English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  Such a situation, I may assure you, shall not be permitted to occur. Prompt action is needed and prompt action has been taken. I met last week with my most senior officers of government, including the colonial secretary and the chief police magistrate, and we were all agreed that, sad though it may be, the two races dwelling upon this island are now wholly beyond reconciliation. I considered the only possible means to end the conflict between them is to divide the colony into two entirely separate realms. This important decision is already being put into effect. A full and detailed proclamation has been drafted, announcing that henceforth the aborigines must leave the settled districts, and are to dwell only in the areas of the west, and also the northeast of the island. It is, I feel, a more than fair arrangement. These two areas together form nearly one half the total land of the island, and while it is true that they are comprised largely of wild, mountainous country, which yields less in the way of sustenance than the rest, the natives appear now so greatly reduced in their numbers that I have no doubt it will prove amply sufficient for their needs. These districts have suffered few, if any, incursions by white men, being for the most part still unexplored, thus ensuring that the blacks will be able to remain there safe and undisturbed. In this way their continued survival as a race—which is, as I have already remarked, of such great concern to myself—will be assured.

  I am glad to report that even in a few short days this policy has shown some success. The rising passions of the settlers seem already blunted, and the reputation of the island’s government, and my own self, has been considerably restored. There are still difficulties to be overcome, I will not deny. It will not be easy to alert the aborigines of the new arrangement, though here too I am doing all that is in my power to be done. Copies of the proclamation are being printed in great numbers, lengthy though the document is, and these will be distributed all about island, so they may be nailed to gum trees on the peripheries of the settled districts. There are one or two natives who were captured at a tender age in the past, and were taught their letters to some extent, though they later escaped, and it is to be hoped that these may explain the document to their fellows. Attempts will be made to apprehend others, who will be instructed as to the island’s division and then released into the forests to spread their news. If some among the blacks continue to insist on remaining in the areas reserved for the whites, and on launching their attacks, no option will remain but to impose martial law and have these sought out until they desist.

  The arrangement will doubtless take some little time to become established and yet I hope and believe that it will prove a most important and useful step towards establishing peace on this colony. It is a radical change, and I remain most optimistic that it will, in time, provide an enduring means for the protection and preservation of the unfortunate blacks, quite as you have, sir, so eloquently urged.

  Peevay 1829

  WEATHER STAYED WOEFUL, all strong wind and noisy rain, so we never met any white men to kill us as we went looking for war. Thus we went hither and thither, day after day, hunting and walking, till my feet were sore and even dog animals got tired. By and by we were gone right through Roingins’ world and into Tommeginers’, though this was just empty now, as Tommeginer were all with us or killed.

  Then one morning we walked out from mountains, and parrot and cockatoo were calling, wombat dirt was there on that track, telling us we were near good land. Just after we found one puzzle to confound. Stuck on wattle tree was a tiny spear made from shining stuff like Mother’s gun, very beautiful, and hanging from it was some strangest thing. This was like some dried skin, but thin and easy to tear like leaf and when wind came it moved, like dead bird’s wing. Black lines were on it, like pictures of nothing, plenty of them, so they covered that whole thing.

  ‘‘That’s just some white men’s shit,’’ said Mother, as if we were foolish fellows to be so curious. We all wanted to burn this new thing but Mother said no. ‘‘It means white men are near. If we make fire, then they’ll know we’re coming.’’

  Nobody answered her. Nobody ever did. We were Mother’s mob now, and Mother knew more about white men than anyone. Also she was scaring. She was right about them being close, yes. We went on, going carefully, trying to make dog animals be quiet—which was hard as they always were too wayward—and soon we found another white man’s shit thing just the same, this time stuck on eucalyptus. Next there were trees cut down, and on the path were num footmarks with no toes. After this was a clearing, very large, with a wall all made from wood, and strange animals stuck inside, that Mother said were white men’s animals whose name was SHEEP. I never saw these before, no, and they were interesting. They were fat and also stupid, running all together hither and thither, with short legs so they couldn’t jump or climb trees or burrow, and I did observe that white man made them white just like himself We wanted to spear them, as this would be easy as pissing on a stone we did surmise, but again Mother said no, we must go carefully. Then, just afterwards, walking quietly through trees, we saw that white men’s hut.

  This was more interesting even than the animals. It was made from tree bark, I did observe, and it had a special hole in the roof that pulled smoke out like some rope as if there was some magic thing. Of course now I know all these whitefellows’ tricks and they’re only ordinary. That hole was just a CHIMNEY. Likewise the white men’s thing stuck on wattle tree was only PAPER, and its pictures of nothing were WRITING, which I can do myself, as any one will tell. But when you don’t know suchlike they are a curiosity. White men like to think you’re stupid when you don’t know some new thing he has, but in fact that’s just his foolishness. He doesn’t want to know that our ones can learn his cleverness quick as he can, because deep down inside his breast white man WANTS our ones to be stupid.

  I was still watching the smoke and wondering how it went when all of a sudden one very fat white man came out of the hut, walked over to a pile of wood and had his pissing. ‘‘I saw that one before,’’ said one Tommeginer, whose name was Lacklay, whispering so excited. ‘‘He killed my sister.’’

  Truth was Mother would do for those scuts whoever they were, but Lacklay’s talk was useful, as it meant we could be angrier, which is important in fighting. So we got ready. I was quite fearful, I do recollect, as this was my first war with white men, while I was still just short then, and too small to do any dangerous wounding. Still I did want to be some great hero, and show Mother how I was brave and better than that Tayaleah, with his weakly thin legs. So I made myself brave.

  Soon fat white scut went back into his hut and we went to the edge of the trees. Truly, that war was too easy. Mother and Lacklay went carefully, getting behind hut without making any sound, and then they put their fire sticks to the bark till it was burning. Then we all waited. Fire was quick, yes, and soon it was loud like branches snapping, and smoke was blown in wind like some crazy thing. White men knew what was happening of course. They did not run out but looked round the door, two of them. Fat one fired his gun once, but without killing anybody, so we just stood and watched while Mother called out in their own words to confound them.

  ‘‘Come out, you fuckers, so we can kill you.’’ And so.

  This talk did scare them, yes, and so did Mother’s gun, which she pointed at them by and by, so they stayed in their hut till fire was too hot and their faces got black, when suddenly they just ran out without caring, fat one trying to hit us with his gun like it was a waddy stick. Mother fired her gun now, and Lacklay fired the other, which Mother gave him, and though they missed, it never mattered, as we threw spears, and though my one didn’t hit, others did, and soon those pissers were falling and getting finished with waddy sticks.

  So it was done. Heinous thing was that Mother never did give me her praising like she should. No, she just told how brave Tayaleah was, though he did nothing but hide in the trees and watch. That was a hardship to endure. Mostly, though, that war was great good fortune. White scuts were killed just so, with non
e of us dead, and we even had the fat one’s gun now, though its wooden end was broken. Yes, we had tidings of joy as we walked away from that burnt hut. Mother let us spear white men’s animals now, which was too easy, just like we thought, and soon we reached forest once again, where we went quickly, sometimes singing, sometimes firing some piece of bush to see if game ran out, till we got two wallabies. Yes, we were joyous heroes that day.

  When it was getting dark we stopped by some stream, made a big fire to cook wallabies and ate meat till we were full. Afterwards we danced a dance that we called White Men’s Dance, which was our new invention, first dance just of Mother’s tribe. At the start we danced fat one going out for his pissing and never knowing we were near. Then we danced us, going carefully, and Mother and Lacklay firing their hut. Finally we danced white scuts looking out, so scared, and then running hither and thither and getting speared dead. That was a fine dance and we played it many times. After, when it was late and we all were tired, we slept.

  Now, in these long-after days, when that time feels too far away, like some dream story that never was, I do believe I heard them coming. Probably I heard something, yes, as I was already awake and curious even before it started. Perhaps it was some small noise, like a twig breaking or dog animal growling. Anyway it was good, as it made me readier. Probably that tiny noise let me live all these years.

  Sound that came next made me deaf as if my head was in water. I knew that sound now, of course, as I heard Mother’s, and the fat white man’s too. Next, just for one tiny moment, all was quiet, and I hoped it was not any heinous thing after all, but just some foolishness with our guns. But then others fired, plenty of them, and there was screaming and dog animals were yelping. That was heinous. Our fire was gone weak but still I could observe that Lacklay was shot, very bad, and others too.

  White men were coming, walking slow from the dark, in one big circle all around, watching so carefully, some putting another bullet in the end of their guns, others holding sticks and killing knives.

  I do believe if they shot Mother soonest then probably we would all be dead. Yes, if there was one grievous error they made, this was it. Probably they fired at men first, thinking these were most dangerous, which was some great foolishness. I was near Mother and now I saw her looking at one place in that circle of white men, where it got stretched, and there was just one scut, very big. So she lifted her gun and shot, and all of a sudden he was gone and there was a fine hole. I do recall how everything went slow after that, almost as if it was never happening at all, and never would, but somehow my legs did move by and by, which was great good fortune, and so I started, not standing but just scampering, hands like feet, past nearly dead Lacklay, past another, then into trees. I could hear some coming after but I never paid heed, running like wind, never minding if I hit some tree or scratching leaves, just going fast as I ever could go. Being so small did help, yes, as I could go beneath. On I went, and on again, till finally I must stop, from tiredness, and when I listened all I could hear was my own breathing, so quick and fearing. Then I hid in that same place by and by, crawling into some bush, just keeping still and being alive.

  Noises in the forest were a puzzle to confound. Sometimes twigs broke or leaves scraped and it was hard to tell if these were my ones, white scuts, or just some wallaby going hither and thither. Finally sky began to get lighter and when I looked all about I saw no foes. So by and by I left my hiding place and went on, going so carefully. Soon I saw footmarks with toes, so I knew they were ours. That was great good fortune. Quietly, quietly I followed, careful like some hunter, till I reached our fire and sleeping place of that night before. Truly, that already seemed like some long-ago time.

  Fire was finished now, except for tiny smoke and ashes smell that makes you sneeze. There was another smell, besides, too hateful. Yes, my ones were there, some wailing, some just standing and looking. So I saw we were less than half Mother’s mob of yesterday, which was woeful. Round the fire were dead ones, plenty of them, shot or heads smashed, or cut with killing knives. Worst, though, was the fire, where babies were, thrown and burnt. For some while I just watched and pondered this place.

  But you must know this truth, which is a heinous thing. Those feelings deep inside my breast were not only lamenting, you see. No, even now there was one small part that was tidings of joy. Perhaps you think that is impossible, and that I must be some vile fellow, hateful to behold. Perhaps I am. But please, I urge, do know me. What made me so, you see, was Mother. There she was, looking and searching in that fire dirt and going in the trees, calling again and again, one word, always the same, like some animal that’s got caught in a clever trap and cannot get free.

  ‘‘Tayaleah. Tayaleah.’’

  The little shit was vanished, you see, nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Captain Illiam Quülian Kewley JULY 1857

  I DARE SAY there was bound to be some fussing from the boys when they learned that they weren’t on their way back to Man Island after all, but were now bound for furthest Australia. The ones that had scolds for wives—these being, fortunately, a good portion—weren’t so bad, but the rest got themselves into a proper huff wailing and threatening in Manx, till I had to tell the Englishmen that they were wanting more pay. Why, I even worried they might curdle completely, and that I’d find myself set adrift in a boat, the Captain Bligh of Peel City. There’s nothing like a fear of gaols, though, to bring a man around. After a day had passed they grew quieter, and before long they were just in sulks, which was their natural, everyday state.

  Three days’ sailing and we were off the Isle of Wight, with no sight of our good friend Captain Clarke of Her Majesty’s coast guard cutter Dolphin, nor any oceangoing bloodhounds sniffing for Maldon furniture. The wind was blowing nicely and at this rate it wouldn’t be long before we were past the Scillies and safely out of range of Englishness, excepting, that was, the Englishness we had aboard. Curious it was to walk on the quarterdeck, knowing it would soon be lurching about under some strange tropical skies, the like of which none of us had seen, nor much wanted to neither. My worry was Ealisad. Hadn’t I promised I’d be back within the month, with jink enough to spoil her better than Queen Victoria? It’d be weeks before I could so much as send a letter and tell her I’d be the odd year late. I’d not be easily forgiven for that. Not that there was much to be done about it, mind, so I tried not to think on it, keeping myself busy with the ship. There was enough to do, besides, as I needed to be sure we really were ready to go playing Captain Cook. Fortunately the Sincerity was in a good state, having been nearly murdered to death with repairs in Peel, so she had new yards and canvas, and spares enough for a hurricane or two. Why, for that matter she even had a spare hull to help her float. Thanks to our fussing vicar we had fresh water and eatables to last, and proper documents, too. It was only when we were well out to sea, in fact, and I started wondering about laying down a course for the rest of the voyage, that I remembered the one little item that we were lacking.

  Charts.

  I blamed the Reverend. The silly scriss had fussed us all across London buying every kind of store, so why hadn’t he thought to moan me into a mapmaker’s shop and finished the job? It was pure neglectfulness. Trouble it meant, no denying. A ship’s captain needs charts like a lawyer needs sin, as to go sailing about the globe without is dropping right back to Chris Columbus himself who mistook America for India. Even the chief mate, Brew, who was smooth enough to smile his way through his own funeral, fretted at that one.

  ‘‘We’ll just have to put in somewhere,’’ he said, all frowns. ‘‘Portsmouth isn’t far.’’

  It was never so easy, though. Portsmouth was customs men, and would also be a stroll around the town for our three passengers, which meant newspapers for them to stare at.

  ‘‘Let’s put a sight on the chart locker,’’ I told him. ‘‘You never know, we might be lucky.’’

  I’d never given any serious study to this spot be
fore, just piling my own charts of the Irish Sea, English Channel and such on top of what was left there, and now I took a more careful look I found it was a proper mess, looking as if it hadn’t been cleared out for half a dozen captains. First was a thick layer of pencil drawings, all of the same ill-tempered-looking cat, which I guessed was the leavings of a heavy dose of sea boredom. Next was worse, being a pile of rhyming verse, all concerned with passionate Spaniards named Alphonse and Esmeralda, who were forever stabbing at one another and dancing in the moonlight. After that were pages of scribbled figures, together with a long, crabby document blaming pennies lost on some long-forgotten chief mate. Finally, under this, I found a few charts.

  One of these caught my eye straight off, being nothing other than a handy little portrait of the Cape Colony, where we now hoped to find ourselves in a couple of months, and might even sell a few certain casks of something to whatever Africans were loafing about there. The map was hardly recent, still marking the place as Dutch—which Brew said took us back to Napoleon himself—nor was it especially pretty, looking as if its owner had used it as a plate for his dinner once or twice, but for all that a chart was a chart.

  We were less lucky with the West Indies, which was a mighty shame seeing as they were our first halt. We had to go across the Atlantic to catch the breezes southwards to the Cape, and it was part of our agreement with the Englishmen—an agreement which I’d hardly troubled myself with at the time, seeing as I thought we were only going to Essex— that we were to call in at Jamaica. All that I could discover that even pictured the island was a map of the whole world, and this was a Merca-tor besides, which meant Norway was as long as my hand while whole of the Caribbean hardly covered two penny pieces.