Seven Seasons of Wrath , livre ebook

Title Page
SEVEN SEASONS OF WRATH
A story of penal servitude
Douglas Coop



Publisher Information
Published in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Douglas Coop to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2015 Douglas Coop
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Dedication
To Margaret



Preface
When one reads accounts of the dilapidated state of English jails and the judicial system of the 1830s in England, it becomes possible to visualize the awful conditions of incarceration in those days. Taking these records into account, it is possible to build up a realistic picture of people’s lives and the difficulties they must have faced. Since this story is based on true incidents such as jail and hulk records, floggings, the ship fire and famous wreck of the George 111, one can build up a genuine account of the lives of real people.
Visits to relevant sites in Hobart and Launceston, including the remains of Port Arthur Prison and the Cascades Female Factory helped to add perspective. It was a moving experience to stand at the altar of St John’s Church and look up at the old prisoners’ gallery. The church still retains a painting of the Rev. Thomas Ewing who married George and Elizabeth so long ago.
Enquiries at the Archive Office of Tasmania confirmed both George White and Elizabeth Allen had been transported to Van Diemen’s Land for crimes committed in England. They gave me a series of dates, including details of their trials, where they had been imprisoned in England, and the ships used to transport them. They also held records of their behavior while serving penal servitude in Van Diemen’s Land, as Tasmania was known in those days. These records also included their physical characteristics. While these facts are simply the bare bones of their lives, they reflect the injustices and miseries suffered by so many of Australasia’s early settlers.



Acknowledgements
In the difficult task of creating historical fiction I am especially indebted to the librarians of the Launceston Public Library and to the staff of the Archives Office of Tasmania. The librarians guided me to microfilm and books describing life in London’s Newgate prison, and on the prison hulks. For convict experiences during transportation I am indebted in particular to Charles Bateson’s Convict Ships, and The Floating Brothel by Sian Rees.
After their arrival in Van Diemen’s Land, among the books of relevant interest include The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes, Convict Women by Kay Daniels, For the Term of his Natural Life by Marcus Clarke.
I am also indebted to Sara Andrews of AUK who guided me through the vicissitudes of publishing a manuscript, and to Victor Crapnell of Art Department Design for the book cover imaging and design. Finally, I want to thank my beloved wife Margaret, who assisted me in every way she could to complete the story.




Chapter 1
The Mill Fire
The long working day at the mill began like every other. In the foundry, young George White kept toiling in the clatter and fumes of large machines as they stamped out metal shapes for household utensils. Like his father before him, he worked in a huge Birmingham mill that emerged during the Industrial Revolution half a century before. While grateful to have employment, the monotony of his repetitive work bored him.
By late afternoon, mists began to shroud the city in a ghostly veil, blurring the buildings and turning them into dim shapes against a colourless sky. As damp air invaded the grimy workshop, George shivered in the increasing chill. He reached for his jacket after glancing across to his foreman, an overbearing fellow, short and stocky, and always watchful for signs of idleness. George had never seen the man’s deeply lined face light up with a smile.
He looked across at George and frowned.
‘Don’t be in such an ‘urry to get ‘ome, me lad; your day ain’t over yet.’
He always takes the worst meaning out of everything, George thought, as he buttoned his jacket. Anyhow, I’m the only one in the workshop able to read and write. I could become a clerk, but how to get started? That’s the challenge.
‘Get moving, lad, and stop daydreaming,’ the foreman shouted, pointing an accusing finger.
George had barely finished buttoning his jacket when he became aware of a pungent smell, and heard a distant shout of ‘Fire! Fire!’
Through the open workshop doorway men saw traces of black smoke swirling from an upper window of a storehouse on the other side of the courtyard.
‘Gawd! Me father and brothers is in there,’ one of George’s young workmates cried out.
‘And about twenty others, too. We‘ve gotta help,’ the foreman called out as he made for the door.
George and the other men in the workshop raced out after him knowing the building stored paint and other inflammable matter. As they reached the burning storehouse, a man lurched from the doorway gasping for breath, and after staggering a few steps collapsed on the cobblestoned courtyard. With some effort he raised himself onto one elbow, and pointing to the door, he rasped out, ‘Men... trapped... top floor.’
Moments later a loud explosion in the storehouse alerted the whole mill to the danger. More workers came running. A second explosion followed, blowing out several upper-story windows and showering fragments of glass down onto the gathering crowd. George looked up to see thick black smoke pouring through broken windows, and he caught an occasional glimpse of yellow flames flickering and darting about. He looked with dismay at the fire truck already in the yard. It was simply a handcart supporting a tank containing water and a pump.
‘Ain’t much use in an upstairs blaze,’ one of the crowd cried out in desperation.
‘Come on,’ yelled the foreman, and plunged into the burning building. With little thought for their own safety, George and a group of workers charged after him. Inside the entrance they passed a large area for loading and unloading goods. Wooden steps on one side led up to a platform where George noticed cans of paint stacked in piles against the wall.
As they hurried past, the foreman gave them a glance before shouting, ‘‘urry, they could blow up anytime.’
Several men hesitated, looked around and began to retreat. Although the hot and dusty air parched his throat with each breath George dismissed the threat, and with several others sped after the foreman.
‘Ain’t no one down here,’ one of them called.
In the absence of smoke in the area they dashed up a nearby flight of stairs to the floor above, and made their way cautiously along the corridor. For a moment the foreman paused, and pointing to a grey haze near the ceiling, shouted, ‘Fire’s gettin’ close now.’
‘Better go back,’ one of the men suggested. ‘P’haps they’s all got out.’
‘No, keep going,’ the foreman yelled.
Amid the irritating smell of smoke and din of the fire raging on the floor above, George could hear sounds of small explosions. As they hurried along the corridore, a man staggered from a side room and collapsed in front of them. The sight of his hair and some of his clothing still smouldering alarmed the would-be rescuers. Part of the man’s face seemed to be melting away in the heat, and his eyes stared unblinking. George heard a noise come from the man’s throat as he tried to rise, but only his legs moved, scraping across the floor like a dying animal. It added to their awareness of the danger of being burned alive.
The foreman tore off his thick shirt to smother the flames. ‘Get ‘im out o’ here,’ he shouted. Two of the rescuers gently lifted the injured man and began to carry him back to the stairs.
For a few moments George lingered to glance into the room in the hope of finding any other survivors. As he peered though the heat haze and dust he made out a figure doubled up against the far wall. He rushed to the man’s aid, but found him dead. To his dismay he recognized Jamie Young, a long-time friend and former workmate. His clothes still smouldered in places, and George found his body scorched by heat that seared his limbs rigid, leaving him cemented against the wall. Flames roared in the next room. George put his hand on the wall. It was almost too hot to touch.
He felt the foreman grab his arm, and heard his hoarse voice rasp, ‘Get out you fool.’
With heat and fumes making breathing increasingly difficult, George quickly joined the others in the corridor. The group hurried down the stairs, and only just in time before the building shook with another massive explosion that collapsed part of the upper story onto the floor they had left moments before. George heard its timbers give way with muffled thumps. Dust and debris rained down behind them leaving nothing more than a few ribs of wood extending into space where the corridor had been.
Through the roar of flames overhead and the crash of falling beams George heard the warehouse begin to creak and groan. He realized the walls would soon collapse. By now they were close to the door, but the air about them, filling with clouds of dust and irrita