ship. He touched the papers on his table. “I've made my lists,” he said. “You were recommended for liberty, Tom. Do you know that? The chaplain suggested I set you free?’

  He looked straight into my eyes. “Well, you're being transported now. The pair of you are. We'll see what a spell in Australia does to that spirit of yours.”

  I managed to swallow the fear that was choking my throat. The Overseer stared at me, and I stared right back. Then he turned away to his papers, his fat lips set in a pout. “That is all,” he said.

  The distant ship had anchored when we came out. It sat right in the bend of the river, with men working way up on Midgely's blessed sticks. If I had to go to Australia, at least I was glad it was to be in something as large as that, as solid as an island. Then I remembered the picture in Midgely's book, Summer off the Cape, where the water had looked like a range of snowy mountains. I tried to put that ship into the drawing, and frightened myself half to death.

  Midgely sang. Barely above his breath, he launched into a sea song, a ditty of sailors and hauling on ropes. I imagined he had sung it in his home, in his dingy parlor, or had had it sung to him by the sailors who had called on his mother. In his creaky child's voice, hardly more than a whisper, he warbled away. “We're bound for the Rio,” he sang. “And away, Rio! Aye, Rio!”

  I gave him a shove and told him to stop. “You don't know where the Rio is,” I said.

  “I do,” said he. “It's in the Americas, Tom.”

  “And we're going the other way,” I told him.