A Bridge of Lies

It was the year of our Lord 1850 when my first sentence was given. My poor Mina had been transported this twelve months past. It was at the quarter session in London that I was taken, manacled, to face trial, such as the word can describe this procedure. The chairman and justices of the Peace sat disinterested, listening to thin evidence of misdemeanour that the jury found sufficient to warrant punishment. My crime: picking the pocket of a gentleman in Whitechapel. Many considered the environs of the capital to be a patrimony of brigands of which I was now noted as acting with dissimulation. The hearing ended summarily and my judgement was declared – I was to be banished to Botany Bay forthwith. To gaol I was taken and onto Millbank prison three months later.

It was with 207 other souls I was to leave from Portsmouth docks on the Mermaid; retracing the footsteps of her predecessor - The Scindian - that had taken my love to the other side of the world. My journey commenced on 13^th October. The voyage was troublesome and lengthy with some disease on board amongst my fellow convicts; the naval surgeon kept occupied for much of the time.

Several storms were endured with the sea sickness commonplace below decks. Stops were made at Tenerife, Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town to take on supplies. It was to a sympathetic lag that I found myself in reminiscence of my betrothed. Our last occasion together had been under the gas lamp, hands held discussing our pending marriage. We had little in the way of funds but we would proffer to find a way to realise our intention. It was her spurned lover that had made accusation of harlotry driven by his own bitterness and desire for revenge. I remain convinced that coinage had changed hands to sully the waters of her trial.

My arrival in Australia was in May with spring wagging its tail in Old England. Of course, the season was now autumn in the Territories with the sun still emanating much warmth and light for the inhabitants of this far away land. It was to a barracks in a colony secured by wooden palisade that I was to live for the next eight years. Duties were arduous. Routine was to be awaken by the tintinnabulation of a bell at sunrise, lined up in the courtyard then subjected to examination of our persons by the Superintendent and his lackeys for wont of smuggling contraband from the settlement. Beatings were frequent and for the most trifling of occurrences. It was to cut down trees in the forest that I was deemed of use with the old and frail left behind to rake the gravel yard and other gentler tasks. Food was uncommon and oft the subject of malappropriation.

My fortune was to change on an overcast day in August and change for the worse. One of the overseers had taken fancy to me with malicious intent. With cries and shouts, he announced that I had taken a loaf of bread with illicit manner and deprived the camp of valuable sustenance. I was taken forcibly and subjected to a flogging that left my back with much pain and injury. It was decided that further forfeiture was appropriate. I was to endure the “Bridge of Lies” at dawn.

My mind is quite clear on this; the sun was radiant as I stood near the shoreline, looking out to sea. I can still hear the drumming of the red coats, scarlet tunics with brass buttons magnificent in common sight. I declare that I was of a nervous disposition given that I had no understanding of what lay in wait. The charges were read aloud and the sanction made patent for all to hear. Soldiers shoved me forward with their rifle butts; the bridge came more plainly into view as I neared. It was a span of wooden steps and rope that called me, tall carved poles (possibly 12 feet in height) keeping the structure in place both at the beginning and, I’ll wager, at intervals across the sea. It was apparent now that I was to traverse this platform to I not where.

With just a flimsy white shirt of sorts and grubby black shorts, I was ill prepared for the elements. Even now, the heat was to border on the side of unbearable, like a waiting Hades that may consume me as a flaming ball. It was unseasonably hot, even for these parts at this time of year. I took my first stride onto the steps that led to the summit of the entry way. Wooden slats made for the path ahead with gaps between them looking down at the waves. The scaffold of nightmares stretched as far as the eye could see with little to give me comfort. I turned to see the gathered staring at me, silent and judging, soulless in their disregard for either me or my fortune. I walked gingerly, thoughts racing, confusion uppermost as to what might lie in wait. I proceeded with fortitude at first before losing heart and turning back. I surmised an hour had passed and considered that the cortege may have set their sights for home. As the beach became obvious once again, I espied two militia still stationed, guarding against any relapse on my part. Shots cracked in the air and missiles whizzed past me, causing my about turn. This countenance had not been to my advantage. I was to submit to the wrath of the experience in its entirety.

It was an underdetermined period of time later that I realised I could no longer see the harbour from whence I had come. Neither was there substance to anything in the direction I was travelling. My only company was the azure waters beneath, circling gulls above and the flimsiest of cloud coverings in God’s sky all around. My brow sweat profusely. I already thirsted for liquid relief but there was none; my cracking lips will attest to this. At this juncture, my eyes were closed and each step was an effort of mechanical repetition. It was difficult to ponder with any exactitude when I felt the dampness on my feet. I looked down in shock as it was apparent that the bridge was sagging. I was sloshing through the brine, questioning my own capability to swim. I knew I could; I was not sure how well. I ploughed my lone furrow, Davy Jones’ Locker engulfing my hooves. It would be misleading to suggest my concern was none for this was not the case. I strode on and on. I prayed to the almighty that he would deliver me from this ordeal. Whether it coincidence or divine intervention but the structure did start to raise up once more. I felt the sureness of the frayed railings again, my heart leaping at the change of fortune.

My skin was burning, my eyes stung from the common assault of sea spray. My legs ached with ceaseless effort. I considered stopping but what good would that do? That was when I noted fins circling. Tiny, black eyes could be seen atop large, barracuda bodies. I knew little of sharks but their infamy was the topic of discussion both on the junket from Albion and at the encampment from whence I came of late. I looked on in hope that the way ahead was sound and with no further incidence of sagging. I had no intention of being chum for the marine devils ready to waylay my good self. I counted some half a dozen when I realised my hand was bleeding, drops of blood falling into the ether, probably driving my fetid fishy foe into a frenzy of incalculable threat. I wrapped my appendage in my jersey, looking like a casualty of war and awaiting repair from a physician. I continued on my way, pursued by the hungry adversaries below. We stood in lockstep for miles and miles. Their determination was to be commended even with an absence of my affection for this stand-off in the middle of oblivion.

Salvation came from Mother Nature herself. Black, murderous storm clouds gathered, rolling in from the horizon. The bandits of the deep had taken cover and disappeared to their own sanctuary, leaving me to face another battle of which I was now too fatigued to withstand. Lightening lit the sky, waves multiplied to the size of a behemoth as the skies cast down multitudinous rain upon me. The bridge swung and swayed wildly; I could feel water splashing on my legs and torso. The once blue covering above was now an ebony of the deepest kind. I was being tossed around like a rag doll, my life seemingly forfeit, the conclusion of my suffering. There was now water all around as I was at one with the ocean. I swam, my arms pumping furiously, my longed for drink now forced upon me with salt water gushing down my throat. I thrashed my legs and wind-milled my limbs, the raw essence of survival driving me on.

I wish I could recall how long the contest with the saline antagonist had taken. It seemed in perpetuity. Every sinew of my body was on the verge of collapse, my very being now decimated with despair and decrepitude. It was only then that I looked up to see I was prostrate on the sanctity of dry land. I rejoiced. Then slept with an exhaustion like no other. I may have slumbered for hours, it may have been days – I know not. When I finally awoke, my sight had little focus. I could make out the fuzzy shape of another leaning over me, whispering, speaking, calling to me. I rubbed my eyes, gazing out at the scene afore me. It was a woman, it was MINA! I covered her in the sweetest of kisses. I hugged and cried. I repeated her name over and over. It was minutes later that we lay there arm in arm. “Where is this? Is this Van Diemen’s?” I enquired whilst peering back at the bridge.

“I have waited so long for another to cross.” She said, her voice cracking with emotion. “They call this a Bridge of Lies. All perish who cross her void. I think I may have been the first to avert such a fate.”

I looked up at her face and then back across the sea, waves lapping gently betwixt our toes. “Mayhaps it is a bridge of purgatory after all and everything before is Hell.”

She considered this before taking my hand and leading me away into this unchartered land; an island that was not meant to be found but here we were, discoverers of a new world with the chance to start again.

*Image is a convict ship – no known copyright issues