A Convict's Life in 1788

Tuesday, April 28th 1787

Henry Richard Smith, what have you done?

All for a loaf of bread.

I sit at the bottom of the damp, mouldy cell walls. They surround me, reminding me that there is no escape. I share this confined room with three other men. Their shirts drenched with salty tears. It's hard to watch grown men sob and I know that we are all thinking the same, what does our future hold?

Just to think I am sitting here in this room that stinks of old, unwashed bodies because I did something that I thought was right for me and my family. They were starving and I had no other choice. I had little work and was being paid little for my efforts.

I was forced I to stealing that bread.

All I had to do was sneak in and quickly whisk it into my pocket. I was truly unlucky to be caught by the baker. Anyway what is a bit of bread to him? He was one of the wealthier people in town.

I can just picture the looks on my wife, my son and daughter's faces as they find out I will be disengaged from them and transported to the Great Southern Continent for nineteen years.

They said they can't keep me here. Something about being too crowded and vulnerable to disease.

Like they care.

My hands are shaking from the coldness of the cell floor. Many guards keep watch just to make sure that everyone is in line and I can't help but wonder what lies ahead.

Wednesday, May 13th 1787

The guards herd us onto the boat like cattle. They take us to the lowest deck where the smell of decomposition and diseased riddled bodies is so strong. Everyone is tightly compacted in cages and the guards are watching us like hawks.

I find a piece of floor and sit down, cramped. A couple of hours later we set off for the new land that I will call home.

The shackles around my ankles thresh and cut into my skin every time I move. And when the man next to me moves it slices my skin even deeper. The sea sickness isn't helping either, I could swear about every thirty seconds we are riding a wave that is at least ten metres high.

The guards serve us a meal.

Tasteless mush that is all it is. I guess I should be grateful for getting food, but I can't help but wonder what the captain will be getting served.

I don't know how I am going to spend eight months down here.

The only way I have sanity is because of this pen and paper and the fact that I will be able to see my family once I have finished my sentence.

Thursday, October 1st 1787

Today was dreadful. A woman sat across from me in the cage with her baby. Her shirt was unbuttoned and she looked terribly ill.

Her baby started to cry uncontrollably.

A guard approached her and aggressively slapped her face, leaving a huge red mark and a small swollen bruise on her left cheek.

I don't know what came over me; I guess it's just the person I am.

I stood up and yelled, "How dare you touch that woman that way you pompous pig!" I was so mad I felt my cheeks burning red hot. I was taken by two guards half carried half dragged up the stairs to where I could see the ocean.

They squeezed my arms into wrist cuffs, ripped off my shirt and gave me a penalty of a torturous thirty-five lashes.

The lashes were so harsh and the sea breeze and sea spray stung my wounded back, an indescribable pain.

Is this hell?

As the stinging settled I looked out to the ocean and filled my exhausted lungs with air. No land to be seen for miles, just clear, blue water.

They must have left me standing there for hours and by the time they collected me to take me back down to the cages, I was chilled to the bone.

I find it hard to write now, but my sore, beaten hands continue to write about my harsh journey to the Great Southern Continent.

Monday, January 25th 1788

This morning, we are taken off the boat. I approach the exit and step into the sun. It pierces my eyes and burns my pale, raw, wounded, English skin.

As I look ahead I see red. Nothing but red.

This truly must be hell.

My legs are like jelly as I stumble onto the red dirt. I spot someone in the distance...

A dark skinned person with strange markings painted all over their body. And I can see this foreigner has used the ways of the land for survival. We make eye contact and they run off.

If there are more of these people will they let us stay off will they kill us?

Monday, February 2nd 1788

Today we were set straight to work, building houses for the wealthy. Or as I see them, ruthless, cunning people who don't care about any of the convicts human rights.

We are chained together by our ankles, making work very hard for us. Our bones ache as we carry heavy material that is strong enough to withstand a tremendous wind.

And the sun beats down a searing heat. Young boys lag behind exhausted from the hard work and lack of water. And many people have died either from disease or exhaustion in the past couple of days.

When we are handed our tasteless mush, I sit and stare at one of the guards that looks tired and beaten.

I look into his eyes and I can see that he has a family back in England too.

Sunday, March 29th 1790

Last night was a terrible sleep.

I've got scurvy says the man that holds the medicine.

My bones ache, I have bleeding gums and my breath cuts short.

I am thinking about my loving family and if I will ever see them again...

I am so sore, but I know I will be in the arms of God soon and far away from this hell.

And these sentences may be the last I ever write, due to my breaking body.

My whole journey flashes before my eyes, the lashes from the Cat of Nine Tails, the speaking out of turn, seeing my loyal friends die and being where I am now.

I would never