DARLINT EMMA

Darlint Emma,

My hart is broke in twain.  I am done-for, quite hipped.  Tried for pinching a bit of Bacon and two Quartern Loafs and I am dealt a cruell Hand.  The Madjestrate has Bannished me for seven years Transport beyond the Seas to Sidney Island, which is situate at the terrible End of this unjust World.  They chant it such a wretched, isolate, savidge place.  Would we were dead and laid down in our miserable graves.  I am not one of your Canting Crew or dab crack-rope!  Niether have I the Neck for stretching, but I was well nigh grasped by the Gallows.  All for pricking in the Wicker for a Dolffin, which old chums call Flash.

Now I am sorely puzzeled not having herd news from my dear wife.  Have you forgot me already?  I pray you, spurn me not, dearest!  I cannot bear to think on leaving you behind in dear Olde England, but I know not what to do.  You are such a dear comfort to me in my Issolation and Shame of dragging a 14 pound basil on my ancle.  God give me strength and hope in my dark Bondage!

Every morning at seven o’ clock they row us hapless hands in chains to a partikler bankment below Woolidge.  Our gang works Shifts of ten hours up to our Wastes in mud and water digging up sand and gravel.  My pins have swelled something dreadful.  What’s more, my grey jackit and canvass trowsers slop so.  Gards watch over us like hawks, making show with their Cutlasses like Whips.  They beat us too with a cane if we swear at ‘em.  For vittles, we get burgoo, a mess of porridge.  Meat we get given on three days, or surpost to, but tis a Pitance, hard tack.  We poor soules sleep huddeled close in twos on straw Matresses that are always damp and smell of Viniger and Plague and crawling with Crab-louses.  The old Bladder in the next Hammok is awfull sly, like Old Nick Himself, and quick to take a poke at you and calls me Johny Raw.  All ‘us is afeared of infexious Distempers in these worm-rotten, old hulks what stink like hell.

Now harkee very carefull.  In our straits of Misery and Want, you must go on the Parish.  For our behoof, throw yourself on our Friends to see us righted.  I dont wish for you and our dear little ones to make a Miserable End.  Be tender of your reputation, lest it go for nought.

May God be mersful.

Youre loving Husbande until Death,

                          Jem

                                                           

                                    Michael Small               March 20-April 9, 2004