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  It doesn’t quite have that effect by early October. A few weeks earlier British fears that their Russian allies were riddled with incompetent officers were realised during an attempt to take the village of Bergen. A mix-up saw the Russians attack far too early before the English – stranded by rain and washed-out roads – could support their attack. More than 4000 men had been killed and that is when the finger-pointing had begun in earnest, the acting Russian commander accusing the Duke of York of poor communication.

  Small victories followed that debacle as bloody battles raged in vast networks of sand dunes, some of them 200 feet high and held together by dense scrub. No-one there will forget the ferocity of the fighting, much of it descending into hand-to-hand combat with bayonets and fists. It all comes down to this day, the 6th of October, when the allies find themselves under attack from the full forces of the French and Dutch forces outside the town of Castricum. In the afternoon rain falls so hard soldiers can barely see one another let alone the enemy. In the nearby town of Alkmaar one of the Duke’s officers climbs the spire of a church tower with a telescope to see what is taking place.

  Nothing, neither the rain nor the oncoming darkness, can disguise the carnage. More than 3000 allies dead. One chaotic retreat has left two field hospitals behind with hundreds of wounded. William, count yourself lucky. Your hand may be hurt – you will never say if it was from a bullet or a bayonet – but once again you have found a way out. Two battalions of the 4th have not been so fortunate. They have been lost after stumbling behind enemy lines without any clue where their commanding officers were taking them.

  More than 12,000 men in this campaign have been lost. The full retreat after midnight offers little respite. Heavy artillery must be hauled through mud. The Dutch cavalry keep up a constant harassment of the rear. Some English units, unable to tell the difference between sodden tracks and nearby dykes, lose dozens from drowning.

  The Duke of York – George’s son – will learn from this. He will go on to reform the military and turn it into the machine that will dominate the 19th century. But it will take a long time for memories to fade and soldiers like you will be singing the same song in taverns for years to come:

  The grand old Duke of York,

  He had ten thousand men.

  He marched them up to the top of the hill

  And he marched them down again.

  And when they were up, they were up

  And when they were down, they were down.

  And when they were only halfway up,

  They were neither up nor down.

  The Duke has no option but to negotiate for terms. By 18 October these will be signed – Britain agreeing to release 8000 French prisoners of war and the allies allowed to evacuate.

  It’s a sombre and far smaller fleet that sails home toward a new century. For you, the next two years are going to be hard. Your right hand will heal but what about your mind? You’re a paid-up member of the Scum of the Earth and it will be impossible to put aside what you have seen and endured in the past couple of months.

  You say your commanding officers have respect for you, although that may have a little something to do with your size. But it won’t take long before the restlessness returns. And then things will rapidly go downhill, won’t they? What is it you will say, long after you have become an old man and that magnificent mane of hair has begun to recede? ‘Feelings of discontent’ will descend upon you. That’s what you will call them. And that will lead you to become ‘associated with several men of bad character in the Regiment, who gradually acquired an influence over my conduct, which very soon led me into scenes of irregularity, and riotous dissipation’.

  Now that, given the times, sounds like a polite way of saying the next two years – much of it spent in the barracks as Europe settles into an uneasy peace – descend into a wild stint of drinking and whoring. Don’t take it the wrong way. It’s hard to pass judgement on a young man who has just lived through the horrors you have seen.

  But it cannot possibly end well, can it?

  6

  A DOUR LEADER; A SNEAKY BOY

  David Collins stands on the deck of the Calcutta. Perhaps you catch a glimpse of him as you and the rest of the convicts are taken below, down two levels into the dark hold for prisoners where the ceilings are low and the air is thin. Good-looking man this Collins, tall and broad shouldered. He’s just turned 47 but there’s not a fleck of grey to be seen in that head of curly sandy hair. Handsome, no doubt about it, not like the weather-beaten faces of the sailors hauling ropes and getting this ship ready to leave England. Important man, too. You only need to see that scarlet coat, with all its brass buttons and gold lapels, to know he wields power. No wonder so many women find him attractive. Within a few days, once the Calcutta has made it into the open sea and is well and truly on its way to New Holland, the wife of a convict, fair to the eye herself, will be seen visiting his cabin, where she will keep him entertained through the long nights ahead.

  Surely the man is blessed. So why is David Collins feeling as trapped and as miserable as the prisoners parading in front of him?

  He’s not a bad man. God, no. Fact is, Collins is a man with more empathy than most in this era. Hannah Power, that 26-year-old convict’s wife he will soon be sleeping with … because he is David Collins he will grant her cuckolded husband, Matthew Power, special privileges; the ability to roam the ship almost at will, along with a place to sleep a long way from the rest of the rabble. Surely that will give the man a good night’s rest, a chance to put to one side the thought of his wife keeping the Lieutenant-Governor up all night.

  In just six months’ time Collins will stride ashore to set up a new colony in an alien world. At the King’s behest, too. He should be excited. But all he can feel is that familiar devil of disappointment gnawing at his insides. Once more he must do his best to disguise it. Yet with each passing year it gets harder. It was not meant to be this way, not for a man blessed with intelligence and the luck of being born into a respected military family. Collins is growing weary of it all: the years of unfairly being passed over for promotion, the empty promises of patrons and superiors, as well as what seems like half a lifetime apart from his constantly ailing wife, Maria. Not to mention the unspoken disappointment of his family and having to watch his younger brother George marry into a prosperous family and become a successful farmer.

  And Collins? He has taken on this role to return to New Holland – to set up a new colony at Port Phillip, more than 500 miles south of Port Jackson where he and the rest of the First Fleet had landed 15 years earlier – because he has no choice. After years on half-pay, financial ruin is certain if he remains in London.

  Resentment eats away at him. It has almost swallowed him whole. He once penned letters home that were filled with the soft language of a man who viewed the world through a far gentler lens than men like his father, good old Arthur Tooker Collins. Now there was a man of his times, a stern and unemotional former marine who had never felt more alive than dodging storms of cannonballs. It is only 10 years since Collins wrote to Tooker to confide that: ‘I have always thought that nature designed me for the tranquil rather than the bustling walk of life … I know I was meant by that unerring guide to wear the gown rather than the habiliments of a soldier. Nature intended and fashioned me to ascend the pulpit and there I think I should have shown ability.’

  You can only begin to imagine how that went down with Tooker. Probably the same way it did back in 1775. Collins, who had been drafted into his father’s marine regiment at the age of 14, had gone on to fight in the famous battle of Bunker Hill. The American Revolution was at its height and Collins had been involved in a bayonet charge – one of war’s most frightening experiences. When it was over he had looked across a battlefield littered with a thousand broken bodies. But nothing managed to extinguish his enthusiasm for military life more than a couple of barbs from his father.

  ‘I have just had two letters from my father,’ Collins
wrote to his beloved mother, Henrietta, ‘which gave me a great deal of uneasiness as it first informed of your illness and next of my having displeased him; I know not which gave me the most pain. Believe me, dear Madam, it has destroyed the little happiness I was beginning to enjoy here. I flattered myself that I was very well liked among the officers …’

  Always, this sense of failing to live up to expectations. Always, this growing bitterness that he has served King and country and deserves far better. Thirty years earlier he had been on the frigate HMS Southampton during its secret mission to rescue King George’s sister, Queen Caroline Matilda. Now that had been the sort of swashbuckling assignment any young ensign could only dream about. The Queen had been married off to her first cousin, King Christian VII of Denmark, another monarch tormented by voices in his head. He could sometimes be found banging that head against a wall until it bled. There were hallucinations and vast mood swings and unprompted bursts of laughter. He’d turned his back on the young Queen almost from their wedding night, taking on a courtesan as his mistress and spending his evenings in Copenhagen’s brothels. Caroline, isolated and unloved, began an affair with her husband’s surgeon and confidant, Johann Struensee. He, of course, ended up losing his head. After lengthy negotiations it was agreed the English could send a ship to collect Caroline and escort her to a castle in Hanover where the woman who had brought such embarrassment to both royal families could live out her life in exile. When the Southampton docked in the port city of Elsinore, it had been a 16-year-old David Collins who stepped forward, bowed, took her hand and kissed it gently as she came on board.

  But all that was so long ago. It is now late April 1803. The journals and letters of David Collins are no longer filled with delicate sentences and soft reminiscences. He has seen the convicts loaded on to the Calcutta and will write despairingly that they ‘are a collection of old, worn out, useless men, or children equally as useless’.

  Who else can he turn to, who else understands the depth of his frustration more than his beloved mother, Henrietta? He has just sent a letter to let her know he must submit ‘to another separation, which I trust will be more blessed with good fortune than was the past … I think and hope that my evil genius is weary of persecuting me and resigns his place to a better.’

  Evil genius? If you heard that, you would probably throw back your head and unleash your loudest laugh in years. Collins has his looks and standing and a fine scarlet coat and a cabin with a comfortable bed of his own that will be kept warm at night by one of the best-looking women on this ship.

  Yes, hard to compare that with your leg irons and your thin and frayed trousers and the slop that will serve as food over the coming months. But let’s get things in perspective. You could also have a rope around your neck.

  Have you seen that small boy who has been brought on board the Calcutta? Yes, there are quite a few, many of them in irons. But there is one in particular you should keep a close eye on because in 30 years’ time he is going to make your life difficult. If only you knew how difficult. You could try showing him a little kindness; perhaps throw a portion of your ration his way from time to time. Might make things much easier down the track. Take a good look at him scampering about the deck, sticking his nose into other folks’ business, getting in the way of the sailors as they load the last of the supplies before you leave Portsmouth. Little Johnny Fawkner. He’s only 10 years old and looks half his age with his pasty face and short legs but already there’s a touch of arrogance about him. You can see it in the way he lurks and listens in on conversations. Raised by his grandparents for a few years – wealthy folk who no doubt spoiled him. But they have just died. His old man is being transported for 14 years for receiving stolen goods – a diamond necklace and a gold snuffbox full of more diamonds worth more than 400 quid – and little Johnny now has to accompany his parents to the other side of the earth. Just be careful with him if he ever crosses your path. He has a ferocious memory and an even greater appetite for exaggeration and duplicity.

  The Fawkners – John senior, his wife Hannah and their nosey kid – have been desperate to stay out of the prison rooms below and thanks to those wealthy grandparents they have negotiated with one of the ship’s carpenters; for 20 pounds they will take his room in the fore cockpit with a convicted counterfeiter, James Grove, and his wife and son.

  That’s how it works, isn’t it? If you had a little coin then maybe you and your mate from the regiment, Will Marmon, could also be living it up in more salubrious quarters. But two years of that ‘riotous dissipation’ after coming back from the Netherlands must have left you a little short. Is that why you and Marmon broke into John Cave’s drapery? You will be a little vague about the events so many years later and a lot of that will be understandable given what happens to you. Perhaps, along with those memories of the battlefield, you preferred to tuck it away in the deepest recesses of your mind. Or maybe – just maybe – you have been telling the truth all along and the entire thing was a set-up.

  A well-meaning reverend, George Langhorne, will try to get to the bottom of it with you more than 35 years later and all you will offer is that one day while you were crossing the barrack yards in Horsham ‘a woman whom I did not know requested me to carry a piece of cloth to a woman of the garrison to be made up. I was stopped with it in my possession. The property had been stolen. I was considered the thief and though innocent sentenced to transportation for life.’

  But that’s not quite the story that makes its way into The Sussex Weekly Advertiser on 2 August 1802. A keen reader will have scanned the reports of local vegetable prices and magical elixirs for coughs and bad skin. And they will have no doubt been horrified by the remarkable detail on the front page of artillery Captain Mazot, who, having eaten a ‘hearty dinner with his mistress, shot himself a few days ago under the chin with a pistol loaded with three balls. His head was shattered in a frightful manner; one of the bullets took out one of his eyes but the other two, which no doubt reached the brain, could not be found. The unfortunate man had full knowledge enough to perceive that he had not fully perpetrated his crime and with a dagger again wounded himself in several parts of his body …’

  Compared to Captain Mazot’s troubles, your situation rates a simple paragraph on page three. The Advertiser reports that the shop of Mr Cave in nearby Warnham ‘was broken open and robbed of several pieces of printed linens and cottons, stockings &c. and on Tuesday last a woman, wife of a soldier of the 4th regiment of foot, was taken into custody … on suspicion of being concerned in the robbery. The woman, it seems, had offered several of the stolen articles for sale … she was immediately suspected and secured. She has since impeached two men of the above regiment as principals and they were all on Wednesday committed to Horsham Gaol, for trial at our next assizes.’

  You might be innocent after all. This woman – her name is Margaret Harris – knows she is in deep trouble. Stealing cloth is one of those 160 crimes punishable by death. Almost a third of all offences across England involve cloth and other material. The wars have hurt trade with the traditional fashion houses of France and Italy and, while Britain’s textile industry is churning out material as fast as it can thanks to those oiled cogs and steam machines of the Industrial Revolution, a well-cut outfit can be worth a year’s average wage.

  And now Margaret Harris has fingered you and Marmon. It doesn’t take long for the next Sussex assizes – courts held periodically all around England usually dealing with serious offences – to be called to order in front of the visiting judges, headed by Baron Hotham. The hearing is surely not a long one and it’s unlikely anyone represents you and Marmon.

  The following week the Sussex Advertiser is back on the streets reporting the outcome: ‘At our assizes, which ended on Tuesday last, ten prisoners were tried, four of whom were capitally convicted and received sentences of death, viz … William Buckley and William Marmon, the former aged 20 and the latter 25, for burglariously entering the shop of Mr Cave, of Warnham,
and stealing therein two pieces of Irish linen.’

  Death. How does it feel? You have faced the prospect before on the battlefield. But not like this. Hanging is not the swift form of execution it will become later this century when science will dictate the position of the knot and the length of the drop based on a man’s weight, all designed to instantly snap the neck. No, to be hanged is often a drawn-out affair, a slow and agonising strangulation that is sometimes only brought to a merciful close by the hangman pulling down on your legs. So this is how it finishes, at the end of a rope, because of a simple piece of cloth? You are left shackled for hours with nothing else to think about.

  And then, as the judges head back to London, they will issue a reprieve and reduce both your and Marmon’s sentences to transportation for life. They often do that these days. A nice touch of humanity, even if it has turned those prison hulks into reeking, overflowing cesspits. And as the pair of you are hauled away and sent to the hulks in Langstone, what do you discover? Margaret Harris is ‘discharged by proclamation’.

  That’s how it works. No-one really believes in the concept of fairness, do they? Certainly not here in these early years of the 19th century as the Calcutta finally sails from England with its cargo of more than 500 souls and a morose man called David Collins expected to lead them into a new world.

  7

  ‘THE TREATMENT ON THE PASSAGE WAS VERY GOOD’

  Say what you like about David Collins – and they will be lining up with all sorts of uncomplimentary complaints in the years to come, led by a nasty piece of work called William Bligh – but don’t mistake his distaste for military life for softness. Collins knows how difficult it is to establish a new colony on the other side of the world and he has been as diligent as usual in his preparations. As the Calcutta embarks on the first leg of its journey to New Holland, down the west coast of Africa before crossing the Atlantic toward Rio de Janeiro, secured in the hold is a second-hand printing press Collins insisted the Navy buy for the voyage. It wasn’t long ago that he took up his quill and penned another letter in his flawless handwriting asking for additional, often-used letters such as ‘A’ and ‘E’ and ‘R’ and ‘T’ to be supplied for the press. Just in case.