English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘What is that crying?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘That will be one of the lunatics.’’ A rare frown passed across the captain’s face. ‘‘Really they shouldn’t be here at all, as they quite spoil the silence, but I suppose they must be housed somewhere. They have grown so greatly in numbers of late.’’

  ‘‘Where are they from?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘As it happens, quite a goodly proportion were formerly convicts of the Separate Prison.’’ Captain James led us along the corridor towards the whimpering sound, which I now realized was accompanied by a number of faint scratchings, clickings and murmurings, all muffled by the thick metal doors. ‘‘Sometimes they are noisier even than this. It really is a great shame.’’

  All at once the vicar, who had been looking through one of the peepholes in the cell doors, uttered a kind of delighted laugh. ‘‘Renshaw, do come and look.’’

  It was the first time he had seemed so cheerful since the business of the mouse bite and, curious, I peered in as he urged. In a corner of the cell sat a thickset man with the most intense and staring eyes, though he seemed to be regarding nothing but the empty wall directly opposite. As I watched, he reached out with his hand and, without warning, slapped the plaster beside him, as if some bothersome insect were there—though I had seen none—then resuming his perfect stillness. It was not this, however, that was most noticeable about the man.

  ‘‘Dr. Potter,’’ called out Wilson, ‘‘I do believe we have found your long-lost twin.’’

  He was quite right. For all the man’s dark-coloured skin and black, lank hair, the likeness he bore to the surgeon was little less than remarkable: his face was of the same shape, while he held himself in the same somewhat stooped way. The stubble on his chin seemed to mimic the doctor’s beard, and even in his fixed stare there was a curious resemblance of expression.

  Potter was far from taken with the discovery. ‘‘He looks nothing at all like me,’’ he insisted crossly.

  Wilson would not let him go so easily. ‘‘Who is this man?’’

  ‘‘He is known as Black O’Donnell,’’ Captain James told him in his usual monotone. ‘‘He has, as I recall, quite unusual origins, being part Irish and part native Maori. He was held in the separate system for some time before being declared insane.’’

  ‘‘What were his crimes?’’

  ‘‘I would have to examine the records to be sure, but I believe he bludgeoned his father and uncle almost to death.’’

  The vicar smirked delightedly. ‘‘You must admit, Doctor, that there is a strong likeness. Are you sure he is not some forgotten cousin?’’

  Potter regarded him with coolness. ‘‘If you will only look carefully, Vicar, you will realize there is no real likeness at all, but merely a superficial similarity, or trick of the eye. Besides, I have not a single Irish relative, let alone any among Maoris.’’

  A glint came into Wilson’s eye. ‘‘Of course, it is possible to be misled as to one’s forebears.’’

  It was a most poisonous remark, and all the more so for the innocent way in which it was said: if he had spat it out with feeling I believe it would almost have sounded kinder. For a moment I quite wondered if Potter might strike out at the man, but instead he simply turned away, breathing somewhat heavily. Having, as it seemed, regained control of himself he then turned to regard his persecutor afresh.

  ‘‘It would, I think, be altogether more useful to examine the matter from a scientific approach, rather than waste one’s time with foolish half-observation.’’ He stepped back with determination towards the man’s cell. ‘‘If you will permit me, Vicar, I will provide you with a little study of this man’s cranial features. Afterwards I will do the same for my own self and’’—a thoughtful look passed across his face—‘‘also you yourself Vicar.’’

  I was anticipating some form of extended insult to the churchman—a prospect which, I will admit, I regarded with some curiosity—but it was not to be. Potter applied his eye to the peephole for some time, then declared in an irritated voice, ‘‘Where has he gone?’’

  ‘‘I think,’’ said Captain James quickly, ‘‘that you would be wise to step back from the door.’’

  ‘‘Whyever should I?’’ the doctor demanded crossly, peering still into the cell.

  The answer, as it happened, was only too near at hand. Potter jumped back with a howl, clutching at his eye. ‘‘He jabbed me with his finger.’’

  Captain James hurried across to help him. ‘‘He’ll get the dumb cells for that, lunatic or no,’’ our guide insisted, full of apology.

  From the cell I heard another slow slap upon the wall. I could only suppose that Black O’Donnell had grown weary of being so discussed by strangers. Nor, in truth, could I blame him.

  Captain James insisted that Dr. Potter visit the prison hospital but, fortunately, a brief inspection of his eye was enough to confirm that no lasting injury had been caused, though he was provided with a piratical eye patch. It was then that, to my relief, a messenger brought us news that the search of the Sincerity was now complete, the vessel was preparing to depart, and so our tour was at an end.

  ‘‘I must say I found it a most interesting visit,’’ declared the vicar in a goading voice, as we walked back beside the little yellow beach. Potter scowled from behind his eye patch. If the spirits of one became raised, then those of the other would immediately fall, quite as if they were joined, like the poles of a seesaw. As we stood on the shore, waiting for the Sincerity’s boat, I found myself wondering if it was usual for expeditions of discovery to suffer such poisonous clashes, caused perhaps by the confinement of space, or the nature of the personalities drawn to such ventures. Had Captain Cook been grumpy and complaintive? Had Columbus found constant fault with his Spaniards’ table manners? Mutinies seemed suddenly comprehensible to me, and I was surprised, indeed, that they did not occur all the time.

  ‘‘What do they think they are doing?’’ complained Potter angrily, discharging a little of his discontent. ‘‘They must have seen us by now.’’

  It was true that we had been waiting some little time, though several crewmen were clearly visible upon the deck and should have noticed us waving and calling out.

  ‘‘Hallo there!’’ called out Potter once again.

  It was from another quarter that help came. A skiff containing several soldiers had, as we waited, been passing back and forth between the vessel and the shore—I supposed to discourage convicts from trying to swim their way to liberty—and its commander now took up our cause, hailing the Sincerity in the strongest terms. This proved encouragement enough, and in a moment some of the Manxmen clambered into the ship’s boat and were rowing, if unhurriedly, in our direction.

  ‘‘Why on earth didn’t you come before?’’ demanded Potter when they reached the shore.

  ‘‘Ah, but we didn’t see you,’’ chief mate Brew replied, in that peculiarly Manx fashion, at once evasive and yet somehow confiding, as if one were being entrusted with lies. As we took our places and set off the rowers could hardly have contrived to dip the oars into the water more sluggishly, as if they were not endeavouring to propel us so much as gently stroke the depths.

  ‘‘I’ll go up first and give you a hand,’’ offered Brew as we reached the ship’s side, though he did not help us so much as obstruct with his fussing. When I finally clambered past him onto the deck, I at once became aware of a most curious din rising up from belowdecks, as if some violent game of chase were being played in the cabins.

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  Brew shrugged. ‘‘Must be the Captain looking for beetles, like you wanted.’’

  It seemed hardly the sound for such an activity. Before I could consider the matter further, however, the noise grew suddenly louder and, greatly to my surprise, there leapt onto the deck a wombat—just like the one that had been caught upon Flinders Island—hotly pursued by Captain Kewley and several of the crewmen. They struggled to catch the animal, though
this proved by no means easy, as, in spite of his short legs, the creature was quite ingenious at eluding his pursuers, now suddenly changing his direction, now dodging beneath the keel of one of the boats. Just when it appeared he was finally trapped he crashed his way between two of the Manxmen and, uttering a strange grunting sound, hurled himself over the ship’s side. As we hurried by the rail, he could be seen paddling patiently towards an emptier part of the shore.

  ‘‘Wherever did it come from?’’ demanded Potter.

  ‘‘The creature?’’ asked the Captain slowly, as if he might have been referring to something else entirely. ‘‘That I wouldn’t know.’’ He turned away, ordering the crew to begin raising the anchor.

  ‘‘But you must have seen,’’ I insisted.

  ‘‘Ah, he’ll have been hiding himself somewhere,’’ suggested Brew thoughtfully. ‘‘Probably our checking for the beetles woke him up.’’

  ‘‘It seems strange that the search party never found him,’’ observed Potter.

  Kewley simply shrugged. ‘‘That’s creatures for you.’’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Superintendent Eldridge of the Oyster Cove Aboriginal Settlement

  to Gerald Denton, Governor of Tasmania SEPTEMBER 1857

  Your Excellency,

  As a humble servant of your government I hope I may offer you my own small welcome to Her Majesty’s Colony of Tasmania. Might I say that your reputation as a man of ability and fairness spreads before you.

  I write to you from the aboriginal settlement at Oyster Cove, of which I am happy to find myself superintendent. In the short time since you arrived from England you will doubtless have been too occupied with matters of government to apprise yourself of our little establishment and I hope I may take this opportunity to acquaint you with it, and also to make one or two small suggestions with regard to its future. The Oyster Cove settlement was founded nearly ten years ago, and for eight of these I have had the honour of serving as its commander, having previously held the post of quartermaster to the Hobart barracks. The settlement was established to house the surviving remnant of the island’s aboriginal blacks, who had lately been brought back from Flinders Island in the Bass Straits. At that time, a decade ago, the number of those remaining was almost fifty but, most regrettably, as the years have passed, the unfortunates have, little by little, been taken from us. Even this last winter three more, Princess Cleopatra, Diogenes and Columbus, passed away. A fourth, Cromwell, who is half-caste, having lately been granted permission to move to a cottage of his own, the total number of aborigines dwelling here is presently reduced to eleven, of whom eight are females and three are males, all of them being comparatively advanced in years.

  It is in consideration of this unhappy circumstance that I wish to make a

  request to your excellency. It is, in my humble belief, nothing less than essential that this establishment be moved, and without delay, to some more commodious place, if only for the good of the poor blacks. Oyster Cove was never a well-chosen site, in truth, being greatly subject to damp, so that even during summer months the aborigines are often to be found crouching close about their fire wearing every layer of clothing they possess. I have suffered greatly myself. Of no less concern is the settlement’s isolation. The track from Hobart is a poor one and can seem long indeed, especially in the winter, when hardly a soul thinks to visit. This remoteness has also allowed the poor blacks to form easy prey to criminal whites, who—despite my every effort to drive them away—loiter in the vicinity, trying to tempt the natives into exchanging their meagre possessions for liquor (a state of affairs that has obliged me to place repeated requests for further blankets).

  My suggestion is that the settlement be moved to Hobart. The town’s inhabitants would not need fear such a development, as, even aside from the gentleness of their natures, the blacks are far too few and infirm to pose any danger. They could all of them be accommodated in one of the larger Hobart town houses, while the vicinity of Battery Point would seem particularly well suited, being admirably quiet, and possessing delightful views of the river. Such a change of location would make easier the bringing of supplies of food and blankets—allowing savings to the public purse—while it would be also helpful with regard to my own duties to be within easy reach of Hobart.

  If such an arrangement were not thought possible I hope Your Excellency might consider a request of my own, namely that I might be assigned to some other form of service within the colony. Mr. Willis, the storekeeper, having retired from the settlement last year, I am presently the only European still remaining—a situation that can be dispiriting—and, proud as I am of my work at Oyster Cove, I feel that eight years is sufficient time in this place. I would be most content to return to my post as quartermaster for the Hobart barracks, while I would even, such is my zeal to be of usefulness to the colonial government, be willing to consider a position junior to that I held before.

  There are some in Hobart, I am sad to report, who may attempt to sway Your Excellency’s mind against myself, recounting tales concerning a few stores that were thought lost from the barracks. Such reports, Your Excellency should know, are wholly false, having never been proved in any way, as you may discover yourself from the records. I urge you to avert your gaze from the

  malicious claims of men who have, for reasons ever unknown to me, long made it their business to try and blacken my own good name. If I may be so bold as to offer Your Excellency advice, indeed, it would be that there is no society on earth more inclined to jealousy and slander than that of a remote island colony, and that Your Excellency should take the greatest care with regard to what he chooses to believe.

  I hope you may consider these requests carefully, for the sake of the poor blacks.

  Once again I wish you every good fortune as our new governor.

  Your humble servant,

  Superintendent Eldridge

  Pagerly DECEMBER 1857

  ONE EARLY MORNING I was woken by a shout outside the hut, too short, as if something stopped it. Others didn’t hear and just kept sleeping but I was curious. Going out, I saw day was reaching out from over Bruny Island like big yellow hands, making light so I could see Walyeric was fallen down, very still. I could guess she was getting new wood for fire as some logs were on the ground just beside. I took her head and her eyes were watching, just a little, so I knew she wasn’t dead, which was my great fear, though she looked so bad. Her face was angry with hurt and her breaths were fast as if she wanted air too much. But as we stayed so she did get better by and by, breaths going slower, and she telling that hurt in her chest was getting small now.

  Later that morning she was well again and even went swimming in the sea for muttonfish, and got some too. Still I did think about her getting so crook, and after a time I went to her.

  ‘‘Walyeric, I think you must go and visit Peevay. You must give him your forgivings.’’

  She always hated being told she must do anything. ‘‘Why should I?’’

  There was no use being gentle with Walyeric, as she only noticed fighting. That was her way. ‘‘It’s bad to go hating your own child so. What if you die? D’you want him to think you hate him always?’’

  For a moment her look went thoughtful and I had hope, but only for that moment. ‘‘I’m not going to his white man’s house with all that white man’s shit.’’

  She was right about his house, yes, as I saw it, and he had every num thing, just like Superintendent Eldridge’s hut. There were table and stools, fireplace and mantelpiece, and also candles, teapot and shelves with a book. Even his clothes were so, like frock coat and shoes and tall hat sitting on the table. A strange thing, though, was that the more num things he had, the less like any white man he got. His hair, which was yellow before, was just grey now, so he might just be any Palawa getting old. Also he got more hateful at white men all the while, so now he was more raging in his talk even than his mother. Then again she hardly cared so much about them anymore, just l
iving more quietly like a fine old lady. I suppose she did kill them when she could, which was pleasing for her, while he never did. Besides, when you get to being some old rotten-bones it’s harder to trouble anymore with hatings you had.

  Another thing that made Peevay so cross at num was his new house. He never meant to have it, you see, as his wish was to get a fine big place for us all. So many letters he sent to white men that he made us sign, saying we must get land, plenty of it, and also convict white men to grow us food, like other white men got, which he said they must give us after all their cheating hatefulness. Then we would be wondrous fine fellows, so he told. Peevay always was clever with his writing and I supposed he might get anything. In the end, though, all white men gave was that small hut, just for him, with no land and no convict whites either. He was so angry that he said he wouldn’t live there. In the end he did, though, so he could go to some place nearby cutting up whale fish and earn white men’s coins, as he said money would let him trouble white men more cleverly, till we got our due.

  ‘‘I’ll get that place for you, so I will,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll make them give it to us.’’

  Sometimes I thought he was like his mother after all. You see, they both never would stop. I think that was why it was hard to make them be kindly to the other. Yes, they were like two rocks stuck in mud that you cannot push together, and when you try they get stuck deeper. Still I must think of some way before it is too late. I cannot abide them getting trapped in this hating for ever and ever.

  Mrs. Gerald Denton, Wife of the Governor of Tasmania SEPTEMBER–DECEMBER 1857

  (Excerpt from On Distant Shores: Recollections of a Colonial Governor’s Wife, Chapter 27: ‘‘A Christmas to Remember’’)