by Ed Hillyer
For the duration of their sea voyage, rather than be assigned the relative luxury of their own private cabins, all had crammed into intermediate berths situated between first and second class.
‘He said, “Now, boys, I have to thank you for your good behaviour during this passage, and to give you a little advice. In England you will meet with as many thieves and vagabonds as hairs on your head, and they will tell you that you are very clever, and then ask you to have some drink and then rob you. So don’t have anything to do with them, but do just what Mr Lawrence wishes you to do!”… You remember he said that, don’t you?’
Emotions ran high concerning the early departure of Captain Williams, and there had been a good deal of crying. Fresh tears fell in the train carriage, so, clearly, the Aborigines well recalled. Lawrence, not for the first time, doubted the wisdom of what he had started.
Praying for the understanding heart of Solomon, he elaborated on his theme. ‘He was afraid,’ he said; ‘he was afraid you might be led astray in England.’
Dick-a-Dick spoke up.
‘You can trust us, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘We be careful.’
Dick-a-Dick, a natural performer who often played the clown for any sort of audience, was, at the same time, sober and wise, a highly respected member of his clan – and often an inspiration to them all. Amiably, he turned to his team-mates. ‘Captain Williams and Mister Lawrence, they know Jesus Chrise,’ he said. ‘Jesus Chrise and the little pickaninny they tell us about that we saw in the picture.’
‘Uah! Ne!’ The others approved, nodding vigorously.
Lawrence joined in. Upturned faces all around wore expressions of calm and rapt attention. Bless you, Dick.
‘They kill him,’ said Dick-a-Dick.
The train lurched violently, and Lawrence almost fell.
Damn you, Dick. Lawrence shot the blithe trickster a filthy look. Was he being sincere, or sly? His mind raced.
‘Jesus is in heaven now,’ galloped Lawrence, unsure how to recover. ‘And we pray to him to keep you all safe in England.’
Their train slowed to a crawl, beginning the final approach into London Bridge station. The stop-start motion took on the lulling tempo of a rocking cradle. The barest sliver of a low moon, still visible near to the horizon, loomed large.
A sulphurous taint as if from the ashes of a great fire billowed into the carriage. The Aborigines crowded at the windows for their first glimpse of the vast, smoking metropolis. Narrow streets swung by below the viaduct – mud, and stone, and soot. Following the wet, black Sunday just gone, all colour had been drained from the view: everywhere appeared lifeless. No longer green fields, for miles in every direction stretched only grey rooftops. It seemed as if they sailed once more an immense and unending ocean. One would have to be mad to leap into it.
Sound asleep, only King Cole remained in his seat. He grumbled somnolently, farted and shifted slightly, a frown on his screwed-up face. Those nearest to him turned and laughed.
‘Bripumyarrimin,’ they cooed.
‘Him dreaming.’
CHAPTER VII
Monday the 25th of May, 1868
AT THE OVAL
‘But for their colour, which is decided enough, the spectators might have believed that they were watching the play of some long established club eleven. The best argument that could be adduced in favour of the aboriginal race, it shows of what the native race is capable under proper tuition and care.’
~ The Australasian
With three lusty cheers to announce themselves, and a warlike whoop in salute of their opponents, the Aborigines swept onto the cricket field at the Oval. Startled birds took flight. Like the rumble and crash of a great wave, the massive crowd roared back from the stands. In the stadium ground’s short history, its enclosures had never been packed so full. The whole of London, or so it seemed, had turned out to see them play.
Carriages without number ringed the pavilion. Grand four-in-hands pressed in against dogcarts; springy and elegant phaetons nestled close to lumbering stagecoaches; barouches, gigs, chaises, trucks and hansom cabs.
More women than usual could be counted among the spectators, from common serving-wenches to fine ladies. The cautious watched from the seclusion of their carriages. The bold sat side-saddle on their horses, perfectly poised, programme in one hand and reins in the other. A great many more mingled freely on the stands.
The newspapers were having a field day. ‘A New Epoch in the History of Cricket!’ screamed one headline. ‘Decidedly the Event of the Century’ pronounced another. Scattered throughout the crowd, vendors cried out their own, often scurrilous variations.
A festive atmosphere prevailed, more sensational than strictly sporting.
The instant the Black Cricketers had appeared, synchronous motion created a blinding broadside – the flash of sunlight reflected in a thousand spyglasses. Everyone was determined to take a closer look, the majority interested more in the physical confirmation of the Aborigines than they were their cricketing acquirements.
Their skin colour seemed to vary in shade, but they were most assuredly as advertised: ‘Very Black: virtual photographic negatives of White Cricketers’. Lithe and athletic, slight of limb yet standing straight and upright, they appeared tolerably broad in the shoulders, if rather weak in the chest. Hair and beards were worn long, whiskers luxuriant. Particular remark was made of their broadly expanded nostrils. Some patrons found them handsome, others ugly.
As for their dress, the Aborigines wore white flannel trousers held up with blue elastic belts. Their Garibaldi shirts were of a fine military red, adorned with a diagonal flannel sash, and a necktie pinned under a stiff white linen collar. Beneath this finery they sported undershirts of French merino wool. A peaked cap, bearing the silver emblem of a boomerang crossed with a cricket bat, completed the ensemble.
Charles Lawrence had initiated the idea of a uniform, supplying the ‘corps’ with suitable raiment for their long campaign; he saw it as a means of fostering tradition – the team taking pride in itself – but also, of fashioning them into playing-field heroes. His chief inspiration was the system as first introduced, at Rugby school. Individual colour schemes further distinguished each player, caps ostensibly matching their flannel sashes. Pre-printed cards, offered for sale, tabulated names alongside corresponding tints. In this way spectators might tell one Black from another, even at distance; and a very good arrangement it was agreed to be.
The Aborigines of course had their own ideas, and swapped their caps around continually.
In the Reading-room at the British Museum, within the main Salon, Sarah Larkin sat upright in her usual seat. She looked high overhead, to where the light streamed in through the enormous dome. It was perhaps 150 feet in diameter; the lantern itself must have been at least 40 feet across. Her imagination fluttered at the enclosing glass.
Returned from Town Malling, Sarah did not at all like the perspective her recent trip had lent. Domestic life centred around little else than dirty pots and clean linen. The remainder of her days she spent here in the library. She might have been content to live chiefly inside her own head, except for the fact that her firing thoughts could go nowhere, led to nothing, and availed her naught.
Sarah closed up the text she was uselessly holding: this past quarter-hour she had not looked at it once. A trickle of dust leaked from out of the spine, piling a tiny heap on the desktop. With a sweep of her sleeve she reduced it to a mothlike smear. In the end, she had to admit: aside from her familiar routine, she had no idea what else to do. She was of practical use only – a tool, a mindless machine with no dimension of its own.
She closed her eyes and listened to echoes around the vast chamber: the thumbed rasp and ceaseless swish of turned pages; books, books as they banged, singly on tabletops or thudding in great piles. Each layer of sound, the padding feet, the leathery squeak of shoes, once noted, she filtered out – seeking further still. Snuffles, snorts, a stuttering cough, quiet conversation; th
ese too were catalogued and put aside. Finally, she could make out muted echoes of the distant streets, solid evidence of a world beyond.
Real life happened somewhere else, far, far away.
Freshened by rain and solidified by the action of sun and wind, by noon the Oval turf looked to be in tip-top condition. Julius Caesar, a Gentleman of Surrey, served as umpire. Players from both teams shook hands and briefly huddled about His Imperial Highness. The Eleven Gentlemen of Surrey won the toss, and they elected to bat first.
Mighty Mullagh began the bowling, wearing a sash of dark blue.
An occasional mild shout from the English players inspired an echo among the stands – ‘Well hit!’ or ‘Run it out’ and, when the Aborigine Peter fumbled the ball, ‘Butterfingers!’ But the greatest excitement came when Mullagh pitched up a ripper, bowling out the first of his opponents. The unrestrained jubilation of the Aborigines reverberated right across the ground. They tore up and down, running barefoot between the wickets ‘like deer’, tumbling and rolling in the bare grass, and all the while screaming and shouting their native backchat. Play continued brisk. The audience agreed themselves highly entertained.
Between two and three in the afternoon the time came for a short luncheon break. As he made for the pavilion, the last Surrey Gentleman let opinion be known that the wicket had been insufficiently rollered.
‘It’s got all the qualities of a blasted billiard table,’ he grumbled. ‘Not just the colour, but the pockets! Bah! Let’s drown our sorrows, eh, Jupp?’
Dumas, Twopenny and his brother Mosquito gathered around poorly Cuzens. The team were denied the services of its ‘great gun’: he suffered a bout of enteritis and was too weak to play. The rest mingled with the spectators, who crowded in eagerly. They were passed cakes, sweets, and baskets of homemade biscuits. Hipflasks offered freely, the men were encouraged to take a nip. Fearing precisely this, Lawrence strove to gather up his flock and guide them into the lunch tent, where the choice of beverage was limited to a very dilute sherry, or tea.
Following the interval King Cole, suitably regal in magenta cap and sash, and then Bullocky, wearing maroon, resumed the bowling. Neither enjoyed much success. After his energetic socialising at lunch, Bullocky in particular appeared somewhat the worse for wear, only redeeming himself later with a superlative catch. Charles Lawrence took over the bowling and made short work of the remaining wickets. The Aborigines bowled in the new over-arm style. By shifting gear to deliver a few slow and under-arm pitches, their captain gained pleasing results, at least until Surrey readjusted.
Next up, it was the Aborigines’ turn to bat.
Their first innings were unspectacular. Only Mullagh achieved an appreciable score. King Cole managed half as many before being bowled out by Mr I. D. Walker of Surrey, caught out earlier by Cole for a single run.
And so ended the first day’s play.
‘We did all right,’ said Bill Hayman.
Lawrence looked disappointed.
‘The Blacks returned the ball quickly,’ he said, ‘but not with their usual precision. We might have fared better if it weren’t for that idiot colonial at the interval, with his loud “coo-ee!” and our boys running over to him.’
Hayman laughed. ‘That was Gerald,’ he said. ‘I know him from Adelaide. The town, that is. What he’s doing over here, I don’t know. Got talking to them in their own lingo, he did, and pretty soon they were jabbering round his wagonette like a barrel of monkeys! The corks flew out of bottles like magic, and the contents disappeared double quick!’
‘I had to put a stop to it,’ said Lawrence. ‘It’s no laughing matter! Thank the Lord I could use Cuzens as leverage, and got them over to the main tent, where we could keep a weather eye on ’em. And somehow Bullocky still got drunk!’
Bill Hayman blushed, but offered no answer.
CHAPTER VIII
Tuesday the 26th of May, 1868
BLACK GOLD
Properly managed and instructed, the native race might have been turned to much better account than has been the case…instead of gradually dying off from the face of the earth.’
~ The Australasian
‘AUSTRALIA: The shipments of gold to England during the month amount to 183,500 oz.’
~ The Illustrated London News
The next day dawned cold but clear. Recent rain had penetrated the hard ground, freshened the herbage, and laid the dust. At last perfect weather conditions prevailed – a warm sun and a cooling breeze.
Outside the main gate of Newgate Prison, with the crowd yelling ‘Hats off!’, Michael Barrett was publicly hanged for his part in the ‘Fenian Outrage’: an attempt to blow up the Clerkenwell House of Correction.
Numbers returning to the Oval cricket ground were only slightly diminished. A strong muster came early, anxious to observe the Blacks at practice, their murmurous presence audible from within the clubhouse.
‘“The Aboriginal natives have entered with ardour into cricket,”’ read Bill Hayman. ‘“With ardour”!’ he declared. ‘Oh, I like that!’
‘“They are the first Australian natives who have visited this country on such a novel expedition, but it must not be inferred that they are savages”,’ related Charles Lawrence. ‘“On the contrary, the managers of the speculation”…’ He put down the cup from which he was drinking. ‘Oh, how I’ve come to hate that word!’ he growled.
‘Savages?’ said Hayman.
‘Speculation!’ said Lawrence.
Hayman shrugged. ‘What else would you call it?’
Lawrence pursed his lips a moment. ‘“The managers of the speculation”,’ he read on, “make no pretence to anything other – ”’
Hayman chuckled.
‘No,’ cried Lawrence, ‘listen, Bill: “ – other than purity of race and origin.” What the Devil?’
His grimace gained a few extra creases.
‘What sort of words are they putting in our mouths?’ he said.
The team’s captain and manager drank strong coffee as they examined the match reports from the first day’s play. Early success could guarantee their tour, if translated into further bookings. The plan was to set up two- or three-day fixtures, almost back-to-back, for the next four months.
Out on the field the Aborigines were warming up, with a competition to see who could pitch the ball the farthest. For the moment all were in view, and out of harm’s way.
Inside the clubhouse, William South Norton was keen to engender enthusiasm for the next day’s Derby Sweepstakes. ‘“Here we are working ourselves up into a factitious interest in Lady Elizabeth, Rosicrucian, Blue Gown, and Speculum, and completing our parties for the Wednesday of Wednesdays.”’
Lawrence made a point of preferring his colleague’s choice of quotes. Bill Hayman read aloud from a copy of the Daily Telegraph. ‘“Nothing of interest comes from Australia, except gold nuggets and black cricketers”,’ he reported. ‘Charming! I shall try not to take it personally!’
‘Let me see that.’ Lawrence grabbed for the paper.
‘“The prophets”,’ countered South Norton, “tell us that their calculations are in a most complicated state, and they certainly approach the subject with the most catlike circumbendibus.”’ He turned in his chair. ‘Ho, ho!’
‘What new thing can be said about the Derby?’ deadpanned Lawrence.
‘None, I should say,’ agreed Hayman.
South Norton sulked. No one could be more loyal to the gentlemanly art than he, but there were limits. He stood. This was the Derby, dash it all, the most famous of all horse-races! ‘Then I’ll leave you to your speculation,’ he declared. And stalked out of the clubhouse and into the pale sunshine.
The others exchanged a glance over their respective broadsheets.
‘Hm,’ began Hayman. ‘“It is highly interesting and curious to see, mixed in a friendly game on the most historically Saxon part of our island, representatives of two races so far removed from each other as the modern Englishman and the Abori
ginal Australian. Although several of them are native bushmen and all are as black as night, these indian fellows are – to all intents and purposes – clothed and in their right minds.”’
‘I should cocoa!’ said Lawrence. ‘In proper costume.’
‘How about this, then,’ Hayman volunteered. ‘“The Oval has distinguished itself by a day’s financial operations rivalling that of a large theatre on Boxingnight. Seldom has any cricket ground been encircled by such a variety of vehicles as were counted yesterday in the less aristocratic enclosure…” ooh-la-bloody-la “ …near the Stockwell Road.”’
‘Hmph. That’ll be the waggon train,’ grunted Lawrence, ‘seeing off an attack.’
‘Eh?’ Hayman looked lost for a moment. ‘No, Charley!’ he said. ‘They mean “indian” as in ink!’
Roses bloomed in Lawrence’s cheeks. ‘Oh good grief!’ he said, ‘Damn their eyes!’
‘Share it.’
‘“It will be a lamentable thing”,’ read Lawrence, ‘“if the game of cricket is to be degraded to the level of these sensational exhibitions that are so regrettably in fashion.”’ He faked collapse. ‘Ungh!’
They wrote of fashion, sanity, and spending – but what of sport? Where, Lawrence wondered, was able commentary about their cricketing skills? Admittedly they had not played their best, but even so.
‘And did you see this one?’ he asked, swapping between Telegraph and Sporting Times. ‘“A circus sideshow of racial curiosity…little better than a vaudeville turn.”’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Then it mentions a match once played at Greenwich, the one-legged versus the one-armed! I hardly think comparison to a freak-show does us many favours!’
‘I dare say it might,’ said Hayman.
‘Don’t you dare!’ warned Lawrence.
Bill Hayman supped his coffee and held his peace.
