For the Term of His Natural Life

by Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

  The "little gathering" of which Major Vickers had spoken to Mr. Meekin,had grown into something larger than he had anticipated. Instead of aquiet dinner at which his own household, his daughter's betrothed, andthe stranger clergyman only should be present, the Major found himselfentangled with Mesdames Protherick and Jellicoe, Mr. McNab of thegarrison, and Mr. Pounce of the civil list. His quiet Christmas dinnerhad grown into an evening party.

  The conversation was on the usual topic.

  "Heard anything about that fellow Dawes?" asked Mr. Pounce.

  "Not yet," says Frere, sulkily, "but he won't be out long. I've got adozen men up the mountain."

  "I suppose it is not easy for a prisoner to make good his escape?" saysMeekin.

  "Oh, he needn't be caught," says Frere, "if that's what you mean; buthe'll starve instead. The bushranging days are over now, and it's aprecious poor look-out for any man to live upon luck in the bush."

  "Indeed, yes," says Mr. Pounce, lapping his soup. "This island seemsspecially adapted by Providence for a convict settlement; for with anadmirable climate, it carries little indigenous vegetation which willsupport human life."

  "Wull," said McNab to Sylvia, "I don't think Prauvidence had any thochto' caunveect deesiplin whun He created the cauleny o' Van Deemen'sLan'."

  "Neither do I," said Sylvia.

  "I don't know," says Mrs. Protherick. "Poor Protherick used often tosay that it seemed as if some Almighty Hand had planned the PenalSettlements round the coast, the country is so delightfully barren."

  "Ay, Port Arthur couldn't have been better if it had been made onpurpose," says Frere; "and all up the coast from Tenby to St. Helen'sthere isn't a scrap for human being to make a meal on. The West Coast isworse. By George, sir, in the old days, I remember--"

  "By the way," says Meekin, "I've got something to show you. Rex'sconfession. I brought it down on purpose."

  "Rex's confession!"

  "His account of his adventures after he left Macquarie Harbour. I amgoing to send it to the Bishop."

  "Oh, I should like to see it," said Sylvia, with heightened colour. "Thestory of these unhappy men has a personal interest for me."

  "A forbidden subject, Poppet."

  "No, papa, not altogether forbidden; for it does not affect me now as itused to do. You must let me read it, Mr. Meekin."

  "A pack of lies, I expect," said Frere, with a scowl. "That scoundrelRex couldn't tell the truth to save his life."

  "You misjudge him, Captain Frere," said Meekin. "All the prisoners arenot hardened in iniquity like Rufus Dawes. Rex is, I believe, trulypenitent, and has written a most touching letter to his father."

  "A letter!" said Vickers. "You know that, by the King's--no, theQueen's Regulations, no letters are allowed to be sent to the friends ofprisoners without first passing through the hands of the authorities."

  "I am aware of that, Major, and for that reason have brought it with me,that you may read it for yourself. It seems to me to breathe a spirit oftrue piety."

  "Let's have a look at it," said Frere.

  "Here it is," returned Meekin, producing a packet; "and when the clothis removed, I will ask permission of the ladies to read it aloud. It ismost interesting."

  A glance of surprise passed between the ladies Protherick and Jellicoe.The idea of a convict's letter proving interesting! Mr. Meekin was newto the ways of the place.

  Frere, turning the packet between his finger, read the address:--

  John Rex, sen., Care of Mr. Blicks, 38, Bishopsgate Street Within,London.

  "Why can't he write to his father direct?" said he. "Who's Blick?"

  "A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the fortunateRex passed his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you areaware."

  "Educated prisoners are always the worst," said Vickers. "James, somemore wine. We don't drink toasts here, but as this is Christmas Eve,'Her Majesty the Queen'!"

  "Hear, hear, hear!" says Maurice. "'Her Majesty the Queen'!"

  Having drunk this loyal toast with due fervour, Vickers proposed, "HisExcellency Sir John Franklin", which toast was likewise duly honoured.

  "Here's a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, sir," said Frere,with the letter still in his hand. "God bless us all."

  "Amen!" says Meekin piously. "Let us hope He will; and now, leddies, theletter. I will read you the Confession afterwards." Opening the packetwith the satisfaction of a Gospel vineyard labourer who sees his firstvine sprouting, the good creature began to read aloud:

  "'Hobart Town, "'December 27, 1838. "'My Dear Father,--Through all thechances, changes, and vicissitudes of my chequered life, I never had atask so painful to my mangled feelings as the present one, of addressingyou from this doleful spot--my sea-girt prison, on the beach of which Istand a monument of destruction, driven by the adverse winds of fate tothe confines of black despair, and into the vortex of galling misery.'"

  "Poetical!" said Frere.

  "'I am just like a gigantic tree of the forest which has stood many awintry blast, and stormy tempest, but now, alas! I am become a witheredtrunk, with all my greenest and tenderest branches lopped off. Thoughfast attaining middle age, I am not filling an envied and honouredpost with credit and respect. No--I shall be soon wearing the garb ofdegradation, and the badge and brand of infamy at P.A., which is, beinginterpreted, Port Arthur, the 'Villain's Home'."

  "Poor fellow!" said Sylvia.

  "Touching, is it not?" assented Meekin, continuing--

  "'I am, with heartrending sorrow and anguish of soul, ranged and mingledwith the Outcasts of Society. My present circumstances and pictures youwill find well and truly drawn in the 102nd Psalm, commencing with the4th verse to the 12th inclusive, which, my dear father, I request youwill read attentively before you proceed any further.'"

  "Hullo!" said Frere, pulling out his pocket-book, "what's that? Readthose numbers again." Mr. Meekin complied, and Frere grinned. "Go on,"he said. "I'll show you something in that letter directly."

  "'Oh, my dear father, avoid, I beg of you, the reading of profane books.Let your mind dwell upon holy things, and assiduously study to growin grace. Psalm lxxiii 2. Yet I have hope even in this, my desolatecondition. Psalm xxxv 18. "For the Lord our God is merciful, andinclineth His ear unto pity".'"

  "Blasphemous dog!" said Vickers. "You don't believe all that, Meekin, doyou?" The parson reproved him gently. "Wait a moment, sir, until I havefinished."

  "'Party spirit runs very high, even in prison in Van Diemen's Land. Iam sorry to say that a licentious press invariably evinces a very greatdegree of contumely, while the authorities are held in respect by allwell-disposed persons, though it is often endeavoured by some to bringon them the hatred and contempt of prisoners. But I am glad to tell youthat all their efforts are without avail; but, nevertheless, do not readin any colonial newspaper. There is so much scurrility and vituperationin their productions.'"

  "That's for your benefit, Frere," said Vickers, with a smile. "Youremember what was said about your presence at the race meetings?"

  "Of course," said Frere. "Artful scoundrel! Go on, Mr. Meekin, pray."

  "'I am aware that you will hear accounts of cruelty and tyranny, said,by the malicious and the evil-minded haters of the Government andGovernment officials, to have been inflicted by gaolers on convicts. Tobe candid, this is not the dreadful place it has been represented to beby vindictive writers. Severe flogging and heavy chaining is sometimesused, no doubt, but only in rare cases; and nominal punishments aremarked out by law for slight breaches of discipline. So far as I have anopportunity of judging, the lash is never bestowed unless merited.'"

  "As far as he is concerned, I don't doubt it!" said Frere, cracking awalnut.

  "'The texts of Scripture quoted by our chaplain have comforted me much,and I have much to be grateful for; for after the rash attempt I made tosecure my freedom, I have reason to be thankful for the mercy shown tome. Death--dreadful death of soul and body--would have been my portion;bu
t, by the mercy of Omnipotence, I have been spared to repentance--Johniii. I have now come to bitterness. The chaplain, a pious gentleman,says it never really pays to steal. "Lay up for yourselves treasures inHeaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt." Honesty is thebest policy, I am convinced, and I would not for L1,000 repeat my evilcourses--Psalm xxxviii 14. When I think of the happy days I once passedwith good Mr. Blicks, in the old house in Blue Anchor Yard, and reflectthat since that happy time I have recklessly plunged in sin, and stolengoods and watches, studs, rings, and jewellery, become, indeed, a commonthief, I tremble with remorse, and fly to prayer--Psalm v. Oh whatsinners we are! Let me hope that now I, by God's blessing placed beyondtemptation, will live safely, and that some day I even may, by the willof the Lord Jesus, find mercy for my sins. Some kind of madness hasmethod in it, but madness of sin holds us without escape. Such is, dearfather, then, my hope and trust for my remaining life here--Psalm c 74.I owe my bodily well-being to Captain Maurice Frere, who was good enoughto speak of my conduct in reference to the Osprey, when, with Shiers,Barker, and others, we captured that vessel. Pray for Captain Frere, mydear father. He is a good man, and though his public duty is painful andtrying to his feelings, yet, as a public functionary, he could not allowhis private feelings, whether of mercy or revenge, to step between himand his duty.'"

  "Confound the rascal!" said Frere, growing crimson.

  "'Remember me most affectionately to Sarah and little William, andall friends who yet cherish the recollection of me, and bid them takewarning by my fate, and keep from evil courses. A good conscience isbetter than gold, and no amount can compensate for the misery incidentto a return to crime. Whether I shall ever see you again, dear father,is more than uncertain; for my doom is life, unless the Governmentalter their plans concerning me, and allow me an opportunity to earn myfreedom by hard work.

  "'The blessing of God rest with you, my dear father, and that you may bewashed white in the blood of the Lamb is the prayer of your

  "'Unfortunate Son,' "John Rex" 'P.S.---Though your sins be as scarletthey shall be whiter than snow.'"

  "Is that all?" said Frere.

  "That is all, sir, and a very touching letter it is."

  "So it is," said Frere. "Now let me have it a moment, Mr. Meekin."

  He took the paper, and referring to the numbers of the texts which hehad written in his pocket-book, began to knit his brows over Mr. JohnRex's impious and hypocritical production. "I thought so," he said, atlength. "Those texts were never written for nothing. It's an old trick,but cleverly done."

  "What do you mean?" said Meekin. "Mean!" cries Frere, with a smile athis own acuteness. "This precious composition contains a very gratifyingpiece of intelligence for Mr. Blicks, whoever he is. Some receiver, I'veno doubt. Look here, Mr. Meekin. Take the letter and this pencil, andbegin at the first text. The 102nd Psalm, from the 4th verse to the12th inclusive, doesn't he say? Very good; that's nine verses, isn'tit? Well, now, underscore nine consecutive words from the second wordimmediately following the next text quoted, 'I have hope,' etc. Have yougot it?"

  "Yes," says Meekin, astonished, while all heads bent over the table.

  "Well, now, his text is the eighteenth verse of the thirty-fifth Psalm,isn't it? Count eighteen words on, then underscore five consecutiveones. You've done that?"

  "A moment--sixteen--seventeen--eighteen, 'authorities'."

  "Count and score in the same way until you come to the word 'Texts'somewhere. Vickers, I'll trouble you for the claret."

  "Yes," said Meekin, after a pause. "Here it is--'the texts of Scripturequoted by our chaplain'. But surely Mr. Frere--"

  "Hold on a bit now," cries Frere. "What's the next quotation?--Johniii. That's every third word. Score every third word beginning with 'I'immediately following the text, now, until you come to a quotation. Gotit? How many words in it?"

  "'Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rustdoth corrupt'," said Meekin, a little scandalized. "Fourteen words."

  "Count fourteen words on, then, and score the fourteenth. I'm up to thistext-quoting business."

  "The word 'L1000'," said Meekin. "Yes."

  "Then there's another text. Thirty-eighth--isn't it?--Psalm and thefourteenth verse. Do that the same way as the other--count fourteenwords, and then score eight in succession. Where does that bring you?"

  "The fifth Psalm."

  "Every fifth word then. Go on, my dear sir--go on. 'Method' of 'escape',yes. The hundredth Psalm means a full stop. What verse? Seventy-four.Count seventy-four words and score."

  There was a pause for a few minutes while Mr. Meekin counted. The letterhad really turned out interesting.

  "Read out your marked words now, Meekin. Let's see if I'm right." Mr.Meekin read with gradually crimsoning face:--

  "'I have hope even in this my desolate condition... in prison VanDiemen's Land... the authorities are held in... hatred and contempt ofprisoners... read in any colonial newspaper... accounts of cruelty andtyranny... inflicted by gaolers on convicts... severe flogging andheavy chaining... for slight breaches of discipline...I... come... thepious... it... pays...L1,000... in the old house in Blue AnchorYard... stolen goods and watches studs rings andjewellery... are... now... placed... safely...I...will... find... some... method of escape... then... for revenge.'"

  "Well," said Maurice, looking round with a grin, "what do you think ofthat?"

  "Most remarkable!" said Mr. Pounce.

  "How did you find it out, Frere?"

  "Oh, it's nothing," says Frere; meaning that it was a great deal. "I'vestudied a good many of these things, and this one is clumsy to some I'veseen. But it's pious, isn't it, Meekin?"

  Mr. Meekin arose in wrath.

  "It's very ungracious on your part, Captain Frere. A capital joke,I have no doubt; but permit me to say I do not like jesting on suchmatters. This poor fellow's letter to his aged father to be made thesubject of heartless merriment, I confess I do not understand. It wasconfided to me in my sacred character as a Christian pastor."

  "That's just it. The fellows play upon the parsons, don't you know, andunder cover of your 'sacred character' play all kinds of pranks. How thedog must have chuckled when he gave you that!"

  "Captain Frere," said Mr. Meekin, changing colour like a chameleonwith indignation and rage, "your interpretation is, I am convinced, anincorrect one. How could the poor man compose such an ingenious piece ofcryptography?"

  "If you mean, fake up that paper," returned Frere, unconsciouslydropping into prison slang, "I'll tell you. He had a Bible, I suppose,while he was writing?"

  "I certainly permitted him the use of the Sacred Volume, Captain Frere.I should have judged it inconsistent with the character of my Office tohave refused it to him."

  "Of course. And that's just where you parsons are always putting yourfoot into it. If you'd put your 'Office' into your pocket and open youreyes a bit--"

  "Maurice! My dear Maurice!"

  "I beg your pardon, Meekin," says Maurice, with clumsy apology; "but Iknow these fellows. I've lived among 'em, I came out in a ship with'em, I've talked with 'em, and drank with 'em, and I'm down to all theirmoves, don't you see. The Bible is the only book they get hold of, andtexts are the only bits of learning ever taught 'm, and being chockfullof villainy and plots and conspiracies, what other book should they makeuse of to aid their infernal schemes but the one that the chaplain hasmade a text book for 'em?" And Maurice rose in disgust, not unmixed withself-laudation.

  "Dear me, it is really very terrible," says Meekin, who was notill-meaning, but only self-complacent--"very terrible indeed."

  "But unhappily true," said Mr. Pounce. "An olive? Thanks."

  "Upon me soul!" burst out honest McNab, "the hail seestem seems to bemaist ill-calculated tae advance the wark o' reeformation."

  "Mr. McNab, I'll trouble you for the port," said equally honest Vickers,bound hand and foot in the chains of the rules of the services. Andso, what seemed likely to become a dangerous discuss
ion upon convictdiscipline, was stifled judiciously at the birth. But Sylvia, prompted,perhaps, by curiosity, perhaps by a desire to modify the parson'schagrin, in passing Mr. Meekin, took up the "confession," that layunopened beside his wine glass, and bore it off.

  "Come, Mr. Meekin," said Vickers, when the door closed behind theladies, "help yourself. I am sorry the letter turned out so strangely,but you may rely on Frere, I assure you. He knows more about convictsthan any man on the island."

  "I see, Captain Frere, that you have studied the criminal classes."

  "So I have, my dear sir, and know every turn and twist among 'em. I tellyou my maxim. It's some French fellow's, too, I believe, but that don'tmatter--divide to conquer. Set all the dogs spying on each other."

  "Oh!" said Meekin. "It's the only way. Why, my dear sir, if theprisoners were as faithful to each other as we are, we couldn't holdthe island a week. It's just because no man can trust his neighbour thatevery mutiny falls to the ground."

  "I suppose it must be so," said poor Meekin.

  "It is so; and, by George, sir, if I had my way, I'd have it so that noprisoner should say a word to his right hand man, but his left hand manshould tell me of it. I'd promote the men that peached, and make thebeggars their own warders. Ha, ha!"

  "But such a course, Captain Frere, though perhaps useful in a certainway, would surely produce harm. It would excite the worst passions ofour fallen nature, and lead to endless lying and tyranny. I'm sure itwould."

  "Wait a bit," cries Frere. "Perhaps one of these days I'll get a chance,and then I'll try it. Convicts! By the Lord Harry, sir, there's only oneway to treat 'em; give 'em tobacco when they behave 'emselves, and flog'em when they don't."

  "Terrible!" says the clergyman with a shudder. "You speak of them as ifthey were wild beasts."

  "So they are," said Maurice Frere, calmly.

  CHAPTER X. WHAT BECAME OF THE MUTINEERS OF THE "OSPREY"