The Convict Ship, Volume 3 (of 3)Russell, William Clark
General
The Convict Ship, Volume 3 (of 3)
Russell, William Clark
Convict ships -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
I was now able to see and hear. The cuddy, as I had suspected, was
packed full. The sailors had joined the convicts, so that there
were over two hundred and forty people in that roasting interior.
The atmosphere was dark with tobacco smoke, through which the large
cabin-lamps loomed like the red moon in a mist. I coughed violently
even on the quarter-deck whilst I looked through the open door, waiting
for Tom to come out. By standing on the coamings of the booby-hatch, I
got a view over the heads of the crowd and saw the whole picture.
Abram sat at the head of the table in shirt and trousers only; his
black, pitted, ugly face shone with sweat; they had put one chair on
top of another for him, and he sat with his legs wide apart and his
feet on the table; between his knees was a pail, out of which he was
ladling drink into pannikins which endlessly travelled his way, or were
extended at arm’s length to him. He seemed half drunk, and occasionally
withdrew the ladle full of the liquor to flourish it over his head,
whilst he uttered a roar like a beast expressing joy and having no note
but a roar; at such times he swayed on his perch as though he must
topple over.
As yet not many of the felons were intoxicated, but anyone could see
how it must be with them presently. The younger amongst the people made
the most noise. Again there was the aimless shouting of the morning,
the roaring chaff, the yells one to another from distant points, the
frequent breaking into songs, with local choruses, swaggeringly chanted
by those near the singer. The heat was frightful; I was amazed that
the wretches could draw breath. At this foremost end of the table,
high-perched like the ruffian Abram, was the hare-lipped convict; he,
too, had a big pail of liquor betwixt his legs, the contents of which
he served out with a pannikin. Nearly every man had a pipe, and again
and again one or another of the convicts rose to get a light at the
lamps. They stood on their chairs with a foot on the table and dodged
drunkenly at the flame, with an open end of rope-yarn or a piece of
wood, and whilst it burnt freely they lighted their pipes, blowing out
dense clouds, and then they’d pass the burning brands to men shouting
for them.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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