English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  There was, inevitably, much talk as to the reasons for this decline. The settlement surgeon—a man greatly neglectful of his religious devotions, so that some doubted his Christian convictions—cited purely practical causes, such as the blacks’ lack of exposure to European diseases, and their being restrained in one place when it was in their nature always to be roaming. I, and others too, perceived a greater force at work, however. If the aborigines had only shown greater reverence for the Scriptures I had no doubt that the good Lord would have been moved to protect them from suffering. It might seem unkind, but I could not help but feel that they were reaping the reward for what was, in truth, their own betrayal of Mr. Robson. Had he not risked his own life and health to rescue them from the wilderness? Had he not devoted his every waking hour to their improvement, bringing them new knowledge, and even new names? They had returned his kindness only with indolence and unconcern.

  Poor Mr. Robson was much affected by the natives’ decline, naturally, and with each new death his sadness became a little more marked. In spite of this he never allowed himself to lose his determination. ‘‘If we cannot save them in one way,’’ I recall him confiding in me one terrible day, when two had been taken within only hours of one another, ‘‘then we must endeavour to save them in another.’’

  I understood his meaning only too well. It was soon after this, indeed, that he began his final campaign, which was not so much concerned with the education of the natives as with the need to win them away from their pagan customs. A number of announcements were made in quick succession, including a prohibition upon their occasional nighttime revels of singing and dancing, and also upon their hunting expeditions, which were, in truth, often little more than an excuse to evade the scrutiny of the settlement officers. The blacks were also required to discard the superstitious health charms they wore about their necks, which contained, so I heard, bones of their dead relatives, and could hardly have been more barbarously removed from Christian ways.

  Sadly these noble intentions proved not easy to put into effect. While Mr. Robson had some success with the charms, the hunting expeditions were undertaken with so little warning that they were nearly impossible to prevent. It seemed for a time that he had made progress with the nighttime revels—several times he sternly marched out into the nearby bush and caused one to cease—but before long ashes of the fire and footmarks were discovered merely further distant, beyond earshot of the settlement. Unchanged and unrepentant, the blacks seemed obstinate in their refusal to be saved. So the life of the settlement continued week after week, month after month, though each was marked with sadness.

  Then, one Thursday afternoon, the supply boat arrived, quite as usual, and we found ourselves shaken with news. It had been known for some time that there were plans to establish a new settlement on mainland Australia at Port Phillip Bay, just across the Bass Strait from Flinders Island, and now we learned that Mr. Robson was being considered—and most seriously so—for a position as government protector of the aborigines of this new settlement. If he won the post, as seemed very likely, and he considered it acceptable, which seemed no less so, he would start work there within a few months.

  I was most pleased for him, naturally. Having worked so closely with the man, I believe I understood him as well as any. Why, I would even say he was possessed of a kind of greatness. I considered he amply deserved reward for his great toil. The sad truth was, besides, that in many ways his work on Flinders Island was largely complete, his charges being now so greatly reduced in numbers, after all, that their future was unhappily evident. How much more fitting for him to progress to a new land where there was much still to be done. I was saddened, naturally, for those natives who still remained, and who, I knew, would miss him most dreadfully. They had, I supposed, come to rely on his presence, and to presume upon his gentle kindliness. I had no doubt that they would find great difficulty in letting him go. They must, I considered, endeavour to be strong.

  As for the Europeans of the settlement, the discovery of Robson’s likely departure had, I am afraid to say, a most regrettable effect. The poisonous and malicious atmosphere, that I had thought long banished, soon began to creep back, as I witnessed myself. One late winter’s afternoon, only a few days after the supply vessel had come with its news, I was on my way to the school, intending to prepare my lessons for the next day, when I found myself passing the surgeon and the garden overseer as they stood beside the store, sheltering from the chilly wind.

  ‘‘It’s what he wanted, after all,’’ I overheard the surgeon declare. ‘‘A fine little career he’s won for himself from those blacks.’’

  I stopped. ‘‘For a moment, Doctor,’’ I told him in a warning voice, ‘‘I almost imagined you must be talking of Mr. Robson, but that would hardly be the way to describe a brave man who risked his very life to rescue the aborigines.’’

  The surgeon assumed a derisive look. ‘‘He did well enough from his rescuing, too, as I recall, at five pounds per head.’’

  I could not let pass so wicked an utterance. ‘‘That was honourable payment for noble and perilous work,’’ I told him coldly, ‘‘and it does you no credit to try and belittle a man whose achievements are so much greater than your own.’’ With that I strode on. The incident continued greatly to upset me, however, and when I reached the school, which was empty, as was often the case in these days of dwindling classes, I sat at one of the desks, preparation work lying unheeded before me, and my eyes filled with tears. Thus I remained for I do not know how long. Finally, greatly to my dismay, I heard the door creak open. The arrival, I knew from the sound of his tread, was Mr. Robson. Though I lowered my head in an effort to hide my distress, I regret to say this was to no avail.

  ‘‘Mrs. Price. What is distressing you?’’ he demanded, full of concern.

  I could not tell him. How could I when it was he himself and the poisonous remarks concerning him that were the reason? ‘‘It’s nothing,’’ I insisted, ‘‘I’m quite all right.’’ Ever the gentleman, good Mr. Robson offered to get me some water, but for some reason I cannot explain, this caused me only to become more greatly affected. I rose to my feet. ‘‘I’m sorry. I must go.’’

  ‘‘You still have not told me what is wrong.’’

  I hurried towards the door.

  ‘‘But, Mrs. Price,’’ Mr. Robson called out behind me, ‘‘you do not have your shawl. You cannot go out like that.’’

  I had, in my distress, quite forgotten the garment and yet it seemed somehow too late to turn around. I do believe I hardly cared, such was my upset. Stepping out into the falling dusk, I felt an urgent need to find some quiet place, away from all else, that I might collect my thoughts. I turned towards the sea.

  ‘‘Mrs. Price,’’ I heard Mr. Robson call out behind me, ‘‘your shawl.’’

  I should, I suppose, have stopped, but I simply could not do so. On I strode to the shore, grey waves roaring in the biting wind, until I reached those curious spherical boulders that lie near the jetty, that have red marks upon them, and are so disquieting in their appearance, almost like eyes. Feeling the chill all of a sudden, I found I could go no further. I paused, taking shelter from the breeze beside one of the rocks. Would you believe it, poor, good Mr. Robson had followed me all the way. He hurried to place my shawl about my shoulders.

  ‘‘Mrs. Price, you risk your health. Whatever is the matter?’’

  What could I say? ‘‘After all the hard work we have done here, all the hopes we have had, I feel …’’ I reached for words. ‘‘So very sad.’’

  He regarded me keenly. ‘‘You must not despair, Mrs. Price. Our efforts have not been in vain. The situation of the blacks may be wretched indeed, but think how much worse it could be. Imagine them still on Van Diemen’s Land, beyond the reach of Christian teaching, harried by wicked men. Even if each and every one of them dies here, at least he will have had a chance to pass to the bosom of the Lord.’’

  His words of reassurance b
rought, I am afraid, only more tears. ‘‘I feel that I have failed.’’

  ‘‘You must not permit yourself to think any such a thing. You have triumphed,’’ he declared with a brave smile. ‘‘Why, if anyone should feel blame it is me, as commandant.’’

  It was a most unexpected remark. I gave him a searching look. ‘‘Do you really think that?’’

  For a moment his confidence seemed to weaken, and a look of doubt flickered across his face. ‘‘It has been hard at times…’’

  My only wish was to comfort this noble, troubled soul. It was this, nothing else, that caused me to place my arms upon his shoulders, and then kiss him gently upon his cheek, just as a sister would to her distressed brother. Nothing more. How cruel men can be. How wickedly can the innocent be made to seem otherwise. All at once I became aware of a faint tapping sound, slow and even, like a woodpecker striking at a tree. Glancing about, I saw that, some distance back along the shore, was Mr. Smith, knocking his pipe against one of the huge boulders as he stared silently out to sea.

  Weeks passed. Terrible weeks. There is no disproving scandal generally suspected, however misplaced it may be. Awful were the looks, and of these the very worst were those of Mr. Robson’s wife. I had no idea that the human eye could express such malignancy. I did once try to speak to her, and tell her of the terrible misunderstanding that had occurred, but it was to no avail: she simply threw me an icy glance and turned upon her heels. Most distressing of all, I suspected that she and her husband were no longer on speaking terms with one another. It was a terrible burden to think that I might unwittingly have been the cause of such unhappiness. As for Louis, he quite refused to listen to my assurances, treating me with hateful coldness. He demanded, of course, that I cease my teaching at the school forthwith. As if I would ever have thought of continuing.

  All the while Mr. Robson was taken with a kind of terrible awkwardness towards me, and wherever possible he attempted to avoid my presence altogether. I could not blame him. Occasionally, when I walked through the settlement I would catch a glimpse of him hurrying away, his noble face sadly troubled. My great fear, of course, was that the unhappy incident might somehow place in jeopardy his chance of taking up the post at Port Phillip Bay. It was a most dreadful thought that he might be denied this opportunity—that he so richly deserved—and would be forced instead to remain with us on Flinders Island.

  A month passed, and all the while we were expecting Mr. Robson to be summoned to Hobart to discuss the new position. When the supply vessel finally arrived, however, it brought quite different news. Thus it was that we learned we were to receive a visit by the governor of Van Diemen’s Land.

  Peevay 1838

  IT WAS BAD to watch Fat Robson climb out of his boat that day when he came to Flinders Island, so smiling and adoring himself, but a worse thing was seeing who he brought with him. Tayaleah. I thought my nearly brother was vanished forever, and great good riddance, and suddenly here he was once again. Worse, he was speaking num talk quick like some white man—much better than me—so Fat Robson and others smiled with surprise and gave him cherishings for his cleverness. That was some provocation, as it seemed the little shit was always intending to be better than me, like it was his secret design. So it was pleasing when he ran to Mother and got her grievous blow. Yes, I pondered, how do you like that?

  By and by he became Robson’s best blackfellow, and if there was any new thing to do, he was doing it. He did CRAFTS and he was FARMER. Then he did GIVING THINGS FOR COINS, whose name was MARKET, and got a hat called STRAW. When MARKET fin-ished—which it did very soon—he did NEWSPAPER, whose name was FLINDERS ISLAND JOURNAL, and which stopped quicker even than MARKET. Mostly, though, he was TEACHER. I supposed he must be pleased at this fine greatness but he never looked so, and mostly he was just sad, like he was some great puzzle to confuse. One moment he was hungry for Fat Robson’s cherishings, like these were everything he wanted in the world, but then he got fretful and would try to go back to Mother once again, though all she gave him was more hatings. So then he would be craving at Robson once more, and became like the sea, going up and down, up and down, never stopping anywhere.

  Fat Robson was always shouting and walking hither and thither to get new things. There was new STORE, and new house for god who was called god, whose name was CHAPEL, that was made from BRICKS. Later we got new huts that were made from bricks too, and were small and dark with our ones all crowded within and coughing in the night. Also there were new school lessons for knowing about GOD, plenty of them. Mostly, though, everything was just the same, as us Palawa died just like we did before. Those were heinous times, I do recollect, as we got smaller, like days after summer, till even those who said Robson was our friend started pondering that he never could save us like he promised. Robson said yes, he was our friend, and he looked sad when we died, but he would not let us burn dead ones, which was the correct way, as he said burying was what GOD liked best. That made me hate him more.

  By and by our thinking was all sickness and dying. Sometimes it was hard to stay hoping, and not to surmise that we would all be dead soon so nothing mattered anymore. I even grew fearful that I might forget to try and endure, which always was my special skill. When this happened I would just think of my own intent, and I would say it in my head, like one of Robson’s prayers that he made us know.

  LEARN WHITE MEN’s shit

  Get off this place

  Fight them and fight them

  FOR EVER AND EVER

  How we would fight them I didn’t know, and I hardly troubled either, as just getting away was enough for this time. I was already trying, yes, writing letters to GOVERNOR, who was the chief white scut, in his place, which was called HOBART. I needed help to make these correct and so I went to the only num I ever liked on Flinders Island, whose name was SURGEON JONES, who was kindly and never tried to make us do anything. He told me about writing YOUR EXCELLENCY and helped with spellings, and so I wrote one letter every time there was a boat. Nothing happened, no, but still I did persist, ever and again. Then, finally, one morning the boat came like usual, and though there was no letter for me as usual, Surgeon Jones came hurrying to my hut to say that GOVERNOR, who was a new one, was coming to Flinders Island to visit us. That was interesting, and great good fortune, I did surmise, as I could talk to him, and tell him how he must let us go back to the world, while he must listen to me if I was stood there before him.

  Days passed and white men were all hurrying hither and thither to make everything clean for governor, and making tables, plenty of them, for us all to eat governor’s dinner. Then one morning I was sitting by the shore, near big stones like eyeballs, when a surprise happened. This was a favourite place, as I could look at the jetty and dream us all getting on a ship to go home to the world, and so I stayed there, watching birds sitting in the sky, and waves come following, following onto the sand, and as I watched I saw a small boat sailing, one white man inside. By and by he came to the jetty, tied up his boat and walked right past me, going towards the settlement. He was some ugly one, I did observe, smelling of salt and mutton bird and white man’s stink, with big scar down one cheek, and no hair, so his head was like some pink stone. Still he seemed no great puzzle to confound, as strange ones like him did arrive sometimes, to get flour and tea and so from the store.

  Surely enough, by and by I saw him coming back, carrying two sacks that were heavy so they pulled his arms long. Then, just when he was getting near, a most interesting thing happened. First I heard running, and I knew it was angry running just from the feet. Looking round, I saw Mother, coming fast and holding a waddy stick, and her face was hateful like I hardly saw before, even in her long-before fighting days. White man saw also, and he gave her a strangest look, so mystified, then dropped those sacks very quick. This was clever, yes, as when Mother swung her stick to dash his head with a grievous blow he could cringe, and so she did miss her killing. Next he got that waddy stick too, and so both were holding it and
fighting. White scut was stronger, pushing her down so he got her stick, which was worrisome, so I jumped up now to try and save her. But rather than hit her dead, like I surmised, instead he threw that waddy away, then took his sacks and ran away, fast as he could, getting into his boat and pulling at oars to be gone.

  Mother was too old for fighting really. She sat there looking angry and rubbing her side where it hurt from falling. ‘‘Who was that?’’ I asked. But she just got up, never saying a word, and walked away.

  That was some puzzle to confound, yes, as it was years since she tried to kill anybody, though the answer came soon enough. Later, when I walked back to the settlement, my friend Mongana, who was sitting by the huts, looked up and gave me a hating stare, just like he did in those long-ago small days when he was my childhood foe.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ I asked.

  His answer was angry like spitting. ‘‘My mother said she saw your father, walking by the store.’’ Then he looked shamed, as if he did not know what to say. ‘‘He shouldn’t come here.’’

  So, here, on some usual morning just like any other, I saw Father, who I never beheld before. It seemed strange that I never even guessed him, but just thought THERE’S ANOTHER UGLY WHITE SCUT. But then how could I guess him? When I dreamed meeting him, which I still did sometimes, I made him a fine fellow with a kindly face and hair, rather than some piss-poor one smelling of salt and mutton bird and white man’s stink. Still it was interesting, as it meant I had one still. Perhaps I would meet him again, I did ponder, if he came back. Now I wasn’t sure if I wanted this or not.