English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  His answer could hardly have been more unfortunate. Somehow it missed the point so completely as to be favourable to Knowles’s views, though ludicrously so. Even the commander’s wife, my new ally, could not conceal her amusement, while her husband quite lost himself in laughing. Knowles, naturally, was insufferable.

  ‘‘What did I tell you, Mr. Crane?’’ he roared.

  It was, in truth, a most unfairly phrased question. The convict should have been asked if he now saw the error of his ways, rather than if he would commit his crime again. There is, sadly, little so poisonous to logical debate as laughter, and, though I tried my best, it proved quite impossible to return to the serious matter at hand. When I walked back to my quarters that evening I was left with a sense of profound frustration. I had had an opportunity to champion ideas of the greatest importance, only to find myself thwarted by foolishness.

  As if this were not annoyance enough, I learned the next day that I was to suffer the company of my persecutor during my return journey back to Hobart. It seemed Knowles had finished his work as speedily as had I, and it was assumed we would wish to journey as a party. The weather had taken a turn for the worse once again, and the commander thought it wiser to return to Hobart not by sea but overland.

  ‘‘You can take our train,’’ he declared, adding, with some pride, ‘‘I’m told it is the only railway in all the Southern Hemisphere.’’

  Train was hardly the word that came to mind when, the next morning, I stood in the windy rain, looking upon the device. Though it ran on rails it had more the appearance of the kind of small cart used in quarries having only two seats, one in front of the other. As for propulsion, it had not even the dignity of a pit pony, being driven by four fearsome-looking convicts, who pushed at bars extending from its sides.

  ‘‘So what are you here for then?’’ Knowles asked one of the convict drivers as he climbed into his seat, at the same time giving me a provoking wink. ‘‘Talking in church, was it?’’

  The man, understandably enough, gave no answer but to faintly scowl. In a moment he and his fellows began pushing the little carriage down the track, first at a walk, then a trot and finally at running pace, causing it to trundle away swiftly. The vehicle lacked any shelter from the elements, and I saw this was destined to be a most wet journey. Of greater concern to me, however, was the vehicle’s safety. I had journeyed on steam trains on several occasions without experiencing the slightest alarm, but this had none of the weight and stability of such machines. The wooden rails were of a most rough manufacture, causing the carriage to shake and jar a good deal, while on downward slopes it would hurtle along at alarming speed. On one corner we came close to springing free completely.

  ‘‘D’you think this is safe?’’ I remarked to Knowles, who had the advantage of the rearmost seat.

  I suppose I should not have expected he would give a serious reply. ‘‘Safe?’’ he asked in a goading voice. ‘‘How could it be anything else when we are being driven by angels such as these?’’ He glanced at the four men, who were now engaged in pushing us up a long, gradual slope, the exertion causing them to pant. ‘‘What d’you make of them, Professor?’’ he asked, quite as if they could not hear. ‘‘Schoolteachers, would you say? And each and every one of them a victim of mistaken identity?’’

  It seemed hardly wise to provoke the men seeing as we were in their hands, and I was considering telling him so, when I saw we had reached the top of a little ridge. Before us the ground fell away abruptly, descending for a considerable distance, and in the distance I could see a gang of chained convicts working at cutting down trees beside the track. The pushers set the cart in motion with a heave and in a moment we were quickly gathering speed. All the while the four pressed at the bars with greatest determination, until they could hardly run to keep up, whereupon, at the very last moment, they hurled themselves onto the sides of the vehicle, their own weight seeming to add further to our headlong progress. All at once I had not the slightest doubt we were about to suffer a mighty accident.

  ‘‘The brake!’’ I cried out.

  One of the convicts, whose face was marked by a huge scar across his forehead, sullenly pointed to a kind of wooden crowbar fixed above one of the wheels, though he made no effort to apply it, merely turning away. Doubtless he was still angry at Knowles’s mocking chatter. I had no intention of permitting the man’s cruel cynicism, of all things, to cause my death, and as nobody else seemed willing to act, I did so myself Clambering to my feet, I leant forwards and reached out for the brake lever. It seemed, unfortunately, that I had underestimated the effect my movement would have on the balance of the little vehicle, which at once began to lean to one side. I do believe all would have gone well enough even then, if only the others had thought to remain calm. Knowles himself uttered a sudden yelp, while the faces of the convicts, which had seemed so hard, turned suddenly pale, and they all began to lean in a contrary direction. While this might have seemed only sensible, the effect of their movement was greatly excessive, imbalancing the carriage even more the other way. In a moment it was swaying from side to side with ever greater wildness, until the inevitable occurred.

  Whether the vehicle toppled over sideways, flew clean through the air or was tipped upwards upon its front wheels—or all three—I never will know. I recall the wheels uttering a desperate rasping sound, and after that all was incomprehensible hurtling and falling. I must have passed out for an instant. Coming to, I found myself beside the roots of a huge tree, and the only sounds I could hear were the wind in the trees, the pattering of rain upon the leaves and the whirring of the upturned carriage’s wheels. Close by me was the slumped figure of Knowles, while next to him—entangled with him—was the prone form of someone not of our party. It appeared Knowles had flown clear into the fellow, knocking both unconscious. Each was bleeding from his injuries, though I was glad to see they still showed signs of breathing. As to myself when I attempted to sit up I discovered that my left leg was injured, and likely broken. It was then, as I glanced around me, that I saw we were not alone. A gang of convicts—presumably the tree cutters I had observed before—stood nearby, staring.

  It seemed essential to assert some authority over the men. ‘‘Where is your overseer?’’ I demanded.

  ‘‘There.’’ The speaker was a bulky fellow with a hairless dome of a head, a mighty scar across one cheek and the most troubling eyes, with dark rings beneath them, like a madman’s. He was, I saw, pointing to the man entangled with Knowles. It was hardly a pleasing discovery. More encouraging was the sight of our four drivers, who I discerned were sprawled on the further side of the wooden railway tracks. They did not look greatly injured, while at least they were known to me. ‘‘These men must be taken back to the settlement at once,’’ I called out. ‘‘They need help.’’

  ‘‘Don’t we all,’’ answered one. At this the rest uttered faint yet malevolent laughter.

  If matters were not already alarming enough, it was then that the fearsome-looking bald tree cutter stepped forwards to a flat rock and stretched his leg irons carefully over this. All at once he then raised up his axe and delivered a number of mighty blows, quite filling the forest with ringing. In a moment the chain was parted. With a clinking of trailing chains he began striding slowly towards us.

  I thought it best to try and address him directly. ‘‘Please spare us. We have done you no harm. We need help.’’

  He seemed not to hear. His fellows watching his every movement, he stepped past me till he stood above Knowles and the overseer. Next he raised his axe. My mind filled with horror and I turned away. Moments passed in silence, however, and when I finally looked again he was just as before, like some demonic statue, frowning at the two figures before him. He glanced at the little carriage, though this was broken beyond any usefulness. Then, to my amazement and wondrous relief, he suddenly hurled his axe away into the trees. Suddenly he was stooping, gathering up Knowles, and lifting him up, quite as easily as if he wer
e some child.

  ‘‘I’ll get him safe, don’t you worry.’’

  Jack Harp 1837

  IT WAS QUITE a stroll back to Port Arthur, especially carrying that fat bugger. I never got him all the way there in the end, being stopped by a group of soldiers just nearby, who took one look at my snapped shackles and the bleeding head of the cove I was carrying, and all but knocked me down on the spot. After that I was in a cell, wondering if I’d played things right or been the biggest fool in all Van Diemen’s Land. Finally, though, an officer came along and said I had to go up to the hospital.

  I had hope from the moment I walked in. There, lying in a bed was the fat bugger I’d carried. Also there was the commander himself, and the soft fool who’d called out to me to help. This last gave me a mighty hello, sitting up from his bed and holding out his hand for me to shake, though I wasn’t sure if this was allowed. Truly, I couldn’t have got a better preacher for me if I’d chosen one specially, and he wouldn’t stop telling the others what a proper hero I was, and how I should never have been put in chains but should be rewarded. The commander didn’t look much pleased, and neither did the fat cove I’d carried—which seemed hardly grateful—but it never mattered, what with my new friend singing my praises. D’you know, he pestered the commander into promising me a ticket-of-leave there and then. So I was pleased enough at how it had gone, even though I’d missed stoving in Ferguson’s head.

  Of course, ticket-of-leave is never full pardon but it’s not far off So long as I kept out of trouble and stayed in Diemen’s Land I could do much as I liked. After all those years it was hard to believe it, especially coming so sudden. Still, it didn’t take me long to make up my mind what to do with myself I never have much liked towns, nor farms neither, while I’d had more than enough chipping at stones and cutting trees. No, I’d go back to one of those little islands, where I’d spent my hiding days. That hadn’t been such a bad life, skinning seals and chewing mutton birds with nobody spying on you or telling you what to do. Why, I might even catch myself another little black miss, if there were still any left to find.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dr. Thomas Potter NOVEMBER 1857

  29th November

  Land finally sighted this morning after forty-six days + much stormy weather. Loud cheering, singing etc. from crew. Wilson made all pray thanks.

  Unfortunately then discovered this not correct land after all. Captain and mate studied sun with sextants, then announced coast not Van Diemen’s Land but mainland of Australia: Sincerity off course northwards by several hundred miles. Kewley explained cause = difficult sea currents (self had no idea sea currents so troublesome). Said selves must put in at Melbourne, Port Phillip, for more water (fortunately v. near). Wilson v. annoyed as he impatient to begin expedition: scowling + giving me looks as if self = to blame, i.e. he exhibiting all = characteristics of Norman derangement. In fact change of plan = useful to self re collecting further specimens. Also believe old colleague Dr. G. now living in Melbourne: could be most helpful. And have need more storage chests.

  Regret have neglected diary since Cape Colony, as have been much preoccupied with work on notions. Truly, this = wonderfully productive time. Do believe have felt spark of inspiration, no less: ideas forming & clarifying by the hour. Own interest advancing from mere description to deduction. This progress greatly due to most unexpected and useful instance re studies, i.e. Manx crew of Sincerity. Self suddenly realized most revealing study = here before self all this while.

  Began with chance discovery. Self sitting on deck when overheard chief mate Brew scolding troublesome crewman as ‘‘Viking.’’ Self = curious and so asked why? Brew = secretive as per usual, but reluctantly answering that in distant past Man Island = ruled by Norse (Saxon type). He poorly informed but believed Viking rule = several hundred years with much settlement. V. interesting. Self began questioning other crewmen about island. Replies often guarded or flippant, but nevertheless = revealing. Became clear that island, despite v. small size = riven by powerful regional rivalries. In particular ship’s crew (all from Peel City) scorn those from every other area. Instances:

  Ramsey town people called Boasters because claimed = arrogant.

  Douglas town people called Govags (Mx for ‘‘dogfishes’’: reason unclear).

  Sulby village people called Cossacks (reason v. unclear).

  Cregneish village people called Spaniards re claim (doubtful) that all swam ashore from Spanish Armada. nb. Cregneish village also called China (reason unclear) + large crewman China Clucas so nicknamed because claimed he once had (fat) sweetheart from Cregneish/China village (he strongly denies).

  Conclusion: situation may appear confused but in truth = v. simple: Manx not one nation but two: Celtic Type and Saxon Type (Vikings). Historical events + Norse language of Saxons may = forgotten but, remarkably, divisions remain strong—if unrecognized—in men’s minds. Manx Celts and Saxons continuing to war with one another without ever knowing. Now that self = aware of matter, have observed many instances of enmities between two races of Manx, e.g. frequent bickering between crewmen, ill feeling between Captain (cunning + indolent i.e. Celtic Type) + China Clucas (strong + open i.e. Saxon Type).

  This = of greatest importance. Here = potent evidence that separate races cannot and will not intermix. Discovery = of fundamental importance re notions. Self increasingly convinced that types not merely of importance to understanding re mankind, but in truth = the key to comprehending all human history + also future destiny of men. National revolutions of 1848 = clear indication of inevitable progression of events. Self can foresee future great conflagration of nations (own term) as World = embroiled in years of conflict, war + destruction etc. etc. Patience of stolid Saxon will finally snap. Normans’ weakness and parasitism will be exposed and sorely punished. Weaker nations (e.g. black, Indian, Oriental, Norman etc. etc.) will be swept away. New era will begin. May occur even imminently.

  Have decided will revise jottings into full manuscript, with view to publication. Provisional title: The destiny of Nations: being a consideration upon the different strengths and characteristics of the many races and types of man, and the likely consequences of their future struggles. Feel this may prove of no little significance re understanding all mankind.

  Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley

  NOVEMBER–DECEMBER 1857

  PORT PHILLIP BAY was a curious sort of spot, being so wide we couldn’t even see the far shore, though it was every drop of it packed behind a little narrow bottleneck of an entrance. This was the very kind of spot you’d expect to find pilots loitering, and worse besides, and sure enough, as we passed between the headlands I saw a little house come into view, hidden nicely from the main ocean. More interesting even than the house, though, was the cutter. This had already spread its sails in the water just below, and was making good progress to a certain spot in the ocean where we’d shortly find ourselves. A handsomely stocked vessel she was, too, with a couple of cannon at her prow, six soldiers in prettiest red stood on her deck, and a uniformed Port Phillip Englishman besides, who, as soon as he was near enough, started wondering at the top of his voice if we might have a mind to heave to directly, so he could come aboard and tell us hello.

  Well, I didn’t need any schooling to tell me who he was. A wonderful thing it was that a fellow could steer a vessel clear halfway around the planet, till he was clean underneath the barnacles and weeds of his own ship’s hull of four months before, and still he could catch himself just the same friendly greeting that he’d got on the other side. My only worry was that word might have been sent ahead of us from Cape Colony. I had thought of dropping those pieces of Maldon silver overboard, just to be safe, but it seemed a shame to fling good spending money into the ocean, so somehow they’d stayed all the while. It was too late now.

  ‘‘Your papers, Captain?’’ This was our invader, Mr. Robins, tidal waiter for the Colony of Victoria, and was said with all the charm I’d come to expect of Her Majesty’s s
ervants, being no charm at all. A sullen child of a fellow he was—probably at his being posted on the edge of nowhere—and he scowled as if we’d sailed all the way from Man Island just to spoil his afternoon.

  ‘‘We’ve nothing in the hold except stores and ballast,’’ I told him. ‘‘The ship’s been chartered by these gentlemen for their expedition.’’ With this I pointed out the Reverend—beaming like your proper adventuring vicar—and Dr. Potter. I suppose I had noticed that tidal waiter Robins had the same high and snotty way of speaking as our passengers—I even wondered what trouble he’d got up to to get himself so banished—but still I never guessed how he’d change when he put a sight on some his own kind. Why, for once I was almost pleased to have those Englishmen aboard. Robins’ face lit up like a lamp and all at once he and the Reverend were chattering away nineteen to the dozen, discovering distant cousins that might be neighbours or recalling some wondrous fine fellow that they both of them knew hardly at all. Next they were having a fine old Englishman’s gossip—which Potter joined in as well— which was all fretting at the latest worries afflicting those poor Dukes and Princes who owned England. It was quite as if they’d all known each other for years.

  ‘‘Will you be wanting to have a look round the ship then?’’ I asked when they let off for a moment, as I thought it only wise to offer. Truly, I need hardly have bothered. Our invader, Mr. Robins, troubled himself with the briefest of glances down one of the hatches, then returned to his feast of chatter. Finally, when he’d glutted himself fit to burst, he bid a reluctant farewell to his new friends, called away his six soldiers and let us be. That was just the kind of customs inspection I could grow to like.