English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘It’s probably nothing, Captain, but there’s a peculiar noise in the cabin. It may seem strange but it sounds almost as if it’s coming from the timbers of the hull.’’

  As soon as I heard those words ‘‘timbers of the hull’’ I smelt trouble. All at once I was regretting I’d thought to push the Sincerity so, and I was imagining casks shaken loose from their stacking, thumping and rasping. ‘‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’’ I told him, as cheerily as I could manage, giving a wave to Brew that I was going below. ‘‘But I’ll have a see.’’

  Down in their cabin the Reverend was sat on his cot reading some theological book, looking far too grand to be troubled by noises, and he hardly paid me a glance, being still in sulks over his mouse. Renshaw, though, had been well caught by the mystery, and was crouching by the wall to listen.

  ‘‘I heard it just a moment ago.’’

  I took my place next to him. The vessel was still jumping pretty wild and I feared I’d hear the casks grating nicely, but there was nothing. I began to hope the whole thing might be nothing more than English windiness.

  ‘‘There it is,’’ Renshaw declared proudly. ‘‘It’s definitely below us, and right by the hull.’’

  Only after some careful listening did I catch it. A curious noise it was besides, being like nothing so much as a faint scratching.

  ‘‘D’you think it could be some kind of tropical beetle that’s devouring the timbers?’’ wondered Potter.

  ‘‘I’d be surprised.’’ I was as puzzled as he was. I didn’t know much about warm water creepers, but the wood was clean as could be, with not a hole. Worms would leave their mark.

  Renshaw laughed. ‘‘It almost sounds as if there’s some great creature down there scratching at his fleas.’’

  I laughed with him, giving out a proper merry cackle, as the terrible thought came to me. ‘‘I’m sure it’s nothing to be troubled over,’’ I told them, as calm as I could manage. ‘‘Probably it’s just caused by the sea flowing past the ship’s side.’’

  ‘‘Difficult currents?’’ asked Potter.

  For a moment, and a bad one it was, I thought he had seen it all, every last bit, but no, he was serious. Truly, there’s no overestimating the foolishness of Englishmen, especially brainy ones like these. There was a moment to breathe careful and be grateful. ‘‘That’s right. Those currents,’’ I coaxed, and they both nodded, tame as kittens.

  After that all I could do was wait as quietly as I could manage. I bided my time through the afternoon, trying not to scare myself with thoughts of beastly yowls suddenly sounding out from the Sincerity’s side. At dinner I made sure the Englishmen didn’t linger by driving them out with dullness, chattering with Brew about how much things cost in Peel City till I was half asleep myself Even then it seemed half an age before they finally went. I waited till I could hear snoring, then set to work. Brew stayed on deck minding the ship, while I took Mylchreest to help, and Kinvig too. So I gave a pull to that certain piece of cord above the door to the pantry, banging a few jars as I did so to hide the noise. Next there was that particular loose panel at the back of the storeroom, and the cables just behind. After that I had Kinvig take his place on the steps to keep watch, just in case any passengers started straying. Finally I swung open the trapdoor beneath the bust of Queen Victoria, took up the lamp and peered in.

  There, sure enough, a dozen yards off was the wombit creature, scrinching up his eyes at the light. He must have tramped down when Mylchreest was snoring, and thought the open door was a handsome new burrow. He’d made a kind of nest for himself all out of tobacco bales, and looked as if he’d even been eating tobacco besides. As for his place, he could hardly have judged it more neatly, as I guessed it must be clean beneath the Reverend’s berth. Startled by the light, he shrank back into his nest, making a rustling sound, scandalous loud. That was enough to have me close the panel again quick.

  It was a tidy little problem. If we left him there it would surely be only a matter of time before he started making some noise that would cause even those dawds of Englishmen to wonder. If we stepped in and tried to catch him, though, there’d be so much din that we might as well just call the passengers into my cabin to take a look for themselves.

  ‘‘I suppose we could try and get him out sometime in the day, when the Englishmen are all on deck,’’ suggested Kinvig.

  It was hardly safe. ‘‘There’d be no certainty they’d stay up there. Especially if the creature turned to screeching and such.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps we should just hang on till we reach Hobart,’’ said Mylchreest. ‘‘It’s not so far now.’’

  That seemed worse still. ‘‘What about the customs? They’re sure to give us a search, while if they hear scratching through the timbers that’ll be the finish of us.’’ Their notions were useful in a way, there being nothing like listening to nonsense to help you know your own mind. ‘‘What we want is a nice quiet spot where we can drop anchor for a day or two and send the Englishmen landwards, like we did at Flinders.’’

  Kinvig was still worrying. ‘‘They won’t like that. Wilson kicked up a mighty fuss at our stopping there.’’

  ‘‘He’ll keep quiet if he thinks the ship might start sinking under him,’’ I told him. ‘‘Potter thinks we’ve got creepers in the timbers. D’you know,

  I think he might just be right after all, and proper perilous creepers they are besides. Yes, to my mind we’d best drop anchor and have a search.’’

  I had Mylchreest bring out the chart, and, spreading this out on the table and having a careful look, I couldn’t help but feel that luck was finally coming our way. There, just a few miles off from our course, was a little harbour, looking sheltered as could be. As for settlements there was none marked for many miles, the spot being stuck away at the end of a large peninsula shaped like a great flailing hand.

  ‘‘That’ll do, nice as nip. I’ll set us a course.’’

  Timothy Renshaw DECEMBER 1857

  AT SOME EARLY HOUR of the morning I was woken by the loud thump of a boat running along the Sincerity’s side, followed by boots stamping on the deck. As if not already enough, this at once inspired Potter and Wilson to clump from their beds and begin noisily pulling on their clothes. I persevered even then, being no slave to curiosity, and reasoning that if it were anything of importance I would find out soon enough, while if it were something terrible—perhaps some band of Tas-manian pirates—I might as well preserve my ignorance as long as possible. I pulled the pillow carefully over my head, so that both ears were covered but I could still breathe freely—this being no easy thing to get exactly right—and had just begun to doze off nicely when the anchor was dropped. There was, in truth, no more agitating thing the Sincerity could conspire to do a poor fellow than this, with its huge clanking roar, causing all to judder and creak, and so, drowsiness being now quite smashed out of me, I resigned myself to rising for the day. A curious scene I found as I emerged onto the deck. A dozen red-coated soldiers were stood about, leaning on their long guns as soldiers will, while their officer was engaged in talking—or more precisely shout-ing—at Captain Kewley. ‘‘I really find that very hard to believe.’’

  Kewley looked far from happy, though he endeavoured to throw off a grin. ‘‘It’s every word of it true, Lieutenant, so it is.’’

  Glancing at the shore, I wondered for a moment if we had reached Hobart, though it was surely too soon. Facing us across a little narrow bay was a settlement, and a considerable one besides. Though it was easily large enough to be a town, still it did not somehow seem quite right, and, looking more carefully, I realized there was hardly a single house, but only what seemed to be dozens of sheds or workshops. In the centre stood a huge stone building with row upon row of large square windows, resembling some textile mill. The whole place, indeed, resembled nothing so much as a kind of military manufacturing town.

  ‘‘Where is this?’’ I asked Kinvig, who was standing just nearby, looking subdued.r />
  ‘‘Port Arthur.’’

  I suppose I should have guessed. I now discerned the soldiers strutting about the shore, and the bands of hunched convicts in their dismal uniforms. I looked with new curiosity upon this place, whose name was so grimly familiar, seeming nothing less than a description of harshness and retribution. Port Arthur: two words that had been usefully employed by scores of mothers on the other side of the earth to threaten misbehaving children.

  Captain Kewley, I now saw, was holding what I saw to be a map of Tasmania. ‘‘Here we are,’’ he declared, pointing at some part of the chart, which was flapping in the breeze. ‘‘See? There’s nothing marked at all.’’

  The officer was unimpressed. ‘‘You mean to say you’ve been setting a course to this?’’

  ‘‘It’s done us well enough till now.’’ Kewley seemed quite put out.

  The officer gave him a diminishing sort of look. ‘‘I think you had better come ashore, so you may explain yourself to the commandant.’’

  That had Wilson started. ‘‘I cannot believe this is really necessary, Lieutenant. May I remind you that this expedition is of the greatest importance, and our time is short.’’

  Captain Kewley beamed. The appeal, however, seemed to have the opposite effect to that intended. ‘‘Very well,’’ declared the officer briefly. ‘‘You may come along too.’’

  I found myself included in this invitation. It was not as if I had done anything wrong, and yet it was hard not to feel a certain apprehension as we were rowed towards the shore of this great engine of punishment, watchful soldiers for company. Though we had not been arrested, nor anything like, we seemed hardly free either, being quite marched along beside the yellow-coloured beach. I could not help but feel some sympathy, indeed, for those miscreants who had found themselves suddenly gripped by the scruff of their necks, and deposited in this terrible place.

  The establishment’s commanding officer was all beard and curled military moustache. ‘‘The fact is that we’re not normally honoured with unexpected visitors,’’ he informed us dryly. ‘‘My curiosity being so greatly aroused, I hope you’ll not object if we conduct a little search of your ship.’’

  Captain Kewley did object. ‘‘But where’s the need? It’s not as if anybody’d try to sneak something into a prison town like this.’’

  The commanding officer gave him a puzzled look. ‘‘What might be brought in is not our concern, so much as what might be taken out. Or rather who.’’ He regarded us with a kind of warning nonchalance. ‘‘The search will only take an hour or two. Unless, of course, something of interest should be found.’’

  Rather than have us pass our time idly waiting, he arranged for the three of us—Kewley being intent on overseeing the Sincerity’s search—to be given a tour of the settlement, under the guidance of a brisk-looking fellow in spectacles named Captain James. I was briefly drawn to the grim prospect, but soon found my curiosity vanquished. The establishment was simply too monstrous. As we passed among the sheds and barracks, I found myself unwillingly glancing upon one terrible sight after another: now a gang of convicts, their looks hardened and even jaunty with hatred, and their ankles marked with black sores where their shackles had bit; next a man quietly engaged in cleaning buckets, his torn shirt revealing a mighty pattern of scars upon his back.

  Matters were not helped by Captain James. He had, judging by his fluent patter, conducted a good number of parties about the settlement, and seemed to be enjoying his task. The details of every building, every process of punishment, appeared to inspire in him the kind of satisfaction that a collector of butterflies might show at the sight of his display of catches, each pinned neatly in its place. ‘‘There is the penitentiary,’’ he declared with comfortable monotony. ‘‘It was converted only recently from being a granary, and is the largest building in Port Arthur, being also built of stone. To the right we can see the triangles, used to secure prisoners during punishment, while behind them…’’

  Curiously enough, my two colleagues of the expedition seemed far less affected by the cruelties all around than I. From time to time Wilson would murmur, ‘‘Such a shame,’’ and other pious sentiments, but mostly he appeared not greatly interested. As for Potter, he seemed to be enjoying himself listening to Captain James’s description with cheerful attention, and frequently offering questions.

  ‘‘Has any attempt been made to study the physical features of the criminals here? Or likewise their origins?’’

  ‘‘Not that I am aware of’’ Captain James preferred to keep to his established chatter. He pointed to a long, low building we were approaching. ‘‘This is the Separate Prison, which is often of interest to visitors.’’

  Potter was not so easily discouraged. ‘‘You may even have noticed some tendencies yourself Are there any particular crimes, perhaps, that are peculiar to Scotsmen? Or Irishmen? Or foreigners perhaps?’’

  ‘‘I fear I am not the one to ask,’’ the captain told him brightly. Having reached a low stone building of elegant design, he opened a door and led the way into a long stone corridor. All was silent except for a curious whimpering, emanating from the furthest end. ‘‘The Separate Prison,’’ our guide explained in a lowered voice, quite as if we had entered a church, ‘‘houses convicts who require further punishment. It is, if you like, a prisoners’ prison. It is a most modern establishment and employs the very latest methods of moral reformation. No physical punishment of any kind is used here.’’

  It was a relief to hear this after all I had seen before. My only puzzle was why every convict did not take refuge in this place, where they might escape the lash.

  ‘‘This has never been a difficulty.’’ Captain James seemed a little surprised by my question. ‘‘In fact the Separate Prison is much feared.’’

  I soon began to understand why. As he led us forward, two officers stepped into view, suddenly and quite silently. A little surprised, I realized that both of them were wearing not shoes but some form of slippers, almost as if they were intending to enjoy some restful Sunday morning. They paused to unlock one of the thick metal doors that lined the corridor and, glancing within, one of them called out, as I was surprised to note, not a name but a number.

  ‘‘Seventeen?’’

  From the cell there emerged a man clothed in a grey uniform, a large brass badge sewn onto the jacket displaying the number by which he had just been addressed. No less curious was the covering he wore over his face, which concealed his features so completely that nothing remained visible but his eyes. These twitched strangely in our direction as he was led past.

  ‘‘He’s being taken out to one of the exercise yards,’’ the captain whispered contentedly. ‘‘There are four of these, and in size they are…’’

  I was beginning to loathe the sound of his voice, which made me think of railway timetables. ‘‘What is the mask for?’’ I interrupted.

  He regarded me with something like pique. ‘‘I was just coming to that, Mr. Renshaw.’’ He turned to Potter, who was now clearly established as his favourite listener. ‘‘The mask prevents prisoners from recognizing one another. The system keeps each man wholly separate from the others’ influence, so that their previous, criminal natures may be gradually erased. As you may have observed, even the men’s names are not used, and they are referred to only by the numbers of their cells. By keeping them always alone and silent in this way, it is ensured that they are exposed to none but improving influences.’’

  It was, in effect, a life of perpetual solitary confinement. After a few weeks here, I imagined, even a beating would seem like welcome socia-bleness.

  ‘‘The convicts are given work to do in their cells so they may learn industry, while the chaplain and schoolmaster visit on occasion to provide morality and learning.’’ Captain James pushed open a heavy door. ‘‘In addition they are each of them brought here five times a week for their religious improvement.’’

  It was like no chapel I had ever seen befo
re. The area of the congregation sloped steeply, in the manner of a surgery theatre, and was divided into row upon row of tiny wooden stalls, each of them just large enough to contain one standing man, and separated from its neighbours by doors.

  ‘‘The stalls ensure that each worshipper can see nobody except for the chaplain, while he has a view of them all,’’ Captain James explained with satisfaction.

  ‘‘How very ingenious.’’ Wilson appeared quite taken with the place, looking with thoughtfulness towards the lectern. ‘‘The preacher must find he has a most attentive congregation.’’

  Potter was more practical. ‘‘Has the system proved successful in reforming the men?’’

  ‘‘That is still too early to say. Some of the prisoners have proved distressingly obdurate.’’

  ‘‘I imagine there have at least been no escapes.’’

  ‘‘There has been one,’’ Captain James admitted, causing surprise to us all. ‘‘It appears it was devised in this very room, and that the prisoners sang their plans to one another during the hymns. They were all captured in the end, of course, while measures have been taken to prevent such a thing from occurring again.’’

  It was curious to think of these men, who had not seen one another’s faces for weeks or months, singing their plot to invisible neighbours. For all the wickedness they may have committed it was hard not to feel sympathy for their wish to escape such remorseless solitude.

  ‘‘How were they punished?’’ wondered Potter.

  ‘‘We have a pair of chambers known as the dumb cells,’’ our guide explained happily. ‘‘Their walls are of great thickness and they have a series of metal doors, so that no light or sound can pass within. A convict can scream and shout for as long as he likes for all the good it will do him. Just a few days there has a remarkable effect on even the hardest of them.’’ He led us back into the corridor, with its sound of faint whimpering.