Exile

1 I beseeched the winds to hasten theElizabeth Thompson. But her white sails didn't rise from the haze of Bass Strait, and I feared I might perish. Of traffic in that narrows there was a plenty, and time and again I built a signal fire, only to watch the cloud of canvas slide past and sink over the horizon along with my heart. With each passage, and every hour, my peril increased. I was a wanted man, yea, a celebrated and wanted man, and I knew that Governor Denison would stop at nothing to thwart my escape. Behind me, Van Diemen's Land crawled with the Queen's constables and spies, all determined to catch O'Meagher and put him in the lockup for life. But the merchant vessel didn't rise. And all through those fierce summer days of January, in the third year of my exile, I sweated and roasted, thirsted and hungered on that barren strand. I saw vessels bloom out of the haze when there were none, spotted sails that proved to be only a shimmer of light, scoured the empty seas with sun-blasted eyes, and all the while looked over my shoulder, fearful of the royal constables rowing out to Waterhouse Island. It was a botched job. Something had gone wrong. I'd either die or spend my life in chains at Port Arthur, regretting my rashness. I didn't think much about Catherine, and sometimes wondered why not. I should have pined for her, but I didn't, and I had no trouble consoling myself about our separation. She was safe, and would join me in the American Republic by and by, along with our child who would soon come into this world. I was not running from her, and a curse upon any man who said I was! I comforted myself by remembering my larger purpose, which was to lift the chains of oppression from Ireland. I was not escaping for my own sake, but for Ireland's. The Barrett brothers, true friends of Ireland, had sailed me to this place in their rude boat. They fished the strait and knew every cove. They brought food enough for two days, and from the ruins of wrecked ships and rotted sails we built a hut and feasted on smoked herring, cheese, and ship biscuit until time ran out, and they had to return lest their absence awaken suspicions. We had spotted vessels rising over the main, built smoky signal fires, danced and flagged and waved on the beach, but no bark had paused, and each ship posed the chance of betrayal. We were seen and ignored. Then I was alone, with little enough to eat, no way to escape, and the clock of fate was ticking. What was left? Gnawing doubt, miserable meals of boiled beach crabs and shellfish, and lurking regrets which I manfully banished from my mind. So many had helped me. I was oath-bound not to escape unless I revoked my parole, my promise to the penal authorities not to attempt to escape, but that did not prevent me from laying plans, or recruiting the assistance I needed. I was honor-bound not to escape, but I had never given my oath that I would make no plans. I am sure some will accuse me otherwise. I am a man of honor and I will personally flog the man who says I am not. But it was a fine line, the one that separates planning from doing, and I pride myself that I drew it carefully, and adhered to that code of conduct that befalls all civilized men. The means by which I arrived on this desolate beach were impeccable, and I suffer no shame for it. I will escape this accursed prison island, this desolating countryside that harbors the human sewage of England and Ireland, transported here for decades and prevented from leaving by their conditional parolesand the forbidding sea. They sent me here in eighteen and forty-nine, after first sentencing me to death by hanging, drawing and quartering, for rising against Queen Victoria. They caught almost all of Young Ireland, we who had fomented revolution, and tried us, and the packed juries fouWheeler, Richard S. is the author of 'Exile ', published 2005 under ISBN 9780812576115 and ISBN 081257611X.