English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  As to the boy’s studies, here again I found myself surprised, as he has applied himself well and progressed at a good pace. You will find he now speaks English with fluency, although he has difficulty still with prepositions and some of the past tenses. Likewise he writes a clear and neat hand, though his spelling still needs further practice. Altogether his memory is good and he has got off his Psalms very well.

  My greatest delight, however, has concerned his Arithmetic. While in other subjects he is able rather than remarkable, here he has shown no small aptitude. He learned his multiplication tables with greater ease almost than his alphabet, which is most unusual, and has progressed so quickly with long multiplication and division that I have started him upon geometry. He seems to find a pure and simple enchantment in numbers, quite as if they are toys for his amusement. More than a few times I have found him writing out sums in his own time, almost with a secrecy, as if this were his personal pleasure. My surprise at his skills has been all the greater as it was in this subject, more than any, that it might have been expected he would find difficulty.

  If I have written at some length about George’s talent for Arithmetic this is not without purpose. The fact is that it is my wish that I may impress upon you the value of continuing him in his studies. I hope you will not find it impertinent, but I cannot help but wonder if you might reconsider your intention, as reported to me by Mr. Grigson, of having him work in some simple capacity upon your farm. My fear is that in associating with persons far less educated than himself, he will come to forget his own learning. In view of the great progress he has made this would be no small waste. With encouragement and further instruction I do believe George could be well suited to some official post, perhaps in the service of the colonial government. Employment in an office would likewise be more favourable to his health, as I have observed his constitution is far from strong. I have provided him with all his writing and ciphering books so his present state of knowledge may be clearly shown, and it occurs to me that these might be of no little interest to the island’s governor.

  It is left to me only to hope that you may find time to send us a letter now and then, that we may hear of the little fellow’s progress. I fear Mrs. Cleghorn will give Mother and myself no peace if she is not provided with news of ‘‘my George,’’ as she refers to him. Likewise should you discover any further such unfortunates who would benefit from a course of lessons here I would, naturally, be most pleased to offer my own services for their instruction.

  Jack Harp 1830–37

  EIGHTEEN OF US there were sat in that stinking ship’s hold, listening to the roar of chain as the anchor was let go, which meant we had surely arrived somewhere. It was sweet enough to step on the deck and feel the breeze, as it had been close as death down below. We were stopped in a narrow bay, I saw, the shore just wild trees and not a sign of men. This was hardly a surprise, mind, as we were the lucky bleeders supposed to get this new misery town started. It was sheltered by hills and had a little yellow beach, and I thought it a pretty enough spot in its way, this Port Arthur, as it was to be called. I’d have time to think on that prettiness again, of course, as it turned out.

  Within a couple of days we’d built huts and a storehouse, and we had ourselves a fine little gaol village. After that we started work, which was cutting down the giant trees and sawing them into pieces, or hauling them through the harbour—which was cold as winter—and soon there were other buggers arriving to share our delight. I’d never been snared in a penal colony before, but I’d heard talk of what went on at Macquarie Harbour—stories that would scare the devil himself—and I wasn’t one to go waiting for it to happen to me. I reckoned the best way to stop trouble was to make it, and so I set about getting myself a name, which meant giving out hard looks and cracking any head that gave one back. I had to be careful of the guards, as to be seen was to catch a lashing, but it could be done in the quiet of the forest sometimes, or in the huts at night, and though I got caught and lashed once or twice I thought it was worth paying that price. I was careful never to forget any lip I was given, so my name was kept right, and I’d settle any bother in the end, even if it was weeks later. That served me well enough, too, at least through the first year or so, till the Macquarie Harbour boys blew in.

  It was the whole lot of them we got, as Macquarie Harbour was being closed down for good. I suppose some office scribbler reckoned our Port Arthur could be made even worse. Proper hard cases they were, those buggers, with killing in their every glance, being the kind that would as soon get themselves hanged than stomach a sneer or slight, and from the moment they arrived in the settlement—which was quite a little town of huts and saw pits by then—they were out to govern the place as if it was their own toy. They did too, fairly much, the commander and his creepers of soldiers running as scared of them as everyone else, so they hardly troubled if some poor bastard got beaten half to death or worse. I did what I could. I tried keeping out of their way, and I tried looking crazed too, and not a man to trouble, but it made no difference as they had me marked down as someone to cut down to size. All in all I don’t rightly care to recall what went on in those times.

  The one good thing about those Macquarie boys was that they got us some fishing. After a while the store ran short, so our rations were cut, and they took themselves into a right temper at this, threatening all manner of joy if they weren’t given more to eat, till the commander ran scared and told us we must feed ourselves. Work hours were cut and we were told to catch some fishing and start growing vegetables. That was sweet, too, as nothing felt so bad when you were sat by the water with a line, or digging in seed potatoes. I wasn’t the only bugger to find it so, neither, and even those Macquarie boys got slowed down nicely. Why, it got so that the commander had to let his soldiers go fishing as well, as they were getting jealous of their own prisoners.

  All good things must come to an end, so it’s said, and with Port Arthur the good things stopped with a little Christmas gift we got, this being a visit by George Alder himself, governor of Van Diemen’s Land. I’d heard a good deal about this fellow from the others, as he was often the subject of nighttime chattering in the penitentiary huts, when coves thought up all kinds of violent mishaps a great man like that should take care to avoid. There he was, stepping from his rowboat, a little troop of guards and creepers nursing him along. A bloodless face he had, almost as if he was crook, and eyes with no laugh in them, that made me think of purity vicars, or snakes studying at mice. He didn’t look much pleased with what he saw as he snooped about, but kept grim as Sunday, scowling almost as if we’d let him down.

  After that little visit changes came thick and fast. We got a new commander, who was one of those military Irishmen that cackle at can-nonballs, and it was him that put a stop to our fishing and gardens. Our plants were all taken up and put together in one big field, which meant they weren’t ours anymore and only a few lucky crawlers got to work on them. Then there were the new uniforms, all different according to how improved we were. Any coves that were thought on their path to salvation wore grey, while the rest of us that weren’t were in cheery yellow. As for any poor bleeders who’d somehow managed to get worse, these were different again, having yellow suits with a prettiest pattern drawn across them, all made out of the word ‘‘felon,’’ as well as a handsome pair of leg shackles to show off.

  Another change was that tobacco was outlawed. In truth this caused more trouble than all the rest, as it drove the Macquarie boys half to madness, so they were always looking out for someone to punish. If you fought back—which I did—this was frowned on by the commander and his redcoats as showing you still unimproved, and so I stayed in canary clothes all the while. That was trouble, as time was passing and I was getting mighty weary of chopping at trees, feeling a lash on my back and staring always at that little yellow beach. Besides, I was getting no younger, and my fear was that if I got stuck here another four years I’d not be able to fight my corner, and would be jus
t dead meat to any enemy I’d notched up, there being more than a few of those.

  Port Arthur was getting older too. Convicts by the hundred there were now, with more buggers coming all the while, and from just a few huts by the shore it was grown into quite a Manchester, with work sheds turning out every kind of article, from boots to lampposts. There was a dock where ships were made, and strong guarded, too, while away to northwards there was a little coal mine with cells underground, that was said to be such a delight that even the Macquarie Harbour boys tried to keep away. If for some reason a fellow tired of all this joy and decided to take a little walk alone into the bush, there was a fine new semaphore on the hill behind the commander’s house, so that in just a few moments all Van Diemen’s Land might know of his strolling. If our fellow was caught—which he generally would be—and was left weary from his adventures, or had caught a bullet in his gut, there was a little railway to carry him back, with carriages pulled not by steam engines but by convicts, these being more plentiful. Why, if his excursion proved too exciting for his nerves we even had an island of the dead for the poor bleeder, where he could be buried in a good Port Arthur coffin, that he might have worked on himself.

  It might sound grand enough already, I dare say, but our military Irishman commander was dreaming of greater things still, being unhappy that his little kingdom was all made of wood, which would hardly do for the likes of us. So it was that anyone who’d been fortunate enough to work with stone—perhaps playing at making some bridge—was suddenly wanted. I’d never thought I’d be pleased to find myself chipping at rocks once again, but after all these years sawing trees with the likes of the Macquarie boys it seemed gentleness itself. First I was put building a guardhouse for the barracks, that was round like some bloody castle, and after that there was the new church we had to have, so some parson could tell us how wicked we were every Sunday, just in case we’d forgot. That church was a mighty piece of work, and took a full year of splitting our hands before it was done. By then I was beginning to get hopeful that I’d soon be bidding farewell to Port Arthur. The rock chippers were mostly creepers that I could scare with just a few words and looks, so it was easy enough to keep myself improved, and after just a few months I traded my canary yellow for my very first suit of grey. If I stayed quiet and bided my time I reckoned I’d soon be away making roads or such, which would be soft as milk after here.

  My next job after the church looked quietness itself, being a fountain and other foolishness for an ornamental garden, that was the toy of our Irishman commander’s wife. She’d only been married to the old brute a few months and was a tasty-looking piece, fresh and ripe as could be, with a sad sort of look in her eyes, I suppose from being stuck on the furthest edge of nowhere with nobody for company but soldiers and coves in chains. The talk was that this ornamental garden was her husband’s stab at keeping her cheerful, and it seemed to be working, as most every day she came strolling out to fret herself with some new little change she wanted, as everything had to be just so. Not that we much minded being ordered, seeing as she was such a juicy little piece. She never went anywhere alone, always having a little troop of soldiers keeping watch, just in case anyone got any thoughts, as well they might. It was hard not to stare, as she had a fine tempting shape, even covered up like she was, and on hot days I was sure I caught a faint whiff of her musk, sweet and ready as could be. After all this time locked away that got me feeling quite faint-headed with dreaming up the rest of the picture, and how she’d squeal with a fine good working. Still I took only careful glances, being keen not to lose that grey suit of mine.

  She hardly spoke to us stone chippers, keeping her words for a fellow named Sheppard, who was doing the cherubs. Sheppard wasn’t much skilled at them, in truth, having only been picked because he’d once had a trade carving tombstones—which is hardly the same—and they never looked like flying babies so much as fat boys with something nasty flapping on their backs. The commander’s wife took it very serious, though, and was forever peering at them and giving advice, for all the little difference it made. It was those cherubs caused all my trouble in a way. By now we were in January and it was hot as ovens, while chipping stone is thirsty work. I’d been working out in the sun a good few hours, hacking at stone blocks for the summerhouse we were making next, and I’d taken a good few swigs of water from the bucket to cool my throat. Water will as water will, and, seeing all was quiet, I took a stroll across to some bushes that were near.

  Hardly had I got set when I heard a sort of gasp. There she was, the commander’s little pet, all hot and damp in her corsets and such, just on the other side of that bush. She must have stepped back there so she could get a look at the cherubs from a distance. Her eyes were staring wide, almost as if she’d never seen one before. As for me, I never meant any trouble. It was just I was caught by surprise, so rather than put him away smartish, like I suppose I should, I just stared right back. That was my mistake. All at once she let out a scream loud enough to be heard in Hobart town and soldiers were running.

  To be fair, she never did push to get me punished. I even heard talk that she asked her husband to let me off. Not that it made any difference. Probably he didn’t much like the thought of her seeing any but his own, just in case she started getting too interested. Inside half a moment I’d traded my suit of grey for a yellow one with ‘‘felon’’ written all across it, and a handsome pair of leg irons to match. Nor was that the end of the commander’s thank-you. The finish of it was the work gang I was put into, and most of all the gang’s overseer, Ferguson, who was known as the keenest lasher in all Van Diemen’s Land.

  Ferguson’s skill was in finding your worst spot and then pushing at it, day after day, till you’d be maddened into doing some wildness that would earn you a nice little spell on the triangles. His favourite was asking questions. ‘‘You look tired,’’ he’d say, looking all sad, so that for a moment you wondered if he really was worried for you. ‘‘Perhaps you should have a little rest?’’

  The rule in the gangs was strictest silence, so if you were foolish enough to give an answer his smile would vanish as if it had never happened, he’d be stamping his foot and calling you every stinking name he could think of and next he’d have the soldiers running over to haul you off to the triangles for your reward. Not that it was much better if you stayed dumb. Then the bastard would shake his head, as if he was surprised. ‘‘Well, if you’re not tired I’ve just the job for you.’’ This would be the very worst thing he could dream up, such as dragging double-sized logs, or standing waist-deep in cold harbour water, pushing timber to some boat. Even then he’d not be finished. When you were half dead from that, he’d come sidling up to you again.

  ‘‘Something troubling you, is there?’’ he’d ask, all kindly concern. ‘‘I know it. You’re worried you’ll have to leave this little spot one day, and venture back into the world, with its wicked temptations. All that rum to drink and tobacco to smoke, and tasty young females lifting up their skirts.’’ Then he’d peer so close that his face was a blur of nearness and bad breath. ‘‘Don’t you fret yourself Jack, as your old friend Ferguson will keep you safe. Why, I’ll fix it so you don’t have to leave till you’re old to your bones, and those females won’t annoy you with so much as a glance.’’ Then he’d pat you on the shoulder as if he really was your friend, which was worst of all. ‘‘Your old mate Ferguson will see you right.’’

  After being worked on this for a while there wasn’t one in his gang that wasn’t inches away from throwing a punch. If anyone did, then he’d be ready—he was a good watcher, was Ferguson—and would usually dodge out of the way without catching himself a mark, it being easy enough to skip out of range of a fellow with shackles round his ankles. Then he’d call up soldiers and have you hauled off and he’d be smiling wide, as there was nothing he loved better than seeing one of his boys catch a stroking from the Port Arthur Cat.

  But I should stop here a moment, as this was no ordinary las
hing device. Of all the many ones on Van Diemen’s Land this bugger had quite a name, and with good reason. Nine tails and eighty-one knots it had, and all of them soaked in salt water and dried in the sun, till they were purest wire. A hundred from this was enough to make pig’s liver of any bastard’s back. Still I will insist—and I’m quite the man to ask—that the part of being lashed that worked on a man’s mind most was never the stinging, but something different altogether. It was that dangling helplessness. No feeling could compare to being tied fast to a wooden triangle quietly waiting for the lasher to catch his breath—they never liked to hurry themselves—and start his next run, while all the time not being able to do a thing to stop him. Even weeks later just the very remembrance of this delight could make a cove’s head boil clean over, like milk in the pan, so the smallest thing, such as some fool blocking his way on the path, would set him kicking and punching.

  This was just how Ferguson liked his gang to be, too, as then they were easy as lambs to rile into another beating, being all in circles, like snakes eating their own tails. He showed a particular interest in me—I dare say he liked to please his commander—and after a few months and several visits to the triangles I was well primed. I hardly caught a glimpse of my eyes in those days, being out of reach of pretty mirrors, but I’d wager that they were madder now than they ever had been when I was trying to look crazed.

  Hardly an hour seemed to pass without my thinking of ways of bolting, and I was soon past caring how wild or foolish they were. Now, a stranger to Van Diemen’s Land might think there’d not be many ways to step out of Arthur, but there were more than you might guess. The first, being the one that worked most often, was just to sit quietly and look harmless for months and years, till finally you got let out. The trouble with this bugger, of course, was that I’d given it a proper try already, while it had done me no good, and now my patience was too thin for such slow work. A second way was to come up with some daring act of improvement, such as betraying some little secret of your fellow convicts. The worry here was that snitching was so common a trade in Port Arthur that it was hard to get word of anyone’s trouble-making, while if you just invented some plot and hung it round some bleeder’s neck—which was done often enough, too—there was the worry that you’d be found out, and lashed rather than freed. A third and better road was to play the hero, perhaps saving some fool of a redcoat from drowning, or from getting mashed when a tree came down. This could work handsomely, and there were stories of men who’d jumped from chains to full pardon all in one leap in just this way, but sadly it was hardly the kind of thing you could rely upon, unless you arranged the drowning or the tree all yourself which wouldn’t be easy. Besides, the commander had me marked as his special enemy, so I’d need to perform a proper barrelload of miracles to win his forgiveness.