THE DEPRIVED...Chapter 4...Part 9.

A continuation of my book.

The Port of Fremantle was a mass of men who shuffled forward with manacled hands and feet, chained together so they appeared to move in slow-motion, shifting strangely forward in their black and white striped prison garb. At the head of the line stood armed prison guards, counting and checking the men before releasing them from their chains while laughingly pointing out that if any cared to run then it would give the dogs something to do.
Sam stood on the deck of the ship, having been brought up from the cage with the rest of the boys and made to wait till all the men had been taken down the gangplank and led ashore then to line up and have their manacles and chains removed. Sam watched as the men were now made to run behind prison guards who rode horses at a trot and seeing the line of men halt outside a white-walled warehouse and disappear inside. The guards on horses returned and stood by the gangplank as the boys were then ordered to disembark, to walk down the gangplank and line up on the dockside where they were counted.
“There’s thirty-two here, Sir!” called out the guard who counted them.
The officer in charge held up a list, reading out the names.
“There’s twelve missing from the list.” he shouted before turning to look at the ship’s Captain who had come down from the bridge. “That’s forty men and twelve boys missing.” he said.
“They never made it.” answered the Captain. “They either died or drowned during the voyage. Anyway what’s the good of weak men, eh? They’re better off dead than being in a sick bay and us having to feed them.”
With that the Captain took his leave, climbing up the gangplank and ordering his men to raise it after him.
The boys were marched up to the warehouse and locked into a separate large room with no windows and there to be left with no idea of what was to happen next.
Sam sat on the floor, not answering Heathfield who questioned what was going to happen to them. He considered it not worth worrying about because no matter what it was it was not going to be nice or easy. Expect the worst and if it is not as bad as you expect then it is a comfort. Sam tried to remember who had said that. Was it Kilpatrick from the time spent under the arches in Viaduct Street? Perhaps his father? He gave up thinking and settled down to sleep, his eyes closing.

“Get up and line up outside!”
Four guards with rifles at the ready stood by the door and watched the boys as they walked out through the door and lined up once more in the courtyard outside. Here an officer began to call out the names and ordering some to step forward while those not called out were to remain in line. Heathfield’s name was called out and he looked at Sam. Sam stood with his eyes ahead, saying nothing and the small fair-haired boy blinked back tears before moving forward.
“You lot in the front line are going to move up to the barracks where you will be working on suitable duties. That’s because your crimes are not as serious as those behind you.”
With that, those in the front line were ordered to march away with two guards to the front and back.
“Now you lot.” said the officer as he approached the back line. “You lot aint to be trusted. You’re in for the long haul, for life if you don’t behave. You have to earn your ‘Ticket of Leave’ and that can be near impossible. You lot will be joining the men in the compound and working the same as the men, which means hard labour.”
Sam smiled inwardly. It was as he expected. Out of all the boys left and now marching towards the compound he was the smallest, seeming much younger than his fifteen years.
The compound consisted of a large centre square surrounded on all sides by low built lime-white houses which had bolted and locked doors. The opening to the yard housed the guards to either side of the large wooden doors . Sam thought the square seemed more like a fort than a prison.
“You will go to number four! You to number seven! You to number twelve!”
The Officer who had marched with the boys now stood in front of them and gave instructions as to where each boy would be staying, pointing to each house round the square to where each boy should go. Sam was given the number twelve and walked under guard to the house which had the number on the door. The guard unlocked the door and opened it, pushing Sam in before locking and bolting the door again. The house was really one long low room consisting of sixty bunk-beds, two lines of fifteen bunks with bunks above them, all seeming to have a man to each bunk who sat and stared as Sam stood waiting. The silence was broken when one of the men jumped down from his bunk, a small scar-faced man who advanced towards Sam with a leer.
“You have to sleep with me. There aint no beds left.”
Sam said nothing, not moving.
“You hear what I said? Get up in me bed!”
As the man approached, Sam clenched his fists and stood, his dark eyes hardening. The man lashed out with a fist and Sam took the blow to his face, feeling the blood begin to flow from his mouth. He smiled into the man’s eyes. Again the man lashed out and once more Sam took the blow with no change of expression.
“You’re mad!” exclaimed the man in disgust as he walked away and sprang back up into his bunk.
“There’s a spare bunk over here.” came a voice and Sam walked down between the bunks, his eyes centred on the empty one. He looked neither left nor right and not bothering to wipe at the blood with came from his nose and lips. There was silence as the men turned their heads to look at him as he passed.
“Here, above me.” said the old and portly man who sat undressed on the lower bunk.
Sam nodded his thanks and sprang up on the bunk above the man, to lie stretched out on the hard boards.

The weather was hot with the inside of the room quite humid. The windows were barred and locked shut although someone had broken one of the panes of glass, even though this did not allow any sense of breeze to enter the room. Sam lay and felt the sweat trickle down his body but closed his mind off to the discomfort, concentrating on his hatred for those who had interfered with his happiness and the women who had hurt his mother through their refusal to help her when she became ill. Those he blamed for his unhappiness. The man who had punched him when he entered the room did not matter. Sam spent no time on hating him. He was just a fleck of time in his life and of small nuisance.

It was dark, very early in the morning when Sam opened his eyes to shouts and calls, to the sounds of men jumping from their bunks and hurrying out into the square.
“Get up, young ‘un!” shouted the man in the bunk below. “We’ve to be counted and get something to eat. Hurry!”
Sam jumped down from the bunk and hurried after the man, going out into the square where all the men from the houses had formed lines in front of each house. The armed guards marched up and down, counting each line, then re-checking the count. Sam lined up with the men of his house, his small frame hidden by the men in front so that the guard who counted them ordered him to be stood in the front line. From the guardhouse came a line of convicts who carried trestles which they placed in the centre of the square. Others followed with urns and trays containing porridge and bread. This done, a house at a time was ordered forward to collect a wooden tray on which was placed a bowl of porridge and a small loaf of hard bread and returning to their house the inmates then sat on their bunks and ate, afterwards having the bowls and trays collected by a Trustee who wore an armband of red cloth. Then the men were ordered back out into the square to be marched out of the compound in long lines of two’s and marched down the hill towards the ever-growing town of Fremantle. The buildings were the same white limestone as the houses in the square being erected by the convicts labouring under the sun. Sam was put to work with the men who had to push the trundle carts out across the town, to where the stone masons worked under the watchful eye of the Officer of the Engineers who measured out the blocks according to the drawings which were spread out on a table and pondered over under the shade of a large tent. The large blocks of limestone where carried on carts from the quarries further out to the west where the boom of explosives could be heard. Sam lifted the heavy blocks, struggling under their weight as he loaded up his cart with the numbered blocks and pulled the loaded cart back to the building site. Each hour there came a line of boys who carried buckets of water and a ladle. The ‘Water Boys’ stood as the men came to drink from the ladle, greedily quaking their thirst before going back to their work. Sam joined the queue for a drink and was surprised to see Heathfield behind one of the buckets. The small fair-haired boy kept his eyes down as Sam approached, the boy’s face drawn and even paler than it normally was. Sam took the ladle up to his lips, his eyes on Heathfield’s face.
“They done me. Every night they do me.”