English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  Captain Kewley gave him a hard look. ‘‘I thought it was their vessel we were shooting?’’

  ‘‘At least it shows it works, and very well too.’’ Glancing aft, Potter now looked disappointed. ‘‘They’ve lain down. How cowardly.’’

  Sure enough, our tormentors had all now vanished from sight, though their vessel continued its progress just as before. An instant later a shot rang out and a bullet whizzed through the air somewhere above our heads, causing us also to drop to the deck.

  ‘‘What about the Reverend’s pulpit?’’ called out Brew.

  The platform could hardly have been better suited to our needs, it was true, and we all hurried behind its shelter. Still it was hard to know what we should do.

  ‘‘Perhaps we should just shoot at their vessel,’’ proposed Potter. ‘‘The bullet seemed to cause a good bit of damage.’’

  ‘‘It might only make them more violent towards us,’’ insisted Wilson, who seemed to be looking forward to the chance of lecturing them into mercy.

  Captain Kewley looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘‘I suppose we could aim at their wheel. That’s the part that might notice.’’

  It was visible enough—though the helmsman had dropped out of sight, guiding it, I imagined, from below—and so we began. Wilson refused to take part, protesting that it was no business for a man of God, but I took a rifle, as did Potter, the Captain and three more of the Manxmen, while the little second mate, Kinvig, took the revolving pistol. I had never fired a gun before and cannot say I found it much of a pleasure. First there was the biting into the cartridge, which gave one a mouthful of grease, and the pouring in of the powder. Next came the fiddly business of placing the ram into the end of the long barrel, so one could push home cartridge and its bullet, this last being surprisingly large and heavy. Then there was the awkwardness of keeping the gun aimed against the motion of the ship, and all the while taking care not to accidentally shoot our own helmsman, the huge fellow Clucas, who was lying flat grasping the lowermost spokes of the wheel. Finally there was the firing, which jolted one’s shoulder hard as could be, caused a fine ringing in one’s ear and filled the air with smoke. For all this it seemed a good deal better than being robbed and murdered, and soon we had going a proper fusillade. As to the guns, they were quite as fearsome as Jonah Childs had promised, and every time the smoke cleared away the woodwork about their wheel looked a good deal more smashed. Their shots, by contrast, were few and seemed to come hardly near us. Thus we fired away, round after round, till the ammunition box was a good deal emptier, yet still they gained on us, the freshening wind speeding their progress. Then, just when I was supposing we would have to try and shoot them as they jumped aboard, the chief mate Brew gave out a shout.

  ‘‘Some of them are standing up.’’

  I saw a number of them had done so, and were hurriedly working on the booms of the triangular sails.

  ‘‘Let’s have them,’’ said Potter, lunging for another cartridge from the box. ‘‘They’ll be easy as can be.’’

  ‘‘Where’s the need?’’ answered the Captain. ‘‘It looks as if they’re trying to turn away. We must’ve scared them off’’

  He was right, and as we watched, the other vessel began gradually to turn away towards the wind, the crew hauling the two sails round as she moved. The other Manxmen began cheering, and in a moment we were all letting out a roar.

  ‘‘It could just be a trap,’’ Potter insisted. ‘‘They’re still very close. I say we fire once more, just to be certain.’’

  ‘‘We might as well,’’ agreed the little second mate, Kinvig, who appeared to be enjoying his taste of warfare. So, as much from habit as decision, we loaded our guns once again.

  ‘‘Fire,’’ shouted the doctor.

  We did so all together, almost in the manner of some squad of execution. It was then that something most curious happened. Our pursuers’ rearmost boom suddenly and violently swung free from its place, doing so with such speed that it caught two unwary crewmen, knocking them clean over the side. In an instant it was swinging back, the canvas above wildly flapping, and the vessel’s deck became a scene of pandemonium, as crewmen tried to catch the boom’s rope, only to dive away as the spar beat round upon them once again.

  ‘‘I rather think,’’ said Kewley coolly, ‘‘that one of us has shot away their boom’s block.’’

  All at once I felt quite weak. I dare say some form of subdued fear had finally bubbled over, while I felt also a little sickened by the thought of the wrecking we had done. I could not help but wonder if during the last few minutes, I had unwittingly killed someone.

  Dr. Potter was untroubled by any such worries. ‘‘We have conquered them,’’ he declared in triumph.

  Wilson had to outdo him, needless to say. “We have been delivered,” he added, in a correcting tone of voice. “I believe it would be only fitting if we held a little service of thanks, that we might…”

  Before he could say another word Kewley waved his arm to interrupt. “But tell me, shall I set us a course for Cape Colony? It doesn’t seem safe to stay in these waters, after all, that are filled with pirates and marauders.”

  Potter opened his mouth just a fraction, but then seemed to change his mind. Wilson merely shrugged, while I was too shocked to care greatly. So it was that, grinning as if he had pulled a white rabbit from his cap, the Captain shouted out orders, and the crew went about their work setting a new course, away from whatever joys might be found in Kingston, Jamaica, and south, towards Africa.

  CHAPTER SIX

  John Harris, Van Diemen’s Land Settler and Landowner 1829

  IT WAS a fine summer’s evening, I had finished my day’s work and was sitting on the verandah, enjoying a quiet smoke, when I heard a curious yowling noise, and all at once Peters, the cook, came marching up, dragging behind him a little pickaninny.

  ‘‘I found him in the cool store hiding behind some sacks,’’ Peters explained. ‘‘He was chewing at some piece of meat he’d stolen, though it was plain raw.’’

  It was no mystery where the creature had sprung from. A mob of his kind had speared two stockmen over by Black Bluff just a few days before. Heathcote had got up some fellows to give chase, and they managed to find the scoundrels that same night and give them a good punishing, but I heard some had escaped.

  ‘‘Spotted any others?’’ I asked.

  ‘‘Just this.’’

  I had never seen one so close before and an ugly little thing he seemed. I have no time for thieves, nor savages either, and I was just about to call over one of the hands, to have the creature slung off my land, when the door behind me opened and out stepped Lucy. I sometimes think there is no limit to the foolishness of women. In hardly an instant she was kneeling down beside the little brute, cooing and calling him a poor little baby—though he looked at least seven—and saying how he seemed starved with such thin legs, and should be bathed. When I tried to put her right she turned all high and mighty, quite the baronet’s daughter that she is, and simply took him by the hand and led him inside. I hoped he might give her a bite but he never did, more was the pity, I suppose being too scared, and within the hour she had dug out some of Charlie’s old clothes to dress him in—which looked comical as could be—and was feeding him half the larder. I was sure he would bolt once he had some food inside him, but no, he seemed to have taken to Lucy, just as she had to him, and before I knew it she was insisting we should keep the little rascal.

  Here I drew the line. Lucy being Lucy, there followed a proper battle, and though she hurled all she could at me, from tears to the money her father had lent, I stood my ground. I told her fair and square that the thing could not be done unless it were done properly, and that if he were to be kept he must be useful, by which I meant he must know his letters. In truth my thought had been simply to get him gone—I was sure she would soon forget him once he was—and I never intended anything more than the Hobart Orphans’ School. Lucy, though, would
have none of the place, insisting he would never last a week there—which was probably right, in truth—and so, after being bombarded by a good deal more weeping, I finally suggested we send him to Mr. Grigson in Bristol. Grigson owed me a favour or two after all the trade I had brought him, and it seemed hardly much to ask that he take a day or two from his trading to find a tutor for the boy.

  That settled, I decided the creature had better have a name. Lucy said he called himself Tayaley or some such nonsense, which was no name at all, so I gave him George, after the King, and then Vandiemen, from his place of birth, making George Vandiemen, which I thought rather clever. Next I looked into ship sailings, and I wrote a letter to Grigson, explaining the matter and assuring him the boy did not bite, as well as also ordering a new plough to replace the one that went just before Christmas. With this I sent ten pounds, which would be enough for two years’ board and tutoring, especially as I had made it clear he required nothing fancy, but only his letters, anything else being just waste, as he would never understand.

  Finally the day came when he was sat atop the cart ready to be carried away to Hobart. Lucy was all tears, of course, and kept making him repeat English words she had taught him, till the driver cracked his whip and the cart rolled away. She was bad for a few days after, but with time her spirits began to return. Ten pounds was a lot to waste on such foolishness, but I supposed it was worth it to be rid of the little brute. Why, I’ll confess I even felt a little curiosity as to what some dusty Bristol schoolmaster would make of one of our wild Van Diemen’s Land savages.

  George Alder, Governor of Van Diemen’s Land, to Mr. Smithson of the Prison Committee of the Society of Friends, London 1829

  I was greatly pleased to receive your enquiry regarding the present state of the penal system of this colony. It is my hope, indeed, that this may one day prove of some small little interest to students of mankind, both in England and elsewhere across the globe. Since the earliest of times one of the greatest mysteries to trouble philosophers has been why men turn to vice, and how they may be made to reform themselves. What could be more useful in this great struggle than a land populated by men of proven wickedness, and where it is possible to experiment upon them in a scientific manner? It has been this prospect that has formed my chief concern here, and during my five years as governor my wish and purpose has been to devise an effective mechanism for the improvement of men: a dependable and unerring engine to correct those who have strayed from the path of righteousness.

  Much has already been set in motion. The convict who arrives in Van Diemen’s Land will soon realize, if he is attentive, that he has been placed upon a kind of moral chessboard, and that his progress upon this depends entirely upon his own conduct. If his behaviour is goodly and honest he will rise, slowly but surely, and his circumstances shall grow ever less harsh, until finally he reaches the uppermost of the seven levels of punishment, and is issued with his ticket-of-leave, which marks the beginning of his transition to full freedom within the colony.

  Let him err, however, and he will quickly know of his mistake. Watch him fall, so swiftly, with every new misdeed or act of insolence that he commits. First his ticket-of-leave is taken from him and he is assigned to work upon some farm. Next he plunges once again, labouring on public works of increasing severity, from buildings to road making, then to a chain gang, struggling in the sun and wind. Misbehave once more and he will reach the full misery of life within a separate penal settlement, such as Macquarie Harbour on the remote west coast, where he toils, shackled, waist-deep in icy seawater, pushing at giant logs, and feeling the lash upon his back if he slackens even for a moment. Thus he has reached the final and seventh level of punishment, below which none may pass, unless to be hanged, and so face the justice of Him, greatest of all judges. Our convict may rescue himself even now, however, if he will only learn from his adventure. If he will reform his behaviour he will begin rising once again— though it may take no small while—back through all the seven levels, until finally he finds himself rewarded with his freedom within the colony. Let him perform some act of unusual goodness, indeed, and he may leap several stages, or even, in a few rare cases, all of them in one bound.

  The machinery of punishment may appear upon first sight to be harsh in its severity, but in truth it is never so. It is, at heart, no different from a school classroom, being but a means for the shaping and enlightenment of human minds: a mighty engine of betterment, designed to bring the happiness that follows improvement. For such a system to prove effective it is of course essential that it be universally acknowledged as fair. To this end I have made strenuous efforts to prevent any bullying of convicts by officers or overseers, and I have likewise acted firmly against any instances of favouritism or leniency. It is, after all, a function of this colony to retain a terrifying reputation in faraway London or Glasgow, so foolish men may be deterred from the temptation of crime. It is also important that the island’s machinery of punishment is known to be entirely inescapable, so convicts will not be distracted from their improvement by foolish hopes. To this purpose I have created a most effective machinery of policing, including constant checks of identity and travel passes throughout the settled districts. I have also established what I believe may be one of the most thorough arrangements for the assembling of information yet devised in any land. Exhaustive records are kept on all men dwelling within the colony, free and fettered, in a set of mighty volumes known as the Black Books. These contain physical descriptions, as well as a most detailed summary of moral progress. Each and every change to a convict’s status within the seven levels of punishment is carefully recorded, together with its reason. This mighty store of information is constantly revised and increased, while both convict and settler are encouraged to add to the government’s knowledge by reporting any curious or suspicious behaviour they have observed in their neighbours. If every man abroad is perceived as a potential informant for the colonial administration, it may be hoped that even the wickedest fellows will show caution, and righteousness shall everywhere prevail.

  This arrangement has, I will admit, been a cause of some difficulty. The free settlers have shown no little resentment at being treated in a manner similar to the criminals, and some of the wealthier, swollen by the arrogance of their fortune, have made themselves my enemies. I find little sympathy for their objections. It is essential, after all, to keep detailed records of free settlers, if simply to prevent an escaped felon from masquerading as one of their number. There is also another, more profound reason for their inclusion within this great experiment, there being much to be learned from the histories of all those in the colony. I can think of more than a few instances of men who smugly came to Van Diemen’s Land as free subjects, only to be found out for some hidden wickedness and speedily dispatched to Macquarie Island. It is nothing less than purest arrogance on the settlers’ part to regard themselves as irrevocably innocent. Since the time of Adam and Eve, after all, can anyone regard himself as free of the stain of sinfulness?

  I have, indeed, found myself sometimes musing if one day a mighty machinery of justice of this kind might be extended even to a free society, with levels not only of punishment but of reward, so that every single aspect of men’s lives could precisely reflect the virtue of their conduct. If a sufficiently ingenious system could be devised for the assembling of information it might be possible to alter the status of each subject with regularity, even every month, so all would be constantly made aware of their moral progress. How fine it would be to have men rewarded not for their greed or cunning, but for their acts of virtue. The arrangement might be administered with such subtlety that even those who have not yet broken any law—liars, cheats, seducers and more—could be made to reap the harvest of their wickedness.

  Such thoughts are, however, mere reveries. It is still too soon even to pronounce upon the success or otherwise of this present system. I may say, however, that indications are promising, and it remains my hope that the work done
on this faraway island may in some small way help men towards a better future age, when wickedness and criminality shall become wholly and finally vanquished.

  Jack Harp 1824–30

  AFTER I WAS TAKEN at George Town I was four years in stinking convict clothes, on the roads and in those Hobart warehouses, and then one day I got hauled before some office scribble with a little waxy moustache who told me I’d been improved. So I was put on a farm near Launceston milking cows and shearing sheep. That was luck, as it happened, the owner being soft as mush. On Christmas Day he gave us pudding and even sat down with us to eat it, too, and it was this caused the trouble, so I heard. Some sod must’ve squealed that we were being treated too gentle, as within the month we were all chucked off to other farms. Mine wouldn’t have been so bad except for the bugger of a master, who’d got it in his head that every felon there was fingering his wife— though there was no reason, as she was an ugly old sow—and would scratch out any reason to give you a beating. Show a moment’s slowness or a laugh he didn’t understand and out would come the lash. I put up with it for a while but then one day he came screaming murder saying I’d milked the cow wrong and made her sick, which was plain lies, and I wasn’t having, so rather than just wait for my beating I started on him first, giving him an answering which he’d not forget in a hurry. So I wasn’t improved after all, as I got told, but was worse, and that was why I was put on the bridge.

  That bridge was worse than all the rest put together. The work was bad, being shifting and cutting great blocks of stone, while every night we had to sleep in boxes stacked up like coffins that were too low even for proper sitting up, and got hot as murder in the warm weather. Worse, the overseer was a bastard of a lasher, while the rest of them in gaol clothes were lame creepers every one of them. I got so wild all I could think of was changing that overseer’s face like he deserved, or bolting, and sometimes I was inches close to making a run for it into the bush, chains and all. I never quite did, though. I bided my time.