English passengers

by Matthew Kneale

  ‘‘What on earth happened to you?’’

  It was questions that would hang us and this was the first. ‘‘We’ve come from Tasmania. We ran out of food.’’

  That was enough to quiet them, at least for now. ‘‘I’ll fetch the cart.’’ The only safe thing would be to get far away, and soon too, before it was too late. It might be salvagers, or scavengers, or just some Englishman with a curiosity. Any would do. After that it wouldn’t matter a spit that we’d been in the right. It’s never being right that matters, after all, it’s being believed, which is another animal entirely. One quick study of the ship would spring enough mysteries to put us in some Englishman’s court of law, being called smugglers and murderers. All the while bodies with letters after their names would be remembering what a fine respectable fellow Dr. Potter had been.

  Wouldn’t that just be my luck, to spend all these months battling against the old scriss, and then, just when I thought I’d won, to be hanged by his own dead corpse.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Timothy Renshaw MARCH–APRIL 1858

  I FOUND MYSELF in a plain sort of room, yellow evening sunlight shining on the bedclothes. A young woman I had never set eyes on before was looking at me, smiling as if I had made some joke, though I was sure I hardly could have.

  ‘‘Well, well, and good afternoon to you.’’

  I felt dazed. ‘‘Where is this place?’’

  ‘‘Dad’s farm, of course.’’

  ‘‘Have I been here long?’’

  ‘‘Nearly two days.’’ She smiled again. ‘‘We have been curious. You looked as if you’d walked clean across the whole bush. Have you got a name?’’

  ‘‘Timothy Renshaw.’’

  ‘‘I’m Liz. Liz Sheppard.’’

  Recollections were returning, though they seemed long ago, and not quite real. ‘‘I saw angels.’’

  The smile dulled. ‘‘That’s right. Dad carves them. They’re all over the place.’’

  It was another month before I heard the full truth about the angels. That morning Liz’s father was away getting stores and her brothers were out checking fences, while Liz and I took ourselves away to the barn. She’d let me unbutton the top of her dress, and loosen her corset, and though I could have done with more loosening still, it was sweet enough for now. I was just enjoying myself nicely, in fact, when her mood suddenly changed.

  ‘‘That’s enough,’’ she said crossly, pushing me back and hiding away those neat round breasts. ‘‘You’ve no right, really you’ve not.’’

  I was quite put out. ‘‘What’s wrong? You were happy enough just now.’’

  She threw me an accusing look. ‘‘You don’t care about me. I’m just some plaything for you.’’

  Females have a way of growing serious at the very poorest time. ‘‘That’s not true,’’ I told her, though I dare say a good part of me was just hoping I might warm her into loosening herself once again. Instead she started crying.

  ‘‘I don’t know why I let you near me. You’ll only cause me hurt.’’ A look came into her eyes, almost hunted. ‘‘You’d never have looked at me if you’d known.’’

  Here was something new. ‘‘Known what?’’

  ‘‘About Dad.’’ Her voice, which was usually strong and without concern, fell hushed. ‘‘He was a Port Arthur man. All he did was take some fellow’s bag at a coaching inn because he was hungry, and then hit back once when he shouldn’t, but that was enough. It was at Port Arthur he started his stone carving. He made sculptures for the governor’s wife’s garden.’’

  I suppose I had begun to wonder. The previous Sunday I had finally been well enough to join them going to church—a little shed of a place with a tin roof—and I had seen the neighbours’ looks.

  Now she was angry. ‘‘Go on, then. Run off and don’t come back. After all, you wouldn’t want to be seen walking with a convict’s daughter.’’

  I kissed her, and then she kissed me back, hungry. After that she loosened nicely, till I had almost the whole story, and a handsome sight she made, too, lying back on the hay.

  I’d already been helping a little on the farm by then, and that afternoon I saddled up the horse to check on the sheep down by the river, where Liz’s father said he’d seen a native wolf prowling. It was a fine day, the trees changing their colours for autumn, and it felt good to be riding across the land, a broad hat on my head for the sun and a cape on my shoulders in case it turned wet. There was something about this place that made me feel alive, in a way I never had done back in London.

  It was hard to think of Mr. Sheppard as a Port Arthur man. With his sloping shoulders and his shy, startled look he seemed quietness itself. So I had kissed a convict’s daughter. What would my mother say to that? It would hardly be the kind of news she would want to tell her society friends. Why, just thinking of Mother made me want to go back to the house there and then and loosen Liz again. It was none of their business what I did anymore. They had sent me here, and nearly killed me, too, so now everything was mine to decide. Why shouldn’t I stay? I liked the life well enough. The farm didn’t seem to make a great fortune, but the land wasn’t bad, and Liz’s family were able feed themselves without breaking their backs. Why, I even liked plants here. In London they had been just a chore that I had been pushed into studying, but here they were useful. The farm had several fields of wheat, as well as the kitchen garden, and a little apple orchard, too, while I had been able to give a few useful pieces of advice. And Liz? Even aside from the fact that she had nursed me back from death, she was a tempting-looking female, nicely curved, while she had shown me more affection than I’d ever received from my own relatives. Yes, I might even marry a convict’s daughter if I chose.

  I saw one of the lambs had got through the fence and was out in the bush beyond, thinking himself so clever. He’d change his mind quick if a native wolf jumped out to take him for dinner. I went after him on the horse, though he gave me a good chase, dodging back and forth and landing me in the dirt once, before I finally caught him and dropped him back with the others. After that I mended the fence where he’d slunk through, and it was almost dusk by the time I finally returned. Liz was still working in the kitchen garden and saw me riding by. She seemed recovered from her earlier upset.

  ‘‘Look at you,’’ she called out with a laugh. I suppose I’d picked up a good bit of dust. ‘‘You look like a real Tasmanian.’’

  Mr. P. T. Windrush 1865

  Wonders of the Isle of Wight

  Chapter 6: An Island of Eccentrics (excerpt)

  It is just beyond St. Catherine’s Point, however, in the little village of Chale, that one of the island’s most remarkable characters is to be found. Pay a visit to the delightful old church, from where one has such a fine view of the coast stretching away to westwards, and one may well discover, sitting just inside the porch, the cheery, ragged fellow who is known all across the island as the Messiah of Chale.

  He was found by the village innkeeper on the shore beneath the dark and crumbling cliffs that typify this part of Wight. He was fleshless almost to death and looked half drowned, while how he came to be there is a mystery that is much discussed in Chale to this day. A number of timbers from what appeared to have been a rowing boat were nearby, but these were without lettering of any kind, while the poor unfortunate himself could offer no enlightenment, being too bereft of wits to repeat his own name. Whether this was his nature, or a consequence of some ocean ordeal—some have suggested he succumbed to drinking seawater— will doubtless never be known.

  The innkeeper and his wife endeavoured to nurse him back to a state of tolerable bodily health, though sadly his mind remained lost, his chatter being greatly excitable yet all but without meaning. From the first he displayed a simple and most touching wish to visit the nearby church, whose bells he could hear ringing from his sickbed, and such was his enthusiasm for this house of God that, as soon as he was recovered, he quite insisted upon making his home in its porch. W
hat a happy idiot he proved, smiling and uttering foolishness to any who would listen, and urging passersby to pray for their souls. Even left to himself he would talk volubly, looking to his right quite as if some invisible phantasm was sat beside him, whom he would inform of any small piece of news, from a change in the weather to the fact that a leaf had fallen upon his lap. Ask who he was speaking to and a strange look would come into his eyes, while his reply was always the same. ‘‘My father. My father who art in heaven.’’ It was this that inspired his nickname.

  There was always somebody who would offer the Messiah a penny or a crust of bread, so he kept himself well enough. He was not, however, welcomed by all. He had, from the first, showed a great antipathy towards the vicar, Mr. Roberts, whom he would denounce on occasion as ‘‘Beelzebub’s fiend.’’ Eventually Mr. Roberts was moved to suggest he be removed to an insane asylum. It emerged, however, that the Messiah was not without friends of his own, including a local farmer of nonconformist views, who was generous enough to offer him a place to dwell, being an empty outbuilding upon his land that had previously been used to house animals, which would seem only suitable for a Messiah. He lives there to this day, spending his hours sat upon the churchyard wall, cheerfully chattering to his father the deity. His fame has spread, even attracting the curiosity of those elsewhere upon the island. When visitors appear the Messiah delights in showing them a little overgrown patch of land, close beside his simple home, where the pigs used to bask in the sun, which he quite insists is the Garden of Eden!

  Another mystery about the man is his knowledge of stones. Though he cannot so much as remember his own name, he knows these perfectly, and show him any piece of rock or mineral, however rare, and he will name it at once. He is never wrong.

  Peevay

  1858-70

  SO I GOT my surprise. As I looked from my secret place at these fellows coming in their four boats, then pulling them ashore and taking out STORES they brought, I saw they never were like Father at all, but all different. Lamp lit one like a white man—white face and pale eyes like any such—but there, just beside, was another who was dark like Mother. Others were mixed like me, pale skin with Palawa’s nose, or black face but red hair. Even those white ones weren’t like any usual num, no, as they never made themselves proud like white scuts did. No, these weren’t foes, I could divine. I got up from my hiding place and called hello, making them turn about at this mystery to confound.

  So I got my second surprise. You see, these weren’t some strangers but my own brothers and sisters. Brothers and sisters that I never even supposed till then, plenty of them. Not that all were Father’s, no, as other white men also lived here before, catching seals and mutton birds like him, but many were mine. Truly that was great good fortune and tidings of joy, better than any I ever had before. So I was not just alone after all. I had some whole family I never did divine, yes. These were PEEVAY’S MOB.

  Father died five years before, so they told me that night. His dying was nothing interesting, no, but just going away in the boat to Robson’s dying island to get STORES, getting drunk, falling asleep outside the STOREHOUSE in a cold night and coming home with fever. After, he went to bed and got found dead. He was the last white man left here, and the most hateful, and nobody was sad. They put him on the other side of the hill so they wouldn’t have to look at his burying place except sometimes. Mothers, who were all Palawa, stolen like Mother was, and who were also all dead now, got put near houses, so people could give them greetings every day.

  So Mother lived longer than Father, though she never knew. She would like that, I did ponder.

  Strange thing was that though stories about Father were all bad-drinking too much again, or striking grievous blows for piss-poor thing-still I could not hate him only. Yes, he was some heinous scut with no good in him, but good came from him, even if this was just some foolish mischance he never did intend. See, he made me, and now he gave me my tribe, too. That was some mystery to confound.

  So I am in this place, my place. Sometimes I awake in the night and it is some new puzzle to confuse that I am here, so lucky, just living and going with others hunting seals and catching mutton birds and getting eggs from their holes in the ground. The only time I see white men is when we go to Robson’s dying island to sell things and get more stores. STOREKEEPER smiles, as he desires our trade, but I can see his eyes full of scornings. White scut farmers—they got that island now—are worse, laughing and shouting magic names if they get drunk. Truly, though, this is a useful thing, as it makes me remember to be fighting. My new ones don’t know much about the world, you see, or even about themselves, as Father never told them any, so it is my fine purpose to give them teachings. I tell them writing and LAWS, white men’s tricks and BIBLE CHEATING and more. They must know everything so they can endure. Who knows, perhaps one day they can fight those heinous pissers back. This is my dream. This is my heartfelt desire deep inside my breast, and I will strive for it every day.

  Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley 1858–59

  IT WAS JUST a week or two after I got back to Peel City, and Ealisad’s scoldings were still ringing in my ears, when I heard the news. It came from the Sincerity’s insurers over in Douglas, and was as bad as bad could be. They’d had a letter from a certain Mr. Jonah Childs, who told them he wanted to have the Sincerity salvaged, which he’d do with his own jink, seeing as there was no cargo aboard.

  That sent us all scurrying. Most of them took themselves off to Whitehaven or Liverpool, looking for any kind of ship work that would take them far away. Brew got a second mate’s berth on a vessel bound for South America, Kinvig vanished onto some dirty steamship voyaging to New York, while China Clucas went off to play giant on a tea trader sailing away to, of all places, China, which was fitting, I dare say. I would have followed them, too, but I just couldn’t find the wish in me. I don’t know if it was that journey back, with all its starving and worse, or if it sprang from what happened on that last morning, but it was as if all the soo had drained away. There seemed no point in fleeing halfway round the world, as I felt they were bound to catch me in the end. There’s only so many Manx sea captains, after all, while there’s nothing like a shout of murder to set fellows all across the globe watching.

  I couldn’t just wait, mind, and one day I took a passage across to Dublin. My journey back was more roundabout, being first to Liverpool, then over to Douglas town, and finally back to Peel City, which I did in the night, walking quietly over the hills. From there I went straight to cousin Tobm’s house, and stepped quietly into his basement, where I stayed, quiet as mice. I can’t say that was much of a delight, but at least it was keeping alive. The damp I could manage, and boredom too, as you get used to such things aboard ships. Cousin Tobm paid a visit every day, and Ealisad came once a week just to taunt me some more. No, it would have been all right except for Tobm’s cat. All there was for windows was a few chunks of glass jammed in the paving at the top of Tobm’s garden. When the sun was high it shone through these nice as nip, making lovely bright squares on the floor near the table, but that’s just when Tobm’s cat liked to flop down his great body of a self and blot all to darkness. I suppose the glass was warm for him to lie on. I tried shouting, and hitting at the ceiling with a chair leg, but it made not a scran of difference. Animals always know when you’re helpless.

  Summer turned to autumn, then Christmas came with its damp, leaving me coughing and cursing this private gaol. All the while I was puzzling and fretting why those certain ones still hadn’t brought themselves over from England, like I knew they surely must, sleetching about with their fishing eyes, asking for Illiam Quillian Kewley. I’d have heard soon enough if they’d come, for sure, as cousin Tobm kept his ears open, while a stranger in Peel is news within the hour. It wasn’t that I was missing them any, but there’s nothing to bother a man like mystery. Besides, the longer they didn’t arrive, the longer I was stuck waiting in that cellar.

  Finally winter turned to sprin
g, and d’you know on the very first day the sun was strong enough to feel, that cat flopped himself down in his place, eclipsing me all in darkness. It was just after then that Ealisad came with a letter that had arrived, which was from Jonah Childs himself. Inside I found a prettiest little invitation, and even tickets for the train and the steam packet.

  You are invited to an exhibition at the London College of Surgeons

  of the collected artifacts of the much lamented Dr. Thomas

  Potter, eminent explorer and writer, assembled during the recent

  journey to and exploration of Her Majesty’s Colony of Tasmania.

  I knew it was a trap, of course. I didn’t care. I’d had enough of hiding in the dark, month after month, shivering and waiting for trouble. If I was to be hanged, then on with it. So up I climbed, giving that cat a nice little kick on the way, back into the world. Soon I was steaming across a springtime Irish Sea, watching the passengers fuss and pewk at the little scran of weather we met. Next I was on a train rushing out from Liverpool that was whistling and screaming and daubing everyone with soot. Then suddenly I was back in that mad rush of London, that I’d never thought I’d set eyes on again. A ride in a cab and I was stood in front of a grim sort of building that was the London surgeons’ nest, where the porters gave a nod at my invitation, then pointed me up some stairs.

  I half expected to find nothing more than a mob of London policemen waiting to grab me, but no, there really was an exhibition. I stepped into a giant of a room that was busy as beetles, with all manner of grand London snots strolling back and forth in their Sunday best, chattering and shouting their hellos. Right in the centre was a fine portrait of the good doctor himself smirking away. And good evening to you, too. All around were glass cases filled with the bones and skulls he’d collected, some all fixed back together on stands, leaning back with their arms by their side as if there might be hope for them yet. So the ship had salvaged well enough. That just added to the mystery of why no one was jumping out to put me under arrest.