English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘I’m not playing spy for anyone,’’ he declared in a dreary tone of voice, quite as if his refusal formed some instance of fine virtue.

  Further attempts at persuasion being in vain, I was left with no choice but to pursue the two alone. They had, by now, quite vanished from sight, but it seemed easy enough to follow them, there being only one path I could see: an old track greatly overgrown with plants. After a few hundred yards I saw a number of brick buildings ahead, and found myself in the midst of the abandoned settlement. It seemed mostly to have been a poor sort of place. At its centre lay a line of dwellings, ill constructed and resembling slum houses, and I supposed that, if this had been a refuge for aborigines as Potter claimed, these must have formed their habitations. I glanced inside one, but found nothing but bird droppings and a few old rags. There was no sign of the doctor’s ‘‘artifacts.’’

  Of greater interest to me was the building opposite. This was of a good size and stolidly built, its walls and roof standing proud and well preserved against the ravages of time and the elements. Only the door gave a sense of abandonment, swinging loosely on its hinges, so it banged monotonously in the wind. As soon as I stepped within I guessed this must have been the settlement chapel, being possessed of a lightness and dignity that formed a mighty contrast with the grim dwellings opposite. Knowing that the aborigines of Tasmania had been greatly eclipsed, it was pleasing to reflect that, whatever their sufferings may have been, some had found comfort in the bright light of faith.

  It seemed more than coincidence that, as I stepped out into the daylight once again, still gladdened by this happy thought, quite the first thing I looked upon was two pairs of footsteps, clearly distinguishable in the soft muddy ground. There could be no doubt that they were recently made. Much pleased, I began to follow, doing so with care, as I had no wish to reveal myself before I had been able to observe my quarry. The steps led away from the settlement and into woodland beyond. Here, however, a thin carpet of leaves fallen from the silvery trees made them increasingly difficult to discern, obliging me to resort to guesswork, as I looked for gaps in the trees that might denote a track. I found, before long, that the trail had eluded me, but still I struggled onwards. By now I was feeling the warmth of the day, being further inconvenienced by an infuriating cloud of flies and mosquitoes that insisted on buzzing about my head, paying no heed to frequent swings I directed at them with my hands.

  It was these same tiresome creatures, indeed, that were greatly the cause of the trouble that was to ensue. I was walking midway along a slope of soft ground, even a steep slope, though the fact seemed of no great consequence. As I swung round once again to fend off the flying insects, however, all at once I felt my footing slip, and found myself suddenly sliding. My attempts to clutch at vegetation proved in vain and, realizing I was passing close by a large tree, it seemed only natural to strike out with my leg to try and halt my progress. This manoeuvre proved most effective, but was not without cost. My foot, which was now shoeless, did not so much as strike the tree as seemed to sink into it, becoming, as I realized, lost in some form of hollow. Distressing though this was, it was nothing as compared to what next followed. Just as, unhappily aware of new bruises, I began endeavouring to pick myself up and pull my leg free, I suddenly felt, somewhere close to my big toe, a terrible, searing jab of pain.

  Though I was barely arrived in Tasmania, I was, from my reading, amply acquainted with the fearsome and deadly creatures that were to be found so commonly all across that land, there being, as it seemed, hardly a spider or shellfish or snake that lacked the power to kill. I had not the slightest doubt that I had just suffered a venomous attack, and that, even at that very moment, poison was entering my frail body. Why, I could even feel a terrible numbness begin, as it spread, so swiftly, through my foot, my leg, and into my torso. My heart thumping wildly, I pulled my foot free from the tree stump and peered in, but it was too dark to see any sign of my attacker. Hearing a faint rustling sound, I drew back, having no wish to be afflicted afresh. I tried to get to my feet, only for a wave of dizziness to pass through me, causing me to slump upon the ground, where I struggled to keep from losing consciousness.

  It was at this most dreadful of moments, as I wrestled with death itself, that, greatly to my own surprise, I felt myself suddenly filled with profound peace. Thus it was that, lying there beside the tree, I began drifting into some kind of wonderment, a state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, as I became aware of what I can only describe as a visionary dream. I found myself looking upon a bank of angels, their little wings flapping so prettily, and each giving me a warmest smile as they waved their pudgy hands. Then, as I watched entranced, I observed that they then seemed suddenly to grow saddened, their faces turning to sombre frowns.

  Following their gaze, I now saw my own dear loyal wife, sitting in a darkened room, her face lost in silent tears. An opened letter lay by her side. Now the scene changed once again. What was this strange land that I glimpsed next, with its walls of shining stone, its wondrous greenery? I was, I realized, looking upon Eden! This time, however, I heard no voices from the ferns and flowers urging me onwards, and a cold wind blew across this forgotten spot. Worse was to follow. All at once I found myself looking upon a mighty lecture hall, its auditorium filled with innocent faces, eager for guidance. There upon the rostrum sat none other but my own enemies in the war of letters: a row of atheist geologists, the face of each filled with terrible triumph.

  I felt myself come to, quite as if I had been in a state of unconsciousness. For a moment I remained beside the tree stump, quietly praying and, in some way I cannot even begin to describe, I simply knew, that my prayers were heard. Once again I struggled to regain my feet. This time, miraculously, I felt myself succeed, quite as if some great hand had come to my aid. I took a short step. I paused. I took another. I felt pain. In addition to my wound, the sole of my shoeless foot was exposed to every sharp stone and stinging plant upon the way. Still I pressed onwards. As I hobbled slowly forth, I felt darkness creeping upon me, reaching out with a terrible coaxing. I fought the darkness back. Little by little I advanced by yards, then more. I began to hope that I might at least find strength enough to reach the settlement, where I might be discovered, and given a Christian burial, rather than remain lost, perhaps to be devoured by beasts. It seemed as if an age were passing, but finally, surely enough, I discerned the buildings of the settlement become visible through the trees. Now, wildly, I permitted my hopes to grow greater still, even to the jetty, where others would be found. I persevered. Despair threatened anew, and anew I cast despair away. With each further yard gained I prayed thanks, and I prayed for strength to endure the next. Then, suddenly and wonderfully, I found myself stumbling into clear sight of the sea.

  Timothy Renshaw DECEMBER 1857

  THERE WAS little enough to do on that shore, while the sun was shining strong, making it warm in a windy way, and after a time, watching the waves and the seabirds, I felt yawning creep upon me. I had a lie-down on the jetty but this was worse than useless, what with the Manxmen forever tramping past with water casks, or kicking up a mighty fuss over the wombat that Brew caught—a foolish-looking creature with vacant eyes—and finally I took myself away to the beach. This was all pebbles, but they were smooth enough, and dry too, so I dug away, till I had made a fine hollow and a kind of pillow too. Stones are awkward, and there was a good deal of adjusting needed, but in the end I had them just about right, and was comfortable so long as I resisted the urge to try and roll over. I was just nodding off nicely, in fact, when I heard footsteps, and suddenly Wilson was shouting fit to wake the dead that he had been bitten by a snake. He looked in a poor way, I must admit. One shoe was gone, causing him to hobble badly, while his trouser leg was torn and the rest of him was spotted with dirt and mud. His face was pale as could be.

  ‘‘I have not long to live,’’ he faltered.

  In a curious way it was all the more shocking because I had always thoug
ht him such a bothersome old ninny. There is, I suppose, nothing like a fellow strolling up saying he is about to die to make you feel you should have liked him.

  ‘‘Where’s the doctor?’’

  ‘‘I cannot say.’’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘‘I fear, anyway, that it is already far too late. Just take me back to the ship, so I may find peace.’’

  It seemed a simple enough request, and yet it proved hardly so. I helped Wilson to the jetty, where Kewley was directing his men, only to find that, though he seemed dismayed by this terrible news, the Captain was hardly very sympathetic.

  ‘‘But we can’t go now,’’ he complained. ‘‘We ’re still bringing in the water.’’

  It seemed a most uncharitable remark, and quite unjustified, however irksome the vicar might have been to him in the past. Wilson took it very ill.

  ‘‘I fear I shall not last much longer,’’ he moaned, with an accusing look.

  Thus reproached the Captain agreed to have us rowed back, if with some reluctance. Nor was this the end of his insensibility. As we were in the midst of our journey, and I was endeavouring to help the stricken man lie comfortably, he insisted on suddenly clambering past us both to the front of the boat, so he might hail whoever was still aboard the Sincerity, bellowing out with increasing impatience until, finally, the steward, Mylchreest, called out a reply. Even when we came alongside the vessel he made no effort to help carry Wilson aboard, but hurried up himself, mumbling something about finding medicine, though he produced nothing beyond a few grubby rags, that he described—most opti-mistically—as bandages.

  Though I offered to take the stricken churchman down to his cabin, he insisted on remaining on deck, where, as he put it, he might, ‘‘gaze upon heaven.’’ I did what little I could, carrying up a few pillows to ease his discomfort, and also a pen and paper, which he wanted so he might scribble a few final instructions for the expedition, and soon he was propped up by the mainmast, quite in the manner of Nelson at Trafalgar. By then his face seemed to have regained a little of its colour, and I remarked on this, hoping that it might give him encouragement.

  ‘‘The darkness may have drawn back a little,’’ he murmured with a brave smile, ‘‘but I fear it will soon return. It is nothing less than a miracle that I have been preserved this long. I can only believe that I may have been looked upon kindly.’’

  I felt there must be something that could be done, and began to rack my brains for any recollection of what could overcome the effects of snakebites. ‘‘I have heard that the flesh around the wound should be cut away.’’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘‘I fear the poison has already passed within.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you should suck it out?’’ suggested the cook, Quayle.

  The vicar seemed to look more kindly upon this plan. ‘‘I suppose it might be worth attempting,’’ he declared faintly, moping his brow with a handkerchief

  The foot had to be cleaned first, being so dirty that I could not so much as see the wound, so I had Quayle fill up a bucket with fresh water and find a soft piece of cloth. I set to work most carefully, but Wilson— though his look was purest bravery—would wince and utter a kind of squeal at my every dabbing. Matters were not helped by distractions elsewhere upon the deck. The Captain, though he had ordered everyone to keep quiet, so that the churchman might be given some peace, then insisted on noisily rebuking the steward, Mylchreest, in a mixture of English and Manx, for, as it seemed, having been asleep when he should have been keeping watch. Hardly had he finished his denunciation when he began all over again, now bawling at the man over the wombat that had been caught, which had, it seemed, butted its way through the woodwork of the boat in which it had been secured, and had vanished, presumably to swim back to the shore.

  ‘‘I did hear him thumping,’’ Mylchreest admitted, ‘‘but how could I know he’d smash it so?’’

  ‘‘If darkness comes upon me,’’ declared the vicar, looking irked by the incessant racket, ‘‘will you promise me two things?’’

  ‘‘Certainly.’’ By now I had dirt all cleaned away and could see his wounds clearly. I was surprised, in fact, that they were not worse, being little more than a series of tiny cuts, caused, I supposed, by the stones he had walked upon. His foot would have suffered easily, being curiously soft, almost like a woman’s. The bite itself seemed very small. Then again, I supposed, a snake would have only small teeth.

  ‘‘Firstly, I would like you to seek out my wife, and give her this letter.’’

  I was about to attempt sucking the poison from the wound when one of the Manxmen called out, ‘‘There on the jetty. It’s the doctor and his servant.’’

  It seemed only wise to wait for the surgeon. The boat was sent at once, and before long Potter was climbing onto the deck, his servant struggling behind him. ‘‘A snakebite?’’ the doctor declared with some interest. ‘‘I cannot say it is a field much known to me, but I will do my best.’’ He took my place by Wilson’s foot. ‘‘Do you have any feeling in the limb?’’

  ‘‘Very little.’’

  I found myself somewhat surprised by the answer, seeing as he had winced and wailed at my every touch.

  ‘‘Let us try.’’ With this the doctor began a series of pinches, first to the knee, next to the calf and ankle and finally to the foot itself prompting, with each, a faint yelp from his patient. Potter seemed perplexed. ‘‘Did you see what kind of snake it was?’’

  ‘‘I did not see it at all,’’ his patient answered a little impatiently. ‘‘The creature was concealed in a tree stump. For all I know it might have been some venomous spider. It is nothing less than a miracle that I have endured so long.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’ Potter now examined the foot. ‘‘There’s no swelling I can see, apart from a few minor bruises. As for the wound itself…’’ He raised the limb so he might look more easily. ‘‘It hardly looks like the work of fangs.’’

  By now all the crew were gathered round.

  ‘‘What then?’’ I asked.

  Potter pondered a moment. ‘‘A rodent of some kind?’’ He peered at the foot once more. ‘‘Perhaps some form of mouse.’’

  Someone among the ship’s crew let out a faint cackle. I would have joined him, I dare say, had I not felt more than a little resentment at having been induced to show such sympathy. What with the man’s wailing and cries for pillows I quite felt as if I had been cheated. Why, I had very nearly had to suck out the imagined poison.

  Wilson, needless to say, insisted that Potter was entirely mistaken.

  ‘‘The pain was such that it can only have been venom,’’ he declared grandly. ‘‘A man knows well enough when his life is slipping from him.’’ He kept to his line all that day. For several hours, as the ship was made ready, the anchor was weighed and we resumed our journey, he remained slumped on his pillows by the mainmast, while he then bullied the carpenter into making him a stick, with which he raised himself up— with some drama—and began hobbling about, casting reproachful looks. By the next afternoon, however, I observed he allowed himself to walk unaided once again. He kept quiet enough about spiders and snakes after that, as I recall.

  Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley DECEMBER 1857

  AFTER FLINDERS ISLAND the breeze kept steady northerly, pushing us along well enough, and we put a sight on Van Diemen’s Land, or Tasmania, or whatever it was now calling itself just that same evening. A bleak sort of spot it looked, with a long, flat mountain like a wall. The Englishmen all came up on deck to have a good stare, Dr. Potter all jokes and pointing, while the Reverend said hardly a word, being still all in sulks, I supposed, on account of the mauling he’d had from his mouse. I was grateful to the creature, as it happened, as it was the first cheer we’d had since half the crew jumped ship back at Port Phillip. Hardly an hour went by without some chattering in Manx about lonnags—this being the proper shipboard term for mice—especially if the Reverend should be on deck, and it could be done just in front of
his own nose.

  Early the next morning we rounded a point on the northeastern edge of Tasmania and from there we had a clear run southwards. The breeze was as good as any we’d had since leaving Maldon, keeping light but steady, and coming from nearly straight behind us, nicely warmed by all that Australia it had blown over, and, seeing as the boys could do with a distraction, I decided I might as well give us a see of what the vessel could do. The topsails and mainsails were already spread, and the jibs and such too, but that still left a good deal more, and I had them put out the royals and skysails, which had her leaping nicely. Even then I felt there was more give in her, and, feeling in a mood for venturing, I told the boys to start roving some studdingsails as well. Studdingsails are awkward creatures at the best of times, perching to either side of all the rest like paupers clinging on to a mail coach for a ride, and, the ship jumping along already at a mighty pace, there were nervous looks all round as, one by one, they and their booms were hauled aloft and put into place. Though Brew and Kinvig never said a word, they both looked as if they were expecting sails to go bursting into streamers and yards to snap like matchwood any moment. I’d judged the breeze well enough, though, and while the spars were straining forward almost like trees in a gale, everything held. The crew even let out a little cheer.

  It was the first time we’d had the Sincerity under full sail and she looked a fine sight. Snub-nosed though she was, she quite jumped from wave to wave, almost as if she might fly away completely, while the sea roared beneath her bows and washed over her fo’c’sle like a proper river. I had two men at the wheel just to hold her steady, and even then one of them was nearly flung sprawling half across the deck. The wind keeping even, I kept her so through the day and that night too, and we made better speed than any dirty steamship. The next morning the breeze began to back round westerly a scran, so I thought it best to go more carefully, bringing down the studdingsails. It was just as the boys were doing this, in fact, that Potter stepped up on deck with his questioning look.