by Peter Grose
The whole fiasco is an insight into the character of Jimmy Porter, as well as a fine example of the incompetence of the authorities. He was not blind in one eye, there is no such trade as ‘beer machine maker’, and he was certainly older than nineteen. According to the Asia’s cargo manifest, he was not convicted on 30 December 1822, nor tried in Kingston in March 1823, but convicted and sentenced in London on 26 April 1823.
There was some reasoning behind all this nonsense. The partial blindness Jimmy claimed might have led to lighter work. A non-existent skilled trade might keep him away from the labour gangs. An earlier date for his conviction could set the clock running earlier for his eventual release. And his self-proclaimed youth might lead the authorities to go a bit easier on him. As he had before and would since, Jimmy lied like a teenager who has just crashed the family car for the fifth time. Lying had become an unbreakable habit, as well as an effective survival tactic.
It may have worked. The next brief stage in Porter’s new life as a transported convict was a matter of marking time. Rather than being sent at once to a work gang, he spent a few days in Hobart Gaol awaiting ‘assignment’.
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12 Great Alie Street in London seems to have been reduced to mere Alie Street today, and Goodmans Fields is now better known as Whitechapel.
13 In other documents the master and commander of the Asia is referred to as James Lindsay, and elsewhere as J. Lindzee. At a guess, his correct name was James Lindsay.
Chapter 4
HOBART
What sort of town did convict P324 find himself transported to? Hobart was now twenty years old. From a population of 433—mostly convicts—in 1803 it had now hit the dizzy heights of 5000. The free settler population of Van Diemen’s Land had received a boost in 1808 when more than 500 people arrived from Norfolk Island, over 90 per cent of them free men and women, including many former convicts who had served their term of transportation in New South Wales and on Norfolk Island. Now they were ready for a grant of land and some free convict labour to help build a new life. By 1810 the population had risen to about 2500, still mostly soldiers and convicts but with an increasing number of free settlers, until it had reached 5000 by 1823.
Contemporary paintings and etchings show that Hobart in the 1820s was not exactly a bustling metropolis. There were some fairly substantial stone buildings, including St David’s Church, Government House, and the hospital, barracks and gaol. Otherwise the town area was little more than a series of open fields crisscrossed by dirt roads. These linked the commissariat store, the stockyard, the lumberyard, and the Mulgrave Battery, as well as providing access to the neighbouring farms. An 1821 copperplate print sketch of the town shows three square-rigged sailing ships—two two-masters and one three-master—anchored off Battery Point. Cattle graze in the foreground of one of the paintings, scarcely a mile from the town centre. European-style hedges mark the boundaries of fields, and some stone cottages are dotted about, though contemporary records show that by 1810 Hobart boasted some 150 dwelling houses. The land has mostly been cleared of trees, but the scene looks for all the world like one of those middle-distance landscape paintings of a sleepy English village with a church, a few scattered houses, and a village green, all surrounded by farmland.
The free settlers were granted land, but the system of grants was chaotic and legally dubious. At the outset, all land in Van Diemen’s Land was deemed to be the property of the Crown, never mind the fact that this ignored any rights of the original Aboriginal land-owners. The government granted leases for larger or smaller plots of Crown land, either for agricultural use or for dwelling. In theory, this granting of leases was done in Sydney, but in practice it was done in Hobart by the lieutenant-governor of the time, usually the most senior soldier there. Sometimes the grant was conferred in writing, but at other times it was just issued verbally. The conveyancing process was a shambles. Before the arrival of Lieutenant-Governor William Sorell in 1817, no complete records were kept. Until well into the 1820s, there were no solicitors in Hobart to ensure that titles and leases were legally sound. A few convicts had some legal training and did their best, but they were well meaning rather than competent. There were endless disputes, claims and counterclaims. The following notice is typical. It appeared in the 22 June 1827 issue of the Hobart Town Gazette:
Caution: The public are cautioned against purchasing a grant of land from a person named George Hodgetts, situate at the Long Meadow near Launceston between the farms of Prosser and Townsend, the same being long since purchased and paid for by me.
Ed French.
Nevertheless, Hobart Town in the 1820s did its job well. And what was its job? It was a prison, and a good one. There may have been no prison walls to scale, but beyond the town was dense bush backed by high mountains. An absconding convict might expect to starve to death or be speared by the local Aboriginal people, who perfectly reasonably saw the new arrivals as invaders, and violent ones at that. The few convicts who escaped and survived usually formed themselves into roving armed gangs of thieves, known as bushrangers. They were mercilessly hunted by the army and the constabulary, and once caught, convicted and hanged. The only serious chance of long-term escape was by sea, either by stowing away on a departing ship, or by stealing a vessel.
One other possible haven needs mention. A convict who stole a boat might do well for himself by linking up with whalers or sealers. Whaling was a huge industry in the early nineteenth century. Whales were already hunted in the Atlantic, and in the Pacific along the west coast of South America. The opening up of Australia to European settlement, and all the stories of whales in abundance, attracted whalers from all over the world, notably from America. The whales migrated up from the Antarctic in winter, looking for warmer water around Australia. When the first settlers arrived in Hobart, there were some 60 whales in the Derwent River, and it was thought to be unsafe to cross the river in a small boat for fear of encountering hostile whales.
Whaling was hard and dangerous work, and whalers were a tough and lawless bunch. They set up land-based ‘whaling stations’ along the east coast of Van Diemen’s Land at Recherche Bay, Bruny Island, Forestier Peninsula, Maria Island, Spring Bay, Freycinet Peninsula, Bicheno and Hobart itself, and on the west coast at Port Davey. Otherwise the whaling ships roamed the seas and visited land only to replenish supplies and sell their products.
The whalers had a strong interest in keeping out of sight of the authorities. Until 1813, the ubiquitous British East India Company had a monopoly on trade in the Far East, and this monopoly was deemed to include Australia, which meant that direct trade between the colony and Britain by anyone other than the East India Company was illegal. Even when the restrictions were lifted, the British government imposed high tariffs on colonial imports of whaling products, leaving British Atlantic traders at a massive advantage. Compounding this, in 1813 the colonial government in New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land introduced hefty duties and port charges at source. So the whalers were naturally keen to operate out of sight and outside the law. If an absconding convict was able to make contact with whalers, particularly a convict who was also an experienced seaman, there was a good chance he would be taken in and no questions asked.
Jimmy Porter had a very clear idea of the kind of assignment he sought. He wanted to avoid a ‘dungaree settler’—a small-cropping dirt farmer who would work him from sunrise to sunset on short rations. He would prefer to stay in the town, but that was an almost universal ambition among prisoners, so he would be competing in a crowded field. Another prisoner suggested that he claim he was a skilled tradesman, and proposed the trade of whitesmith:1 If this was believed it would guarantee him good working conditions. Jimmy then devised what followers of the Blackadder TV series will instantly recognise as a ‘cunning plan’: he asked his fellow prisoner to tell the prison superintendent that Jimmy was a good tradesman but that he would be sure to deny his trade because he no longer wished to work in it. This, he thought
, would virtually guarantee that the superintendent would assign him to work in that trade.
The plan met with mixed success. A settler seeking an assigned convict came to Jimmy and asked him: ‘Are you a smith?’ Jimmy
said he wasn’t. The master replied: ‘Never mind, I’ll chance you. I can tell by your looks you are a tradesman.’ So Jimmy was assigned. The only flaw in this otherwise well-executed plan was that the new master turned out to be a blacksmith, not a whitesmith.
I went home with him. His name was Mr Pulling. I done no work that day but the next morning I was conducted into the blacksmith’s shop where his other man was getting a welding heat ready: as soon as it came out of the fire Mr Pulling ordered me to be ready to strike with a 14 pound sledge hammer. I told him again [Jimmy’s emphasis] I knew nothing about such work. He requested me not to be too stubborn. To satisfy him I gave him a few blows. When he was quite satisfied I had told him the truth he not perceiving the cheat [i.e. he knew I had not cheated him] and on that account he would not turn me into government employ, but said I must do the best I could for him about the house.
Jimmy, in his new role as house help, continued to work for the kindly Mr Pulling. What follows is Jimmy’s version of events, and large chunks of it have to be taken with a pinch of salt. In Jimmy’s telling, his master’s business failed, and Mr Pulling now found himself ‘much reduced’. Jimmy decided to help out. ‘I thought I ought to assist him in return for his kindness to me, for I was very sorry to see his children in want,’ Jimmy writes, adding: ‘I could not get what I wanted [i.e. money to help the Pulling family] by labouring, as I had no trade, but I was determined to obtain it by fair or foul means, for my poor master had taken it so much to heart that he appeared deranged.’ So, dear reader, please accept that Jimmy did what he did only to help the impoverished Mr Pulling and family. At least, that’s what he says.
In the evening I took a small dinghy out of the creek, watched my opportunity, and got alongside the barque Bengal Merchant. I soon made my way to the cabins and brought away a bag of 300 sovereigns besides a quantity of loose silver, which I put into my pockets. Returning on deck (it being dark) I met a man, which proved to be the steward. He was so much astonished that he gave me an opportunity of pushing him down on the deck before he could give the alarm.
The dinghy had drifted off, so Jimmy simply dived into the water clutching his spoils. Despite being weighed down with money, he managed to swim to a buoy and clung to it until the hue and cry had died down. He somehow made his way ashore. A bedraggled Jimmy returned to the Pulling household. It happened that Mr Pulling was away on business, and in his absence Jimmy told Mrs Pulling the true story and swore her to secrecy. The next day he went to several shops and bought supplies for the household, enough to keep them going for six months. He also handed over some money to Mrs Pulling. Then he asked her to turn him in to the Government Service2 without telling them about the crime, ending his assignment with the Pullings.
When he arrived at the government barracks, he discovered to his horror that there was a £100 reward and a free pardon for any convict who could give information about the robbery. Then Mr Pulling returned home to discover his changed circumstances, and demanded to know from his wife what had happened. She told him Jimmy had bought the supplies, and had asked to be returned to government service. Mr Pulling jumped to the conclusion that Jimmy was up to no good with his wife, and simultaneously worked out for himself that Jimmy’s generosity must have been at somebody else’s expense. Jimmy was arrested, and charged with robbing the barque. This, of course, was a hanging offence. However, Jimmy again dodged the hangman. He did not have anything in his possession to connect him to the robbery, and both the captain and the steward of the Bengal Merchant failed to identify him. Jimmy explained to the magistrate (‘a feeling gentleman, rare to be found in these Colonies’) that he had bought the Pullings’ supplies with money he had saved up. The result was too good to be true: acquitted, and with Mr Pulling gently rebuked by the magistrate for his ingratitude and unwarranted suspicions of this fine young man. That’s Jimmy’s story. As we shall now see, it might all be total fantasy.
In his journals, Jimmy is inclined to omit a few indiscretions, which are however painstakingly recorded in his convict conduct record. He arrived in Hobart Town in January 1824. On 22 April 1824 he was charged with stealing a cask3 of butter and with having no lodgings. He was acquitted on both charges. It may well be that the Pulling story recounted above is a self-aggrandising fantasy version of that event, and the reality was much more prosaic: instead of acting like a seagoing Robin Hood and stealing money to help his master, he simply stole a cask of butter and got away with it. His record contains no mention of a charge of stealing money from a ship, nor of his acquittal on that charge.
A month later, on 22 May, Jimmy was charged with absconding and sentenced to 100 lashes. This crime and subsequent punishment are omitted from his two journals, and it would be understandable if the memory was too painful and humiliating for him to include it. We know from his conduct record that he stayed out of trouble until 31 August 1826, so what follows probably took place between May 1824 and August 1826 (if it happened at all).
According to his Norfolk Island journal, in his new guise as model convict and kindly benefactor, Jimmy was quickly assigned as a ‘pulling hand’ (oarsman) in the governor’s barge, and moved on from that to coxswain of the government secretary’s gig, a fast, light rowboat. In Jimmy’s words: ‘All things went well for a few months.’ But Jimmy was not destined for a peaceful life. The new governor, George Arthur, ordered a whaleboat to take some dispatches to Maria Island, about 58 miles (93 kilometres) by sea from Hobart, off the east coast of Van Diemen’s Land. Arthur’s regular coxswain was engaged elsewhere, so it fell to Jimmy to take charge of the boat.
Jimmy and his party were issued with muskets and cutlasses in case they were attacked. Jimmy even had a blunderbuss4 loaned to him by Captain Walsh, the Superintendent of Government Craft. The weapons were soon needed. Their best route involved manhandling the whaleboat across a neck of land about a mile wide. They were about two-thirds of the way across when a group of Aboriginal men attacked them with a shower of spears, wounding one of Jimmy’s crew. The attackers were driven off with pistols and muskets. Jimmy was now a man short, with some 500 metres of land remaining to haul across. With great difficulty, they reached the water with the whaleboat. Before they could launch it, a fresh shower of spears instantly killed the bow hand. Staying out of range of the spears meant braving dangerous surf. The men made it, though the whaleboat filled with gallons of water in the process.
The return journey was equally hazardous, with more attacks. They arrived back in Hobart Town to something of a hero’s welcome. At this high point, Jimmy’s gift for snatching defeat from the jaws of victory did not desert him.
I took the dispatches to Governor Arthur. The boat’s crew were ordered ticket-of-leave after six months good conduct. I got charge of the Rambler cutter of 48 tons, and gave every satisfaction. I was earning plenty of money, not being addicted to drinking. Some scoundrels gave information that I was going to take away the cutter. This caused the first suspicion of my character and the cause of my misery. I was not looked upon as a person trustworthy, therefore I was determined to make my escape from the colony as soon as I could get a chance.
From this point, it is hard to reconcile Jimmy’s accounts in his two journals with the official record. Let’s start with Jimmy’s version of events. His first attempt at escape ended in failure. With a fellow convict, Thomas Rush, he stole a whaleboat and set off to meet up with the brig Elizabeth anchored at Bricks Bay,5 about 8 miles (13 kilometres) south of Hobart Town. The two escapees made it as far as the brig, and were accepted on board. The brig was about to sail for Macquarie Island, looking for seal oil. Macquarie Island is a bleak lump of rock about 1000 miles (1600 kilometres) south-east of Tasmania in the wild Antarctic Ocean, so the journey was arduous and dangero
us. However, neither Jimmy nor the Elizabeth made it to the wild water. On the first night, bad weather forced the brig to take shelter close to shore, and this proximity to land—and therefore authority—changed the mood on board. Jimmy was taken prisoner, handed over to the authorities, and charged with stealing the whaleboat. That’s Jimmy’s version.
This is not what the official record tells us. According to his conduct record, on 28 August 1826 Jimmy absconded from Hobart Town and was found aboard the ship Sydney Packet (not the Elizabeth) off Bruny Island (note, no mention of Bricks Bay) ‘with intent to escape from the colony’.
Back to Jimmy’s version. His previous adventures and good behaviour now stood him in good stead. Captain Walsh, the Superintendent of Government Craft who had loaned him the blunderbuss, gave evidence of Jimmy’s good character. Again he was acquitted, and a few days later found himself in charge of a 25-ton schooner. The official version is both more terse and more brutally credible: found guilty of absconding, sentenced to 50 lashes and six months on the chain gang. Rush received the same sentence.
There were more indiscretions to come. According to his conduct record, on 26 January 1827 he was charged with robbing one of the crew of the convict ship Sir Charles Forbes. This charge was ‘dismissed for want of evidence’. On 16 March 1827 he was charged with ‘being out all night’. Sentence: reprimanded. On 24 July 1827 he was accused of being ‘out after hours and abusive and insolent to Private Henry Kelly of the 40th Regiment, then on duty at the Bonded Stores’. Again, reprimanded. On 10 June 1828 he was charged with ‘making use of the Government Boat to his own private advantage, contrary to orders’, and with ‘taking men down the river without proper authority’. Sentence: 25 lashes.
