by Paul Collins
On Sunday 16 February Knopwood performed the morning and afternoon divine services at St David’s church for, he was proud to note in his Diary, ‘very full’ congregations. In the early evening he dined with the surgeons, Drs Garrett and Spence, and later he smoked a pipe with Lieutenant Lewis. He went to bed reasonably early, but was soon in acute pain – it was his old problem, bladder stones.The pain was sometimes so bad that the surgeons had to use a bougie, a rod used as a kind of catheter, to relieve the pressure of urine in the bladder. Dr Garrett visited again and bled him, and also gave him a large quantity of laudanum, an alcoholic solution of morphine, which was used in the nineteenth century as a painkiller. Knopwood’s Diary reports that he felt very ill and that at 4 a.m.‘a large stone came from me, which gave me relief’.
Yet, despite his medical problems, Knopwood had still been able to sit occasionally as a magistrate during January 1823. On Saturday 25 January, after having spent the morning at home resting, he was on the bench at 1 p.m. He was immediately faced with a problematic case.The convict brought before him was not up on one of the usual charges – drunk and disorderly, thieving, absconding, or insolence to an overseer, all of which could be easily and quickly dispatched with a sentence of twenty-five or fifty lashes. Convict No. 102, the Irish-born Alexander Pearce, was charged with escaping with seven others from the most secure prison in the colony, situated on Sarah Island in Macquarie Harbour, on the far west coast of the colony. When interviewed by the military who had captured him he talked incessantly about murder and cannibalism among the escapees during the trek across the unexplored wilderness east of Macquarie Harbour.
Pearce had been recaptured at Lower Marshes near the small settlement of Jericho early in the morning of 11 January 1823, right on the outside edge of white settlement, about 85 kilometres (53 miles) almost due north of Hobart Town. It was also exactly due east of the Macquarie Harbour convict settlement. Pearce had been on the loose for almost four months, and as the crow flies he had travelled at least 150 kilometres (93 miles) across territory that had never before been penetrated by Europeans and contained only a couple of known and named landmarks. What was significant was that he had escaped with seven other prisoners, only two of whom were accounted for. These two had abandoned the escape attempt and returned to Macquarie Harbour in a debilitated state twelve days after the group had first bolted. The Commandant at Macquarie Harbour, Lieutenant John Cuthbertson, had already informed Hobart Town about the return of the two men, Edward Brown and William Kennerly. What little that could be got out of them was that they had not been able to keep up with the rest of the group, and that they had decided to return and face the consequences of their attempted escape before they got lost and died in the bush. Unfortunately they died from exhaustion within a few days of arriving back at the penal settlement. As far as anyone in Hobart Town knew, they never said anything about murder and cannibalism.
Pearce’s record was quite familiar to Knopwood. He had been in trouble with the magistrates several times before over the last eighteen months. The bench usually handed down summary justice to escaped convicts: what did the trick was a good flogging (fifty to 100 lashes), and a couple of months working in chains in the prison gang on public works during the day and confinement at night. If it was a second or third offence they were usually packed off to Sarah Island in Macquarie Harbour for the rest of their original sentence. The regime there had been established for troublesome recidivists like Convict No. 102.
Officially, escape from Macquarie Harbour was impossible. It was a long way from the ‘settled districts’ to the north of Hobart Town and the country in between was considered impenetrable. But Pearce and his fellow escapees seemed to have made it through. So it was important to interview him formally to try to discover any weaknesses in the prison system to prevent more convicts attempting to emulate him and his seven companions. But it was not just a matter of working out how the men had managed to get all the way from Sarah Island to the edges of civilisation in the settled districts – they also needed to find out the route the men had followed and how they had managed to survive.
The investigation was complicated by the fact that Pearce claimed that when they ran out of rations and starvation set in, some of the other men had committed murder, and they had then all eaten parts of the butchered human carcasses. Because it seemed irrational for Pearce to implicate himself like this, no one could work out why he had spun them such a yarn. Both the prison authorities and Knopwood viewed No. 102 as a debased specimen of humanity, and an Irishman to boot, so no one believed his story. While in rare circumstances shipwrecked sailors might be driven to cannibalism by starvation, it was simply inconceivable to any official in Hobart Town that a European would ever stoop so low as to indulge in it. Sure, the black races, such as the local Aborigines, might sometimes be guilty of such barbarism, but never a white man, no matter how bad, nor how far down the penal ladder he had slipped. The assumption was that most, if not all, of Convict No. 102’s five companions were still at large somewhere in the bush and he was covering for them by concocting a wild story about cannibalism and murder. It was a clever ruse to cover his mates’ tracks.
To assist Magistrate Knopwood in his investigation on this hot Saturday afternoon, His Honor, the Lieutenant-Governor, had sent his trusted clerk, a pardoned convict and now apparently prosperous farmer named Thomas Wells, to take down the evidence and write it up in the official Bench of Magistrates Book.
As it turned out, Knopwood did not have to ask the prisoner many questions. Pearce seemed happy to tell the story in detail. But it was long, complicated and occasionally contradictory, and Knopwood became increasingly exhausted and bored in the stiflingly hot courtroom as the narrative – and the afternoon – wore on. Unlike Wells, he seemed not to notice the discrepancies in Convict No. 102’s account. For instance, Pearce said that three men – Brown, Kennerly and Alexander Dalton – dropped behind and returned to Macquarie Harbour, whereas according to the report of Commandant Cuthbertson only two actually arrived, Brown and Kennerly, neither of whom explained what had happened to Dalton, nor even referred to him in any way. Also No. 102 made sure that the magistrate understood that he was not responsible for the murders. He made out that they had been committed principally by the sailor and de facto leader of the group, Robert Greenhill, assisted by his close mate, Matthew Travers. He did not say who killed Travers. He had to admit that he was responsible for the eventual killing of Greenhill, but stated strongly that it was entirely a matter of self-defence – which was probably true. Wells also noted that Pearce had been recaptured with two other escaped convicts turned highwaymen, William Davis and Ralph Churton, who were not part of the original party of escapees from Macquarie Harbour, but were sheep-stealers who had escaped earlier from a military guard on their way to Hobart Town. If the rest of his party was still alive, why had Pearce left them and taken up with Davis and Churton? As Wells listened he became convinced that the Irish convict was telling the truth. Murder and cannibalism had been committed in the wilderness.
When Pearce eventually concluded his narrative, Knopwood was in pain and felt exhausted and impatient. He was sure that even under oath, Convict No. 102 could not be trusted to tell the truth and that he was spinning an outrageous yarn to cover for his mates who were still at large in the bush. He was convinced that they would all be recaptured, as Davis, Churton and Pearce had been, and that they would all soon be back where they belonged – at Sarah Island. Anyway, even in the very unlikely event that the Irishman was telling the truth, and that there had been several murders and he was the only survivor, Knopwood argued to himself that there were no witnesses to any of the alleged crimes, and certainly no bodies, nor any possibility of recovering them. So, legally, as long as Pearce stuck to his story it would be hard – if not impossible – to commit him for trial. He had complete control of the story. Even if he was tried, it would be most unlikely that the Crown could obtain a conviction. As far as the Reverend
Magistrate was concerned, there was nothing else to do but to send him back to his place of secondary punishment and let Commandant Cuthbertson deal with him. He simply sentenced Convict No. 102 to be returned to Sarah Island to continue to serve out his original sentence of seven years. Knopwood’s pain was now so bad and he was in such a hurry to get home that he forgot to sentence Pearce to the customary 100 lashes handed out to an absconder.
However, as he took down the narrative details, the much more attentive and crafty Wells was impressed with the semiliterate convict’s ability to recount what had happened. As he listened and watched and wrote the words, Wells was convinced that No. 102 was telling the truth. The tough little Irishman was a survivor and no fool, and he had thought through his account very carefully to cover himself as best he could. He may have heard that Brown and Kennerly had made it back to Macquarie Harbour, but he had no idea what they had confessed to Cuthbertson or even that they had died. So he probably felt that it was best to tell most of the truth about what had happened, but to embroider it in such a way as to protect himself. In this he had been successful with the none-too-attentive and sickly Knopwood on that hot and oppressive Saturday afternoon.
The more Wells thought about it the more he realised that Pearce’s was a great story and that it might be something he could sell to a newspaper or magazine in London, which would certainly pay well for it. He could already see the title: White Cannibals in Van Diemen’s Wilderness. After all, he already had literary experience and had had his work published. Some years previously he had written a forty-page pamphlet, Michael Howe, the last and the worst of the Bush Rangers of Van Diemen’s Land, which he had brought out in December 1818, and it had done reasonably well. Another convict story, especially one that involved cannibalism, would surely appeal. As Sorell’s trusted clerk he could easily get hold of the Bench of Magistrates Book for January 1823 and write a narrative from it, using Convict No. 102’s own words, which would give the story authenticity. Given public taste, he knew that he would have to inject a little moralising into it. He also felt that Pearce’s blunt and brutal narrative would have to be softened in places, with their deeds given a slightly more civilised context by references to prayer, repentance and even ritual. But in itself the story was so good that he did not want to alter too many of the details and he was determined to use as much of Pearce’s own vivid narrative as he possibly could.
Some days later, Wells realised that he needed to make sure that no one else could get the story out before him; he was after what today we would call an ‘exclusive’. Confident that the sick and indolent Knopwood would not be interested, he worried there might be others who had heard about it and realised its literary possibilities. So he knew he needed to ‘lose’ the only written record of Pearce’s story, the Bench of Magistrates Book for January 1823. As Sorell’s clerk he had access to convict and court records, so after he had made two closely related versions of the story he proceeded to ‘mislay’ the Bench of Magistrates Book. It has never been found.
What Wells could not know was that within eight months Pearce would escape again from Macquarie Harbour and repeat his cannibalism, and then make a further detailed confession about the first escape to Commandant Cuthbertson at Sarah Island. So Wells’s ‘exclusive’ had evaporated. But it really did not matter. A couple of months after Wells wrote Pearce’s story, his protector, Sorell, was recalled to London, and by the end of 1823 Wells himself was bankrupted by unsuccessful speculation in the wool market. He had more on his plate than trying to sell the tale of an obscure convict cannibal to a faraway London newspaper.
Fortunately for us, two long-hand copies of Wells’s account still survive. So we have two versions of the story of the escape and the terrible journey as told by Pearce: the first by Wells on the basis of the evidence to Knopwood; and the second the confession to Lieutenant Cuthbertson at Sarah Island.
Like every story, this one has a background and context and it makes no sense unless you know what happened before. So let’s begin at the beginning. And where better to start than outside a hotel in Hobart Town on 25 November 1821?
The only way you could tell that the ordinary-looking, two-storey stone building was a hotel was from the sign above the door. It was situated in the centre of Collins Street, Hobart Town (or ‘Hobarton’, an affectation increasingly being used by the more respectable citizens of Van Diemen’s Land), and it could easily have passed for a substantial private house. But the coloured drawing of a sailing ship on the sign hanging outside told you that this was the Ship Inn. Given that many of the lower classes and convicts were scarcely literate, pictographic signs on buildings were important. Throughout the nineteenth century hotels usually had colourful names like the Spotted Dog, the Horse and Groom, the Dallas Arms, the Old Commodore, the Star and Garter, the Woolpack Inn, the Jolly Sailor, the Golden Lion, the Turf, the Half-Way House and the Cornish Mount, all of which were in business at one time or another in and around early Hobart Town.
The Ship Inn was a perfectly respectable, fully licensed establishment, and it doubled as the town’s main coach terminus. It was one of the best of the almost twenty licensed premises in Hobart Town in 1821.The landlord and licensee was one Peter Copeland. Today there is still a Ship Hotel on the site at 73 Collins Street, Hobart, a descendant of Copeland’s original premises. But convicts on the skids, like Alexander Pearce, did not need signs. If there was one thing that they knew, it was where all the pubs were, both the licensed ones and the sly-grog shops that existed outside the law and that often doubled as brothels, gambling dens and places where the unwary could be fleeced. Unlicensed premises survived because of the corruption of the constabulary.The police knew you could not skin a flint, so they always made sure that the sly-grog shops had turned a reasonable profit before moving in for their share of the takings in return for protection.
While the Ship Inn might have been a respectable establishment, most of the places where Pearce and his fellow convicts drank were pretty rough and ready, whether licensed or not. Usually the patrons gathered in a big front room with a large, open fireplace – the taproom. The small windows opening onto the street usually had no glass, only wooden shutters. Light was provided by oil lamps and the fire. Drinkers sat on wooden benches against the walls facing long, narrow tables. Chained to the end of each table was a large knife used for cutting the tobacco that both men and women stuffed into their pipes. Entering the hotel you were overwhelmed not only by the fumes from the fire and the pungent smell of tobacco smoke, but also by the noise as people sang and shouted and slammed down their thick glasses and tin beer-pots on the greasy tables.The grog was usually kept in the landlord’s bedroom and only brought into the open taproom as needed. Rum was available in pint tumblers that patrons themselves poured into wine-glasses. It was usually drunk neat. Beer was more expensive and something of a luxury, and was served in tin quart pots.
Patrons usually ate cold meat and bread as they downed their liquor. A large pot containing a stew of meat, potatoes in their jackets and cabbage, all boiled together, hung over the fire from a pendant in the chimney. A meal cost one shilling. Patrons helped themselves from the pot. Those who had arranged to stay overnight often bedded down on straw-stuffed ticks, mattresses on the floor or tables in the taproom.
To the scandal of the more respectable citizens of Hobart Town, prostitutes often plied their trade in public houses, stolen goods were exchanged, the often intoxicated lower-class men and women mixed freely, and people danced in the middle of the floor to the sound of the hurdy-gurdy, fiddle, tambourine and hautboy, a kind of high-pitched oboe. It was always easy to work out where the sly-grog shops were: you could hear the incessant noise of music, drunken singing, raucous laughter, screaming, swearing and crying. You could also see the prostitutes hanging around the door looking for customers.
On the night of 25 November 1821 Pearce was at the Ship Inn drinking large amounts of Peter Copeland’s cheapest Mauritius rum. Like most convicts,
he preferred the dark flavour of Bengal rum but he could only afford the weaker Mauritius variety. The best things about rum were that it was cheaper than beer, it never went off, it warmed your innards quickly, it saved you having to drink the often polluted water, and its high alcohol content helped you forget reality. But, like many drunks, Pearce became more and more belligerent. He may have been the ‘quiet’ man on the Castle Forbes, but after a year and a half in Van Diemen’s Land, good behaviour was far behind him.
The nine o’clock curfew bell had already been rung and Convict No. 102 should have been back at his lodgings in the police watch-house. Earlier Copeland had warned him about his increasing drunkenness, and just after 9 p.m. the landlord physically threw him out. The constables who came to check that the hotel was closed arrested him as he lay in the mud outside. As they began dragging him back to the watch-house they noticed he had pocketed a wine-glass, the solid, thick, unbreakable type used by the patrons to drink their rum. No. 102 was charged with being drunk and disorderly, and also with stealing Copeland’s property. The constables then deposited him in the watch-house to sleep off his debauchery.
The next morning, 26 November, Pearce had a terrible hangover – and worse, he was one of a number of prisoners to be brought before the sitting bench of magistrates for the day. The bench was made up of the Reverend Robert Knopwood, the convict chaplain, and Adolarius William Henry Humphrey, the Superintendent of Police, Chief Magistrate and the man charged with the licensing of bakers, butchers, carts and hotels. It was a bit rich for the Superintendent of Police to be sitting as a magistrate trying those charged by his own constabulary, but respectable men were in short supply in 1821 and the government had to make do as best it could. Humphrey was a particularly severe magistrate and was hated by the convicts.