So I got older, till being grown was no new thing but just ordinary. We got new commandants, though they were nothing interesting. All the while num got fewer, not because they died, which they hardly ever did, but because we were so few now that it was easy watching us. By and by they even stopped trying to teach us about God, I do recollect. I suppose it seemed foolish, as we just kept dying anyway. Summers passed, and more summers, and still I was alive, though I couldn’t surmise why. Then, quite a surprise, a wondrous thing happened to me. This was Dray, who Fat Robson called Ophelia, who was younger than me, so I hardly did observe her before. Now all of a sudden she was so grown, fine and beautiful, so I liked to watch her sometimes, and if she saw me she looked away in a special way.
One day in autumn I was walking in the forest near Tayaleah’s tree, and there she was, so we just lay down, hardly speaking any word, as if it was already said, which was curious. So a new thing started, when I had surmised there could be no new things. I got holding and tasting, and feeling hither and thither, and getting weak and lovely. Later I got more, which was blissful and tidings of joy, and by and by we often went into woods and hills and so, lying in soft grass and getting our great good fortune. She was kindly and soft, and we had some sweetness as wind blew in trees above. This was the first time I had someone who I must preserve from heinous things, and this meant I must live, which I almost forgot till then. Yes, in those days I could believe I found great good fortune after all, and I surmised Dray was my enduring, so even being stuck on that piss-poor Flinders Island seemed hardly of any account.
It is hard, though, to get lovings in a dying place, as sometimes you do feel you are impossible, so you hardly dare let yourself feel your delight. Besides, it was right not to believe. When weather got cold Dray got a little crook with coughing, so we both were too fearful. I tried to do everything, getting Jones the surgeon to look at her once and again, which he did kindly, but it was like trying to stop waves coming higher with your hands. Quite suddenly one afternoon she died.
After that I forgot my talent to endure, as there seemed no purpose to me. I wanted to die also, I do recollect, just like that time all those years before, when I ran off into that forest and lay down by that log. But it is hard to choose dying. Dying chooses you.
That was when Smith gave me his book. I was sitting in front of huts doing nothing, trying to think nothing too, as this was better than thinking something, when he came sneaking up. ‘‘I thought this might give you comfort.’’
I never had read a whole book before, as nobody ever gave me any. I hardly wanted to read this one, no, but there was nothing else to do, so I did begin, and though I was too slow at first, I got faster by and by. Book was called TWO LITTLE ORPHANS and was very sad.
Some family gets stuck on horses in river grown big after rains, and mother and father both get drowned trying to save two sons—very small—who are now the orphans. Mother’s drowning is slow, and her last dying thing is to put some interesting CROSS round older orphan’s neck. Later the orphans go to another house filled with other orphans, plenty of them, and here they must work hard, as their commandant is cruel and hateful, shouting and giving piss-poor food. One day commandant beats some other orphan very hard, and when our smaller orphan tries to help this other fellow, commandant hits him as well, and with so many grievous blows he is almost dead. In that night both orphans run away to some large town, where they have nothing to eat unless strangers give them coins.
This is a woeful time for the orphans, yes, as weather grows cold with frost and smaller one gets crook. Then one day some kind man comes and gives them money, and as kind man looks he sees that same cross that mother gave to big orphan, which is interesting to him. Kind man says they must wait here while he ponders some other thing, but he will be back soon. Very sadly, though, hateful boys come just after, and try and steal interesting cross, so orphans must flee, and they never can find kind man after. Then weather gets colder by and by, and so little orphan dies, very slow, in a burying place beside some chapel. Big orphan puts him by the chapel door so he will be buried by vicars.
After that bigger orphan is so woeful at dying of little orphan that he gets crook too, and it does look as if he will die too, so everybody will be dead. But then in the night he has some dream, and in this little orphan comes and tells him he must endure, as everything will get better by and by. This gives bigger orphan cheer, and d’you know that same day kind man comes back again and finds him. A great surprise is that in truth he is orphan’s own uncle, and he has some fine huge house, though he never knew orphan’s mother—who is his sister—all because of other thing. So older orphan gets good food, plenty of it, and cherishings, and even shows new uncle that place where vicars buried little orphan, and they give little orphan a great stone with his name carved so neatly. Finally, at the end, big orphan dreams again in the night, and now little orphan is in heaven, sitting on God’s knees with all those ANGELS, and he is smiling as if he is so happy now.
For a time, I must tell, this book was my delight. I read saddest parts sometimes and again, and I did want it to be true. Sometimes I thought yes! I am those poor orphans, and I cried with hungry sadness.
Then, one day, everything changed. Ship came just like usual, with heinous food and letters for white men, but this time it also had something for us. News! News that I hardly could believe. Governor who visited us was finally gone now, and a new governor was arrived instead. Best of all this new governor saw my letters and said we could return to the world.
That day was great good fortune. We were only forty-nine Palawa left now, but still we were some and I did believe we could strive again once we returned. Yes, just thinking of getting away from this heinous, hateful island and going back to our forest and mountains and secret remembered places, that did fill us with delight. Also this meant I was correct, and my intent to fight white scuts with their own cleverness was some fine success after all. Everybody—except Mother—was cheering me as some great good hero that day.
Leaving was swift, yes, as we must go back on that same boat, but still I had time enough to do important things. First I went to the burying place to say goodbye to my poor Dray, and also to Mongana and Heedeek, and to all those many others who were my friends in there, which was a most sorrowful thing, giving me tenderest feelings deep inside my breast. Then I went to Smith’s house. Now that we were saved, you see, all of a sudden I could discern what Smith’s TWO LITTLE ORPHANS book really said. No, it never was some kindness at all, but just a clever trap to catch me when I was despairing and easy. It was shaming to me, yes, that I got so caught. What his book said was, GO ON, LITTLE BLACKFELLOW, DIE SWEETLY NOW, DIE QUIET
AND SMILING AND THANKFUL, AS THIS IS YOUR LAST TASK FOR US.
Probably Smith guessed my thinking from my face, as he never came out but just peered round his curtain once, and then pretended he was too busy getting ready for the boat. But I knew he was secretly watching as I tore those pages, each and every one, and put them all together. So I burned those orphans, just like I burned Mother’s spears before.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dr. Thomas Potter
DECEMBER 1857
The Destiny of Nations (excerpt)
This robust and ever-growing empire that is called British is, as we are told by so-called political theorists, nothing more than the consequence of chance. It is, they claim, a mere totality of small accretions, snatched by traders and adventurers for their own enrichment; a kind of accident of weaponry and greed; some vast yet pilotless engine, whose great hands reach out across the globe, one scattering soldiers, convicts and priests, another drawing in gold.
Such a view could be hardly more misleading. There is, in truth, no finer manifestation of the destiny of men than this mighty institution of imperial conquest. Here we see the stolid and fearless Saxon Type, his nature revealed as never before as he strides forth in his great quest, subduing and scattering inferior nations—the Hindoo, the America
n Indian, the aboriginal race of Australia—and replacing these with his own stalwart sons. Brave yet unseeing, he little comprehends the unalterable destiny that leads him on: the all-powerful laws of the races of men. Beside him march others, though their step tells of a purpose less resolute. The Roman Type of France petulantly struts southwards across desert wastes, quelling once proud Arab chieftains. The Slav Type of Russia dismally saunters through the icy east, overcoming Asiatics with his every step. The Iberian Type of South America rides across his pampas, lazily extinguishing the savage Indian. The Belgic-Celtic Type plods onwards against island Orientals, stolidly adding to his frail domain. All shall find themselves the unwitting destroyers of their conquered foes, until hardly a subject race, whether African, Australian or Asiatic, remains.
It is when this work is done, and only the strongest Types remain, that another stage in the unfolding of history shall begin. Thus will a new and terrible great conflagration draw near: a final battle of nations, when the trusty Saxon will be required to struggle anew; a conflict of titans; a battle of the Supreme Types, in which…
Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
DECEMBER 1857
I COULD HARDLY guess what Dr. Potter saw in this particular island, as it looked a poor sort of spot to me. Flat and dry as ship’s biscuit it was, excepting for a few clutches of mountains huddled here and there, bleak and spiky, as if they might cause injury to careless angels. My own chart, being, as I said, not so very new, showed nothing but the coast and a few peaks, while the rest was pure as virgins, with not so much as a farm or a settlement marked. I had to set a course to a little sketch map drawn by some doctor friend of Potter’s, our destination being a cross on the western coast marked ‘‘abandoned settlement.’’ Well, to my mind it must have been a pretty poor sort of settlement if it had come and gone so quick.
The Reverend had been all sulks at us stopping here—if only because it was Potter’s delight that we should—and moaned that we’d been delayed too much already. The fact was, though, that a short halt at such a spot would suit me well enough. For one thing, the rush we’d had leaving Port Phillip meant I’d never been able to take on a proper supply of water. As to my other certain reason, this was different again, and hardly the sort of thought I’d go troubling Englishmen with.
Now, a handy thing about dropping anchor at some bleak island in the very centre of nowhere was that at least there was no danger of anyone jumping ship, unless, that was, they wanted to go playing hermit. Just nine Manxmen we were now—and no sailmaker—when only days before we’d been fourteen, while even that had been a touch on the thin side, what with the two that had run off from that London sealed dock. It was bad trouble, no denying. We were enough for pretty boating weather, to be sure, but if we struck a proper storm, or even had to unload that certain cargo in a rush, we’d be well hobbled. I’d had to send that old fool Quayle the cook and Mylchreest the steward aloft once or twice, though they were getting too old for such work. It could have been a good scran worse, mind. It took a day and a night to cross Port Phillip Bay and all the way I was wondering if a messenger was riding along the shore, and if our customs friend at the Heads, Robins, would come charging out on his cutter, cannon firing and marines stabbing with their bayonets. But no, he was gentleness itself, having another fine chat with the Englishmen and then waving us on, with never a word about beaches or oars or bodies waking up tied and doused with water. Perhaps we’d been lucky and Bowles had decided to stick quiet after all.
Potter’s little scrawl of a map was no use for navigating, but as we passed along the coast of the island just after dawn, we saw a little jetty springing out from the shore, which could hardly be chance, so we dropped anchor and lowered the boat. I watched the Englishmen being rowed away, and waited until they’d landed too—just in case they changed their minds, there being no end to their nonsense—and then went below to find Mylchreest. Down to the pantry we stepped, where I reached for that certain piece of cord and gave it a gentle tug. Then on to the storeroom to that loose wall panel, and those two certain cables behind, that I pulled. Then finally to the dining cabin and the trapdoors beneath the busts of Queen Victoria and Albert, that prized open so neat. I’d been thinking about what that unfortunate little fellow Harry Fields had said that night on the beach at Port Phillip—before Kinvig had had the bright idea of knocking him cold with an oar—when he’d complained that our tobacco was damp. My worry was that the whole cargo might be going. I had no wish to see the Sincerity’s treasures, which she’d kept so well hidden from prying customs all this while, go all to rottenness just from neglect. Fortunately when we took a look it proved not so bad as it might have. Mylchreest had a quick poke about and in the end only pulled out a single bundle that had to be dropped over the side.
‘‘We ’d be wise to leave all open for a time, mind,’’ he suggested, ‘‘and let some of the damp out.’’
This was easy done, seeing as the passengers were all safely away, and could not return except by the ship’s boat. I left the panels open wide as could be, and the door to the cabin likewise, so the air could move freely. By the time I stepped back onto the deck I saw the boat was on its way back from the shore, filled with water casks like she should be, and soon after chief mate Brew was clambering up the ship’s side, all smirks. ‘‘We found water all right. And something else besides.’’
He shot a glance at a bundle of tarpaulin that the others were hauling up the ship’s side. From their faces it looked heavy.
‘‘What is it? Rocks?’’ asked Mylchreest as it was sat on the deck before us. Hardly had he spoken, though, when his words were made foolish, as the tarpaulin twitched.
‘‘Near as,’’ Brew told him with a smile. ‘‘At least if rocks had fur.’’ He stooped down to untie the rope and all at once a big snubby nose started trying to butt its way out, and with a power of force, too. It was all Brew could do to grab the mystery’s shoulders and hold him back.
‘‘What is he, then?’’ I asked.
‘‘I hardly know. The little fellow Renshaw thought he might be something called wombit.’’
Wombit? It hardly seemed a proper name for a creature. Whatever he was, he was no kitten, that was clear as glass from all his butting and wrestling to escape. Three of them it took to get him in the boat where we’d kept the swineys, all of them getting in each other’s way and tripping on the tarpaulin. Then we had a good peer at our first proper Australian monster. He was hardly a giant, and had the most foolish little stumpy legs, but there was something about his shape that was pure strength, as if he was some kind of hunched stone. He behaved much like a stone, besides. Even as we watched he started bashing his head against the side of the boat, again and again, almost as if it was his enjoyment.
‘‘Some kind of badger, is he?’’ I asked, as the boat shuddered once more. He was about the right size, though his face was more like some small bear’s.
‘‘Something like,’’ agreed Brew. ‘‘He was making for a burrow when I jumped him.’’
Whatever he was, he’d be welcome enough, seeing as we’d never had time at Port Phillip to get any creatures. ‘‘We’ll have Quayle show us how he tastes with some ship’s biscuit.’’
After that I thought I might as well put a sight on this Flinders Island, and oversee the boys as they loaded up the casks. I left Myl-chreest to keep watch over the ship.
The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson DECEMBER 1857
CONSIDERING THAT Dr. Potter had never shown the slightest interest in this island till now, it was hard not to wonder at his sudden curiosity regarding the place. He claimed that it had been a refuge for aborigines of Tasmania, and that items of value might be found amid the remains of their settlement. I could not help but suspect, however, that this was nothing more than an excuse to delay us further. My fear, indeed, was that he would attempt to have us drop anchor at every empty rock and bay between Port Phillip and Hobart. What was especially worrisome was that Kewley barely tro
ubled to listen to my own objections, reasoned though they were, so I could not help but suspect that Potter had in some way tempted him to his side. It seemed not impossible, seeing as the Manx were great lovers of gold.
The doctor was most assiduous in acting out his pretence of exploration, and as the boat was lowered, he commanded his servant, Hooper, to bring up one of his new wooden packing cases from the hold, for ‘‘artifacts’’ that he claimed he might discover. It really was too much. Then, as we were being rowed towards the shore, a thought occurred to me. What if I were able to prove that the doctor was merely endeavouring to waste our time? That would turn his own weaponry against him, and would deprive the Captain of any excuse from further needless delay. Why, it might even provide me with justification for removing him from the venture altogether: a prospect that was increasingly desirable— purely for the good of the expedition—as his behaviour became ever more malevolent. It would not be easy to do, I realized, being far harder to prove a man is not doing something than to prove that he is, and yet I had no doubt that it should be attempted.
I considered it would be useful to recruit Renshaw as a helper and witness in this important task, and so, as soon as the boat’s crew had dispersed in their search for water and Potter and his servant were out of earshot, I endeavoured to explain the matter. The botanist, who had perched himself, somewhat foolishly, atop one of several curious round rocks that quite resembled giant eyes, proved obstinately uncooperative.
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