English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  He left us with a pilot, which was as well, too, as the chart I’d got cheap in Cape Colony had not a town or settlement marked. I could only suppose there’d been still nothing here when it was drawn, two dozen years before. When we finally came in sight of Melbourne, a couple of days later, I was surprised at the size of the place, seeing as it had only just happened. A great spread of a town it was, smearing all across that flat nothingness like some mighty spillage, with a few church spires and such poking up for grandeur. Why, it looked several times larger than Peel City, which struck me as hardly fair, seeing as Peel had been sitting there quiet and patient beside St. Patrick’s Isle for as long as anyone knew. On the other hand, it was a good sign for us. If there was jink enough to build a whole city from nothing in hardly a moment, then we should get a fine old price for our certain cargo.

  It was only as we got near that I noticed the ships. Scores of them there were, lining the sides of the little river harbour to rot, and a sad little mystery they made too with their peeling paint and their ropes and shrouds hanging slack. As it turned out, though, there was a kind of grim promise even here. While our passengers moaned themselves over the wrecked ship we were moored to—off to catch those lodging-house tub baths that they were always fussing about—I saw there was some old article on the shore, piling barrels onto a cart. It was him I asked what had caused the vessels to be abandoned.

  ‘‘Gold,’’ he cackled. ‘‘Or dreams of gold.’’ He told how the crews, and even their officers, had all jumped ship and run away to the diggings to try and make their fortunes. ‘‘That was at the height of the madness, mind, when half the town was gone. Why, it got so that grand folks couldn’t find themselves servants, and were down to cooking their dinners and washing their own underclothes. They didn’t like that much, neither.’’

  ‘‘Is gold still being found?’’ asked Brew.

  The old fellow shrugged. ‘‘The diggings are long claimed, but that’s not to say there mightn’t be another strike somewhere else. There’s rumours all the time.’’

  I gave a nod to Brew—a licking-my-lips, jink-coloured nod—and he nodded back just the same. A land of gold. Why, I was even pleased now that Cape Colony had been a useless, cheating free port, as it meant we had the goods still to sell. Here we might catch gold enough for seven cargoes.

  First, though, we had chores to do. A new port is new work, as the man says, and this Melbourne was no exception. I set the crew hauling up empty water casks from the hold, to keep them busy and stop them moaning about money to spend ashore, and I busied myself with the harbour paperwork, which, of course, brought another little visit from the customs. Fortunately this proved as harmless as the other had been, being a big fat slug of a body named Bowles, who seemed mostly made of beard, black and thick, that grew all up his face, almost to his eyes, so he looked as if he was hiding in a black hedge. Bowles hardly troubled us except to ask about our being Manx—which I could hardly deny—and if we had bought anything at Cape Colony, which I had no need to go telling stories about, seeing as we never had anyway. That done, he left us be, nice as nip. All in all I was beginning to like these Victoria revenue boys, and reckoned they should some of them be sent back to England, to tell that Captain Clarke and his friends how to behave.

  It was not long after we saw the back of Bowles that we had another visitor. A little stob of a fellow he was, with too much smile in him. It’s usual enough to have some harbour cheat climb onto your deck, offering flea-filled rooms or a choice bargain of liquor and females, and I hardly troubled myself as he clambered aboard. ‘‘Harry Fields.’’ He held out a hand that was surprisingly large compared to the rest of him, as if it was where all his growing had gone. ‘‘Just arrived, are you? From the Cape, I’ll wager.’’

  ‘‘What if we are?’’

  My suspicion seemed almost to please him. ‘‘I arrange purchases. If you’ve anything to sell, I’m your man.’’

  ‘‘What kind of anything?’’

  A scrinched, knowing sort of look came over him. ‘‘Who could say?’’

  Well, here was a thing. The fact was we needed a buyer of the right kind. Till now I’d been planning on asking about the town for Port Phillip Manxmen—which was always a hope, Manxmen being brave travellers—just in case somebody’s cousin was here in Melbourne, and could set us on the right road. That would take time, though, while there was no guarantee there’d be even one. This little fellow Fields would be taking a risk, for sure, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just what we needed. I glanced at Brew and he glanced at me. Now, one of the handy things about being a Manxman is that you never need to trouble yourself about being overheard if you’ve something quiet to say. While your Englishman must go through a whole bother of stepping out of the room or whispering like a plotter, your Manxman can simply chatter away in his own sweet tongue, safe in knowledge that there’s hardly a soul on earth besides other Manxmen will understand a word. Irishmen and Highlander Scotsmen can catch some, to be true, but even they’ll have trouble, while to your Englishman it’s as clear as purest Chinese. So Brew and I never troubled to lower our voices, but discussed the body clean over his own head.

  ‘‘He looks like a rotten cheating sleetch,’’ I said, giving the fellow a smile, which he returned happily enough.

  ‘‘Mind you, isn’t that just the sort of fellow we’re looking for?’’ answered Brew.

  ‘‘He could be scrutineering for the customs.’’

  Brew shrugged. ‘‘That’s danger whoever we find.’’

  This was true enough. All in all I decided this Fields was worth spying on, at the very least. ‘‘It’s soon yet to be knowing if we’ve anything to sell, seeing as we’re just arrived,’’ I told him, ‘‘but is there somewhere we can find you, if we have a change of mind?’’

  He seemed content enough with that, did little Harry Fields, and gave us the name of a tavern where he spent his evenings. As he scuttled away, I called over Kinvig—who seemed the proper choice for blending into crowds, being such a little mhinyag himself—and sent him following.

  Later that afternoon Brew and myself set off ourselves, and so we put our first sight on an Australian town. Tiring it was, too, that Melbourne, with its long straight streets and a faint smell of madness in the air, being the sort of place that drains all the soo out of a man and leaves him feeling thirsty and brittle for a fight. A patchy sort of place it was, almost as if its gold had dropped from the sky in tiny showers, drenching one spot but leaving another dry as bones. Here there’d be a building tall as Castle Rushen, all made from finest stone, cut so neat it made a body feel scruffy just to walk past. Next along there’d be just an old fence covered with peeling placards, or a mighty pile of rubbish stinking in the sun. One district we strayed into—though not for long—had missed the gold entirely, being all shacks made from packing cases and calico, or even just coloured paper, so you could see clear through at whoever was inside—usually some woman holding babies—who’d turn and give you a scowl for peeping.

  The gold seemed as choosy with townspeople as it was with buildings. There were a good few lucky ones, diggers as I guessed they must be, being wild-looking bodies with long hair and gold rings on every finger like knuckle-dusters. Judging by their chatter they came from most everywhere, and I heard Irish talk, American and all manner of European foreignness, and even some Chinamen with pigtails. The only ones I didn’t see were any Australian bluemen, which seemed quite a surprise, too. I’d have expected there’d be scores of the fellows, seeing as this was where they sprang from.

  Waiting to catch a few drops of gold from the diggers were scarlet girls aplenty. These looked like they’d been doing well enough, some of them, lounging about as if it was their own town, and dressed so fine they might almost have been proper ladies except for their loitering, and their come-along glances. Why, they had the respectable females looking quite peeved. As darkness fell, I could see the proper ones creeping off home and leaving them to it,
and all of a rush the town started tumbling into drink and shouting, as if it was hoping to forget itself till dawn. It was a rough sort of spot, no doubting, and I was glad enough when I finally set eyes on the tavern we sought—a huge palace of a thing with a wooden front three floors high—and saw Kinvig waiting at the corner just opposite.

  ‘‘I kept a sight on Fields all day,’’ he told us proudly.

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t see him chatter to anyone who looked like a uniform. Mostly he was in taverns and liquor shops. I tried to ask about him once, from some old fellow I’d seen him talking to, but all I got was growls and threats and ‘What’s it to you?’ ’’

  That sounded right enough. ‘‘Did you find out if there are any Manxmen here?’’

  ‘‘There was a body thought he’d met some, though he wasn’t sure if they might’ve been Irishmen. Either way, he thought they’d gone off to the diggings.’’

  That was hardly much use, the diggings being a proper journey away. I took a glance through the tavern window and caught a glimpse of Fields sat in a corner. He didn’t look like a customs pet. ‘‘All right. Let’s see what price he’s giving.’’

  The answer, as it turned out, was a fine price indeed. Why, I could hardly believe my own ears. Fields said himself that there was a proper thirst for good French brandy in the colony, the diggers having caught themselves expensive tastes, but still I had to strain myself not to give a mighty smile. This wasn’t pennies he was talking, but a shiny dazzle of jink, a great pouring of the stuff, and enough to quiet Ealisad from a year of sulks. It was all I could do to remember myself and push for some extra on top, which I got so easy that I could’ve kicked myself for not asking for more. Just a little more chatter and a glass or two of the local brew and it was all settled.

  ‘‘That was the road to go all right,’’ said Brew, as we stepped back into the noise of the street, grinning as if he’d found a bag of sovereigns in the dirt. ‘‘No doubting it.’’

  I can’t say I thought any different. There’s something in the spirit of Manxmen, though, that doesn’t like too much delighting in a thing. ‘‘Though we’ve not seen a penny yet,’’ I warned him, ‘‘and, as the man says, there’s much between saying and doing.’’

  Brew pulled himself up sharpish to match, giving himself a careful face. ‘‘Ah, that’s true enough. As the old fellow says, a green hill when far away, bare, bare when it is near.’’

  Then Kinvig joined in. ‘‘After the spring tide, neap.’’

  I think we all felt a little better for that. ‘‘But it was a middling good price, was it not?’’ I said, just to put us back a little.

  ‘‘Ah, that it was,’’ answered Brew, grinning again.

  ‘‘Seven times good,’’ agreed Kinvig besides.

  ‘‘Can you spare us a penny or two?’’ This last, I should tell, was none of us, being a big sprawled fellow slouched against a wall just ahead. There was no mistaking his accent, which was purest low-life Dublin, and drunk too. I suppose I should’ve just given him a farthing and had done with it, but I felt in no mood for beggars.

  ‘‘No, we’ve not,’’ I told him, throwing him a sneery sort of look as we passed.

  It was that look must’ve got him started. ‘‘Manxies, are you?’’ he called out. ‘‘I know that Manxy prattle. So what Manxy town are you from, then?’’

  It was Kinvig played the fool. ‘‘Peel City,’’ he answered, all proud.

  ‘‘Peel?’’ he shouted, all in triumph. ‘‘I’ve been there. All snots it was, and rotten poor ones at that, with hardly a penny to steal from each other. The smell it had too, all stinking of last year’s fish.’’ A wicked look came into his eyes. ‘‘Or was that just the Manxy women?’’

  Kinvig narrowed his eyes at this. There always was fight in Kinvig, being so small. ‘‘I’ll give him refreshments for that. Go on, Captain, let me settle him.’’

  The last thing a fellow wants, if he’s stretching the law tight to bust, is fighting trouble. ‘‘Leave him be,’’ I told him. ‘‘There’s no point in dirtying your knuckles on some yernee yeirk.’’ This last was Manx for an Irishman on the beg, and none too polite, while I took care to speak it clear enough to be well heard, just to answer that chatter about the fish smell. ‘‘Besides, we’d best get back to the ship.’’

  I wished I’d kept quiet. ‘‘Manxies on a ship, is it?’’ called out the Dubliner now, delighting at this new fact he’d caught. ‘‘And where are you sailing off to then? Off round to some quiet stretch of Port Phillip Bay in the middle of the night, I’ll wager.’’

  Trust an Irishman to see straight through to what you least want him to. I was glad we were at the edge of town and there were no bodies about. None of us said a word, but it never helped, as the beggar gave a cry of delight, knowing our silence had been pure yes. ‘‘Off you go and sell your dirty, watered contraband rum, see if I care,’’ he shouted out, loud as he could. As if the likes of us would go watering. ‘‘And mind you don’t catch some bullet through your little cheating skulls from some bushranger or convict or wild man, as they’re along the shore in swarms, and will eat up little poxy Manxies for their breakfast.’’

  Bushrangers? I didn’t know what they were but they sounded nothing good. For that matter neither did convicts and wild men.

  ‘‘It’s just lies to worry us,’’ growled Brew when we were out of earshot.

  The trouble was that those sorts of words will stick in a man’s thoughts. By the time we finally set forth in the dark, just a couple of evenings later, we were all thinking trouble, and little Kinvig even had himself a little fighting practice on the main deck, standing like a boxer and throwing little punches at the darkness. Our new friend Harry Fields had scratched us a little map of where we were to go and it wasn’t far, being a beach just a few miles from the town. The signal they’d give was to be a light. Swung side to side meant all was well, while if it rose and dropped, then there was trouble and sail off fast as we could. This lamp waving had caught my blood a little, I’ll own, being just the kind of thing that was done in the golden days of Man Island, and as we sailed out from the river into Port Phillip Bay by the faint light of the rising moon, I couldn’t help but wonder how my great-grandfather, Big Juan Kewley, must’ve often journeyed through the night just like this. Why, I liked to think he might be looking down even then, proud as punch of his great-grandson, the hard case who’d thought to follow his road.

  The breeze kept light but steady, and it was just a couple of hours before I saw the faint glow of a single lamp from the shore, waving crossways just like it should. I had the boys drop the anchor and lower a boat and we were set. Brew I left behind to mind the ship, telling him to dig out the Englishmen’s rifles, just in case, while Kinvig joined me going ashore, along with two more to pull the oars. It was hardly a bright night, the moon being only two days grown, with bits of cloud to muzzle her more, but still there was light enough to see the foam of the waves as they broke and the faint shadows of those waiting. Two there were, including the one holding the lamp. That hardly seemed enough to go playing murderer. As I clambered out of the boat, one stepped forward into the lamplight, showing himself to be Harry Fields. ‘‘Captain Kewley. You’ve made good time.’’

  ‘‘I dare say.’’ I handed him a cask of brandy that I’d got ready. Pulling free the cork, he had himself a sniff then took a swig.

  ‘‘That seems tasty enough.’’ The tobacco pleased him less—he complained it had got a touch damp—but he said he’d take it still. ‘‘And the rest’s all on the ship?’’

  ‘‘It is.’’

  ‘‘Where d’you have it hidden?’’

  There’s questions and questions, and this was prying when he didn’t yet have the right. I took the brandy and tobacco from him and dropped them back in the boat. ‘‘Where’s this gold of yours?’’

  ‘‘Just back here.’’ With that he started walking back across the beach. His helper sho
ne the lamp on the sand by their feet so it was pure night they were walking into.

  This I wasn’t so sure of ‘‘I’d rather you brought it here.’’

  His voice turned suspecting. ‘‘D’you want the gold or not?’’

  There was a question. There seemed nothing for it, so I called out in Manx to Kinvig, still sat in the boat, to keep a close watch, and then tramped after them, sand sucking at my feet. Their lamp swung upwards once or twice, catching a long row of trees that I could hear hissing in the breeze, and beneath these I glimpsed a kind of shelter. In front of this I could see there was standing a rough sort of body with a bag slung over his shoulder, heavy so he was all lopsided. That seemed right enough, for sure, so on I went. It was only when I was there that I saw the other fellow, stepping out from the trees. That I wouldn’t have minded, but the moonlight caught the line of a pistol barrel, pointed nicely at my chest. There was worse. The man seemed to have hardly any head. Then I realized this was just a trick of the dark, from his face being so covered up with black beard, almost up to his eyes.

  ‘‘If it isn’t Captain Kewley,’’ said landing waiter Bowles of the Melbourne customs, ‘‘who’s only carrying ballast and stores.’’

  Here was a rotten piece of fortune. I almost would have preferred bushrangers and wild men to this sleetch of a customs, all so smug at his own cleverness, like only your Englishman can be. He must have suspected us the moment he’d stepped aboard, sending his little sneak Fields after him to catch us out, which he’d done nice as nip. All these months and miles we’d travelled, and now to finish like this. Why, we’d have been better off getting caught by Captain Clarke, back in the English Channel, rather than fuss our way clear across half the world to no purpose.

  Or was it to no purpose, though? What first made me wonder was Bowles himself Having sprung so cleverly from the trees, he didn’t pull out a pair of cuffs, or call out of the words I was expecting, such as arrest or confiscation. No, he just stood there, watching. ‘‘There’s nobody lands contraband under my nose and gets away with it, I’ll have you know,’’ he growled at last. That didn’t quite sound like customs talk. I’ll own there’s nothing like the fear of losing every penny to make a man eager for a chance, but it did make sense. Now I looked, Bowles wasn’t even wearing his uniform, but was just in an old jacket. Hadn’t Kinvig followed Harry Fields all day and found him company to all manner of dirts and gallows mucks? For all that, this would have to be played careful. It was for him to lead the dance.