Tom Appleby Convict Boy Read online

  To Bryan

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  chapter one Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter two Puddlington, England, 1785

  chapter three 1785

  chapter four The Workhouse, April 1785

  chapter five Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter six London, 1785

  chapter seven London, 1785

  chapter eight London, 1785

  chapter nine London, 1785

  chapter ten London, 1785

  chapter eleven London, 1786

  chapter twelve London, 1786

  chapter thirteen Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter fourteen London, 1786

  chapter fifteen Bow Street Court and Newgate Prison, 1786

  chapter sixteen Newgate Prison, 1787

  chapter seventeen The Old Bailey, February 1787

  chapter eighteen London, February 1787

  chapter nineteen Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter twenty The Scarborough, May 1787

  chapter twenty-one At sea, 1787

  chapter twenty-two At sea, 1787

  chapter twenty-three At sea, 1787

  chapter twenty-four Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter twenty-five Cape of Good Hope, 1787-88

  chapter twenty-six Botany Bay, New Holland 19 January 1788

  chapter twenty-seven Port Jackson, February 1788

  chapter twenty-eight Port Jackson, 20 March 1788

  chapter twenty-nine Sydney Cove, 20 March 1788

  chapter thirty Sydney Cove, March 1788

  chapter thirty-one Sydney Cove, March 1788

  chapter thirty-two Sergeant’s Cove, March 1788

  chapter thirty-three Sergeant’s Cove, Autumn 1788

  chapter thirty-four Sergeant’s Cove, May 1788

  chapter thirty-five Sergeant’s Cove, Winter 1788

  chapter thirty-six Sergeant’s Cove, December 1788

  chapter thirty-seven Sergeant’s Cove, Christmas 1788

  chapter thirty-eight Sydney Cove, March 1789

  chapter thirty-nine Murruroo, Australia, 15 April 1868

  chapter forty Sergeant’s Cove, April 1789

  chapter forty-one Sydney Cove, Spring 1789

  chapter forty-two Sergeant Cove, September 1789

  chapter forty-three Sergeant’s Cove, Christmas 1789

  chapter forty-four Sergeant’s Cove, March 1790

  chapter forty-five Sergeant’s Cove, April 1790

  chapter forty-six Sergeant’s Cove, May 1790

  chapter forty-seven Sergeant’s Cove, Winter 1790

  chapter forty-eight Sergeant’s Cove, 12 June 1790

  chapter forty-nine Sergeant’s Cove, June 1790

  chapter fifty Sergeant’s Cove, June 1790

  chapter fifty-one Sergeant’s Cove, 30 June 1790

  chapter fifty-two Murruroo, Australia, 1868

  Author’s Notes

  Somewhere around the Corner

  Daughter of the Regiment

  Soldier on the Hill

  Hitler’s Daughter

  About the Author

  Other Titles by Jackie French

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  chapter one

  Murruroo, Australia,

  15 April 1868

  Thomas Appleby saw the ghost on the morning of his ninetieth birthday.

  Thomas rose early, as he always did. When he was young he had been starved of sleep, had longed for a proper bed with sheets. Now his sheets came from Ireland, and smelt of lavender, but his body needed little rest.

  Thomas used the chamber pot, then dressed slowly. He was in fine shape for a man his age, as the doctor had told him on his last visit out to Murruroo.

  Which means, thought Thomas wryly, that even if my bones ache, I can still hobble down to the river with my walking stick.

  Thomas looked out of the window. This, too, was ritual. In the old days he’d checked that all was well—that the ’roos hadn’t broken into the corn crop overnight, that a sheep hadn’t got cast in wet weather, its wool so heavy it couldn’t rise and needed rescuing.

  Nowadays he looked out onto lawn and flowers, not sheep or corn. But beyond the river he could still see his paddocks shining autumn gold below the gumtrees.

  Some people said that gumtrees looked like old, bent men. But Thomas had always thought they looked like girls with long white limbs, reaching up into the sky.

  Thomas blinked. There was someone on the lawn, peering up at the house as though looking for someone.

  He peered out of the window again. The figure looked…strange, somehow. Indistinct. It was almost as though he could see the roses through it, and the green of the grass.

  A ghost? Thomas smiled to himself. Ridiculous! Years ago Jem had told him that the ghosts of chimney sweeps haunted the chimneys where they’d died. But Thomas had never seen a ghost—never expected to see one, either.

  His eyes must be playing tricks.

  Thomas banged on the windowsill with his cane. ‘Ahoy, there!’ he called.

  The ghost—if it was a ghost—paid no attention. It was as though it didn’t hear.

  For a moment Thomas considered pulling the bell for one of the maids, and ordering her to investigate. But you couldn’t ask a maid to hunt for a ghost.

  No, he’d go downstairs himself. Thomas grasped his cane firmly and began the journey—for it was a journey now, he admitted to himself, along the hall and down the stairs.

  If there was a ghost down there, he’d find it.

  chapter two

  Puddlington, England, 1785

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Mistress Palfrey comfortably. ‘Poor lambkin, it’s not your fault your pa is a blasphemer.’

  ‘He’s not,’ said Tom tightly, staring across the village square at the mud-splattered face of his father, his head and wrists locked between the thick wooden boards of the stocks. As Tom looked yet another passerby bent down and grabbed a handful of muck from the pond and flung it at the bruised man.

  Mistress Palfrey lost some of her smile. ‘Well, what do you call it then when a man prints a pamphlet saying His Majesty the King, God save Him, is no better than the rest of us?’

  ‘It was work,’ muttered Tom, as the mud dripped from his father’s face. ‘Pa was paid to print it.’

  ‘Then he should have said no,’ said Mistress Palfrey, gathering up her skirts to head back home. She hesitated. ‘But you’re welcome to a bite tonight, and a bed, too, if you’ve a mind,’ she added over her shoulder. Mistress Palfrey was a kind woman, when she thought to be. ‘You can share our Benny’s bed.’

  Tom nodded, though he had no intention of going to Mistress Palfrey’s or sleeping in the same bed as Benny. Benny had been one of the lads who’d pelted Pa with horse droppings that morning.

  No—Tom would wait till the village was quiet, then wipe Pa’s face again, and bring him water. There was still bread and a bit of bacon in their rooms behind the shop. The mob hadn’t taken them when they’d smashed Pa’s press and scattered the type, and dragged Pa almost senseless to the magistrate.

  It had been the magistrate who’d convicted Pa of blasphemy, and sentenced him to a week in the stocks.

  The bread would be hard and stale, but Tom could soak the crusts in water and feed the slops through Pa’s swollen lips. Only three days to go now, and Pa would be free.

  Tom glanced around. The square was quiet now, the sun high in the sky. Mistress Palfrey and the other women were home cooking dinner, their men at work in the fields. A squirrel ran along the branch above him, peered down, then scampered back up the tree.

  I was like
that a week ago, thought Tom. I had a safe home to scamper back to. I never thought that things might change as fast as this.

  Tom ran across the cobbles to the stocks, sending the pigeons scratching around in the horse droppings into a flutter. With Pa bent over, Tom was almost as tall as he was.

  ‘Pa! Can you hear me? Pa!’

  Pa opened one eye. The other was swollen shut. Blood seeped from a cut on his forehead and muck crusted his hair. ‘Tom, lad,’ he mumbled. ‘Shouldn’t be here, lad. Shouldn’t see this. Go home. Wait there.’

  ‘Soon,’ promised Tom. He took his handkerchief, still damp from being dipped in the pond earlier in the morning, and tried to wipe the worst of the dirt from his father’s face.

  Pa shut his eye. His breathing was harsh and deep.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ promised Tom. ‘I’ll bring more water. Bread, too.’

  Pa nodded, though Tom didn’t know how much he’d understood. ‘Shouldn’t be here,’ muttered Pa again, and Tom wondered if he meant himself or Tom.

  Someone laughed from across the square. It was Benny Palfrey again, with his friends. They had been Tom’s friends once. Not now.

  ‘The dog has got his puppy!’ called Benny. ‘Shall we get him too?’ A clod of mud hit Tom in the chest.

  Pa’s eye opened again, wider than before. ‘Go!’ he commanded. ‘Run, lad. Run!’

  A stone hit Tom’s neck. It must have been sharp—he felt blood trickle down his skin. Tom ran as another hail of stones began to fall about the stocks.

  When he reached the shelter of the oaks he looked back. Pa’s head hung down; his hands in the wooden shackles looked loose as well.

  Pa had looked like that before. There was no reason for horror to creep across Tom’s soul. Yet…

  ‘Pa!’ he called. ‘Pa!’

  There was no answer.

  Tom ran back across the square. The shower of stones began again, but Tom ignored them. Pa’s good eye was open, staring at the ground.

  ‘Pa?’ Tom reached up and touched his father’s cheek.

  Pa didn’t move. There was a new cut on his forehead where a rock had knifed the flesh away. It shone red and white amongst the dirt, but didn’t bleed.

  ‘Pa!’ screamed Tom. Another stone hit his arm. Tom turned in rage. ‘Stop!’ he screamed.

  The boys laughed uneasily. Another rock skidded in the dirt by Tom’s feet, then the boys turned away.

  ‘Pa?’ whispered Tom. He touched Pa’s cheek again. Was it colder already? The sightless eye stared at nothing.

  chapter three

  1785

  It was Mr Tupper the church warden who fetched Tom from the square as dusk was falling. One of the village women had reported that the boy just sat there by the body of his father. Mr Tupper ordered six men to take the body and lay it out for burial, and himself took the boy to the magistrate.

  The scent of roast beef lingered in the hall of the great house as the magistrate came out of the dining room, still wiping his chin on his napkin. The candles flickered in their sconces.

  ‘What’s this then?’

  Mr Tupper touched his forelock. ‘’Tis the boy Appleby, sir,’ he said. ‘The father has gone and died in the stocks.’

  The magistrate glanced back into the room where his roast beef was cooling. ‘Mother?’ he barked.

  ‘Died from the typhus, sir, two year ago,’ said Mr Tupper. ‘The boy be an orphan, right enough.’

  ‘No other family?’

  ‘None that I’ve heard tell of, sir,’ said Mr Tupper.

  ‘Well, boy? What do you say for yourself? Have you family you can go to?’

  Tom shook his head. Mr Tupper pinched his ear. ‘Speak when you’re spoken to,’ he hissed.

  ‘No,’ said Tom.

  Another pinch. ‘Say “sir”!’ hissed Tupper again.

  ‘No, sir,’ said Tom.

  The magistrate shrugged indifferently. ‘The workhouse, then.’ He made to go back to his roast beef, then stopped. He raised an eyebrow at Tom. ‘And mind you behave yourself from this time on,’ he instructed him. ‘Your father came to a bad end. You see that you don’t follow him. Do your duty to your God and King and Master.’

  Tupper nudged Tom sharply. ‘Yes, sir,’ said Tom numbly, while inside his mind was screaming: It was you who killed my father, as much as the boys. You and Mr Tupper, who told the congregation that Pa’s pamphlet blasphemed the Lord. You and Mr Tupper and the King.

  The workhouse was in the next town, a two-hour walk or an hour’s cart ride away. It was too late to send the boy now. Tupper led Tom down the shadowed drive and up the lane and through the village again.

  As they passed the square Tom could see his father’s body laid on a wagon, his shirt pulled up to cover his eyes. Tupper caught Tom roughly by the elbow. ‘No running off now, my lad.’

  ‘Please,’ whispered Tom desperately. ‘I want to see my father.’

  Tupper ignored him.

  Tom slept that night in Tupper’s storeroom, smelling of the hams in the ceiling and salt beef in the keg. ‘And mind you don’t touch neither of them,’ ordered Tupper.

  Tom nodded, only half hearing him. It had been twelve hours since he’d eaten that morning, and then only the dry bread and a rind of cheese. But his body felt like it had gone beyond food.

  The room was dark, but a little moonlight seeped through the high, narrow window, showing the rounded shapes of casks and barrels, the tea chests and the sack of flour. There were more empty sacks, neatly piled behind the door for when they might be needed again for apples or pears.

  Tom spread out the thickest sack for a bed, with more rolled up for a pillow and others to pull over him as a blanket, and lay down. The stone floor was cold in spite of the sacks, and hard, but at least there were no mice.

  Tom stared at the ceiling, the hams and bacon hanging by their hooks. There was too much for his mind to absorb: his whole past life sliced away from him, the shadows of his future clouding his brain.

  If only he could shut his eyes and wake in his own bed, with Pa stoking the fire downstairs, the smell of toast and printer’s ink slipping up the stairway.

  But Pa was dead.

  Tom shut his eyes, then opened them again. The shadowed hams were better than remembering Pa, filthy and helpless. Pa, with the boys mocking him. And unbidden came the thought that Tom had tried so hard to keep away: if only I had stayed with him, Pa would still be alive.

  I could have sheltered him with my body, he thought. If I had yelled at the boys earlier, maybe they would have gone away. It’s my fault that he is dead. If I’d had courage, Pa would still be alive.

  I will never be a coward again, he thought desperately. Everything I had has been taken now. All I have is courage.

  Pa had read him a story once, about a knight who wrapped his courage about him like a cloak. Can I do the same? wondered Tom. He tried to imagine courage. It would be a fierce, bold colour—red, perhaps. Yes, courage would be red. A cloak made out of courage would be thick and warm and keep him safe…

  Tom slept, or at any rate he shut his eyes and felt the night disappear around him. He was woken by the bolt sliding from the door. It opened and a red face looked in, with a white cap above it.

  ‘Why, it’s just a lad,’ said a voice. ‘Tom Appleby, ain’t it?’

  Tom sat up on the sacks, blinking. It was Tupper’s housekeeper, Mrs Wilson. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said.

  Mrs Wilson surveyed him. ‘You’d have thought t’master would have given you a bed for the night, with your poor pa not yet in his grave. But there, that’s t’master all over, no more thought for others than a goose on the pond. Now you come out of there and have a wash from the tap by the trough. No running off, mind, for it’ll do you no good. There’ll be breakfast for you when you’re done.’

  It was a good breakfast: soft bread from that week’s baking and fresh butter and cold mutton. Tom’s body seemed to take over despite the numbness of his mind. He ate, and ate some more,
and was still eating when Tupper yelled from the kitchen passageway for Tom to meet him out the front.

  The cart was waiting for him. It was the cart from the hotel, Tupper having none of his own. It smelt of beer barrels and hay.

  Tupper looked put upon. He glared at Tom darkly. ‘I’ve more to occupy myself with,’ he complained, ‘than looking after the likes of you. Make haste now, or it’ll be noon before we get there, and the best of the day gone.’

  Tom climbed onto the seat beside him as Tupper shook the reins. The old grey horse stepped out into the lane.

  Tom had hoped they would go through the village, so he might see Pa again. But the horse turned to the right, not the left.

  ‘Please, sir,’ said Tom. He had no wish to ‘please’ or ‘sir’ Tupper at all, but knew he’d get no answers unless he did.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Will my father have a funeral?’

  ‘He’ll be buried like a Christian,’ said Tupper. ‘Not that he deserves it.’

  ‘May I be there?’

  Tupper ignored him, as though the question wasn’t worthy of an answer.

  Tom watched the oak trees and the last of the cottages pass.

  ‘Sir?’ he asked again.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My things, back at the shop.’

  ‘Don’t you bother about them,’ said Tupper. ‘They’ll have been impounded already.’

  Tom had no idea what impounded meant, but he guessed by Tupper’s tone that his spare breeches, his neckcloths, the coins in the box below the stairs were lost to him, as was Pa and their years together.

  They had taken everything then, the magistrate and the King. His father, his home and his belongings. And slowly there grew a hatred in him, like fire burning in his stomach, against all who had been part of the theft of his life.

  The old horse clopped slowly along the lane, unmoved by Tupper’s flick of the reins.

  ‘Sir?’ Tom spoke quickly before Tupper could order him to be quiet. ‘What will happen to me at the workhouse?’

  Tupper shrugged. ‘You’ll be put to work, and good luck to you.’

  ‘As a printer?’ asked Tom hopefully. Tom had always thought he’d follow Pa’s trade. Pa had let him set type by himself already.