English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  That changed many things. Heedeek and me and others put Mother in the best of the huts to be kindly, and though she got better by and by, and she still hated white scuts very much, now she was quieter. Sometimes she just sat in front not speaking at all, and when she talked of killing num white scuts and feeding their arms and legs to dogs she did so in a small voice. Yes, she lost some fighting thing that time, and after that she started getting fat, until she was very huge. I changed too, as I learned something from those days. Now I knew that there was no fighting white pissers just with spears, as they would win each and every time, and we would only die sooner. No, I did surmise, if I was to endure it must be from some other way.

  Sometimes it does seem that the difficult thing is just to know that puzzle to confound, and once you know him then his answer comes back quick as can be. So it was. One morning a few weeks after another boat came with new soldiers and their chief. Sergeant Wilkes was waiting as they rowed to the shore, and I observed his smile was stiff like he was angry, which was strange. More interesting still, this new soldier’s chief hardly greeted him at all but made them both go into that hut, so we knew he was stronger than Wilkes. So I went round outside to the back of the hut with some others of ours to watch through a small hole in the wood that we knew. Well, here was our surprise. New fellow talked to Sergeant Wilkes loud and shouting as if he was just some low scut and never island’s chief at all, telling him he was DISMISSED and other such words. That next day old poison blood took Mouse Turd, walked over to the shore and was rowed away, never to return, and other new fellow, whose name was COMMANDANT DARLING, became our white men’s chief instead.

  Most interesting of all came just after. By and by Heedeek, who learned some white men’s words, like we all did now, asked Commandant Darling why poison blood was sent away, and Commandant Darling told that this was because he tried to kill Mother IN A WRONG WAY. He should not do what he did, you see, but must send her to other white scuts for a great talking. Even then they cannot just put her on a rock in the sun but must hang her with a rope, as this was white men’s correct killing way. I did ponder this by and by, and it showed me many things. So I knew that num white scuts had ways they must follow, just like us, though these were so hidden in their cheating falsehoods that I never guessed till now they were there. Well, I surmised, if I learned their thinkings, then I could know how to fight them with their own shit. This was my best intent, I did decide, as fighting them in our ways never worked at all.

  By and by Commandant Darling took us away on the boat to another island, whose name was FLINDERS, that was just nearby. This was much bigger and was two days’ walking from one end to another, with game to hunt and small mountains to look at, and one that was tall and sharp like spears. Still it was some heinous windy place, with sand jumping in your eyes, so it never was like the proper world, where we knew every rock like old friends. Commandant Darling tried to be kindly, even asking us Palawa into his hut sometimes to eat heinous food with him. He said we must wear clothes like white men, which was hateful, but he also showed us how to grow grass and bushes to eat, which was interesting, and as time passed we got clever at this. So we almost liked him and once we gave him a parakeet we caught which he kept in his hut and called SHAKESPEARE. Then a summer was gone, and another too, and nothing much happened but we stayed on Flinders and more died from coughing sickness, plenty of them. By and by our place, whose name was Wybalenna, got bigger, with new huts for us and for stores, and more num coming there to watch us.

  One of these was called SMITH, who said all Palawa children must come to his hut to hear about God who was called GOD. Smith was small with flat hair and little spying eyes, and some other children hated him and just ran away, but I went, because I wanted to learn num ways and words and every other white men’s shit so I could fight them. Smith was pleased, and told me if I knew about GOD I would be saved. I never believed him, no, as I learned from fat scut Robson that you never can trust any white man, but still I did go once and again, till I knew more things. Sometimes, and I also spoke to soldiers, as they told me magic words that Mother knew, like pisser, scut, shit, bugger, fucking fucker, cunt and other such. Once I said these at Smith, just to see their magic, and it was strong, as he hated me for them very much, telling me to go away from his hut for a week.

  Mother was frenzied by my learning. ‘‘Why d’you go?’’ she asked me. ‘‘D’you like white scuts?’’

  ‘‘I want to know them so I can fight them.’’

  ‘‘It’s better just to kill them,’’ she would answer. ‘‘Know them too much and you may get like them.’’

  Not that I listened. Already I was dreaming an intent of my own to get all of us back to the world, so I would be some hero, even to Mother. That was my secret craving.

  So another summer passed, and another, and by and by I grew taller and got lustings, so I noticed females in that new way, and their bubbies and fluffs were tidings of joy and filled me with new hungry wanting. Even some of the white women were fine, though they were hidden in their thick dead skins, which were called CLOTHES, and their eyes looked crazed and sad and hard like stone, so I did prefer ours. Not that even ours let me near, as I was still too young, but sometimes they would let me kiss their lips and touch their soft round bubbies if nobody saw. That was great good fortune.

  Mostly, though, those were just dying days. People got crook faster by and by, until we were always watching ourselves for signs. That was heinous, as it is too terrible to die hot and coughing and hardly able to breathe. White scuts hardly died at all, of course, and when we got bad they looked at us like this was just some usual thing for blackfellows—as they called us—which I hated most of all. Worst was when my friend Heedeek died, and it was one saddest lamentable day, when he got taken down to the shore and burnt on his funeral fire. That was too woeful.

  So it was hard in those long-ago heinous times, and different fellows tried any different way to push days onwards. Some stopped doing anything, just lying down in their despond, like it was their rest. They died quick. Others went away across the island, hunting and so as if these were usual times and nothing flagrant was happening. They lived longer. Sometimes Mother’s ones would go away into the bush in the night and dance and talk in old ways. That was best, at least until day came. Some, especially women, talked about Robson and how he would come back soon, and save us, like he said that day in the house called gaol. I never believed this, of course, as if he liked us so then he never would put us on these killing islands.

  Other women found a different friend to save them. This was Wraggeowrapper, who was only hateful before and would come at night watching in the trees to make us mad. Now they made a new dance just for him, and they did this in the night and sang songs just to please him. They even lay down with him for fuckings, so some told. Why not? I did ponder. If all the world was just death and dying, for no reason you could surmise, then perhaps it was cleverest to get help from your enemy. At least he was better than some false friend, like Robson.

  Sometimes there were troubles. People got wrathful at this heinous waiting, so they did recollect old hatings, of fights from long-ago days. Mostly there were four nations now, as smaller ones got mixed up, and these kept apart usually, but sometimes spears got made and I surmised there must be a killing war soon. Once Tonenweener nation, who were our foes now, came with spears when we were dancing in the night, and they stood all around, watching and shouting they would kill us. In the end, though, there never was any fighting. I suppose death was too easy to make more.

  Sometimes new Palawa ones came in the boat, sent by Robson, which was interesting for us but heinous for them. One day Mongana and his mother, Pagerly, came. It was strange to see them, yes, as it seemed another life ago when we lived all together and they hated me with their tauntings. Now they were not angry anymore, but just fearful. They told bad news, that most ones I knew in those long-ago days were dead now, from coughing sickness or white scuts’ ki
lling. Worst, Tartoyen and Grandmother were gone. That was a sad thing. Till then I always hoped they might be saved somewhere, just like before, with Tartoyen telling his fine stories and Grandmother sitting by the sea with her long, bony fingers. That always gave me some small hope, even when we were on these islands, and it was woeful to see it taken.

  Even that heinous time had some good things, though. Mongana was very fearful at seeing this Flinders Island, so he asked me to help him, which was pleasing as it made me feel cleverest. So I showed him where we waited for our heinous food, and I told him who everybody was and which num white scuts were hateful and which were better. So it was Mongana, my most grievous foe of before, became my fine friend. Another surprise was that his mother, Pagerly, became Mother’s friend. Often she would sit with Mother, listening to her hatings of white buggers, and how they should have their heads stove in and such, which she loved to tell. In truth she was Mother’s only friend. Some others did smile when they walked near her, and sometimes they even got heinous food for her, but deep inside their breasts they were too fearful to like her truly. Mother always was frightening.

  So days passed, nothing much happening. I went to Smith’s hut for learning, and every day I did vow to endure. Thus it was when talk came that Commandant Darling would leave us and we would get a new commandant. But this one was no stranger but one we knew.

  Robson was coming.

  Mrs. Catherine Price, Wife of the Storekeeper, Wybalenna Aboriginal Settlement, Flinders Island 1835-38

  I GUESSED at once that the ship from Launceston, which had been expected for several days, must finally have been sighted. Through the curtains of the front room I saw first the garden overseer, next the chaplain and his wife, then the tailor, and Mr. Dunn, the baker, and more, all hurrying through the rain in the direction of the jetty, their eyes betraying hopes of letters. My husband, Louis, was not long in joining them. I, however, preferred to remain indoors, having another slight headache, so felt not quite in a mood for gatherings.

  A while later I heard the front door close and Louis call out, ‘‘Have you heard the news, Catherine?’’

  I had not. Of course I had not.

  ‘‘The new governor of Van Diemen’s Land is coming to pay us a visit, and his wife, too.’’ Though he did not step into the front room to speak to me directly, still his voice sounded kindlier than it had for some time. Then again, it was ever Louis’ nature to delight at the prospect of meeting men of influence. Ever since I had first known him he loved to talk of ‘‘connections,’’ and the advancement he believed these could bring, though in truth they seemed to have brought him little enough till now. ‘‘Think of it,’’ he declared from the hallway, ‘‘the new governor, coming all the way here to visit. D’you know he was an explorer in the seas of the Arctic?’’

  I knew. It was the one thing that was always said about the man, being told and repeated, I assumed, for lack of anything more revealing. I realized that it was a great honour to have him visit us—all the more so as the previous governor had never thought to come—but still I confess I found myself rather less excited than my husband. He did not stay long, the ship’s arrival necessitating a good deal of work for him at the store, and I spent the morning teaching the children their letters. Through the curtains I could observe the settlement’s wives as they hurried back and forth through the rain to one another’s homes, doubtless to discuss the exciting prospect once and again, and perhaps fret over what they might wear for the occasion. I did consider paying a call or two myself The inclement weather, though, was so very discouraging.

  That same evening Mr. Robson called everybody together in the chapel, and as we stood, oil lamps faintly murmuring, he related the arrangements he had devised for the governor’s visit. It was the first time I had looked upon his face for almost a week, and I thought he was looking sadly tired. He spoke well, as ever, beginning by admitting that he had been as surprised as anybody by the news, and then urging us all to strive hard to present a good impression of the settlement. As for his plans, these struck me as most sensible. It seemed the governor had, aside from being a polar explorer, a reputation for judging things greatly by their appearance, and so, in the two weeks remaining to us, we were meticulously to clean every building, from the natives’ huts to the storeroom and the chapel. Our exalted visitor would be given a full tour of the settlement, while in the evening a grand banquet was to be held in his honour, outside if the weather was good, with all of the aborigines attending. His day would be completed with a service in the chapel.

  Mr. Dunn, the baker—who can never resist an opportunity to utter some humorous remark—asked if the governor would be fed ‘‘the usual quails and suckling pig,’’ or ‘‘just roast swan,’’ and, seeing as none of us had enjoyed any but the dreariest of diets since we had arrived upon Flinders Island, this caused a good deal of amusement. Mr. Robson laughed as loudly as any, replying, ‘‘After his explorations of the Arctic I imagine even our simple fare will suffice,’’ which won a little applause, causing him to smile, quite as he used to do. When the meeting was finished, though, and we stepped out into the moonlit night, the aborigines watching us from their huts, I was certain I discerned in his face a look of anxiousness. Nor can I say that I was surprised. The governor’s visit was a great honour, certainly, but it was not without dangers. Most of all there was the troubling thought of what he might be told.

  It seemed already quite an eternity since Mr. Robson first took up his place as our commandant, almost three years before. His arrival, I recall, had come at a time when I was finding life on Flinders Island far from easy. The settlement’s location, on the western shore of the island, provided delightful sunsets but also exposed us to the full force of the fierce westerly winds, and these could be a great strain upon the nerves, forever rushing through the trees, blowing sand in one’s eyes or causing doors suddenly to slam. A further source of disquiet to me was our unhappy charges, the blacks. While these unfortunate creatures were mostly merely piteous, sadly lingering as disease took its toll ever more upon their numbers, still it was hard not to recall upon the brutality of their history, and the great cruelties they had committed upon innocent settlers. The creatures had only recently been induced to wear clothes, while the loose way they carried these upon their bodies—barely attaining decency—did nothing to reassure one as to their state of mind. When I looked upon them, loitering by their huts, or striding away in a group to hunt, the expressions upon their faces seemed at once so wild and impenetrable that it was hard not to feel some unease. At night I often found the thought of them, dwelling so very near, made sleep hard to come.

  Matters were not helped by the paucity of diversions to be found on the island. The supply vessel visited only every three months, making news and letters rare pleasures, and the days passed slowly indeed. Boredom will bring out the devil in men, and in our case its progeny were feuding and rumour. Louis and myself did our best to distance ourselves from all such behaviour, naturally, but this was not always easy. All too often to converse was to be entrusted with unwanted confidences, while to stand aloof from such talk was to find oneself quietly excluded. One of those with a particular love of gossip was the catechist, Mr. Smith, who was a lively man of, it was said, thwarted ambition. While we never encouraged Mr. Smith to call on us, in so small a place it was hardly practical—or wise—to prohibit others from visiting, while he could be most humorous in his retelling of some piece of news, so that even Louis, who was generally inclined to the serious, found him most diverting. After a time his visits to our home became commonplace.

  It came as the greatest shock to us, naturally, when we learned that the settlement’s commandant, Mr. Darling, was abruptly to be removed, and that this was largely the consequence of critical letters sent to the government in Hobart. Worse still was the discovery that the letters’ sender had been Mr. Smith. I knew the two had felt a coolness for one another for some time, ever since the commandant had accused Mr.
Smith of wastefulness regarding settlement supplies, but still the action seemed wholly unwarranted. I understood Mr. Smith had accused Mr. Darling of neglectfulness in his religious instruction of the aborigines, a charge that was all the more dangerous for being to some extent true, as the man had hardly troubled to instruct the adult natives save in the most mundane of matters, such as farming. The commandant took the matter very badly, and confronted his persecutor one Sunday outside the chapel, calling him Judas in front of all. It was a most painful incident.

  My instinct was to let the matter rest but Louis could not do so. He was much distressed by the commandant’s removal, believing Mr. Darling had been about to promote him, and he made it clear to Mr. Smith that he was no longer welcome at our home. The catechist, in turn, behaved quite as if it were ourselves, rather than he, who had behaved unreasonably, directing us haughty, wounded looks whenever we passed. Curiously enough he displayed particular coolness not to Louis but to myself If I found myself walking towards him in some part of the settlement he would embark on an elaborate and embarrassing charade of turning in another direction, while if I had the misfortune to meet him at another’s house he would stare quite over my head. The whole matter became most distressing.

  In the event, of course, Mr. Smith’s treacherous conduct did have one happy consequence, Mr. Darling’s replacement being Mr. Robson. I had heard something about this man, of course, from both admirers and detractors: the famous Robson, who had journeyed for months at a time through the wilderness of Van Diemen’s Land with none for company but blacks, that he might endeavour to save their unhappy race. For some reason I had imagined he would be a giant of a fellow, with a look of military severity. How wrong I was! The man I saw sitting in the rowboat, as it made its way from the supply vessel to the settlement jetty, was a most ordinary-looking figure, round and clumsy in shape, whose speech, as he directed the coxswain, betrayed humble origins. Only the lively look in his eyes hinted at the power of resolution that lay within. As to his family, I observed that his wife, sitting beside him, was regarding the island with what appeared to be an expression of distaste, while his sons seemed curiously distracted, showing no sign of the famous determination of their father.