I sorely miss the glow of peat in winter’s hearth
And Fowey river burbling down Brown Willey Tor.
‘Tis said men drown in Trewartha’s slate-grey bogs,
While beady buzzards ride thick banks of fog
And Old Nick’s shadow claws the granite moors.
Me? Ran a smack off Cornish crags,
Oft tasted salt of fiery flaghs.
Pilchards, mack’rel, salting down.
The smuggling game was trading fair,
Not fishing clys but on the square.
We led the dance for excise men.
‘Twas steaming hot but raining heavens hard.
We were togged in filthy rags, the hold a stinking fright.
Can you wonder some on us groped through bilge and bulkheads,
Seeking comfort from a tar or marine you were dead
On? Charlotte
Where wreckers lurked, false lanthorns lured.
A ship’d drive through fog injured.
Its masts and spars did splinter rocks.
They’d stone men dead or watch ‘em drown,
Run kegs o’ brandy, baccy and wine.
Those excise dogs jumped weather-cocks.
Does the bell-buoy still toll a-mourning?
The drowning moans of dead men’s ghosts do sough o’er our moors.
A dead take-in.
No matter. The game’s not worth the candle, but you know tin.
I have an aching tooth for the cry of curlew ‘bove the tors.
I’m sent across the Herring Pond
At King’s expense. Our chains our bond.
Aye, Mary Broad, you’re a game ‘un,
A trusty trout. Become my splice
At Mister Johnson’s beach service.
Mind, on the chance, I’ll bolt the moon.
Nay, tarry, Will Bryant. I am with child.
This babe be yourn, I have no doubt.
Starvation brings a woman to heel.
Same as bitter cold. Wherefore I copped a cardinal
And was for pity’s sake transported out.
We durst not let a whiting leap.
First fisher, first oars with Phillip,
I stock the stores with fish each day,
Cut o’ the catch sell on the sly.
The Gov’nor kegged, he cast the die:
One hundred strokes the flogger’d flay.
Oh how my head is full of bees.
Port Jackson
Ready am I to leap nine hedges and loop.
Our intended must be to sneak a sloop.
What odds?
I took my flogging like a stone.
The scourgers never heard me groan.
A bunch of razors slice your back,
One hundred licks to flick the flesh
To bare the bone. Oh bloody mess!
For rank be justice ‘pon the rack.
M’dear, I’ll poultice your poor bruised back.
Lie still and list. Lay up your revenge in lavender.
No longer can we bide east side o’ Tank Stream.
Wear not your shame.
How many jaundy jacks can you muster?
Stout James Martin steers by stars
And Samuel Bird’s no turnpike tar.
Seven to crew, Squeaker, Charlotte
An’ us. I begged Dutch Captain Smit
To part with charts, some grub, muskets
For Phillip’s refit one-mast cutter!
‘Hold your cacks, lads!’ Will whispered from the bow.
In hugger-mugger the rowers dabbed all six oars.
Proper frit, all of a tremble, we durst not breathe,
Stole out into the harbour, past Pinchgut isle, then ‘neath
The swoddy watchie on South ‘ed, who must’ve saw.
Ho, deaf as Derrick! Nor’ward, mates!
The belly thinks the throat is cut;
A monkey’s rations, but look here:
A sight o’ fish, soft hearts o’ palms,
The open ocean is becalmed.
Merry mizzlers, what belly-cheer!
Breakers heaving high as tors flung us like chaff in wuthering wind.
Poor Charlotte and me, we was womble-stomached
And the cold laid hold of all on us, Emmanuel
Shivering like a calf’s foot with ague.
Nigh gone aloft, we were cabobbled and baked.
Timbers chewed oakum. Set to take
Our farewell drink, distressed for peck,
We thin-guts drowned as shotten herring.
Gales howled to blow the devil’s horns,
Yet fetched us up on reefs forlorn.
Turtle frolic fed faint daring.
Not chums to be choked off cheap,
We creeped nor’ward,
Pulling ashore for pannikins of water
And sealing seams with soap and turtle fat.
Force put to push forward.
Around Cape York , blackeys attacked,
Hurled spears, wagged clubs, as we fired cracks.
Mad cannibals like fat porkers
Chased and yelled in muslined canoes.
Amercy, no life did we lose.
At last, Timor ! Moored, rotten corks.
Face and brace, Will! The Dutch Gov’nor approaches.
Spin a yarn about the Goodwins on your winch.
This good fellow will give us clean duds, a ken, plenty o’ feeds.
Praise God, my darling childer freed!
Make a show of upright dealing an’ we’ll not be pinched.
I grease the gills, steer clear of clink,
Like flat-fish lie, dress and drink
Up to the nines. The Gov’nor so green.
Lawk, how we’ve thrown him o’er the bridge!
Nay, he won’t split, but I’m in fidge.
Will the English jack ne’er be seen?
I’m heartily sick of eating skylarks in a garret.
I long to be away. Home is such a muzzy, mizzled memory.
The Gov’nor is ‘stonished by stories of Bligh’s voyage.
My husband ‘gins to stir the coals and brag,
Drops down on himself, sore as a boil and poorly.
Accursed I am! I’ve blown the gaff!
Boned in quod, my palls all chafe.
The Gov’nor quizzed, yet still upbraids.
How can it be, a lag as I
Can equal feats of William Bligh?
A scaly fish draws hitherward.
Will, I fear the jig is up.
We cooked up a storm that will ne’er abate.
This windy bear is Captain Edwards of HMS Pandora.
The Bounty hunter.
All hopes dashed. Alack, there’s no queering fate.
This fake won’t friz. Awake to water-sneaks,
I’ve wracked on reef in treach’rous seas off Guinea
And slanged yon Bounty rats from Otaheite.
Your story’s cock-and-bull and full of leaks.
I heard the bird sing. The bolting Bryants you be!
This fake won’t frizz. I wake to water-sneaks.
Irons! Must bring this trick to light and quick
To London Town
Choke whiles launching into Eternity.
This fake won’t frizz. I’m fly to water-sneaks.
Michael Small November 6, 2005-January 2, 2006
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