Bates dead just before dawn. Great loss. Though will at least permit small increase in daily ration (selves were seven, now = five).
The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson
FEBRUARY 1858
GOD IS IN my bag of sugar. The devil tries to make me spill grains when I take my meals, but I am careful and he hardly steals any. Though there is little left now it keeps me still, so I know He is there. I have not seen the devil but I have felt him often, in my headaches, in noises in the dark, in the mud and in my constant dreams of roasting meat. Sometimes he tries to frighten me with thoughts that I am mistaken, even that He has deserted me, but I hold my cross high and do not listen. Most of all, of course, the devil is in Potter and his helpers. Once they were so fast that I lost sight of them for two whole days and, though I could see their footmarks, I feared they had escaped me. That was a dreadful time, and I was haunted by thoughts of Potter sat in some fine dining room, eating roast beef and potatoes, or fish, perhaps a mighty leg of lamb, with peas and carrots, buttered bread of course, and cake afterwards, as he murmured vilest lies, that I was dead and Eden was not here. Then I saw them once more, stumbling forth, looking worse even than me. It was soon afterwards that I learned—and from Potter himself—that He had struck at last, smiting the mule driver Fiddler from the face of the earth. I was not forgotten. In that instant all my faith became restored.
That same night there occurred something so strange that for a moment I hardly knew if I was dreaming. Suddenly, quite as from nowhere, I saw, standing beside my little fire, our guide, Cromwell, who I had thought long dead, several fearsome-looking spears in his hand. He regarded me curiously and for a moment I feared he had come to take my sugar. ‘‘What do you want?’’
He answered with a question of his own. ‘‘Why aren’t you with those others?’’
‘‘Because they are the devil’s agents. They are God’s enemies.’’ I held my mule bag that had the sugar tight to my breast, but, to my surprise, he paid it no heed, simply nodding and then turning away. All at once a thought came to me. ‘‘Are you His instrument?’’ I called out. ‘‘Was it you who smote down Ben Fiddler?’’
He let out a low laugh and I was certain I was right. Sure enough, the next day I heard their shouts, as another of the mule drivers was struck down. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. Had I not warned them they must renounce this devil or be sorely punished? If they had only listened to my words I had no doubt He would have treated them kindly. Why, if they recanted He might even spare them yet, though it was growing very late.
By tearing open their flesh with the spears of His instrument, and snuffing out their tainted lives, He sweetly whispers to me that I am right.
But now I have been frightened again. This afternoon I followed them into hills which were hard upon my weary limbs, though I persevered. Hearing a distant shout, I looked up and saw they were all gathered upon the summit of a ridge ahead and were cheering and waving their arms in excitement. Anything that caused them joy could only bode ill for men of goodness. I did my best to hurry, but it was some time before I reached the spot where they had stood.
There below me, only a few miles distant, lay the sea. How strange it was to look upon it after so many weeks of wandering. So this was the cause of their celebration. For a moment I found myself mystified. The landscape was hard to read, being all steep and sudden hills, while there seemed to be a bay half hidden behind, but I could see no house or road or other sign of men. Or could I? Studying the scene more carefully, I finally observed, half hidden behind the treetops, the cause of the devil’s agents’ cry. It was a line jutting into the water, nothing more: a tiny shape too clean and straight for any work of nature. I supposed it must be some kind of jetty. Though I could see no buildings, this did not mean they were not somewhere concealed. All at once I became gripped by foreboding. Even now, this moment, they might be talking to strangers, whispering slanders, of errors made and things not here.
I needed strength. My sugar was almost all gone, down to a tiny trail in the bottom of the bag. I ate it all, every bit, and licked the paper too, which helped my spirits revive a little. Then, praying harder than I had prayed for days, I began hobbling down the hillside.
Dr. Thomas Potter
FEBRUARY 1858
20th February
Wondrous, wondrous, wondrous! Sea! Jetty!? Hope of salvation! All selves = stood laughing like children, shouting hurrahs etc. etc. Tom Wright joyfully suggesting selves eat all remaining food this very moment (total remaining: one full tin + 1/8th tin Aberdeen hotchpotch) in celebration. Self, though jubilant, remained more cautious, but did permit selves consume the 1/8th (½ teaspoon each).
Hurried down, quite running, even despite feet, as path entered forest, keeping pistol ready in case half-caste appeared. In event, soon slowed as distance to coast = further than appeared from above: dusk well advanced by time selves wearily reached flat land. Selves spirits revived as began observe signs of nearby seashore: ground sandy underfoot, mist drawing in through trees, faint salty smell. Best of all, selves found path! Real path: broad, clear white men’s path! Self hobbled onwards, impatient with own weary legs. Then, finally, stumbled onto beach + found jetty, just as thought, vanishing into evening fog.
Confess felt some misgivings even then. All = too still. No sounds men. No lights. Nothing but faint splashing of waves on shore + smell rotten wood. Stepping onto jetty, observed many timbers = broken. None of selves spoke. All began searching nearby, increasingly impatient. But only signs mankind = old beached rowboat (wrecked), staves of burst barrels, long coiled rope, huge pieces bone + stinking carcass. Clear this = a whaling station. Worse, appeared = abandoned whaling station. Despite all evidence selves began suddenly + loudly shouting into mist. No reply. Utter silence. Self felt something like desperation. Nothing harder to endure than high hopes suddenly dashed.
Skeggs = 1st to voice selves fears aloud: suggested this place = further S along coast than supposed, so could be many miles of wilderness between here and nearest settlement. All knew what this meant. Selves have neither strength nor food for further journeying, while also = danger of further attacks by half-caste. Hodges trying voice optimism: claiming some ship might visit but self had no patience for such foolish delusions. Told he: ‘‘What sort of captain would ever bring a vessel into quiet + empty bay like this, where = nobody and nothing?’’
Dismal calm descended. Selves drifted back to trees behind beach to prepare for night, more from habit than hope: finding flat ground, building fire (6 matches remaining). Self feeling awful premonition that this shall = last camp and that all selves shall perish in this place. Brewed hot water. Opened final tin Aberdeen hotchpotch: ate ½ teaspoon each (just makes selves feel far more hungry). 7/8ths tin left. This = total food remaining. Stored carefully in last mule bag.
Deeply asleep + dreaming about to eat feast of beef, roast potatoes, turnips, carrots, peas, onions, gravy, etc. etc. when suddenly woken by screaming and rifle shot. Jumping up saw Tom Wright (on watch: asleep?) with spear through his chest, and half-caste aiming spear at self. Just managed twist out of way so it struck tree just behind. Self reached for pistol but he already fleeing though darkness.
Wright struck clean through heart. Soon coughed his last. This savage act serving to banish selves’ lethargy + rouse all to furious anger. Even if selves = to die in this vile spot, at least might now revenge selves re savage murders and deal with this devious and hateful primitive. Must hunt he down like verminous freak he is. Hooper, Skeggs, Hodges + self began search, using firebrands to light way. Followed footsteps through trees but these vanishing on harder ground. Awkward. Selves = wary spreading out in case suffer further attack. Also faint shuffling sounds in undergrowth (birds? mice? half-caste?) = v. distracting. Hodges panicking, tried fire rifle into dark (hammer not cocked) so self had harshly scold he (only 2 pistol + 1 rifle rounds remaining, while if selves fire all then will have no defence vs. half-caste’s spears).
F
inally returned to fire. None thinking of sleep. Agreed should bury Wright to prevent he being worked upon by birds, wild beasts etc etc. In truth little flesh left on him—just some on calves, thighs, neck + shoul-ders—but still creatures v. likely be tempted. Took he to beach where sand = softer + set to work digging by light of firebrands. Difficult, as had no spade, so had pull away sand with hands. Soon reached layer roots beneath, so had make do with shallow grave. Placed Wright within + just finishing covering he, when Hodges calling out, ‘‘Look. There’s someone by the fire.’’
Self indeed saw man, silhouetted vs. dwindling flames. Appeared = scooping at something with hand. All ran, guns ready. But was not half-caste. There, in full view selves = Wilson, tin in hand, gouging out last mouthful of Aberdeen hotchpotch. Our Aberdeen hotchpotch! Self ran to strike he down but Hooper quicker: knocking away tin, trying recover food from Wilson’s mouth (too late, as he already swallowing). Tin = quite empty. He eaten all 7/8ths! Could hardly believe eyes.
Told he, ‘‘You vile thief.’’
He = wholly unrepentant. Claiming this = his ‘‘right’’ as food = given him by ‘‘the Lord my father.’’ Claiming it is his ‘‘duty’’ to eat so food will not go to ‘‘agents of the devil.’’
Hooper declaring simply, ‘‘Let’s hang him.’’
Self considered this = excellent notion. Could use old rope by jetty. Believe selves would have done so there and then except for Hodges. He whining selves have no legal right hang Wilson. Self less troubled, as considered selves would all be long dead before any lawyers might stray here. Besides, all saw he eating hotchpotch. But for sake decorum self suggested selves hold own trial. Said he must be ‘‘tried by his peers’’ (selves) just like a Lord. All agreed (except Wilson).
Began at once, in broken rowboat. Wilson put in stern, rest facing he on oarsmen’s benches. Self = magistrate. Hodges = defence. Hooper = prosecution. Skeggs = watching for half-caste. All = jury. Hooper began questioning: ‘‘Did you eat our last tin of Aberdeen hotchpotch and so intend to starve us all to death?’’ etc. etc. Wilson insisting this not proper legal process but the ‘‘devil’s law’’ + saying this whole court = in the dock of ‘‘greater court, court of angels,’’ where selves shall receive ‘‘higher judgment,’’ etc. etc. Claiming that God gave him hotchpotch ‘‘with His own hand.’’
Self feeling weary. Sky = growing light, selves had been awake through nearly all night. Also cold breeze now blowing, stirring mist. Self eager hang he quick so could rest, and permitted only short summing-up + discussion. Defence (Hodges) proposing selves should not do anything now but wait. Prosecution (Hooper) answering that = no purpose in delay + he must be hanged ‘‘as example to others.’’ Then self stood and called out, ‘‘The court will now rise and declare its verdict.’’ Asked each one by turn.
Hooper: ‘‘Guilty.’’
Skeggs: ‘‘Guilty.’’
Self: ‘‘Guilty.’’
Hodges: ‘‘I still say we should wait.’’
Self declared verdict = guilty, as agreed by majority + announced sentence, that ‘‘the Reverend Geoffrey Wilson shall = hanged by the neck until he = dead.’’ Wilson actually smiling + saying he does not mind, as he knows he shall soon be lodged ‘‘safe upon the kindly breast of my father,’’ etc. etc. Self examined rope but realized this = too thick for fine work. Also none selves = sure how make noose. Further difficulty = platform to push he from. Hooper insisting selves can simply tie rope round his neck, sling over tree branch, pull he up, secure other end + let he swing. ‘‘It may = less tidy but will work nicely enough, just you see.’’ Hodges, as ever, insisted all = done correctly. Self then proposed constructing simple platform from planks of rowboat, stand Rev. atop, attach noose, then kick away. Selves still examining planks, wondering how do this, when Wilson suddenly crying out, most strangely.
‘‘A miracle! A miracle! Thank you, O Lord! Praise be the Lord.’’
Self supposed he finally turned quite demented. But then Skeggs shouting, ‘‘A ship.’’
Self turned to follow line of he arm. Mist now much dispersed by breeze. Sure enough, there, at far end bay, beneath cliff self could just discern faint vertical + horizontal lines. No mistaking these = masts. In fact seemed not one vessel but two.
Self still v. tempted complete matter at hand. Unfortunately already = too late: Wilson jumping from boat, Hodges, Skeggs + even Hooper all = staggering away in direction mysterious vessels. Self had little choice but to follow.
Captain Illiam Quillian KewJey
JANUARY–FEBRUARY 1858
TRULY, A MAN never knew such slowness. First there was Parrick Quine, the Hobart landing waiter, who seemed like gold dust itself being a Manxman in the customs, but proved a fussing, greedy sort of gold dust at that, being scared that once he gave us the name of that certain kind of trader we were seeking, we’d just do our deal and sail away, and he’d never get his share. Then there was the buyer he finally found, Jed Grey, who was a giant, stooping, worrying sort of fellow, looking as if he’d been bitten by too many low doorframes and was slower even than Quine. His fear was that we were all just some clever policemen’s surprise, and that he’d find himself waking up in Port Arthur gaol one bright morning. When he was finally set and had paid a little jink down, there was a good deal of store loading to do, as I was taking no chances this time, our luck being what it was, and I wanted plenty of food and water aboard just in case we got beached on some piece of wilderness, or had to turn tail and flee across oceans. When this was finished there was that southerly breeze that wouldn’t stop blowing—cold so it had all the Tas-manians mewling and whining about the rottenness of their summer— and sealing us in Hobart as neat as bottle stoppers. I was even getting to worry the Englishmen might stroll back from their jaunt and thwart us once again, but then the breeze came about to a westerly, which would do, and we set sail that noon, with Quine settling the customs documents tidy and quiet, and one of Jed Grey’s men playing pilot.
The wind kept fresh, giving us an easy passage, and the next evening we sailed into the bay we’d picked from the charts, dropping anchor in the shadow of a good-sized cliff. We had to wait another couple of nights for Jed Grey to arrive, as it wouldn’t have done for both of us to be setting out on the same tide, but finally his vessel drifted into sight and we started our work, which should have been done at some quiet spot near Maldon, seven months back. Truly, there’s nothing like the running trade to murder a man’s back. I even had to lend a hand myself, there being so few bodies aboard, though it was hardly proper labour for a ship’s captain. First we had to drag the goods from their hiding places and drop them in the main hold. Next we put a rope around them and, tugging at a pulley rigged to the foreyard, we heaved them skywards, swung them out and dropped them down into the longboat that was waiting. Then we did it all again, and again, and more besides, sometimes rowing over to the shore to catch some stones as ballast. It was hard going and we were only half done when the light went and the fog blew in and we had to call it a day. We started the next morning as soon as the mist lifted, and we’d got going nicely, too, when I noticed Brew peering landwards, with a frown bigger than Peel City stuck on his face.
‘‘Captain, look over there on the shore.’’
Across on the narrow stony beach below the cliff where there should have been nothing worse than gulls and seaweed, was stood a little group of bodies, ragged as marooned sailors, and each of them waving their arms and shouting as if their lives depended on it, which I suppose they did, too. Well, here was a rotten little piece of surprise. The whole idea of this spot was that there would be nobody here. ‘‘Who can they be?’’
‘‘Escaped convicts?’’
That would be just my luck, to be pestered by runaway dirts. ‘‘Get my telescope.’’
That was when I got my second little shock of the morning. These weren’t just any old lost articles, you see. These were our passengers. There was no mistaking them, for all
their hair and rags and thinness. There was the Reverend, waving fit to bust, and Potter too, his red beard long and wild as any madman’s. There was his servant Hooper, and a couple of others, besides, though there was no sign of Renshaw, nor of that army of mules they’d had. This was far worse than convicts. Why, it was almost as if they’d done it deliberately, just to be awkward. All these months we’d managed to keep everything tidy and quiet—though it hadn’t been easy—and now, just when I thought we were finally settled, here they were, plaguing us with some disaster they’d dropped on themselves.
In a moment I saw Jed Grey was having himself rowed over in the next boat, his face worrying fit to burst. My news didn’t cheer him one jot, neither.
‘‘They know you? But that makes them even more dangerous. There’s no question, Captain. We cannot bring them aboard.’’
English passengers Page 45
