English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  During one bright springtime of my earliest years I formed a little association of playmates dedicated to the preservation of fledgling birds that had fallen accidentally from their nests. Though our childish efforts proved more wishful than effective, sad to say, the sentiment that inspired them has, I now realize, remained with me ever since, this being a deepest sympathy for those whom life has treated unkindly. It is simply outside my nature to remain unmoved by tales of the wretched of this world, whether they be little children lost in poverty, frail grandparents neglected by their ungrateful progeny or helpless animals suffering maltreatment by a cruel master. In consequence it was no doubt inevitable that, upon coming to this distant colony of Tasmania, I would find myself drawn to the lamentable story of that island’s aboriginal natives.

  I was aware even before we arrived at Hobart that these has endured a dreadful decline, though I knew few details. Once we had settled at Government House my curiosity grew and I began asking about the matter, first of our housekeeper, Mrs. Murray, and then of some of my new lady friends, the wives of Gerald’s officers. To my surprise I found my questions were met with reluctance, even evasion, quite as if it were thought in poor taste to discuss the subject. My interest was not quenched, however, but grew greater, and I next asked Gerald. What shock I felt when he told me that a mere dozen of the poor creatures remained still alive. It seemed that disease and past violence by escaped convicts had taken every one of their fellows, while these few survivors were so advanced in years that there could be no hope of their race enduring.

  Greatly moved by this terrible discovery, I tried to think of ways a little solace might be brought to these unfortunates in these their final days. One notion proved especially appealing: to pay a visit to their settlement and bring them gifts. Dear Gerald was also most taken with the thought, though he felt that, for the moment, his duties were too onerous to allow him the time required for such an expedition, the aboriginal establishment being a twenty-mile journey from Hobart, on poorest roads. It was only a few weeks later, however, that he proposed we should hold a social gathering at Government House for Christmas, so we might become further acquainted with those of note within the colony. All at once I became aware of a most delightful possibility.

  ‘‘We can also invite the poor aborigines!’’

  Gerald, enthusiastic though he was at the suggestion, felt concern that the blacks might become upset by the commotion of such a grand occasion, being accustomed to a remote and tranquil existence. He was further worried that one among their number might make mischief. This fellow, I should explain, was a half-caste aborigine by the name of Cromwell, being a notorious maker of trouble, who had learned to mimic the ways of an Englishman just well enough to be a perfect nuisance. (Gerald gave a most amusing description of the fellow, strutting about town in an ill-fitting frock coat and a top hat, though his face was black as coals.) It seemed the man’s ambition was to lead a life of aristocratic leisure, and to this end he was forever sending whining letters to officers of the government demanding he be given tracts of land, and even convicts to act as his servants. As Gerald pointed out, there could hardly have been a greater contrast between such a fellow, who endeavoured to use his fellows’ misfortune to exact gain for himself (though he was hardly even of their kind), and the true aborigines, who showed such a touching resignation as to their lamentable fate.

  ‘‘The fact is we can hardly invite the others without him, as they insist on regarding him as being one of their number, in spite of his mixed blood,’’ Gerald considered sadly. ‘‘Yet to invite such a fellow to a formal social gathering would, I fear, be to ask for trouble.’’

  An idea occurred to me. ‘‘What if we arranged for the aborigines to be set apart from the rest of the festivities? That, surely, would answer all our difficulties? They would not be alarmed by the throng, while this Cromwell would have no opportunity to cause a scene.’’

  Gerald was doubtful still, but with my own warm encouragement he eventually assented. Delighted, I dispatched an invitation that same day to the superintendent of aboriginal settlement, a Mr. Eldridge (who Gerald told me was a man of tainted past). I added a further request to Eldridge asking if he might ask his blacks to bring with them objects of their own manufacture, such as bead necklaces, wooden figures or spears, which they might be willing to part with in exchange for simple gifts. My hope, I should explain, was to assemble a small, yet perhaps not unimportant collection of memorabilia of this vanishing race. I could quite imagine the sitting room of our London house in some future time, its walls displaying spears and throwing sticks, and a crowd of savage figurines hunched upon the mantelpiece, forming a delightful and also most touching reminder of our time spent upon this faraway shore.

  Within a few days a reply arrived from Mr. Eldridge, who, to my delight, reported that he and his blacks would gladly attend our gathering. Less welcome was the letter of acceptance from the half-caste Cromwell, which arrived shortly afterwards, and was written in a most peculiar style, using long words most strangely, and seemed only too suggestive of a disordered mind. By this time I was already preoccupied with preparations for the coming event, which proved no small matter. The question of food was especially difficult, as it was my dear wish to have each of our many guests take tea, while I had quite set my heart on offering them the same fare that would be found at Christmastime in England. The southern reversal of the seasons made this far from easy, I soon discovered, especially with regard to cakes. There were no plums for plum pudding, nor pears or apples, let alone chestnuts. It was quite as if one were required to devise a harvest festival in an English June.

  My troubles did not end there. There was next the matter of a tree— none of the native varieties looking or smelling quite right—while I found it nearly impossible to discover suitable decorations in the Hobart shops. Hardly had I succeeded in arranging a group of choristers to sing carols when I struck new calamity with regard to casting the Nativity drama, as so many of the island’s younger persons had left for the Victoria gold rush that it proved nigh on impossible to discover a baby—at least of good family—to play the infant Jesus. When it came to the other roles I found my problems were exactly reversed, as I found that a good part of Hobart society had a weakness for theatrical drama, so any decision I made was likely to cause great disappointment in some quarter. I was obliged, indeed, to refer several times to Gerald, so I might attempt to avoid unwittingly making dangerous enemies for Her Majesty’s colonial government!

  As days passed, however, problems were overcome and arrangements made. I had the hallway of the house redecorated, banishing the gloomy hues of our predecessors, and all was given a most thorough cleansing. I then began attending to the garden. I had just chosen a corner where our black guests might be placed—I would have the potted plants moved from outside the stables to provide a screen from the rest of the gathering—when there occurred to me a most delightful idea. I could arrange to have their likenesses taken. It was a notion, I realized at once, as pleasing as it was valuable, for the preservation—at least in mem-ory—of this most unhappy of races. If the results were satisfactory they would certainly earn a prominent place in our London house.

  I began to make enquiries that same afternoon and soon discovered the name of the professional I sought.

  The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson

  DECEMBER 1857

  WE WERE ARRIVED! After so many months of discomforts and worries, of struggles and privations, we had finally reached our journey’s end. What joy I felt as the Sincerity crept gently up the estuary of the Derwent River and there before us lay Hobart town, cheerily lodged beneath the frowning massif of Mount Wellington. Since we had left Port Arthur I had every hour been expecting Potter to demand we drop anchor at some deserted rock or cove, so he might cause us further delay, but, to my relief, he had remained quiet. I could only suppose the Black O’Donnell incident had served to dampen his spirits. If so I hoped the effect would prove of long dura
tion.

  The sight of our destination had a most cheering effect upon all aboard the Sincerity. The Manxmen grinned and sang as they went about their final tasks aloft, reducing sail that we might proceed slowly towards the port, and Renshaw showed rare animation, quite hanging over the ship’s rail to look upon the shore. Even the doctor displayed something like courtesy—a quality I had hardly seen in him till now—and for a brief moment I almost wondered if I had judged the man a little harshly. As for my own self what excitement I felt as I gazed upon this land that had so long filled my thoughts. The dour peak of Mount Wellington suggested some little-known region of Scotland, but the scent of vegetation drifting across the water seemed exotically unfamiliar, and rich with promise. It was no doubt merest fancy and yet, as I listened to the humming of the wind, playing its strange tunes in the ship’s ropes, I almost believed I could hear the faint murmuring of voices, like distant angels, whispering their greetings across the miles of wilderness: ‘‘Welcome, sweet vicar, welcome.’’

  Hobart did not tarry long in making itself known to us. Hardly had the Sincerity been towed to her berth in the harbour—an elegant arrangement, with grand stone warehouses lining the quays—when there stepped onto the deck a genial-looking man in a straw hat, who introduced himself as a reporter for one of the island’s newspapers, the Colonial Times, and explained he was seeking information for the shipping announcements. Captain Kewley treated the fellow with some coolness but I saw no need for such reserve, considering we had been presented with a most useful opportunity. Thanks to Jonah Childs’s efforts our arrival was already expected in some quarters—including even the governor himself—but still I felt it might be of no small interest also to other, less exalted members of the local population. Thus I endeavoured to explain a little about our expedition to the reporter. I was pleased to observe he showed the greatest interest, quite plying me with questions, and eagerly scribbling my replies in his notebook. I went in search of lodgings with a sense of good work promptly done.

  My enthusiasm, I regret to say, did not endure long. The next morning I purchased a copy of the Colonial Times only to discover that, behind his friendly demeanour, the reporter was nothing less than a Judas. Alongside the shipping column he had concocted a short article describing our venture, while the tone of this was, I regret to say, wilfully spiteful. He contested my assertion that the Garden of Eden was to be found in Tasmania, though, rather than present his arguments in a manful fashion, he instead chose to treat the matter with a contemtible face-tiousness. Much of the piece, indeed, consisted of other biblical events that he suggested might also be ascribed to the antipodes, all chosen for their absurdity, such as that the Israelites had endured their captivity in Port Arthur, and had been led by Moses to freedom between the parted waters of Sydney harbour.

  It was not long, however, before my spirits were raised once more. The next day the three of us called at Government House (there seeming little point in trying to discourage Potter from attending), where, I am happy to report, we were received with utmost graciousness by His Excellency Governor Denton and his charming wife. The governor was a most cultured man, of good family, who showed the greatest enthusiasm for our venture, and made no reference to the Colonial Times. He was kind enough to invite us all to a social gathering that he and his wife were holding just before Christmas, and provided me with the names of various tradesmen whom he felt might be of usefulness with regard to the final arrangements for the expedition.

  The more I set to work on these preparations, the more evident it became that the ugly cynicism of journalism was not reflected elsewhere in Hobart society. Everybody I spoke to seemed greatly intrigued, indeed, by the thought that their remote island home was of great biblical significance, and wherever I went I found myself the subject of curiosity. Before long a little stream of visitors began to call at our lodging house, including leading tradesmen and shop owners, all eager to express their interest in our venture and to discover if we had need of the goods they sold.

  Then again, the more I saw of this little town, the more I was surprised by its unexpected sophistication. It was hard to believe that the first settlers had arrived here barely half a century ago, as it was already possessed of a most genteel ambience, recalling to mind some sleepy Sussex seaside town that has perhaps seen better days. The streets were quiet and the inhabitants pleasingly courteous, being often in their middle age, as many of the younger generation had ventured away to Victoria to try and make their fortunes from the gold rush. A few were inclined a little to gloominess, it was true, and I heard many complaints that trade was poor, especially with regard to the island’s whaling industry (it seemed that these foolish creatures, which had lately thronged about Tasmania’s shores, had taken it upon themselves simply to vanish away). In the main, however, the Hobartians proved quite as delightful as their town. How pleasing it was to find a place, though it lay on the remotest side of the earth, where everything—from inns and shops to the inhabitants’ speech, even to the paintwork of coaches—was unmistakably English. Better still, this was Englishness of a charmingly old-fashioned kind, that quite took me back to the days of my own youth, before the railways sent everyone rushing so. How preferable it was to Melbourne, which was so filled with restless clamour and greed. Melbourne had seemed hardly English at all except in name, being quite how I would imagine some brash new settlement of North America.

  I wasted no time but quickly set to work to make us ready for the mighty task ahead. My first concern was the choosing of our route, and this was easily decided. I had considered having the Sincerity ferry us directly to the western coast, but this would have entailed sailing against the prevailing winds, which might waste weeks of valuable time, and so I concluded that the best approach was by land. I questioned the traders who called at our lodgings, then set about examining the latest maps of the colony, and though the western area of these were absent of any but the vaguest features, the tale they told was amply clear. One of the four rivers that I had identified as being mentioned in Genesis was the Der-went (aboriginal name Ghe Pyrrenne: Euphrates), the very waterway that flowed past Hobart. What could be simpler! If we followed this as far as its source we must eventually find ourselves looking upon Eden.

  Arranging the practicalities of the venture proved altogether more troublesome, while matters were not helped by the fact that I received almost no assistance from my two fellow members of the expedition. Attempting to rouse Renshaw from his slothfulness wasted more time than it saved, while Potter was hardly ever to be seen. I tried leaving him notes, detailing any simple task which I had not time enough to attend to myself—such as arranging the removal of the mules’ dung—but it was to little avail. Even the Manxmen were uselessness itself. Several times I visited the ship to request that some item from our stores be brought to the lodging house, only to find that Captain Kewley, first mate Brew and second mate Kinvig were all of them away. Finally, losing patience, I browbeat the giant, China Clucas, to tell me where they were hiding, and, with reluctance, he revealed that they were meeting a tidal waiter of the customs and excise by the name of Quine in one of the local taverns. I was a little puzzled as to why Kewley should wish to spend time with an officer of the customs, whose work should have been completed long before, but all soon became clear. Entering the inn, with some distaste, I found all of them, including Quine—a little weaselly man who stood entirely upon one leg, the other tapping about the ground in a kind of secret dance—were speaking not in English but Manx. I was not impressed. While I had no objection to Sincerity’s officers reminiscing about their faraway homeland, this seemed no excuse for their neglecting their duties, and I was obliged to rebuke Kewley in strongest terms for his constant absence from his vessel. He was, I was pleased to observe, not a little embarrassed.

  Despite such discouragements I managed to make good progress with our preparations. I procured food to supplement our English-bought stores, including quantities of rice, flour, desiccated
fruit and vegetables. I found also mules, though this was not easy. The extent of our supplies was such that I had quite to scour Hobart for sufficient animals to meet our needs, while the creatures’ owners showed a timorousness hard to credit, and were so fearful that we might encounter some mishap that they quite refused to let us hire their beasts, insisting we purchase each one outright. This absurd demand proved a great burden upon the expedition’s funds, a fact that was particularly irksome, as it meant I would not, as I had hoped, be able to hire a manservant of my own. This had been my wish, I should explain, not for my own self, but simply for the good of the expedition, as it would be quite unseemly for the venture’s leader to be less well attended than junior members of the party. Seeing as it would be impossible to recruit a new servant, I hoped the doctor might—for once—place the interests of our enterprise before his own petty selfishness, and I left him a note requesting him to relinquish his fellow Hooper. His response was, I regret to say, curt almost to the point of provocation.

  Even then I did not despair, and it occurred to me that I might employ one of the mule drivers in this capacity. In the event, however, it proved no easy matter finding any who were qualified even to control the animals, let alone who would be skilled as an attendant. I placed advertisements in the local press, but of the applicants who replied one would be old and frail, the next would be shamelessly drunk, while none seemed possessed of even the smallest piety, and I suspected many were former convicts. Of the six I eventually chose, only one, whose name was Skeggs, had experience of the task before him, having acted as mule driver for an unsuccessful expedition to find gold on the Australian mainland, and, though his manner surly, I supposed this a price worth paying for his knowledge of the animals. The other five had no qualifications beyond a familiarity with horses. Having no great confidence in any, I decided to appoint three to act jointly as my servers, which seemed the least poor arrangement.