English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘Very good.’’ He turned next to Ophelia. ‘‘Who made the sky?’’

  ‘‘God did.’’

  ‘‘Omega, who made the trees?’’

  ‘‘God did.’’

  Now Mr. Robson was striding about among the pupils themselves, catching their eyes as he went. There was no denying he was a most impressive teacher. ‘‘Napoleon, who made the potatoes in the fields?’’

  ‘‘God did.’’

  ‘‘Leander, who made the sun?’’

  ‘‘God did.’’

  ‘‘Betsy, who made you?’’

  ‘‘God did.’’

  Now he came to a youth in the back row with a somewhat disagreeable expression. ‘‘Voltaire, who made me?’’

  ‘‘The devil.’’

  It was a most unhappy moment. Some of Voltaire’s older classmates even laughed, and Mr. Robson tried to do so, though he looked quite wounded. It was impossible to know, of course, if the youth had deliberately chosen his answer with the purpose of causing offence—his classmates had, after all, produced some most unlikely statements—and yet, in view of the pattern of repetitive response that Mr. Robson had so cleverly contrived, the correct reply had seemed only too obvious. Whatever the case, the remark had a discouraging effect upon the lesson. Mr. Robson did his best to resume his instruction, cheerfully testing his little charges upon their knowledge of the Lord’s Prayer, but he was never able to recapture his earlier fluency.

  ‘‘It is a great shame, Your Excellency,’’ he confided when the class finally ended, ‘‘that our two ablest pupils should be absent. You would, I may assure you, be quite astonished by the skills of these young men.’’

  ‘‘These are the two that have vanished?’’ enquired my wife. ‘‘Where can they have got to? I wonder.’’

  ‘‘Away playing, I imagine. I’m confident they will be discovered in time for our little banquet.’’

  I had been greatly looking forward to this event, which sounded as if it would prove most diverting. Mr. Robson told us how something similar had been held three years before, to celebrate his own arrival as commandant, and he recounted how the blacks had displayed a most delightful exuberance throughout: a prospect that was all the more welcome as, until now, they had seemed such a sombre race. It was to be held outside, in the Natives’ Square, which, by the time our tour was finally completed, was already filled with simple tables. These were arranged in the shape of a long, narrow horseshoe, and had been decorated with jugs of spring flowers, giving a delightful pleasance to the scene. The sun was now low in the sky, and as the aborigines appeared, one or two carrying hoes or other farming implements, they were caught in striking silhouette against the reddening sky, making me think, after all, of some rural English scene. As we took our places, my spirits, which had been subdued, began to revive. All those of seniority, including myself and my wife and the Robsons, took our places at the upper end of the table, with the two strands of the horseshoe trailing away before us, and I could not help but remark to my wife how this resembled the arrangement of High Table at an Oxford college.

  ‘‘Let us hope,’’ she replied, in typical fashion, ‘‘that the food also compares.’’

  Sadly this proved hardly the case. The surly convict labourers who were acting as our waiters distributed dishes of a kind of stew, and while every effort had been made to give this a pleasing appearance, with little sprigs of parsley resting to one side, it was evident that the main ingredients were overripe potatoes and very hardy mutton. Even the blacks seemed little pleased with their fare and, somewhat to my surprise, I observed a number of them consumed only a portion of their meal before rising from their places and quietly slipping away.

  My wife remarked on this curiosity. ‘‘D’you think something has displeased them?’’

  Mr. Robson seemed as surprised by their departure as was she. ‘‘Milton? Leonidas?’’ he called out in a cheery voice. ‘‘Where are you going?’’

  They appeared not to have heard, and continued to stride away towards the trees. ‘‘The call of nature, most probably,’’ Mr. Robson observed, laughing heartily at this simplest of explanations. ‘‘I’m sure that they’ll be back shortly.’’

  They were not, as it proved. As the light faded and candles were brought—giving the scene a most charming atmosphere—the number of empty places around the horseshoe seemed rather to increase. Mr. Robson, however, seemed more concerned with other matters. Several times I saw him glance towards the paths that led into the square, and finally he rose to his feet.

  ‘‘I hope you’ll excuse me, but I see my son has returned. He’s been helping the soldiers look for the two I told you of’’

  By then our plates had been collected and before us lay bowls of an ominously stolid-looking pudding that gave off a faint odour of flour and molasses. It was just as I was about to try this dish when I felt a faint pressure upon my shoulder, as someone made their way behind me. This seemed hardly surprising—convict waiters and others had been pushing back and forth throughout the evening—but what was unusual was the folded piece of paper that I now saw had appeared on my lap. I glanced round, but whoever was responsible had already vanished into the dark. Curious, I held the note close to a candle to read.

  Your Excellency,

  I am most sorry to intrude upon you in this way, but there is something that you must, imperatively, be told, for your own good. I shall be waiting behind the native huts.

  More than a little curious, I passed the document to my wife. She was most definite. ‘‘You must go.’’

  ‘‘D’you think so? I would not want to be a party to some sort of rumourmongering.’’

  My wife smiled. She has, in truth, something of a weakness for intrigue. ‘‘It is your duty to be informed about all aspects of the colony, is it not?’’

  This was true enough, I supposed. It could be easily enough done, besides, and so, making my excuses, I rose from my place and, a candle to light my way, I ventured forth in the direction of the Robsons’ house, as if I were intending to visit the privy. The ground behind the natives’ huts was much overgrown, and from the direction of a tangle of branches and shadows I heard a rustling, then a whisper.

  ‘‘Your Excellency, thank you so much for coming. I should not have troubled you, I know.’’

  As I stepped closer, my candle illuminated the face of one of those Mr. Robson had introduced us to that morning: a good-looking woman in her way, with dark hair and a troubled expression. I believe she was the wife of the settlement storekeeper, though the man’s name, and likeness, had quite escaped my memory. I had never imagined the mysterious informant would be female and I found myself somewhat taken aback, my concern being far from diminished when, almost at once, she broke into crying. I quite regretted having followed my wife’s advice, indeed having no wish to become embroiled in some scene of hysteria.

  ‘‘I’m very sorry, Your Excellency,’’ she exclaimed, attempting to control herself ‘‘I did not mean to grow upset in this way. I wanted only to speak to you about Mr. Robson. You see, there is something you simply must know about him. He is a good man in so many ways, certainly, and yet it would be most unwise of you to permit him to take up his new post at Port Phillip.’’

  ‘‘Whyever not?’’

  ‘‘He has…’’ Words deserted her for a moment. ‘‘He has been unfaithful to his wife. He has done so, what is more, with the wife of one of the settlement officers. I cannot tell you who this is, but you must believe me, it is so.’’

  It was a most serious allegation. I hardly knew what to say. ‘‘You have proof of this?’’

  ‘‘Proof enough to have no doubts.’’ She gave me a pleading look. ‘‘You will not send him to Port Phillip?’’

  ‘‘I will consider the matter most carefully.’’

  My reply seemed enough for the woman, and, without another word, she slipped away into the darkness.

  Mr. Robson had seemed a forthright and well-presente
d individual, and seemed a most unlikely candidate as a philanderer. Was it not possible, I wondered, that the whole matter was merely some form of misunderstanding? The storekeeper’s wife had, after all, declined to tell me the identity of the mysterious woman whom he had supposedly scandalized. Whatever the case, it was a most awkward matter, and one on which I was more than curious to learn my wife’s opinion. In the event, this proved, for the moment, impossible to obtain. As I returned to the table, I found Mr. Robson waiting for me.

  ‘‘Fortune has smiled upon us, Your Excellency. I am glad to report that my son has found one of our errant pupils. May I introduce you to Mr. Cromwell.’’

  There before the table, illuminated by one of the lamps, stood a curious-looking young man. He was a half-caste, and while his face was as dark as those of his fellows, his hair was palest blond. Despite the commandant’s introduction he seemed hardly very prepossessing, and I observed his shirt was dirty and torn, and was quite blackened along one sleeve, quite as if he had strayed too near a fire.

  Mr. Robson gave him a cheerfully chiding look. ‘‘Now that you have finally deigned to join us, Cromwell, I hope you will oblige the governor by telling him your Lord’s Prayer.’’

  On some previous occasion I had chanced upon an illustrated piece in a scientific book which described what were termed ‘‘adulterers’ ears,’’ and if I allowed myself to be distracted from the young man’s utterances this was only because I was engaged in trying to recall the salient features of these, and to determine whether these were possessed by Mr. Robson. I had cast several careful glances towards the fellow, only to find myself no more decided than before, when I realized that Cromwell was not repeating the Lord’s Prayer, as he had been instructed, but instead was addressing my own self

  ‘‘We need your help, Governor, I do request you.’’ His delivery was slow and careful, leading me to suspect he had prepared his words in advance, quite in the manner of a formal speech. ‘‘We are dying here and if you will not save us from this woeful ruination we will soon all be gone.’’

  For an instant I wondered if the incident had been deliberately contrived, but Mr. Robson seemed no less surprised than I. ‘‘This is hardly the moment for such things, Cromwell,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘The governor is waiting to hear your Lord’s Prayer.’’

  It was as if the half-caste had not heard. ‘‘I request you let us go back to Van Diemen’s Land, as it is the only way to save us from this dying.’’ He regarded me expectantly. ‘‘Please, Governor, will you do so?’’

  I hardly knew what to say. It was most awkward, and I could not help but feel annoyed with Robson for permitting such a thing to occur. ‘‘You must know that everything is being done to help you,’’ I assured him in a kindly voice. ‘‘Mr. Robson has been doing all in his power to preserve your people.’’

  Now he stepped up to the table, fixing us with a stare. ‘‘You must let us go back,’’ he demanded, in a tone of voice that seemed almost threatening. ‘‘If you leave us here you will be killing us.’’

  I confess that I found myself wondering if we were safe, or if he might suddenly pick up some piece of cutlery and launch himself upon us in violent attack. At that instant I believe I began to understand the fears that had been voiced to me many times during our journey across Van Diemen’s Land, and remained from those terrible years that were termed the Black War, when fellows such as this Cromwell, whether provoked or not, had devoted themselves to cruelest violence. I even cast a glance to Mr. Robson, wondering if I should require him to call soldiers.

  Fortunately this proved unnecessary, the alarm being only shortlived. Help came to us, indeed, from a wholly unexpected source. All of a sudden a heavily built aboriginal woman marched briskly along the centre of the horseshoe of tables. Where she had been hiding herself I could not have said, as I had no recollection of having seen her until then, but she showed the keenest awareness of our predicament. Striding up to the young man Cromwell, another fearsome black matron close behind her, she took him by his shoulder and seemed to quite spin him about, delivering such a mighty slap to his face that he was knocked down. This done, she turned to all of us as we sat watching in wonder, and threw us a most curious look, almost defiant, as if to say, ‘‘There, it is finished with!’’ and in a moment she and her black shadow were gone.

  ‘‘You may leave us now,’’ Mr. Robson told Cromwell in a warning voice.

  The young man regarded us for a moment, but his troublemaking seemed quite beaten from him. He shook his head unhappily and marched away.

  ‘‘Who was that woman?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘The boy’s mother.’’

  ‘‘An admirably firm parent she seemed.’’

  Mr. Robson laughed a little uneasily. ‘‘Quite so, Your Excellency.’’

  My wife was concerned with other matters. ‘‘D’you think something has caught fire?’’ she wondered. ‘‘I’m sure I can smell smoke.’’

  She was, as ever, quite correct. We were informed soon afterwards that a bush fire had broken out somewhere to the north of the settlement, though what its cause might have been remained a mystery, as it was in an area that was rarely frequented. It was this, as it happened, that served to bring my official duties on the settlement to a close. Though the fire was still some distance away, Mr. Robson was concerned for the settlement’s safety, and the service in the chapel had to be abandoned. I myself joined the party sent to inspect the blaze, and found it a most impressive sight: the flames burned so brightly as to quite dispel the darkness, filling the night air with floating cinders, while some of the trees seemed quite to explode as they ignited. Fortunately the wind swung round to southwards before long, removing all immediate threat, and by morning I was pleased to see that the fire had largely extinguished itself.

  It was only as the schooner began its journey back to Launceston, and my wife and myself rested in the privacy of our cabin, that I finally had a chance to tell her of the curious claim made by the storekeeper’s wife with regard to Mr. Robson. Rather to my surprise she considered the accusation was likely to be well founded. ‘‘Whyever not?’’ she said simply.

  ‘‘But that’s dreadful,’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘I can hardly ignore such a thing. A man of such character cannot possibly be permitted to take up an important post in the new settlement.’’

  She gave me a most curious smile. ‘‘Can he not? I would say it is the very thing for him.’’

  It was not the first time I had found myself quite mystified by her words. ‘‘What on earth do you mean, my dear?’’

  ‘‘If Mr. Robson is at Port Phillip, then his actions shall no longer be any responsibility of the governor of Van Diemen’s Land.’’

  Peevay

  1838–47

  THAT DAY after governor went away, soldiers found Tayaleah on the ground beneath his tree, broken by falling. Fat scut Robson was woeful about this, though he was lying again, even now. When he saw Tayaleah’s secret place in the branches he said he fell just from mischance, but I knew it never was so. I knew he jumped wilfully. Ever since he came to Flinders Island on Robson’s boat I saw Tayaleah was like some fellow who is snared between his awake and his dreamings, and is pulled by both, stronger and stronger, never knowing what is true, till he is torn like paper. Tear got too big, so he jumped. I never did think I would be woeful at Tayaleah dying but yes, it was so. I suppose now he was finished I could not feel hateful, and so he was just my brother and my only one. Besides, perhaps I got accustomed to the little shit by and by. Mother was transported with lamentation, of course, forgetting she did hate him lately. Probably she would detest me anyway, because of fire that burned all her killing spears—which she guessed I made—but Tayaleah’s getting dead made her even worse. So it was that from that day she never would speak to me at all, even for hating, and if I came near she got up and walked away, cold like winter wind. Worse, she and Pagerly made others hate me too, telling them I’d spoiled their last chance for going a
way from this dying place. Even my fine friend Mongana forsook me then, which was bad, I do recall, as I was too alone. So I stayed in a hut that was empty, just spending my time, watching light peer through holes in the roof, or rain drip, tap tap tap, and hearing my own thinkings in my head, too loud.

  Soon after then Fat Robson went away to his fine new place, that was called PORT PHILLIP, and though he talked at us of his sad and tender feelings deep inside his breast at leaving us behind, I did observe that his walk was happy, so I knew this was just more hateful, heinous, piss-poor lying. One good thing of his going was Palawa who liked him before could see now that he was just some low, cheating provocation, like I always told. Still it made no difference, as Mother told everyone I was white men’s friend.

  Days passed too slowly after that, so it was almost like when you’ve got some heinous pain and moments won’t move but sit still like some big stone. Those weeks and months were worst, and it seemed as if they never would stop, so they are woeful to recollect, even now. I still wrote letters to governor in Hobart by and by, for every boat, but I only got one back, and that was short, just saying my desire was not possible, with no reason why. That was some hardship to endure, yes, as I did hope governor heard my words to him that night, so I could be a fine hero after all.

  Summer came and was gone, then another. Huts got older and emptier, and it seemed this island was all I ever did know, as walking hither and thither in the world with Mother’s tribe was so long ago that it felt as if it never happened to me but to some other fellow. By and by Mongana and Pagerly and others got tired of hating me, which was pleasing, and I could sleep in their hut once more. Mother never forgot, though, and if I went near her she would give me cold-wind looks and turn away, which was heinous. By then I stopped growing taller, as there was no child left in me anymore. I was strong, too, so I would be a good warrior in any spearing war except that they were all finished now. Being grown seemed just some foolishness here, yes, as there was nothing to do with it except sit and wait and push time to go on a little further, or ponder how long I would endure before I got sick like others. Deaths went on, you see, and though these were less often this was only because we were fewer left to die. One day Mongana died, which was terrible. His mother, Pagerly, wailed for days and I wailed with her.