Arthur Phillip

by Michael Pembroke

  The central pillars of this scheme of ‘improvement’ were the cultivation of the land and the issuing of land grants. James Matra, who inspired some of the thinking about the establishment of the colony, had earlier expressed his own view to the administration with robust certainty: ‘Give them a few acres of ground as soon as they arrive … with what assistance they want to till them’. If that were done he said, then ‘it is very probable that they will [become] moral subjects of society.’ The same point, rather more quaintly stated, was explained by another: ‘It is sufficiently proved by ancient and modern history that [even thieves] … cease to be enemies of society whenever they have regained their full human rights and become proprietors and cultivators of the land.’ These were truisms of the time. It is no coincidence that at the very same time in North America, Thomas Jefferson was describing the cultivators of the land as heroes of society.

  Progressively, as Phillip’s instructions were discussed and negotiated within the Home Office, this theme of improvement achieved more and more prominence. When Phillip’s instructions were eventually finalised in April 1787, it was made abundantly clear that every incentive and much generous practical assistance should be given to assist and encourage the convicts to undertake independent agricultural development. Not only was Phillip directed to emancipate deserving convicts and give them land, but he was now also instructed to provide each emancipated convict with twelve months’ supply of start-up provisions ‘together with an assortment of tools and utensils, and such proportion of seed-grain, cattle, sheep and hogs as may be proper, and can be spared from the general stock of the settlement’.

  Phillip’s opinions as the Governor-elect were naturally sought and the whole process was necessarily consultative. He commented on drafts of his instructions and provided the administration with a detailed statement of his hopes, expectations and proposals for both the voyage and the establishment of the colony. In doing so, he revealed his own developing thoughts on matters that would affect the conduct of society in the new settlement. His approach was humanitarian and pragmatic. He made no mention of religion or church, of which there is no evidence of personal interest, but expressed preliminary views on more worldly topics such as relations with the Aborigines, convict prostitution, capital offences and slavery.

  Phillip rightly thought that the Aborigines might be more numerous than Cook had observed. It would be a great gain, he wrote, if he could proceed ‘without having any dispute with the Natives’. His approach was philanthropic, characterised by an Enlightenment benevolence. He assumed the best, not the worst. He said he would endeavour to persuade a few of the Aborigines to settle near us so that he could ‘furnish [them] with everything that can tend to civilize them’. He hoped to impress them and ‘to give them a High Opinion of their New Guests.’ However, he did not expect that the Aborigines would be impressed by the crews of the transport ships or the convicts. Indeed, he thought it would be ‘necessary to prevent the Transports Crews having any intercourse with the Natives if possible’. The convicts, he said, ‘must have none’. Significantly, when it came to homicide, Phillip regarded the life of an Aboriginal man as the equal of any Englishman, recording memorably, ‘Any man who takes the life of a Native, will be put on his trial as if he had kill’d one of the Garrison. This appears to me not only just, but good policy.’

  The gender imbalance was an important issue. Only a quarter of the convicts were female and some commentators predicted that there would be ‘odious consequences’. Phillip’s instructions therefore required him to ‘procure’ women from the Pacific Islands – an instruction that he studiously ignored, later observing to Sydney that it would only be bringing them ‘to pine away a few years in misery’. He suggested that it may be best if ‘the most abandoned of the female convicts might be permitted to receive the visits of the (male) convicts in the limits allotted them at certain hours and under certain restrictions’. He added that ‘At Mill Bank [jail in London] something of this kind had been permitted’. But nothing ever came of this pragmatic proposal.

  While tolerant of prostitution, Phillip took a harsh view of murder. And like most eighteenth-century naval officers, he lumped sodomy into the same category. In fact, sodomy was almost the only crime in the navy for which the death penalty was often awarded. During the Seven Years War there were eleven courts martial for sodomy, although the convictions were few. It was an offence that would bring disgrace on a ship. In Phillip’s New South Wales, two crimes would merit death: murder and sodomy. In either case he said he would wish to confine the criminal till an opportunity offered of delivering him as a prisoner to the natives of New Zealand – ‘and let them eat him’. Wryly, he observed that the dread of this ‘will operate much stronger than the fear of death’. In fact, Phillip never despatched anyone to be feasted on by Maori cannibals.

  On slavery, Phillip was firmly opposed. He had seen the worst of the Portuguese and Dutch slaving practices in Brazil and at Cape Town and set his face against the introduction of slavery to the new colony. He wrote, ‘There can be no slavery in a free land and consequently no slaves’. On this issue, he supported the anti-slaving views of William Wilberforce and his friend, the Prime Minister William Pitt. Pitt must have clearly sanctioned Phillip’s stated opposition to the introduction of slavery in New South Wales, for he had spoken in favour of the immediate abolition of slavery on a number of occasions during the years 1785 to 1787. The issue was not a party or factional matter and Pitt’s conviction was personal and based on humanitarian principles. A few years later in the House of Commons, he declaimed to the members of parliament gathered in the chamber that: ‘No nation in Europe … has … plunged so deeply into this guilt as Great Britain.’

  As the long months of preparation progressed, some began to see the expedition to New South Wales as a social experiment, an undertaking of humanity that was essentially hopeful and a force for good. From their perspective, the expedition was a manifestation of the optimism that marked the Enlightenment – an age that was energised by the possibilities of improvement, not just of land but of the human condition. One thoughtful correspondent to the St James Chronicle wrote in January 1787: ‘The Expedition to Botany Bay comprehends in it more than the mere Banishment of our Felons; it is an Undertaking of Humanity … [by which] a capital Improvement will be made in the southern part of the New World.’ Within a few short years, Erasmus Darwin, one of the great thinkers of the age and a grandfather of Charles Darwin, would burst into rapturous poetic optimism about the colony’s future. His poem The Voyage of Hope to Sydney Cove prophesied a peaceful and joyful transformation of the wild landscape through commerce, agriculture and public works. And Josiah Wedgwood – Charles Darwin’s other grandfather – would create a commemorative medallion made from clay found at Sydney Cove that Phillip sent to him via Sir Joseph Banks. Its classical symbolism was prophetic, auspicious and imbued with hope.

  Phillip had his own grand designs. He conceived for the settlement the name of ‘Albion’, the ancient synonym for Britain. His selection put him in good company. When Sir Francis Drake claimed the northern coast of California for Elizabeth I in 1579, he adopted the same symbolism, naming it ‘New Albion’. The story of Albion is Britain’s foundation myth. In The Faerie Queene (1596), the poet Edmund Spenser said that the name Albion was bestowed in honour of an ancestral giant who conquered the British Isles. According to legend, Albion founded the island country that became Britain and ruled there until he was killed by Heracles. Albion’s giant descendants continued to inhabit the island until Brutus of Troy vanquished them more than a thousand years before the Roman invasion. The huge white horses inscribed on the chalk hills of southern England are said to be traces of that era. In 1820 William Blake took the legend of Albion to new heights in his poem Jerusalem, which was subtitled The Emanation of the Giant Albion. But in 1787 the patriotic significance of Albion was already firmly imbedded in Phillip’s thinking as he pondered over the significance of his miss
ion.

  Soon Phillip came to be spoken of as someone from whom great things were expected. Among his influential patrons, Sydney was the one to whom he owed the most. It is clear that if he had not already done so, Phillip acquired Sydney’s entire confidence as they worked together through the winter and early spring months. And their relationship was personal as well as professional. Phillip was introduced to Lady Sydney; he befriended their son, John Townshend; and he became acquainted with their daughter, Mary, not to mention her mother-inlaw, Lady Chatham, the mother of Prime Minister William Pitt. Lord Lansdowne was another who was enthused by Phillip’s expedition. He and Phillip first became acquainted in 1782 while poring over Phillip’s South American naval charts together with Nepean and Sydney. Lansdowne, then known as Shelburne, was Home Secretary at the time, before becoming Prime Minister. Upon retirement, he became a major figure of the Enlightenment who gathered around him a vibrant intellectual circle at his sumptuous home at Bowood House in Wiltshire. Another patron from whom Phillip received much polite attention was Sir Joseph Banks, an original progenitor of settlement in New South Wales. Banks threw himself into many aspects of the expedition and in the months before the fleet sailed, Phillip frequently attended his home in Soho Square, London. It was a perfect museum, full of treasures and curiosities. When Phillip reached New South Wales, he corresponded, privately and at length, with each of these men – Sydney, Lansdowne and Banks.

  There was another aspect to Banks’ patronage. He was, as was well known, a trusted friend and confidant of George III and had been the King’s botanical advisor since 1773. In the gardens of the Royal Palace at Kew, George III would walk with Banks on Saturdays, examining plants and inspecting the glass houses. He responded enthusiastically to Banks’ ideas, supporting plant-collecting expeditions, exhibiting an interest in agricultural and horticultural developments, and in due course sharing his enthusiasm for the agricultural advances and benefits to be derived from New South Wales. In early January 1787 George III interviewed Phillip at St James’ Palace. It was Phillip’s second royal audience. The first had been with the King of Portugal twelve years earlier. In both cases his destination in the first instance was Rio de Janeiro. The timing of Phillip’s audience with George III was significant. The ambit of his official instructions had not yet been finalised and the King was soon to address the opening session of parliament to publicly announce the expedition. History does not record the content of their discussion, but it is clear that Phillip understood his paramount responsibility for the cultivation of the land and the agricultural development of the colony. One may surmise that this was also a matter of interest to the King who was known, not necessarily always with affection, as ‘Farmer George’.

  As the idea and significance of Phillip’s expedition took root, it was fitting that the painter Francis Wheatley, who had recently returned to London, should be commissioned to record his image for posterity. History records Wheatley as one of the leading artists of the late eighteenth century. He is often mentioned in the same breath as Gainsborough and Reynolds and frequently exhibited with them. But he did not quite have their genius for producing grand and flattering visionary portraits for illustrious patrons. Nor did he have their business skills. For Wheatley liked the ladies and lived excessively. But he was a member of the Royal Academy, had many wealthy clients and achieved fame, if not ultimately fortune. He also spread his redoubtable talents across landscape as well as portraiture. In the latter category his clients included Christian VII of Denmark and many dozens of notable and well-to-do families. Wheatley is said to have ‘mirrored to perfection the taste, the manners and that confident grace which so characterized the elegant society of his day’. Although his pictures were much in demand, and frequently engraved, history now remembers him best for his Cries of London series, poignantly depicting everyday scenes of London life among the urban poor.

  Wheatley was commissioned by Elizabeth Everitt and painted Phillip twice in 1786. He was a logical choice, not just because of his high standing, but because he had been a pupil of Richard Wilson, one of the original members of the Royal Academy. In 1747, Wilson had painted Elizabeth Everitt’s late husband Michael, Phillip’s first patron. And family connections such as these are often preserved. Wheatley’s major picture of Phillip remained in the extended family until the twentieth century. The subsequent history of Wheatley’s smaller picture of Phillip is less clear. It is oval shaped and portrays Phillip looking mildly bookish, a touch diffident, indoors, against a dark interior, holding a plan of New South Wales. It was quickly engraved and in 1789 appeared on the front cover of Stockdale’s publication of the voyage.

  The composition of the larger picture is grand and sweeping. Phillip is portrayed on the shore of a distant land. In the far background is a man-of-war with red ensign aflutter at the stern. Nearby are two sailors in a small boat. One has a grappling hook. Phillip is at the water’s edge and appears to be taking his first steps. The sky is threatening and dark clouds move across the skyline. Phillip appears cautious, alert and curious, not imperious. He is wearing a grey powdered wig, a captain’s undress uniform of the period, and a black bicorne hat in the transverse style with black cockade. The number and arrangement of buttons signify his seniority and indicate his rank – twelve buttons on each blue lapel arranged in groups of three. His legs are in white breeches and stockings; the upper body and shoulders are small. A dress sword or smallsword hangs from his left hip. Despite the magisterial pretensions, the overall imagery is dignified, calm and ordered. Phillip is portrayed as a symbol of authority but with an appearance and bearing that suggest sensibility – a key feature of the Enlightenment period. It was an attitude reflected in moderation and rationality. Discussion was preferred to disputation, conversation to controversy and politeness to pedantry. In polite society at least, machismo was vulgar and unfashionable. It was certainly not Phillip’s style.

  CHAPTER 10

  COMMANDER

  The Journey to New South Wales – Tenerife, Rio de Janeiro, Cape Town and the Southern Ocean

  In the early light of dawn on Sunday 13 May 1787 Phillip gave the signal to the captains to weigh anchor. Some of the women’s clothing, a sufficient quantity of musket balls and sundry other items were outstanding, but they could be obtained in Rio de Janeiro or Cape Town. The sails of the eleven ships soon bellied and stiffened in the breeze and, as the sun rose higher, the convoy emerged from the Solent, passed the three distinctive stacks of chalk known as the Needles at the western end of the Isle of Wight and entered the English Channel. They were headed for the Atlantic Ocean. For many there would be no return. Phillip’s term was not fixed and he could not know when he might see England again. His farewell note to Nepean revealed his optimism – ‘At a future period when this country feels the advantages that are to be drawn from our intended settlement, you will enjoy a satisfaction that will, I am sure, make you ample amends’. He was leading his band of naval and civilian officers, seamen, marines and a smattering of wives, together with their cargo of almost 800 convicts and about 30 babies, toddlers and young children, to the far end of the world to build a new society in an alien land, on virgin terrain. It was absurdly ambitious – ‘the largest forced exile of citizens by a European government in pre-modern history’.

  Until they reached their destination, the men, women and children under Phillip’s command would inhabit a floating world constantly at the mercy of the sea, exposed each day to the vagaries of wind and current. Except for ballast, the ships were wholly made from materials derived from trees and grass. The hull, masts and spars were of wood; the rigging, rope and cordage of hemp; and the sails of flax. At sea, the ships would pitch and roll and scend, searching for equilibrium. The movement of timbers and the chafe of rigging created a discordant symphony of sounds – creaks, groans, shrieks, wails and vibrations that never ceased. Experienced sailors like Phillip knew to work with the winds and the currents, to go with the flow, to harness the forces of nat
ure. They were ever sensitive without even knowing it; attuned to the natural forces that controlled their destiny; alert to the complex relations and reactions between ship and sea and wind. So much was intuitive and ingrained – deducible simply from the tension on a rope, the spring of a spar, the creak of a block or the tune in the rigging. Out on the open ocean, the sea was wide and featureless, unmarked and largely unknowable. The ship’s master would peer into the distance, his gaze fixed on the endless approaching swell lifting and running under the vessel. In big seas, waves would crash on board, occasionally flooding below decks. At other times, the ocean would glisten and sparkle like hammered silver. Often it was grey-green, heaving, leaden and dull. Whatever the conditions, they would never last. The barometric pressure would invariably drop and the winds would always freshen. Then all eyes would watch the horizon as a wall of cloud or rain or hail or snow rolled inexorably towards them.

  For the seamen, their day-to-day work at sea was intensely physical. Pulling and hauling was their staple activity, in all weathers. And whenever sail had to be made or handed, the ‘topmen’ as they were called had to go aloft, out on the yards. Night and day, men were posted high in the lookouts. And for some tasks all seamen were needed. When weighing anchor or hoisting in the longboat, scores of men would strain around the capstan for hours to bring in the huge anchors and the cumbersome hemp cables. Daily life was governed by the watches. On naval ships such as the Sirius and the Supply, the seamen never had more than four hours’ sleep. The master and the lieutenants took it in turns to be officer of the watch. Each watch was of four hours, and time aboard ship was measured by the changing of the watches. A petty officer kept a half-hour sandglass and when he turned the sandglass, he rang the ship’s bell – once at the first half-hour, twice at the second, and so on. After four hours, he rang eight bells and the watch changed. Lights out was at eight o’clock in the evening when the watch coming off duty went to sleep until midnight.