Feeling lower than low, it come back to me what Calla used to say. ‘No matter how bad things is, little Will, you must give thanks for whatever little bit of good leave-over. It give strength to a defeated heart to keep on beating.’

The Voyage

For the first few days, we convicts kept below deck locked in chains. The ship warden come every morning to inspect us, give us our cooking and eating utensils, tin mugs, spoons and a wooden keg for water rations. Just like on the hulk, him divide us up into messes with six men to a mess. Make one of the men in each mess the captain, put him in charge of us, and if we do good or bad it going fall on him. The captain I come under named Richard Peachy. Him a real old-timer. Used to be a sailor before him take up him life of crime. In time, I learn is a good thing. Him know him way round a ship, know how to get a few little extras when we need them.

When we fully out to sea, the chains and irons get hammered off and we allowed up on deck. Is a great relief to leave the hold, get away from cramped spaces, the stink, the smell of fearful sweat. But when I get on deck all I see is stormy skies, freezing rain, cold, dark, brooding water with waves that rise up, lick and push at the boat, keep it rolling and heaving just like me insides. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide, as you stomach empty itself over the side. And when I look out at all that water, all I feel is dread. Keep thinking what if a big storm rise up, and the boat turn over, and I get dragged down into the dark and brooding depths.

To make things worse, every night is troubling dreams. Them start well enough, a bright sunny day, cloudless blue skies just like me back on the island. In the distance, a boat with all the people I know and, even though them is far away, I can see them faces, close, and them smiling and waving, beckoning for me to join them.

Then, before I know it, the dream shift and change. The sky cloud over, storm clouds form and the waves get bigger and bigger. Watch as smiles start to fade, the waving turn to grasping, reaching out, begging to be saved. Watch as the boat roll over, listen as them cries get quieter and quieter as friends and family vanish beneath the waves.

James Smith, the convict sleeping in the bunk next to mine, shake me awake because I been crying out in me sleep and the other convicts grumbling bout it. ‘Must be a nightmare,’ him tell me.