Lional Mendoza--Mrs. Sophia Denyen

The warm wind pushes strands of my greying black hair across my face which I’m obliged to gently put to one side. This is in order to complete my daily task as I sit on the veranda of a simple one-bedroom wooden shack outside the boundaries of Port Jackson. I have reached the age of fifty-two though my tragic circumstances indicate a much older looking woman. When I glance at myself in the mirror, I am immediately aware of my hair. It is much thinner and far greyer than it once was, and my skin is sallow and lacking the elasticity of youth. Official records state I am five foot three inches tall which is keeping with my heritage. Neither of my parents exceeded my height by more than three or four inches. I vaguely recall that I was once bold and outward looking but that was in my youth when, despite difficult economic circumstances, and a lowly paid job I somehow exuded confidence though I know not from where this misplaced positivity came from, perhaps it was one of the few beneficial things I inherited from my father?
Now it’s the year of their, not my, Lord 1844 for I hold no truck with any God nor any so-called religion. Life has proven to my entire satisfaction and beyond any reasonable shadow of doubt, despite an upbringing in a God-fearing family, that no such omnipotent being or thing exists.

As I look up from the assembled manuscript with my untidy, scratchy writings and the occasional ink blot, the sun has retreated behind one of the large Red Cedar with its gnarled roots exposed on the earth’s surface; the locals call it a Toona. My husband, Samuel Denyen, says that’s a shortened version of its proper name, Toona Ciliata or Australian Toona. Unlike me, he knows so much about the natural history and fauna, yet he’s only been in this country the same amount of time as myself. Perhaps it is now propitious for me to disclose that my first seven years were confined to the prison colony of Van Diemen’s Land just across the water to the mainland of the British colony of New South Wales where my husband and I now reside. My daily task, as suggested by Samuel, who seems to think the matter worthy of recording, is to faithfully show who I am, how I got here and why I’m writing this account.

It’s no easy task for me to undertake such a matter, notwithstanding the fact that I was fortunate enough to have benefited from some education. My late father, of which much more later, was a famously erudite man of both the printed and the spoken word and once, of great fame and fortune stemming from his successful endeavours, endeavours I should add that were considered by many in polite society to be improper and immoral on several levels.

My husband is four years my senior and at least a head taller. His pate is hairless, as required during his time in prison, but doubtless its continuation was caused by the great trauma and distress arising directly from his journey from his place of birth, Manchester in England, to Australia. The unspeakable deprivation on route was far worse than most experienced and the penitentiary regime visited upon the men more severe than that experienced by those of us in the separate women’s prison. Hard labour and exacting punishments meted out to those guilty, even of minor infractions, were, in the eyes of good Christian reformers, inhuman. One-hundred lashes of the whip was not unheard of; the entire prison colony was run on the hard lines of the British navy where discipline was of primary importance. The undoubted role of such a land-based regime was not reformation but solely to break the will of those prisoners’ intent on misdemeanours. In this respect the harsh process surely succeeded as witnessed by the empty shells that purported to be men that drifted aimlessly around; long gone was the brightness in their eyes, instead broken bodies and broken spirts until the day they died. Far better they had learned their lessons early and not attempted to go against the system .

As I glance through that which I have already committed to paper. I see I am accepting, not ashamed of my fleeting role in prostitution. In all sincerity I can blame no one apart from poverty itself as to the reason for such an inappropriate choice of career. I embarked on such work at the age of eighteen or nineteen. However, the reason for my now having to live so far away from my natural homeland, was larceny whilst in domestic service when I was resident in London. The cruel words and subsequent sentence of transportation handed down by the magistrate still ring in my ears, hence my ability to faithfully reproduce his utterances.

But first let me refer, if you please, to earlier times. I was born in Bethnal Green, East London in 1792, into a full and joyful household; I was one of the middle children of nine, given, as my parents would oft state, as a great gift from God to my pious mother Esther and distinguished father Daniel. However, shortly after my tenth birthday our family fortunes were suddenly in jeopardy due to matters which I shall properly ascribe later. And so, my mother and those children still living with her were unceremoniously removed from their once nice comfortable home with servants to do their bidding, to a home bereft of many of its furnishings by those working for my father’s creditors. In truth I was too young to fully understand what was taking place in our once comfortable quarters. I did, however, notice the distress it caused my dearest mother. Her copious tears solicited no note of sympathy from those instructed to remove once cherished chattels with a view to their disposal and any resultant funds returned to those with a legal claim. Yet, during such turbulent times, our pater, the head of the household, was nowhere to be seen, though it was always understood that he was aware of our difficult circumstances and was supposedly using his every endeavour to remedy the situation. Though how precisely he intended to right the great wrongs he bestowed upon us I found difficult to fathom.

The remnants of the family subsequently found itself split up. Initially I was obliged to stay with my mother who managed to find lodgings not far from our earlier abode but in a far less commodious circumstance. I was put to work in domestic service in order to help support the youngest in the family. Compared to some in a similar position, I considered myself to have been fortunate in that I had the benefit of some education which is why it is all the stranger that I conducted myself so ill-advisedly. Tiring of domestic work and the paltry sum placed in the palm of my hand at the end of each working week and not possessing any particular skill or culinary ability I decided after much soul-searching, to place my sole asset on the market and become a prostitute. It was, I believed, the only means of putting food on my table and keeping the landlord of my newly rented lodgings at ease. Over a period of several years, I admit to having been apprehended, not for soliciting but rather, on numerous occasions, for a series of petty crimes and for being drunk and disorderly; the punishments for both were often nothing more than a few weeks in gaol, though, as I was to find out, the punishments could be far more severe.

It was through my work as a part-time prostitute that in 1810 I met up with a Mr Ebenezer Jones and we subsequently lived as man and wife in Stepney, East London. I even adopted his name though it was not the result of a legal marital arrangement. Ebenezer gave the impression of being a successful man about town in that he was well presented and spoke well. He was about thirty-six years old when I was first acquainted. He exhibited light brown wavy hair and sported a fashionable handle-bar moustache. I suppose I ought to have been suspicious from the onset, for he was totally impecunious though he espoused good prospects which, of course, never came to anything. He was never a client of mine though I was aware that he often used some of the ladies with whom I was seen in the company of. Perhaps the attraction, such as it was, was born out of a feeling of underlying loneliness that made me gravitate towards him.

I will not dwell further on the matter of my choice of men or work though I realised from the onset that it was not something I wished to continue in the longer- term. Stupidly, I had no plan to secure training in a more respectable occupation and therefore, for some time, I continued to occasionally sell my body. I admit to gaining no great pleasure nor useful insights as a result of these endeavours which, in truth, were only of a spasmodic nature, namely at times of urgent financial need either mine or Ebenezer’s. Inevitably pregnancy and disease stalked me almost on a daily basis, not that Ebenezer truly cared. Fortunately, I proved to be both resilient and lucky in that I was with child on only three occasions. Shortly after each of their deliveries I arranged for the babies to be adopted once the wet nurse had weaned them. But, in all honesty, I also have to report, lacking any great bonding and receiving no encouragement from Ebenezer, I soon lost touch with them and their whereabouts, consequently, what the future eventually held for the poor little mites.

I truly realise that these comments will not solicit any great degree of sympathy from those choosing to read this account, but my intention is not, given my circumstances, to seek empathy but instead, to provide an honest testimony.

Following the birth of my third child, a boy, I succumbed to an infection from which I was apparently fortunate to survive. The illness did however, give me time to consider what might occur on any future occasion, should I fall ill again and thus, in 1820, aged twenty-eight, I gave up the work with which I was so strongly associated and, much to Ebenezer’s alarm, I once more found a poorly paid role in domestic service, this time as a scullery maid. Much to his annoyance, I took this opportunity to split from Ebenezer thus depriving him of his sole source of income.

My role as a general dogsbody and scullery maid involved scrubbing out kitchen pots My job provided a tiny bedroom of my own as part of my employment which I gladly accepted thus finally cutting all ties with Ebenezer whom I never saw again.

The kindly butler at Pentonville Road, taking pity, trained me to properly serve in the family’s dining room which enabled me to better myself and, as a consequence, I began to enjoy my role in domestic service. Unlike the vast majority of other servants, I could competently read and write and thus I found myself further elevated to become the mistress of the house personal maid. As part of my role, I would take messages from Mrs Ruther to other households and, incidentally, learned my way around the district.

I cannot in truth explain why, but I guess old habits die hard, and from time to time as I waited in another lady’s house for a written reply to my mistresses’ letter, I started to remove small items, later selling them to dishonest pawnbrokers of which there were aplenty. My undoing however, took place whilst on a day off; these were occasionally given to servants by the master of more enlightened households. I took this brief freedom to travel by horse-drawn omnibus to Stepney to visit my mother whom I had not seen for over a year.

I was crossing a small area of grass alongside the High Street when I noticed a little girl fall down in some mud. By the time I had approached, she was crying for her mother, and I determined that I would assist. Fortunately, the child was old enough to be able to identify where she lived and so, holding her small trembling hand, we made our way a short distance to a road with respectable looking houses. There I introduced myself to the lady who opened the front door as the little girl grasped hold of her mother’s apron. The lady was Martha Williams who initially eyed me suspiciously until, through further sobs, my temporary charge explained my role in the mishap. Mrs Williams asked me to tarry as she would like to thank me more fully and disappeared upstairs with her daughter for a quick wash and change of clothes. As I waited, I noticed a fine-looking clock located over the fireplace in the reception hall. I was also aware that time was marching on. If I were to stay much longer, I would run the risk of not being able to see my mother and still return in good time to my employers. I recall that I didn’t exactly feel any sense of entitlement other than to assume that Mrs Williams would wish to reward me in some tangible manner, and this thought somehow turned into my moving into a nearby room and helping myself to a number of items which happened to be lying about. After placing these items in my large carry-bag I bid a hasty retreat. Once outside the house I walked to the corner of the street and took the time to examine that which I had taken. Had I not stopped to examine my ill-gotten gains I might have escaped. As it was, I was speedily apprehended when the lady of the house accompanied by her husband caught up with me as I walked back towards the grass area where I had first met the distressed child.

I was taken by the pair to a constable. The following day I appeared before a magistrate, a man with a bulbous nose and suffused skin giving him a ruddy appearance. When he spoke, it was with an animalistic hiss.

When asked to answer the charge of larceny I stated my case which I had been carefully rehearsing overnight in my cell. On a number of occasions, the beak looked up from scribbling notes in a huge leather-bound ledger in front of which stood a ships decanter of red liquid and a small sherry glass from which he regularly and liberally fortified himself. However, as I continued with my version of events it became more and more apparent from the noisy “Tutt, Tutt” that he was disinclined to accept my contention that Mrs Williams had been very drunk and had given me the articles to sell in order to reward me for my services to her daughter. The verdict was therefore something of a foregone conclusion, the length of sentence, however, came as a shock. I admit to having anticipated a short period in gaol as I had in the past, to some extent this anticipation was fully born out. The magistrate stared over the rim of his heavy metal spectacle frame and wagged a finger in my direction as he scolded me for my behaviour; nor was he impressed by my apparent lack of remorse as indicated by what he described as an entire falsehood intended to deflect blame. After a short period of reflection, he finally looked down at the ledger before him, his quill, having been dipped into an ink well, scratched away mechanically for a minute or so before he looked up again. At which point he wetted his lips by licking them with a somewhat bloated purple tongue and pronounced sentence. “Prisoner at the bar, you are hereby found guilty of simple larceny in that you removed goods to the value of sixteen shillings from the home of and rightful owners without their consent of said goods. You are therefore to be imprisoned for a period of no less than seven years. Further, I determine that you constitute an ongoing risk to all good people at large and therefore under the Act for punishment for rogues of 1597, you shall serve your sentence, in banishment from his Majesty’s realm in the penal colony of Van Diemen’s Land, Australia”. “Gaoler” he continued in his weaselly little voice, a contented look on his pompous face “take her back to the cells”

I was so stunned at being deported that I felt no great emotion inside of me, just a sickness in my stomach of what might lay ahead. I was in my thirty-fourth year and had nothing to look forward to except incarceration for the next seven years. And what of my family and my employer? How could I get word to them of what had befallen me? With great good fortune a kindly prison guard said, on the basis of a small reward from my family, the fame of whom he had knowledge, that he would be willing to get word to all of those whom I felt should know of my wretched circumstances. To this limited extent my mind was put at rest.

Early in September 1828 I was taken from the woman’s section at Middlesex Gaol and thence by jailer’s-cart to the docks at a place called Tilbury. There I, and ninety-nine other unfortunates, were taken aboard the moored ship, The Harmony, and on 9th of that month we set sail for Australia.

If I ever believed that my servitude whilst at Middlesex Gaol was bad and inhumane, I was yet set for a far greater shock. The Harmony hardly looked seaworthy and thus totally incapable of a short journey along the Thames let alone to the other side of the world. And yet this tired hulk was to be our transport for the perilously long journey. All the prisoners were speedily confined to shackled pens set deep in the dank bowels of the craft. There we competed with large rats which would try to steal our meagre rations of stale bread and water supplemented with boiled potatoes on Sundays. Sanitation was almost non-existent as we were unshackled only once a day in order to attend to our ablution. Any additional bodily needs had to be supressed or allowed to foul the floor directly beneath where we sat. The regular influx of seawater through the bilges and the seepage of the oceans through the saturated timbers of the hull ensured a regular swill around our bare feet incorporating a melange of whatever was lying on the floor including faeces, human and rats as well the droppings from the twenty or so horses stabled nearby. At night we were removed, under armed guard, to a rear section of the same level where there were forty or so simple wooden pallets with lumpy straw mattresses over which were strung canvass hammocks. The prisoners agreed amongst themselves to take it in turns to enjoy the relative comfort of the more stable pallets, particularly apparent during the several rough passages we endured at sea. The journey lasted some four months before we eventually stumbled weakly and emaciated onto dry land. It was 14th January 1829.

All the surviving prisoners, twenty-eight having died on route, together with ten of the horses, were lined up outside a wooden palisade from whence a striking man in full military regalia and sporting a white beard stood on a platform to address us. I’d already heard it said that we prisoners were fortunate. Apparently, it had only been a decade earlier that the then governor a certain Major General Lachlan Macquarie, had decided to try and assist prisoners to reform. This involved the prohibition of the previous barbarity of the island’s regime with its hard labour and strict punishments including whippings and starvation. Instead, Macquarie had introduced a level of freedom which could be earned by good behaviour and full compliance with the rules. It was a course I set my mind to. However, the full force of the law was available to be used for any recalcitrant.

Macquarie’s replacement, the man now standing before us, despite apparent resistance back in England, where the majority of politicians strongly opposed reforms, was similarly inclined to educate those in his charge to the ways of sobriety and honest living and he said as much as he expounded upon the King’s Regulations to us prisoners.

Now, I am again gazing out from the shack’s veranda, taking in the light sandy soil, impoverished plants and trees that constitutes our small parcel of land, given to all prisoners upon gaining their legal freedom. The orange glow from the fast-setting sun has begun to dissipate as the last of its rays cast long shadows back towards the shack. From within there is a light, polite voice, it is my recently taken husband, Samuel Denyer calling me to partake of food.

At a somewhat late stage in my life good fortune seemed to have entered my circumstances in that I met a man who respects and loves me. He is my pillar of strength, and I gain great succour from his very presence and his natural wisdom. Since he set me the task of writing an account of my life and the life of my famous pater, he has taken on many extra roles and household chores which has enabled me to be free to undertake research and conduct my writing.

As I recall, it was shortly after my release from Van Damien’s that I met Samuel. I soon learned that he too had been incarcerated, being freed only a few weeks before my own sentence had ended.

Through what I believed to have been the kindness born out of a pure heart, a prison officer, James Bourton, offered to assist me in securing temporary living space and to seek paid work. The property to which he directed me, was multi-tenanted. It was situated close to the harbour and comprised a pleasant three-storey brick and stone building exclusively occupied by former inmates. Its location and reputation, unknown to me at the time of my moving in, was such that sailors would expect to find ladies of an easy disposition willing to offer services in exchange for gift and money. It soon became apparent therefore that my thought-to-be saviour had nefarious plans concerning my future, including a return to the ways which took me away in the first place from my country of birth and my family. But I had no intention of falling into his trap and at night barricaded myself into my little bedroom by shifting all the furniture against the door. There was, I subsequently established, an official government office located not far away whose role was to allocate small parcels of land to former prisoners with a view to them becoming almost self-sufficient. They supplied both the initial seed and simple implements and transported those prisoners able and willing to accept the offer to their new locations. Inevitably there were some amongst the newly released who, despite the lesson of imprisonment, had no intention of making something better of themselves. but I was not so minded. Instead, I took up the offer of a simple life and a small plot of land.

I think it was the second or third day of attending the government office, pending the issue of my certificate of freedom, signed by the governor, that I came across Samuel. He had already left the little house containing former prisoners and had, with the aid of the authorities, started a wood carving business. I later learned that he had already received a commission from a shortly to be consecrated church which wanted ornate carvings for their alter.

Samuel had sauntered into the small government office where I was waiting to be interviewed and sat down next to me. He introduced himself as Mr Denyen a recently released prisoner seeking a small loan from the official sources in order to purchase additional chisels and flint blocks which, he advised, were used to sharpen his tools. Not the most captivating of conversations but there was something open and honest about the man which immediately attracted me to him. I told him my name and why I had ended up at Van Diemen’s and things simply went from there. We agreed to meet up on a couple of occasions, and I slowly realised that when we were not together, I somehow missed his warm smile and companionship. I readily admit that there was no great passion between us, but a more durable mutual respect and friendship manifested itself to our mutual satisfaction. We lived in the wooden building that he largely constructed with materials supplied by the official body responsible for the welfare of former prisoners. The land, originally allocated to me, was deeded to us both on the understanding that we tended it to an agreed standard. Samuel would go off every morning at around six o’clock and undertake his tasks as a wood worker returning by around seven in the evening. I, on the other hand, until he set me the task of writing the journal, would clear the plot of stones and weeds, break up the large clods of solidly baked soil, sow the seeds, mostly maize, draw water from the well irrigate and keep the house free from the ever-present dust blown in from the dry land. Sunday’s, however, were a day of rest and freedom for us both, this then was our routine.

The food he prepared nightly was simple fayre but for all that, it is wholesome and tasty and, after a long and arduous day either on the land or in more recent times stuck at my writing, I was truly grateful for the results of his endeavours. He smiled warmly as I entered our basic main room with its bare floorboards and exposed panels of wood that made up the walls and ceiling. I sat at the small table towards which he had beckoned. It was his custom to say a brief prayer of gratitude for the food we were about to consume.

This simple act of godliness often brought back memories of when I was very young. My father would cover his head with the familiar skull cap, the Yarmulka, whilst my mother would draw her shawl over her hair and bow her head as papa would intone the Jewish prayers of thanks for the bountiful supplies that the Almighty one has graced us with. My brothers and sisters would then be reminded by papa that this single act of Jewish prayer was sufficient, during the days of the Inquisition, to lead to the death by burning at the stake of several members of his then orthodox family. But such meaningful memories of my childhood with my parents and my many siblings gathered around the large dining room table laden with sabbath food and wine quickly faded as if it were the morning mist evaporating under the heat of the rising sun.

Wearily I put down my quill, I will take it up afresh on the following morning. I recognise that here is a need yet, to give proper context, sequence and order to my account of events. However, in doing so it will require me to refer to some matters that occurred long before I was born, thus any inconsistencies necessarily reflect either my poor memory of matters passed onto me by others or inaccuracies at the time of their telling. Furthermore, the sequences I have chosen, in setting out my story, do not always precisely follow historic dates. This is because the better part of what I am about to recount properly belongs to the life, times and illustrious career of my father. This in turn has necessitated a certain amount of flexibility as I separate and reorientate some events. That I have been able to embark on such a course is entirely due to the fact, somewhat mysteriously, that a large metal box had been delivered to the prison shortly after my release together with a letter imploring the authorities to bring to my attention its arrival.

Safe custody of the box was most fortuitous, not only to have survived the lengthy journey but to have found me still alive. In short, the material within the box comprised great insights enabling me to undertake the task to which most of my time in recent months has been devoted. Nevertheless, if any discrepancies, as minor as I hope they might be, are seen, so as to sow confusion, I apologise. Be aware however, that very little licence has been allowed to creep in. What you will shortly read, mostly, really did occur and the vast majority of characters are also real.

In order to add authenticity and to preserve for posterity what I perceive to be potentially important documents I have added, directly and unaltered, copies of all the correspondence which appeared in the national newspapers between my father and his greatest opponent, Richard Humphreys. These appear at the termination of my writings.

Finally, I have determined that the metal box and its contents, having served their purpose of enlightenment, should be returned to the sender. The fact that I cannot claim any knowledge of whom that party might be shall not deter me from the task. My husband is a resourceful man well able to assist me in such a matter. I can only hope that the box and its contents will, one day, materialise as indeed they did here, though I cannot say how, where and when.

Mrs Sophia Denyen
Port Jackson\New South Wales
Australia
September 1844

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AUTHORS NOTE:
Sophia is the genuine Christian name of the daughter of the famous 18th C pugilist Daniel Mendoza, a blood relation of the author. I have recently completed a 60,000 novella on Daniel Mendoza as seen through the eyes of his daughter. This submission comprises the lengthy forward (5000 words) to the larger work and is intended to also act as a standalone article. There are already several books on the life of Daniel Mendoza, recognised as the instigator of the modern art of boxing, but this is a personal, though imagined, account told via his daughter. Her married surname, Denyen (as in Sophia Denyen), is however, made up.

*****

Lionel Mendoza was born in London towards the end of the second world war. After a lengthy career as an appraiser of commercial real estate, he moved with his wife, Lynda, to the bucolic county of Somerset, in the South of the UK, famous for its cheeses and cider where he enjoys his small but productive garden, playing green bowls and cruising the great rivers of Europe as well as the high seas. He took up writing as a hobby after enrolling in the Open University course on ‘Writing for Pleasure’ He is, thus far, unpublished but ever hopeful.