THE DEPRIVED... Chapter 4...Part 10.

A continuation of my book.

Heathfield’s lips hardly moved as he spoke the words. Sam put the ladle back into the bucket and walked back to his trundle cart, to begin pulling it back towards the building. Heathfield watched him go.
Sam continued to pull his cart and off-loaded the blocks in front of where the block-layers worked with busy trowels, building up the walls which would form the new Courthouse. Sam knew what Heathfield meant, that the men where he slept were abusing him and forcing their sense of sodomy on him. Sam shrugged, there was nothing he could do to protect the boy, it was everyone for themselves.

The work was gruelling, long hours in the hot sun which first reddened the skin and blistered it so that laying down was painful, then burning the new pink flesh into a deep brown and continuing to tan it until the skin was a dark brown and it hurt no more. The hands became crusted and horny from carrying the limestone, often cracking open to weep till the sores dried into calluses and then cracked open again. Each day bled into the other. There was no night and day, just hours of painful work and only judging time by the amount of lift the walls had as the block-layers continued to build the walls to bring up another floor level. The whole layout was always a hive of industry with convicts working in the hot sun and guarded by men in blue uniforms who wielded guns and clubs. At times there came men in army uniforms, of the Royal Engineer Corp who directed the building works. The routine was only broken by the public flogging of those who had tried to escape and were hunted down by trackers, drafted in from the Aborigine tribes, those who lived beyond the compound in small tents. Sam studied the dark-skinned Aborigines with interest, noting their wide smiles which exposed gleaming white teeth. He was not allowed to mix with them or even try to talk to them and noted that the guards treated them with disdain, calling them savages and barbarians. They did not do any manual work and some would simply walk away from their lodge and disappear into the distance and be lost in the heat-haze. Then they would return some time later and continue to work as trackers as though nothing had happened.

“They’re a genial lot but underneath it they aint like us ‘cause they’re as liable to eat you as look at you. You can’t trust them.”
This was said by Barker, the portly man who had the lower bunk and the only one Sam spoke to. It was at night, when the men had returned to their houses and were locked in. That was a time when Sam had expressed a wish to know more about the strange black men and this was the reply he got from Barker. Sam learned that Barker had been in service for twelve years and did not expect to earn his ticket of leave.
“Ticket of leave?” had queried Sam, leaning over from his bunk and peering through the dark at Barker beneath him.
“Yes, a ticket of leave. What it means is that if you work hard and don’t try to escape then you can get a ticket of leave, like a parole. It means you can leave the compound and live a normal life, outside of the prison and set up your own dwelling and even take a lady for your wife, one of them convict women or even an Aborigine woman if you’re of that kind.”
“So why can’t you get a ticket of leave if you’ve been here that long?” asked Sam.
Barker cackled loudly.
“It’s because I killed a man who tried me out. He was one of them cocky men as you find in these places, like that little sneak who hit you when you first came in here. Him as who sleeps over there.”
These words were spoken loudly for the benefit of those who cared to listen.
Sam smiled in the darkness and lay back on his bunk. It was good to know a man like Barker.

Sam grew stronger under the hot sun, though not much gaining in height but with a wiry body which could stand much punishment and he thrived under the burden of pulling the trundle cart which he now found he could load up with more blocks than any of the men and then beat them in the race to get back and off-load them for the block-layers. One of the block-layers, a strapping dark-haired man whom was called Black-Jack, took a liking to Sam and would often show Sam how to lay the mix which cemented the blocks. The guards seemed not to mind, turning a blind eye when Sam would leave his trundle cart and climb up onto the wood scaffolding and watch Black-Jack lay along the line and listen as he would explain the trick of laying the blocks and tapping them level.
“How long have you been working here?” Black-Jack asked one day.
“Five years now, according to Barker. He keeps a count on me.” answered Sam.
“Then it’s time as you should put your hand on learning to block-lay. It’s a damn sight easier than them carts and you have an uncanny strength as I’ve seen.” returned Black-Jack.
“How do I get the job?” asked Sam, the idea brightening his face.
“Here, Gaffer!”
Black-Jack had not answered Sam. Instead he had leaned over the rail of the scaffolding and shouted down to the army engineer who stood with a drawing in his hand. The engineer waved him down and the big man swung down the scaffolding hand over hand until he reached the bottom ad walking to where the engineer stood. Sam watched as they spoke briefly. Black-Jack pointed up at him and the engineer motioned Sam to descend and join them. Sam copied the style of Black-Jack, not using the ladder but rather to swing down the outside of the scaffolding in swift descent. Black-Jack winked at Sam as he passed before climbing back up the scaffolding to carry on with his work.
“So you are a block-layer, I hear.” said the engineer in clipped tones.
“Yes Sir. I worked for my Da back in my homeland. I lay bricks and stonework.” lied Sam, keeping direct eye contact with the engineer.
The engineer drew out a piece of paper from the satchel he had slung over his shoulder and using the back of the satchel as a desk he wrote on it and handed the paper to Sam.
“Take your cart back to the block-masons and then come back here. You can work alongside the man up there.” he said, pointing up to where Black-Jack worked.
Sam nodded and clutching the paper he began to walk back to the trundle cart.
“If anyone asks you about your work-station, show them that paper of authority.” called the engineer before slinging the satchel over his shoulder and walking back towards the large tent and its shade.
Sam hurried back with the trundle cart and left it, telling the guard in charge of the change to his work and displaying the written authorisation. Returning to the building he climbed the scaffolding to join Black-Jack, to begin lifting the blocks of limestone ready for Black-Jack to lay them to the wall.
“We have this part of the wall to build up.” explained the big man as he spread the mix.  “From here to the end where the corner is already built. Every block has to be laid true and square and you can use this plumb-line and your eye. Learn to bend down and run your eye along the line of blocks so you can see if any blocks are out of line. That way you can knock it back into shape before the mix goes off. Got me? Go on, bend down and check the line.”

Sam had begun his training and was determined to learn all he could. Black-Jack told him there would be years of work as new buildings were planned, like the Bank and the Courthouse they worked on now.
“I tell you Sam, it’s the likes of us convicts who are the making of the Colonies. Without us this country would be as wasteland and only the Aborigines could survive in the ‘Outback’.”
Even in that short time of day, Sam was learning not only about work but about the land. Black-Jack had been at the compound for twenty-two years and knew a lot about the life in and out of the prison. Sam was to learn that the big man had escaped twice and lived out there in the wasteland, surviving with the help of friendly Aborigines until a troop of soldiers had captured him and returned him back to the prison where he was publicly flogged and put in solitary confinement for a year.
“But from today.” said Black-Jack, running an eye down the row of blocks. “Because you are in trade, you can move to our house in the compound. Tomorrow morning, when we line up for work, you just show your letter of authorisation to the officer in charge and then line up with us tradesmen. This also means that when we come back in after work you can move into my house instead of going back in among the labourers.”