Do You Dare? Fighting Bones Page 2

  Declan rubbed his palms over his eyes and groaned. He had been a prisoner at Point Puer for eighteen months, but it felt like a lifetime. The place had been in operation since January, 1834 – two-and-a-half years now. Captain Booth told them every week at the prison hearings that Point Puer had been built as an experiment to turn them all into ‘useful citizens’ of Van Diemen’s Land. It made Declan want to punch the captain in the nose – how do you like that for a useful citizen?

  ‘I’ll never stop fighting,’ he said to the cold, unlistening walls. ‘And one day we’ll escape.’

  Escape . . . Every Saturday at the weekly doctor’s inspection, Declan would stare at the illustrated map of Port Arthur on the doctor’s wall and imagine the route the gang would take. Once they got out of the port they’d be free in the wild bush all the way to Hobart Town. The hardest bit would be getting past the dogs at Eaglehawk Neck. The Neck was a narrow strip of land connecting Port Arthur to the rest of Van Diemen’s Land and it was guarded by a line of soldiers and their vicious dogs. The boys could hear the line of dogs howling on the nights when it was a full moon – or fancied they could.

  Declan had heard plenty of stories about the men who tried to flee from the prison at Port Arthur. Sometimes they were shot dead on the run. Sometimes they drowned in the sea while trying to swim past Eaglehawk Neck. Declan sighed. Would he and the boys ever find the courage to try to run?

  He knew Col would. Col didn’t care about the risks. He’d said to Declan he’d rather die on the run than be a slave. And Danny would always follow Declan’s lead. But Seamus was more careful. ‘What’s the use?’ Seamus said miserably whenever they discussed it. ‘You know they’d catch us. We’re here to stay.’

  Declan shivered, cold to the bone and aching from the blows he’d received in the fight. His head throbbed and his ribs hurt when he breathed too deeply. But the worst thing was that he still felt angry. It didn’t matter how many punches he threw, how much blood spilled, the rage was still there, locked inside him.

  He closed his eyes and made himself picture the sky. When he’d first arrived in Van Diemen’s Land it was summer and he’d never seen a sky so bright and blue or a sun so golden. It had thrilled him. He thought about the strange, pale trees that grew here, with their twisting branches and their narrow minty leaves, so unlike anything he’d seen before. He pictured the stiff native grasses poking from the earth in tufts like heads of hair, and the earth itself, stony and stubborn, yet home to these mysterious plants and ghostly trees.

  After a while, Declan’s chest didn’t hurt so much. Soon he was asleep.

  Declan had no idea how much time had passed when he heard a rattle of keys approaching. Had it been minutes, hours or days? Solitary confused him.

  ‘All right, Sheehan, time’s up,’ said Henry Bench as he unlocked Declan’s cell.

  Declan thought Henry was fairer than the other guards, At least he didn’t stink of whiskey. Declan’s legs felt weak, as if they’d forgotten how to hold him up. He had been cold for so long he couldn’t imagine ever feeling warm again. And he was starving. Rations in solitary were bread and water.

  ‘You better wash, boy. You smell like a London drain,’ said Henry, grinning. As the overseer led him out of his cell Declan held his hands to his eyes, only letting the light in through the cracks so that the shock of it didn’t blind him.

  ‘That felt like forever,’ Declan grumbled, his voice croaky from his time in solitary.

  The boys were walking in line on their way to trade training; it was the first chance Declan had to talk with his brother since being released.

  When Declan first came to Point Puer, he and the gang had spent their work hours doing hard labour – felling trees, dragging timber, carting water and cleaning the barracks. But after a few months, the boys were lucky enough to be chosen for trades.

  ‘You Irish lads are hard workers,’ Captain Booth had told them. ‘Your attitude needs to change, though. I am giving you the opportunity to choose a trade so that you might contribute something to the colony once you have served your sentences.’

  Declan and his boys had all chosen to train as stonemasons so they could stay together. But because of Danny’s leg and Col’s size, the Captain told these two they needed to pick something less physically challenging. They’d ended up together in leather, making shoes and boots. Declan hated being separated from Danny and Col, but the two younger boys enjoyed their trade, boasting they were learning to make boots better than any cobbler in Dublin.

  Declan found work in the quarry tough – building walls out of the mudstone that was shipped out from Hobart didn’t feel like much of an opportunity – but at least he could spend time outside.

  ‘Striker out yet?’ he asked Danny.

  ‘No,’ answered Danny. ‘Still got two days to go.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Declan.

  ‘Dec, there’s a problem . . .’

  ‘Now what?’ Declan’s heart sank.

  ‘Booth’s going to carry out an investigation into Johnny’s death.’

  ‘What?’ Declan couldn’t hide his fear.

  ‘There’s going to be a trial.’

  ‘But why? Booth doesn’t know Striker was out on the cliff with Johnny. Nobody saw them except you.’

  Danny didn’t say anything.

  ‘Oh God, Danny. Don’t tell me you told Booth what you saw!’ Didn’t his brother have any common sense?

  ‘No . . . not Booth . . .’

  ‘Then who?’ Declan asked.

  ‘I might have said something to . . .’ Declan could see Danny didn’t want to tell him.

  ‘Danny! To who?’

  ‘To Henry.’

  ‘Why the hell did you do that? Henry’s a guard, of course he’d go straight to Booth, you idiot!’

  ‘It just sort of . . . slipped out. Besides, Striker shouldn’t get away with it,’ Danny burst out. ‘Johnny was the same age as me, Dec!’

  A guard called from the front of the line. ‘Keep it down back there! No talking!’

  The pair walked in silence for a while until Declan saw the guard’s attention turn to another prisoner. ‘Danny, don’t you know the danger you’ve put yourself in?’

  ‘But Henry didn’t even believe me, Dec. He said he’ll keep an eye on Striker, but it would be up to Booth. He said I’d never told the truth before, why would I be starting now?’

  ‘Did he say you’d have to testify?’

  Danny hung his head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mother of God. Striker won’t let that happen. If he’s found guilty he’ll be executed, Danny. He’s got nothing to lose by taking you out.’

  ‘I know, I know. I just wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘Well, can you start thinking?’ Declan sighed. ‘When’s the trial set for?’

  ‘Two weeks from Saturday,’ answered Danny. ‘Booth is away until then.’

  ‘Does Striker know?’

  ‘I don’t know. Booth made an announcement to the whole prison when you were both in solitary. He said he’d leave no stone unturned to make sure justice was served. Johnny was buried on the Isle of the Dead.’

  ‘Jesus.’ The Isle of the Dead was the small island just beyond the peninsula that was used as a graveyard for the jail. Convicts like Johnny didn’t get a headstone.

  ‘Declan and Danny Sheehan!’ a guard roared. ‘Silence!’

  Declan felt a pressure tightening in his chest.

  That afternoon, a bell summoned Declan and the other prisoners to fieldwork. A groan ran through the boys. Everyone thought fieldwork was dull and hard.

  ‘Bleedin’ dirt wouldn’t grow a thing – may as well plant rocks,’ Seamus complained to Declan, jabbing his hoe into the ground.

  But Declan saw it differently. The hoe felt comfortable in his hands. When he looked up at the trees beyond the cleared land as he worked, he was soothed. He liked the way the earth, hard at first, soon loosened beneath his shovel. It was a relief to be able to forget the danger Danny faced,
even for a short while.

  But as Declan dug at the ground, he felt himself being watched. He looked up to see the Superintendent, Mr Badley, staring at him.

  ‘I’ve noticed how well you work in the field, Declan,’ said Mr Badley. ‘It’s likely you will be chosen for gardening duties if you keep this up.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered Declan, keeping his eyes to the ground. That wouldn’t be so bad. Soon Mr Badley wandered off and Declan could lose himself in his work again. Outside, close to the trees and the open skies, he always felt better.

  When the supper bell rang, the gang walked back to barracks together. ‘Hey, Dec,’ said Col. ‘If you go barefoot for a day, I’ll fix your boots.’

  Declan looked down at his boots. Two of his toes poked through the ends. ‘They’re all yours,’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ said Col. ‘When I get out, I’ll call them Col’s Bushranging Boots – boots you can escape in. That’s how I’ll sell them.’

  ‘Make us all a pair,’ Declan joked. Then he paused. ‘We might be needing them.’

  ‘How long have I got?’ asked Col, eyebrows raised.

  ‘I’ll get back to you,’ said Declan.

  That night, as Declan lay beneath his blanket on the barracks floor, his arms and legs aching from the long hours of work, he found himself thinking again about escape – seriously this time. Striker would be out of solitary tomorrow, and then what?

  Matthew Brady, the convict who’d escaped Sarah Island, had become a bushranger. Brady’d had the authorities on the run for twenty-one months, robbing the rich, giving flowers to pretty ladies and living like a king. ‘Could be us, boys . . .’ Col had joked. ‘Ladies love an Irishman!’

  Declan tried to picture the map of Van Diemen’s Land on the doctor’s wall. Once you left Port, the sea would be behind you until you got to the top. Then, with the sea on the left, it looked like a short distance to Eaglehawk Neck – and the dogs. We’ll have to swim it, Declan thought. Or the guards’ll get us.

  Declan stared up at the whitewashed walls of the barracks, listening to the rain thundering down onto the roof. The first lot of convict boys – sixty altogether – had been forced to build the prison with their own hands when they first came to the island. If only they’d left some decent-sized holes to crawl out through!

  Every boy here is dreaming the same thing, thought Declan, and yet we’re all lying here on our backs too tired and work-worn to roll over, let alone escape. But maybe they’ve never had a good enough reason . . .

  Declan spent the next morning looking out for Striker, but he wasn’t at workshop or fieldwork.

  ‘He’ll turn up soon enough,’ Seamus said on their way back from the quarry to the settlement for their midday meal. There were prisoners, officers and overseers coming from every part of the prison to eat at the barracks; the midday meal was the biggest of the day, with meat and bread and potatoes. Declan’s stomach rumbled.

  It was food that had got the boys into trouble in the first place. Declan hadn’t been able to resist the rich plum cake sitting on the baker’s shelf at the farmers’ markets. And Danny had to take the dish of fresh custard sitting beside it. How can you outrun a copper with a gob full of plum cake and custard? That’s what got them sent to the bottom of the world. As he stood in the docks, chains heavy around his ankles and wrists, Declan would never forget the words of the pompous judge: ‘Declan Sheehan, I sentence you to transportation and seven years penal servitude.’

  Just my Irish luck, he thought. When he looked up, he was relieved to see Danny and Col enter the barracks. But as they drew closer, Declan heard shouting.

  ‘Knife! Knife!’ It was Hugh and Tom Draper, both boys pointing and calling to the guards.

  ‘Stay away with that, Sheehan! Get back!’ Hugh shouted.

  Declan saw boys leaping from the benches, shouting. Guards jumped towards the boys as panic spread around the barracks. ‘What’s going on, Seamus?’

  ‘Knife, knife!’ It was Jim Sickle this time.

  And then: ‘It wasn’t me! It’s not mine!’

  ‘Seamus, that was Danny!’ Declan said.

  ‘Mother of God!’ said Seamus.

  ‘Knife! Knife! Knife! Knife!’ Soon every boy in the prison had joined in the chant. ‘Knife! Knife! Knife!’

  The noise was deafening. Declan looked desperately around for his brother. ‘Danny!’ he called. ‘Danny!’

  Suddenly the crowd parted and Declan saw three guards come down on Danny, who was screaming. Declan pushed forward, fighting his way through the other prisoners.

  Hugh Draper pointed at Danny. ‘He had a knife, sir. He tried to stab me!’ Hugh held up his arm, showing the guard a long bleeding cut up to the elbow.

  ‘I never!’ shouted Danny. ‘It wasn’t mine!’

  One of the guards bent over and picked up the long blade. ‘Danny Sheehan, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  Declan saw its edge glinting. He gasped.

  ‘Nothing! It wasn’t mine! It wasn’t mine!’ Danny continued to shout and struggle against the guards as he was dragged towards the barracks doors.

  Declan pushed his way through the other prisoners towards Danny. ‘It wasn’t his! It wasn’t his!’ he shouted. He swung wildly with his fists at whoever was in his way. The soldiers holding Danny took no notice, disappearing through the doors with his brother. ‘No, no! Not Danny!’ Declan cried out. ‘Not Danny!’

  Now two guards were on him, pinning his arms behind his back. Still he struggled to get away, to get to Danny. But it was no use; Danny was gone.

  ‘Striker was behind this,’ said Declan to Seamus and Col. It was the longest day of his life waiting for Danny to be returned to the barracks. ‘Those Draper boys are just his puppets. And Jim Sickle’s his damn slave.’

  ‘Where the hell did they get hold of a knife like that?’ asked Col.

  ‘Striker knows half the crims in Port Arthur. Every time those men have to cart the water up to the demarcation line, they have the chance to pass things across to one of the boys. Where do you think Striker gets his tobacco?’ answered Declan.

  The men’s prison across the bay in Port Arthur held the most violent and dangerous criminals in the country and plenty of them had spent time in Newgate alongside Striker.

  ‘Dirty coward,’ Declan fumed. ‘Striker won’t get away with this. Bleeding liar.’

  ‘They’ll work out the knife wasn’t Danny’s, Dec,’ said Seamus.

  Declan knew Seamus was trying to reassure him but it wasn’t working. ‘What if they stick Danny in Crim Class? They’ll kill him in there – he won’t last a day.’ Declan paced the barracks floor. ‘I’ll go to the Captain myself if I have to. I’ll tell him the Newgate boys framed him. Booth’ll have to believe me – he knows Striker’s bad news.’

  ‘Let’s just wait for Danny to come back,’ said Seamus. ‘No point trying to guess the damage.’

  ‘How much longer?’ said Declan, his eyes never leaving the doors.

  Danny wasn’t returned to the barracks until eight o’clock that night, just after lessons. He looked ashen and exhausted. ‘Danny, what happened? Are you okay?’ Declan asked.

  ‘I had nothing to do with that knife, I swear,’ said Danny. ‘They threw it at my feet, then swore I’d cut Hugh with it. But I’d never seen that knife before.’

  ‘We know that, Danny,’ said Col. ‘We know it was Striker behind it.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Danny. ‘Is he trying to send me some kind of message?’

  ‘That, and he’s trying to make you look like a troublemaker – like you can’t be trusted,’ answered Declan.

  ‘Then it worked,’ said Danny, quietly. ‘I’m going to be flogged.’

  Declan clenched his fists. He thought of his mother – her face so full of fear for her boys the day they’d left home. ‘Look after Danny, Dec,’ she had said. ‘I will, Mum,’ he’d answered. It was the one promise he’d made to her before the boys left their home in the country to scro
unge a living in Dublin city. And now Danny was to have his backside lashed for a crime he didn’t commit and there was nothing Declan could do to stop it. What kind of brother am I? he asked himself. What kind of son?

  ‘I can handle it, Dec,’ said Danny.

  ‘Do him good,’ said Col, punching Danny’s shoulder.

  Declan made himself laugh; if he didn’t, he knew he’d cry.

  That afternoon, all prisoners were directed to the muster ground. Declan felt sick as he watched a guard lead Danny to the triangular whipping frame, then tie his wrists to the wooden bars. It was the policy at Point Puer that all prisoners watch the floggings in the hope that it would keep them from committing future crimes. Declan didn’t think it worked – each time, it just made him more angry.

  ‘He’ll be all right, Dec,’ whispered Seamus. ‘He’s tougher than you think.’

  Declan swallowed hard, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.

  A silence fell over the convicts. Danny would be the youngest boy any of them had seen flogged.

  Declan looked across the crowd of boys and sought out Striker. Striker nodded at him before turning back to watch Danny. Declan wanted to kill him.

  The guard lifted the whip high. Declan could hardly breathe – his heart felt tight and painful. Danny looked so small hanging over the frame.

  ‘One!’ The guard brought his whip down on Danny’s backside. Declan flinched as if the whip had struck him instead. ‘Two!’ called the guard and down the whip came again. ‘Three! Four! Five!’

  Declan watched as Danny received the full twenty-four lashes. Danny never cried out – he barely flinched. Declan wished that he had. It was harder seeing him be so brave.

  After the guard had untied him from the frame, Declan went to his brother. Danny was struggling to stay on his feet. Declan tried to take his arm.

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Danny, his voice shaky.

  Declan felt his eyes prick. What would his mother say if she could see them now?