He pointing aft at figure. Hard to see he in darkness, but appeared be holding some form of sack. V. mystifying? Thought all = safely locked away.
Self striding aft. ‘‘Who’s there?’’
He stepping across with sack to ship’s rail. All at once self recognized he stride. He = murdering savage, half-caste! How he get aboard? Other realization = re sack. This = cloth bag: i.e. one containing own most complete + valued specimen: female Mary. Must be, as = only one stored in thus. How dare he! Self fired pistol but he = already dropping over side. Self took up lamp, ran to rail, saw he already in water, grasping primitive canoe. Attempted fire again but last round expended. Hooper fired rifle but he now submerged in front of vessel, pulling away. Hard to hit.
Considered lowering boat to give chase, but would have release Manx, while this could = dangerous, as they could foment trouble when selves = distracted. V. aggravating.
Peevay
FEBRUARY 1858
SO I CLIMBED up from canoe, going carefully, and went onto ship’s DECK. Climbing over RAIL, I could see Potter + other white scuts at other end, banging with HAMMER, but truth was I hardly took much heed as I was more intent on my surprise, which was terrible. Everywhere was dead fellows, you see, just lying broken hither and thither all around. They were so many, even enough for some tribe. So I stepped among, so sad and surprised, and angry. Who were these? I pondered. Why, they might be ones I knew, I could surmise. Dray, Mongana, Heedeek, are you here?
That was when I saw a bag, only one here, with words written.
BLACK TYPE Tasmanian Aborigine Female (COMPLETE) (SPECIMEN: M)
Valuable: Handle With Care
Property Of Dr. T. POTTER
LONDON COLLEGE OF SURGEONS Letter M made me wonder. Looking now, I saw small something tied to bag, and d’you know this was charm Mother kept, with Tayaleah’s bone inside, which she wore under clothes so num wouldn’t see. So I knew. Bag was just quite light, yes, which was some sad strange thing, as Mother never should be made light, she was too fine. Then I heard Hooper and Red Beard shouting out, so surprised, ‘‘Who’s there?’’ and I saw Red Beard’s pistol ready, so I knew I must go or get killed, which was piss poor. Even as I got away from his shooting tries, and came back through the water, holding canoe so I would not drown, I was raging. Wrath got worse when I was back on shore, and my dear desire was to return, so I could rescue those poor others, and burn his ship away and scorch him and servant Hooper to ashes.
By and by, though, I knew this was just some vain hope. They would be waiting now, watching for my fire stick, and could kill me too easily. At least I got poor Mother, which was some great good fortune, as I had despaired of finding her anymore. Mother would hate being some playing thing of white shits, I could divine, and this was some small tidings of joy. So I surmised that though I couldn’t get everything I sought, at least I got some things, and I must try and make this my peace.
I watched through trees in case white scuts came looking but they never did. Just after dawn ship’s sails dropped down, one by one, and it went out from this bay and away to somewhere. So I was left alone, which meant I could give Mother her fine goodbye, and try and dash to pieces all those hateful things that got done to her before. First I went back and forth beneath trees, getting dry wood to make into her burning pyre, like she should have got before, and when it was tall enough I put her on the very top. Then I said my saddest goodbyes and started her fire. Day was warm, no rain, wood was good, and soon all was burning hot and cracking. So, here in the world, which was hers, Mother finally got her correct dignity. Yes, that was some kind of sorrowful jubilation I could divine.
As she went, I pondered the life she got. This was woeful, yes, just fighting and seeking to endure, but I supposed that for this time she lived—most hateful one there ever was—she did it well. No, she could not get her dearest desire to vanquish num white men, and make them go away, because this was some impossible thing, but she had her mob and fought her war, and lived bravely and never cared what anybody else said, which was some wonder. Truly, I wished I was more like her.
By and by flames got strong and smoke rushed up like a big hand reaching. Then, as I watched, a thought came to me, which was interesting. You see, there was one craving deep inside her breast that never got done in all this time, but might still. Yes, in all these many long years and troubles, all these endurings and wanderings, we never did kill Father.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Timothy Renshaw
JANUARY–MARCH 1858
SO HERE I WAS, bruised and broken, just below the summit of some unknown Tasmanian mountain. At least I was on the leeward side, so the wind hardly troubled me, though it was still badly cold at night and when the rain fell.
Despite Cromwell’s warning words I found it hard to believe the others would not return for me, and I was constantly listening for the sound of approaching footfalls. As days passed, my disappointment grew, then turned to sudden fits of anger, though at other moments I would imagine them loyally striding back to the settled districts so they might collect together a rescue party. Often and again I attempted to calculate how many days this would take them, though my guesses were different each time, being sooner when I felt in a good mood, and later when I was caught by gloominess.
The longer I was alone, the harder it became. I found myself often chattering to myself in a solitary way, and I greatly looked forward to the chance appearance of wild creatures, as even the native wolves seemed a kind of company. A pair of these soon stole by, just as Cromwell had predicted—strange loping creatures with dark stripes on their rumps— though fortunately they seemed shy of me, being only concerned with the mules. Wallabies would sometimes come bounding through the trees, and I had regular dusk-time visits by a wombat that would rummage through the vegetation and stop, regarding my tent with blank eyes, then amble away. Less cautious were the possums, with their curious little heads, that appeared at night when I cooked my dinner, which they would steal if I turned my back for a moment. I coveted all, thieving or otherwise. Having food enough, I never thought of using the spears Cromwell had left.
The passing days had at least one use, healing my injuries. I found myself able to walk about my tent ever more easily, though I never strayed far, having a great fear that the others would arrive and I should miss them. All the while my chatter to myself became more drawn to the dilemma before me. “The evenings are drawing in. It’s hard to say without a watch but I’d swear it’s no later than six-thirty and already the sun is setting. The nights are feeling colder, too. The longer I stay, the harder it will be for me to reach safety, that’s certain. But what if they are coming to rescue me after all? Why, they could be climbing up the mountainside this very moment. That is, if they haven’t just turned tail and left me for dead. Rotten, treacherous scum. But I cannot believe they would do such a thing as…”
So I would go on, round and again, and each time I was a fraction closer to making the hard decision to leave. Finally one afternoon I began assembling what I would need for my journey. The weight of it came as a shock. The tent seemed deliberately contrived to be heavy, with its thick canvas and clumsy wooden frame, while even the pots of food, though each was light in itself added up to a proper burden. Nor did it help that everything had to be carried in a mule bag, whose straps were all wrong. In the end I decided I could not manage a whole tent but would take only a wide strip of canvas that I would rig up from trees. I took food to last me about ten days, which I hoped would be enough.
I set off early the next morning, clutching the spears that Cromwell had left me, my legs still stiff from my injuries. Several times in those first few yards I stopped, listening, in the hope that I might, even now, hear the others approaching, but the only sound was the breeze blowing the tops of the trees and the faint murmur of insects. Hurling a few foul names into the wind, I turned my back on my lonely home for the last time and went on my way. Cromwell’s directions were invaluable, and
though the going was not easy—beginning with a mighty scrabble down the mountainside—I soon found the path he had described, which I began following southwards. On the second day I reached the curious skull-shaped peak that he had talked of which I kept to the east of just as he had said I must. By the third day the land began to grow less wild, and I felt my spirits revive. I even laughed at my earlier nervousness about setting out, as it seemed it would be no great hardship to find my way to safety.
I dare say one should never think such thoughts. It was that same afternoon that I missed my step and grazed my knee. I cleaned the wound in the river and considered it nothing more than an inconvenience. The next day, however, it began to throb, then to swell, and with time it became so painful that I was obliged to make a crude crutch from a tree branch to help me walk. My progress was greatly slowed, till one morning I woke to find myself feverish, so I could not get up from beneath my poor canvas shelter, and I remained there all day, fitfully sleeping. At dusk I was woken by a rustling in the undergrowth and saw one of the native wolves was stood nearby, regarding me with patient interest. Clambering to my feet, I hurled one of Peevay’s spears in the creature’s direction, and though my aim was wide indeed, it scampered away. The incident scared me into faint strength and I managed to build a fire, which I made as large as I could, shaping it into a kind of line, in the hope the burning would slowly move, and so last through the night.
At some early hour of that same morning, I came awake, or so I thought. There, stood watching the flames, which were grown very faint now, were my parents and my older brother.
‘‘He has built it very poorly,’’ remarked my father, poking at the ashes with his umbrella. ‘‘He should have found more wood, really he should. I cannot think it will last much longer.’’
‘‘He always was a lazy boy,’’ agreed my mother with a shake of her head.
‘‘If he is eaten, which I suppose he will be, then it shall be entirely his own fault.’’
My mother glanced towards my brother. ‘‘If only Jeremy had made the fire.’’
My brother, though evidently content with this remark, merely shrugged. ‘‘I would have tried my best, Mama, that is all I can say.’’
‘‘You are too modest, child,’’ declared my mother approvingly.
All at once I felt something welling up inside, like a kind of sickness. ‘‘I renounce you, d’you hear?’’ I shouted out. ‘‘I renounce you all. Now just leave me be.’’
The three of them regarded me with looks of surprise, even indignation. Then, one by one, they turned their backs and walked away into the trees.
I came awake and found dawn was breaking, while, to my great satisfaction, the fire was burning quite well. Though I was still feverish I felt a little better, and strong enough to raise myself up with my crutch. I had not been walking long and had covered no great distance when, stepping from some trees, I was amazed to find myself being stared at by a sheep. It was one of a large flock, and when I took a step towards them they all turned and fled together, like so many startled birds. I yelled and shouted for joy. Though my leg seemed somehow more painful now that I believed I was saved, I pressed on, and before long I came upon a wide dusty track, marvelously scored with marks of horseshoes, some looking wondrously recent. Climbing a low rise, I saw a wooden house, half hidden among trees, smoke trailing from its chimney. Dropping the mule bag, I hobbled forward, until, uttering a kind of giggle, I pushed open a gate and found myself in a garden, all brightest colours, such as I had hardly looked upon for all these many weeks.
How strange it was, though. Everywhere I looked, you see—on walls, atop stones and stood upon the lawn—were winged angels, dozens of them, all regarding me with smiling grey faces.
Dr. Thomas Potter
FEBRUARY 1858
The Destiny of Nations
Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men
The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being savagery, he has no thought beyond preserving himself for the next few moments. His is a mind empty of any comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and he is content to live his primitive and dreary existence, running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few days longer. As such he may be pitied the terrible fate that awaits him…
The Destiny of Nations
Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men (correction)
The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being barbarism, he has no comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and yet he cannot be regarded as harmless. His dreary existence may seem innocence it-self—running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few hours longer—and yet a closer examination will reveal a very different truth. Do not underestimate the savage, for though he lacks any faculty of reasoned thought, he is possessed of a brutish cunning. Worse, he is filled with a malevolent envy of those of races who have—in a fashion incomprehensible to him-self—developed the wondrous fruits of civilization. In Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand—and doubtless soon also Africa—the recent history of the Black Type has been one of swift and calamitous decline, even to the point of near-extinction, and in consequence it has become fashionable, in certain intellectualist and sentimentalist circles, to regard the dark-skinned races of this earth with feelings of pity: they are perceived as the victims of cruelest circumstance, suffering at the hands of unfeeling conquerors. Such a view, though doubtless well-intentioned, is dangerously misleading. The truth is that the Black Type, by reason of his flawed and dangerous nature, is largely the author of his own unhappy lot.
No finer instance of this truth can be provided than by that most diminished of nations, the aborigines of Tasmania. This sorry tribe has, ever since the island was brought within the fold of the civilized world, been widely acknowledged as representing the very lowest of all the races—or species—of men, being bereft of the most rudimentary skills, including even knowledge of agriculture, so it may be regarded as holding a place midway between humankind and the animal kingdom. In spite of this lamentable state of advancement, the aborigines’ British rulers have displayed great compassion towards their new charges, such sentimentalism being a rare and charming weakness of the Saxon Type (see Chapter Two above). The colonial government made every attempt to improve those blacks who were captured, and to lead them from idleness to civilized ways. One might suppose these efforts would have been received with gratitude, but no, the aborigines showed themselves nothing less than contemptuous of the goodly teaching given them, and, beneath a thin veneer of civilized conduct, they remained quite as savage as before. Even now those few who are left are capable of every form of deceitfulness, violence (even murder) and theft of valuable property.
Such behaviour has all but exhausted the patience even of the kindly and sentimental Saxon, who—though it is not his nature to feel belligerence—will never shrink from righteous defence of himself and his possessions. There can be little doubt that when there begins the Great Conflagration of Nations, the Black Type will number among the very first nations to perish, and while it is in the heart of men to find sadness in any such occurrence, it may be considered that such an outcome is not without justice.
The Norman Type may by his cunning survive a little longer, but will meet a like fate. The Norman’s power is drawn from his stolen seat at the centre of affairs—notably his control of land, title and church—and from his ability to dazzle his Saxon better with the empty spectacle of tradition. Such a state of affairs will not long continue. With every passing day the credulity of the honest Saxon is subtly diminished. With every hour he sees more clearly the empty arrogance. the perversion of godliness that calls itself ‘‘noble.’’ One bright morning the Saxon will awake from his slumber and find his eyes opened to the mighty fraud committed upon him and, with one mighty blow, his strong arms will rend asunder the shackles that have bound him thus, casting into oblivion
the parasitical lords and priests who have fed from his industry for these eight hundred years.
The Celtic Type, by contrast, will endure, though his station will be a humble one. The dominating characteristics of the Celt may be idleness and deceit yet he is not beyond the realms of reason, being generally possessed of a most useful instinct of obedience. It is, indeed, his very failings—his irresolution, his awe of his mightier and cleverer fellows—that will permit him to be preserved. His role will be as a servitor to the Saxon, whether he is waiting at his table, marching in his armies or labouring in his fields, his mills and his ships upon the ocean. The connection between the Saxon and Celt will thus be one of mutual advantage: a form of compact between superior and inferior, master and slave.
Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
APRIL 1858
THE MARKS I’D scratched on the wall told their story, and a low, rotten story it was too. Twelve weeks and more we’d been sailing. Twelve weeks locked below in my own vessel, and, worse, put there by a passenger I’d troubled to rescue from his own foolish dying. Twelve weeks of knowing that muck was strutting about the quarterdeck—my quarterdeck—like it was his own. Why, it was like watching some stranger sneak his fingers up my Ealisad’s skirts clean before my very eyes. Here was a fine piece of gratitude. I should have left him on that shore to starve, so I should.
English passengers Page 47
