English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘He has a nice face,’’ I observed to Louis.

  My husband, pressing forward that he might be among the first to offer his welcome, nodded in agreement. The blacks likewise seemed greatly raised in their spirits by the sight of this new commandant. He had brought with him a number of their fellows that he had found on Van Diemen’s Land, thus inspiring a most touching scene, as siblings separated all these years burst into tearful recognition, and mothers quite shrieked with delight at the sight of children who, doubtless, they had thought lost to them forever. All at once some of the natives began excitedly to babble to him in words of their own strange languages. I had heard that he was able to speak in their tongue, and was looking forward to hearing him reply in a like fashion, but instead he waved his hand with a look of cheerful firmness. ‘‘But you must speak English now,’’ he insisted kindly, ‘‘only English.’’ Thus he displayed, even then, his resolve to bring improvement to the unfortunate creatures.

  He was especially proud of one of those he had brought with him, a slight boy by the name of George Vandiemen, of nervous disposition, who, most charmingly, tried to hide behind his commandant’s back. Robson explained, as our large party began walking back towards the settlement, that the child had been found wandering alone by some farmers near Devonport, who had then sent him away to Bristol to be schooled, where he remained long enough to acquire more than a little learning. Robson had discovered him working as a serving lad in the farmers’ house, and had induced them to release him only with some difficulty. Thus described, young George was of great curiosity to us all, and as we reached the area of the natives’ huts Mr. Robson attempted to coax him into giving a little demonstration of his knowledge. This was not easy, the boy being so shy, but finally he was enticed into uttering a few greetings, which he did with a fluency of language that was indeed remarkable, far surpassing that of any of our own aborigines, winning applause from his smiling watchers, and laughter too, as Mr. Dunn, the baker, observed that the boy even spoke with an audible West Country accent.

  The display was, sadly, of short duration. Just as the child grew more confident in his performance he seemed to falter, then uttered some incomprehensible cry in his own native speech. Then, greatly to our surprise, he began impatiently pushing his way between us and ran away towards one of the huts. There, staring at him with the strangest look, was Walyeric: that monster of a creature, undeserving of the title female, about whom such dreadful stories are told, and who answers the kindliest smile with a glower of insolence. It was hard to believe, but I could only assume from little George’s excited cries that this terrible woman must be his mother. Though I knew her to be wicked to her bones, still I could not help but be shocked by her behaviour. As he raced towards her, calling out, she simply rose to her feet, then delivered him a mighty slap to his face—though he was her own child, lost to her all these years— and cruelly strode away. Poor George was dreadfully upset, bursting into sobs, and though we tried to coax him back to us, he insisted on scurrying away alone.

  It was not long before Mr. Robson’s presence among us—striding about, always so energetically—began to transform the atmosphere of the settlement, and greatly for the better. Everybody soon found himself thrown into activity, instantly banishing the devil boredom. Louis was required to rearrange all supplies in the cramped storehouse, as a new and better building was to take its place, this forming only one part of a mighty campaign of construction. The sawyer and bricklayer found themselves in constant toil, their lazy convict labourers lazy no longer, while even some of the aborigines were induced to help in the work. The fruits of these labours were soon evident, as new wooden huts sprang up almost like mushrooms, and a proper brick front was added to one of the double huts, which was to be fashioned into a new school chapel, it being Mr. Robson’s stated aim that the blacks should be both housed and led in worship entirely in buildings made of brick.

  Mr. Robson’s chief concern, it soon became clear, was to mount nothing less than a crusade to civilize the blacks. Louis, who was much impressed by our new commandant, explained how the aborigines were each to be allotted a craft, from shoemaking to animal husbandry, that they would be required to develop as their own. All were to work, although those of lesser ability would be expected only to perform some simple task, such as digging potatoes, or graves for their less fortunate fellows. We both considered this a most delightful notion, which might with time transform them into something like a happy band of English villagers. More ingenious still, Mr. Robson insisted that every one of them would receive a wage for his toil, and announced that a market would be held once each week, where the poor creatures might spend their new wealth on some useful item, such as tobacco, or a new straw hat. His intention was most clear: he was subtly introducing them to that most essential pillar of the civilized world, commerce. There are always grumblers, of course, and some among the officers’ wives complained, when we met for tea, that the market—which was, after the first week, somewhat poorly attended—was of little usefulness. I, however, strongly contested such pessimism, pointing out that the market’s value was as an example to the natives, and as such it was beyond all measurement.

  A still more ambitious innovation was the announcement that the settlement was henceforth to have its own newspaper, the Flinders Island Journal, which—with Mr. Robson’s help—was to be compiled even by the aborigines themselves. The journal was, it was true, much restricted by the island’s lack of a printing press, which required all text to be repetitively copied out by hand by those few natives practised in their letters, and I recall seeing only one issue, whose brief pages were concerned with simple daily occurrences about the island (there being, in truth, little news to relate apart from further deaths among the natives, upon which it was undesirable to dwell). For all this both Louis and I thought the venture a fine demonstration of a new sophistication of settlement life. As I recall, it even won the praise of the Colonial Times in Hobart— Mr. Robson having written to the newspaper to tell of our efforts to bring advancement to the natives—which printed a most favourable account of all his innovations.

  It never occurred to me, naturally, that I might myself become involved in Mr. Robson’s great campaigns, but so it was. This stemmed from the first occasion when I met him to speak to, being one morning when I happened to be passing the site of the new settlement store, just as my husband was showing him how the building work was progressing.

  ‘‘Catherine,’’ Louis called out, delighted. ‘‘Look who is here.’’

  Mr. Robson greeted me with a kindly smile. ‘‘Your husband has been doing a splendid job here.’’

  Louis beamed.

  ‘‘You seem to be changing every inch of our little establishment,’’ I remarked to Mr. Robson in a faintly chiding voice. ‘‘What will we have next? I wonder. A railway? A manufactory?’’

  He laughed with enthusiasm. ‘‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Mrs. Price. From now I will be concerning myself less with building and more with the natives’ learning. Their religious knowledge in particular appears to have been much neglected.’’ Though he did not mention any name I had no doubt it was to his predecessor, Mr. Darling, that he was alluding. ‘‘My intention is that every one of the blacks, including the adults, shall be thoroughly schooled. It will be no easy thing to achieve, of course, but it will be done.’’

  It was Louis who produced the suggestion. ‘‘But you have taught, have you not, Catherine? Perhaps you should help.’’

  It was a thought that had not occurred to me. ‘‘I would hardly call it teaching,’’ I insisted. ‘‘I have instructed the children in their letters and sums.’’

  ‘‘Then you are nothing less than an expert.’’ Mr. Robson’s laugh could be quite infectious. ‘‘The truth is, Mrs. Price, we will be in need of all the help we can find. I am planning to take classes myself’’

  ‘‘Go on, Catherine,’’ Louis coaxed. ‘‘You would not be required to instruct them
in anything difficult.’’

  Mr. Robson gave me a smile. ‘‘You would be greatly valued.’’

  I began a week later. What a daunting moment that was, knowing that I would shortly find myself standing before a crowded class of those strange-looking faces, all awaiting my words. Mr. Robson proved a great comfort. ‘‘Remember,’’ he urged, ‘‘that they are far less acquainted with learning than you are with teaching. Simply start by asking one of them his commandments and you will find all follows from there.’’

  I did just as he suggested and found it most effective advice. Then again, I observed Mr. Robson possessed a quite remarkable understanding of the aborigines, being full of ideas as to how some point of grammar or theology might be explained in simple terms they would comprehend. With his kindly help I soon became accustomed to my new work, and even found I was enjoying myself. After so long spent merely passing time upon this island I suppose I was more than ready for an occupation, and those became times of great hope, there being something about the very process of learning which can instil in all a mood of smiling enthusiasm. The teachers were, it was true, a mixed group—they included Robson’s older son, two of the officers’ wives and also Mr. Smith, while the educated aborigine child, George Vandiemen, also took a few lessons—but we were kept so busily employed that disagreements were rare, and matters remained civil even between Mr. Smith and myself. As for the blacks, though these continued to seem strange to me, I gradually found I lost my earlier nervousness of the creatures.

  Finally there came an evening when, as I was teaching Psalms to a class of children, I saw the door open and, greatly to my surprise, Mr. Robson quietly took a seat at the back, and began observing my poor efforts. By this time autumn had arrived, the nights were long, and I well recall the howling of the wind upon the classroom roof, and the flickering of the oil lamps, as I endeavoured to continue, feeling that my every utterance was foolish and ill chosen. What astonishment I felt when, as my students trooped away, Mr. Robson rose and gently patted me upon the hand, remarking, ‘‘Did I not say you would be greatly valued?’’

  That was a proud moment indeed.

  One of the delights of Mr. Robson’s leadership was that one never did know what might next occur. Thus it was with the aborigines’ names. I had observed for some days that he had been devoting his free moments to what appeared to be a long list, but still I was taken wholly by surprise when he suddenly called all the blacks, and the settlement officers, to gather in the open space in front of the school, where he announced—to the amazement of all—that the natives were to be renamed. It seemed a most bold notion, and as I watched him call the natives up one by one to receive their new appellations—quite in the manner of a general awarding medals to his soldiers—I was full of admiration. I fully understood the significance of his intention. He meant the aborigines to be begun afresh and reborn as civilized, Christian beings.

  As for the names themselves, these were quite charming. Some of the older and more exalted of the natives were rewarded with titles of quaintest grandeur, such as King Alpha, Queen Adelaide or Princess Cleopatra. Others were allotted names of purest romance, from Neptune and Semiramis to Achilles. I observed also that Mr. Robson sometimes indulged himself in delightful artifice as—unbeknown to the blacks them-selves—he made playful reference to some aspect of their character. Thus a little fellow whose expression seemed always stern now became Cato, while a girl who was dreamy and sad was now Ophelia. This was not only humorous in itself, but made the names easy to recall, especially in comparison with those they replaced, that had been so very long and confusing.

  In some cases I was amused to note that a title concealed some clever sting in its tail. Thus the monstrous female, Walyeric, became Mary, and while this might seem innocent enough, I had little doubt as to which murderous monarch was in Mr. Robson’s mind. Her half-caste son, Peevay, who had such a curious round mop of blond hair above his little black face, and who insisted on regarding one with such disconcerting seriousness, was now Cromwell, that most sombre of rulers. His friend Mongana, who seemed always to delight in troublesome questioning, was ingeniously reborn as Voltaire, while Mongana’s mother, Pagerly, who was often in a state of sinister commune with the dreadful Walyeric, was now Boadicea.

  That was a joyous day, and yet it was soon followed by disappointment. Mr. Robson was thorough in his efforts to ensure that the new names would become quickly familiar to everyone, insisting that all teachers and officers henceforth address the natives exclusively by their new titles, and for a time it seemed as if the natives had (with a few exceptions, such as the incorrigible Mary) adopted their new titles happily enough. As weeks passed, however, I became increasingly sure that when they spoke among themselves—using that curious language they had evolved, part English and part native tongues—they secretly continued to address one another by their old, savage appellations. It may seem a small matter, but it distressed me greatly, seeming nothing less than a betrayal of the man, by those whom he had striven so hard to save.

  Looking back, I do believe that moment proved something of a turning point, as with every week and month that followed I found myself growing increasingly troubled with doubts as to the success of our great campaign of instruction. Part of the difficulty lay with the other teachers, as, if truth be told, poor good Mr. Robson had not been blessed with the assistants he deserved. Mr. Smith proved as lazy of purpose as he was unkind of tongue, until Mr. Robson was forced publicly to rebuke him, causing no little resentment. Mr. Robson’s son proved hardly more able, while his wife, who appeared as dissatisfied with her life on Flinders Island as her first dismal stare at its shore had suggested, quite refused to help. As for the two officers’ wives, these seemed of little usefulness, forever loitering about the school—though it was hardly spacious—and distracting Mr. Robson from his work with their fussing.

  The authorities in Hobart proved also a great disappointment. Though the Van Diemen’s Land governor had been quick to declare his support for our efforts, little was shown in the way of tangible assistance, and Mr. Robson’s requests for further books and teachers were met with a succession of excuses. Worse was to come, notably with regard to the business of the seal hunters. These, I should explain, were Europeans of brutal disposition who lived on other islands in the Bass Strait, and many of whom had abducted aborigine women, who they used with abominable cruelty. Some lived close by, and would even visit the settlement to purchase goods from Louis’ store, swaggering and uttering vilest language. Our own blacks had long known that their women were held captive by these fiends and were greatly pleased when Mr. Robson announced that he would rescue them from their fate. He made every effort to achieve this, sending letter after letter to Hobart, and yet, hateful as it is to recall, the colonial government quite refused to assist in the matter, claiming the women had borne so many children to their tormentors that it was too late to remove them. The decision was not merely callous and unjust, but also served to undermine Mr. Robson’s standing with the natives.

  The greatest cause of our difficulties did not, however, lie with white men, but, I regret to say, with the blacks themselves. It may seem harsh and yet I could not help but observe they showed an increasing reluctance to apply themselves to their reformation. There were always a handful, such as the monstrous Mary, who quite refused to attend school classes, but as time passed this number began gradually to increase, almost as if the majority of the blacks had attended only out of curiosity, or boredom, and were now growing tired of this novelty. Even those who continued with their learning would suddenly disappear on some foolish hunting expedition. This made their instruction most difficult, especially in the case of the older ones, whose powers of memory were feebler. How frustrating it was after weeks of practice upon, for instance, the Ten Commandments, to have half a class abruptly vanish, only to return days later, excitably clutching speared wallabies, their commandments all but forgotten.

  There was not one amon
g them, if truth be told, who showed a full and enthusiastic devotion to his studies. George Vandiemen himself, the school’s finest scholar, who could recite his Psalms so well, would often drift into some troubled distractedness of his own, or petulantly complain that he wished to be taught Arithmetic, though he had been told often enough that it was neither useful nor practical for him to learn. His half brother Cromwell was no better. It was true that he showed a talent for English, surprising some with his mastery of odd and difficult words, yet there was a sullenness about him, so that even when he recited his commandments correctly it was hard to believe he was persuaded of what he said.

  Here, indeed, lay the fundamental problem. Though some among the blacks might learn lines of the Scriptures tolerably, they seemed obstinately unable to see the bright light of faith. During Sunday services some would even tie handkerchiefs around their foreheads to hide their eyes, so they might sleep unobserved: this, as the very word of God was being brought to them! It was quite as if they imagined that Christian knowledge had little pertinence to their lives. Sad to say this could hardly have been less true. As time passed, the blacks’ numbers were diminishing at a perilous rate. The outbreaks of disease, which had seemed to slow when Mr. Robson first arrived, had grown more frequent than ever, with several deaths sometimes occurring in a single week. The aborigines, who had comprised some two hundred even in the early days, were now reduced to less than half that number, and their huts, whose crowded conditions had caused Mr. Robson great concern when he first arrived, were now all too sadly sufficient. Little by little the settlement began to acquire an aura of sombre emptiness, only the graveyard remaining busy.