CHAPTER SIX

John Harris, Van Diemen’s Land Settler and Landowner 1829

IT WAS a fine summer’s evening, I had finished my day’s work and was sitting on the verandah, enjoying a quiet smoke, when I heard a curious yowling noise, and all at once Peters, the cook, came marching up, dragging behind him a little pickaninny.

‘‘I found him in the cool store hiding behind some sacks,’’ Peters explained. ‘‘He was chewing at some piece of meat he’d stolen, though it was plain raw.’’

It was no mystery where the creature had sprung from. A mob of his kind had speared two stockmen over by Black Bluff just a few days before. Heathcote had got up some fellows to give chase, and they managed to find the scoundrels that same night and give them a good punishing, but I heard some had escaped.

‘‘Spotted any others?’’ I asked.

‘‘Just this.’’

I had never seen one so close before and an ugly little thing he seemed. I have no time for thieves, nor savages either, and I was just about to call over one of the hands, to have the creature slung off my land, when the door behind me opened and out stepped Lucy. I sometimes think there is no limit to the foolishness of women. In hardly an instant she was kneeling down beside the little brute, cooing and calling him a poor little baby—though he looked at least seven—and saying how he seemed starved with such thin legs, and should be bathed. When I tried to put her right she turned all high and mighty, quite the baronet’s daughter that she is, and simply took him by the hand and led him inside. I hoped he might give her a bite but he never did, more was the pity, I suppose being too scared, and within the hour she had dug out some of Charlie’s old clothes to dress him in—which looked comical as could be—and was feeding him half the larder. I was sure he would bolt once he had some food inside him, but no, he seemed to have taken to Lucy, just as she had to him, and before I knew it she was insisting we should keep the little rascal.

Here I drew the line. Lucy being Lucy, there followed a proper battle, and though she hurled all she could at me, from tears to the money her father had lent, I stood my ground. I told her fair and square that the thing could not be done unless it were done properly, and that if he were to be kept he must be useful, by which I meant he must know his letters. In truth my thought had been simply to get him gone—I was sure she would soon forget him once he was—and I never intended anything more than the Hobart Orphans’ School. Lucy, though, would have none of the place, insisting he would never last a week there—which was probably right, in truth—and so, after being bombarded by a good deal more weeping, I finally suggested we send him to Mr. Grigson in Bristol. Grigson owed me a favour or two after all the trade I had brought him, and it seemed hardly much to ask that he take a day or two from his trading to find a tutor for the boy.

That settled, I decided the creature had better have a name. Lucy said he called himself Tayaley or some such nonsense, which was no name at all, so I gave him George, after the King, and then Vandiemen, from his place of birth, making George Vandiemen, which I thought rather clever. Next I looked into ship sailings, and I wrote a letter to Grigson, explaining the matter and assuring him the boy did not bite, as well as also ordering a new plough to replace the one that went just before Christmas. With this I sent ten pounds, which would be enough for two years’ board and tutoring, especially as I had made it clear he required nothing fancy, but only his letters, anything else being just waste, as he would never understand.

Finally the day came when he was sat atop the cart ready to be carried away to Hobart. Lucy was all tears, of course, and kept making him repeat English words she had taught him, till the driver cracked his whip and the cart rolled away. She was bad for a few days after, but with time her spirits began to return. Ten pounds was a lot to waste on such foolishness, but I supposed it was worth it to be rid of the little brute. Why, I’ll confess I even felt a little curiosity as to what some dusty Bristol schoolmaster would make of one of our wild Van Diemen’s Land savages.

George Alder, Governor of Van Diemen’s Land, to Mr. Smithson of the Prison Committee of the Society of Friends, London 1829

I was greatly pleased to receive your enquiry regarding the present state of the penal system of this colony. It is my hope, indeed, that this may one day prove of some small little interest to students of mankind, both in England and elsewhere across the globe. Since the earliest of times one of the greatest mysteries to trouble philosophers has been why men turn to vice, and how they may be made to reform themselves. What could be more useful in this great struggle than a land populated by men of proven wickedness, and where it is possible to experiment upon them in a scientific manner? It has been this prospect that has formed my chief concern here, and during my five years as governor my wish and purpose has been to devise an effective mechanism for the improvement of men: a dependable and unerring engine to correct those who have strayed from the path of righteousness.

Much has already been set in motion. The convict who arrives in Van Diemen’s Land will soon realize, if he is attentive, that he has been placed upon a kind of moral chessboard, and that his progress upon this depends entirely upon his own conduct. If his behaviour is goodly and honest he will rise, slowly but surely, and his circumstances shall grow ever less harsh, until finally he reaches the uppermost of the seven levels of punishment, and is issued with his ticket-of-leave, which marks the beginning of his transition to full freedom within the colony.

Let him err, however, and he will quickly know of his mistake. Watch him fall, so swiftly, with every new misdeed or act of insolence that he commits. First his ticket-of-leave is taken from him and he is assigned to work upon some farm. Next he plunges once again, labouring on public works of increasing severity, from buildings to road making, then to a chain gang, struggling in the sun and wind. Misbehave once more and he will reach the full misery of life within a separate penal settlement, such as Macquarie Harbour on the remote west coast, where he toils, shackled, waist-deep in icy seawater, pushing at giant logs, and feeling the lash upon his back if he slackens even for a moment. Thus he has reached the final and seventh level of punishment, below which none may pass, unless to be hanged, and so face the justice of Him, greatest of all judges. Our convict may rescue himself even now, however, if he will only learn from his adventure. If he will reform his behaviour he will begin rising once again— though it may take no small while—back through all the seven levels, until finally he finds himself rewarded with his freedom within the colony. Let him perform some act of unusual goodness, indeed, and he may leap several stages, or even, in a few rare cases, all of them in one bound.

The machinery of punishment may appear upon first sight to be harsh in its severity, but in truth it is never so. It is, at heart, no different from a school classroom, being but a means for the shaping and enlightenment of human minds: a mighty engine of betterment, designed to bring the happiness that follows improvement. For such a system to prove effective it is of course essential that it be universally acknowledged as fair. To this end I have made strenuous efforts to prevent any bullying of convicts by officers or overseers, and I have likewise acted firmly against any instances of favouritism or leniency. It is, after all, a function of this colony to retain a terrifying reputation in faraway London or Glasgow, so foolish men may be deterred from the temptation of crime. It is also important that the island’s machinery of punishment is known to be entirely inescapable, so convicts will not be distracted from their improvement by foolish hopes. To this purpose I have created a most effective machinery of policing, including constant checks of identity and travel passes throughout the settled districts. I have also established what I believe may be one of the most thorough arrangements for the assembling of information yet devised in any land. Exhaustive records are kept on all men dwelling within the colony, free and fettered, in a set of mighty volumes known as the Black Books. These contain physical descriptions, as well as a most detailed summary of moral progress. Each and every change to a convict’s status within the seven levels of punishment is carefully recorded, together with its reason. This mighty store of information is constantly revised and increased, while both convict and settler are encouraged to add to the government’s knowledge by reporting any curious or suspicious behaviour they have observed in their neighbours. If every man abroad is perceived as a potential informant for the colonial administration, it may be hoped that even the wickedest fellows will show caution, and righteousness shall everywhere prevail.

This arrangement has, I will admit, been a cause of some difficulty. The free settlers have shown no little resentment at being treated in a manner similar to the criminals, and some of the wealthier, swollen by the arrogance of their fortune, have made themselves my enemies. I find little sympathy for their objections. It is essential, after all, to keep detailed records of free settlers, if simply to prevent an escaped felon from masquerading as one of their number. There is also another, more profound reason for their inclusion within this great experiment, there being much to be learned from the histories of all those in the colony. I can think of more than a few instances of men who smugly came to Van Diemen’s Land as free subjects, only to be found out for some hidden wickedness and speedily dispatched to Macquarie Island. It is nothing less than purest arrogance on the settlers’ part to regard themselves as irrevocably innocent. Since the time of Adam and Eve, after all, can anyone regard himself as free of the stain of sinfulness?

I have, indeed, found myself sometimes musing if one day a mighty machinery of justice of this kind might be extended even to a free society, with levels not only of punishment but of reward, so that every single aspect of men’s lives could precisely reflect the virtue of their conduct. If a sufficiently ingenious system could be devised for the assembling of information it might be possible to alter the status of each subject with regularity, even every month, so all would be constantly made aware of their moral progress. How fine it would be to have men rewarded not for their greed or cunning, but for their acts of virtue. The arrangement might be administered with such subtlety that even those who have not yet broken any law—liars, cheats, seducers and more—could be made to reap the harvest of their wickedness.

Such thoughts are, however, mere reveries. It is still too soon even to pronounce upon the success or otherwise of this present system. I may say, however, that indications are promising, and it remains my hope that the work done on this faraway island may in some small way help men towards a better future age, when wickedness and criminality shall become wholly and finally vanquished.

Jack Harp 1824–30

AFTER I WAS TAKEN at George Town I was four years in stinking convict clothes, on the roads and in those Hobart warehouses, and then one day I got hauled before some office scribble with a little waxy moustache who told me I’d been improved. So I was put on a farm near Launceston milking cows and shearing sheep. That was luck, as it happened, the owner being soft as mush. On Christmas Day he gave us pudding and even sat down with us to eat it, too, and it was this caused the trouble, so I heard. Some sod must’ve squealed that we were being treated too gentle, as within the month we were all chucked off to other farms. Mine wouldn’t have been so bad except for the bugger of a master, who’d got it in his head that every felon there was fingering his wife— though there was no reason, as she was an ugly old sow—and would scratch out any reason to give you a beating. Show a moment’s slowness or a laugh he didn’t understand and out would come the lash. I put up with it for a while but then one day he came screaming murder saying I’d milked the cow wrong and made her sick, which was plain lies, and I wasn’t having, so rather than just wait for my beating I started on him first, giving him an answering which he’d not forget in a hurry. So I wasn’t improved after all, as I got told, but was worse, and that was why I was put on the bridge.

That bridge was worse than all the rest put together. The work was bad, being shifting and cutting great blocks of stone, while every night we had to sleep in boxes stacked up like coffins that were too low even for proper sitting up, and got hot as murder in the warm weather. Worse, the overseer was a bastard of a lasher, while the rest of them in gaol clothes were lame creepers every one of them. I got so wild all I could think of was changing that overseer’s face like he deserved, or bolting, and sometimes I was inches close to making a run for it into the bush, chains and all. I never quite did, though. I bided my time.

No talk was allowed at the bridge, so news was hard to come by, but we always caught it in the end. The first I heard about the Line was from a farmer who stopped to water his horse. I could see he’d worn gaol clothes in his time, just from his looking at us, as the settlers hardly will notice a man if he’s got chains about his ankles. He never talked to us, knowing that might have made trouble, but to the guard, though he spoke loud enough for all the riverbank to hear.

‘‘Looks like the governor and his army will have to ferry themselves over this one,’’ he said, squinting at that stump of a bridge sticking out from the riverbank, like the leavings of somebody’s arm, which was all we’d done till now. ‘‘When they come through, chasing blacks.’’

That was enough to start a good bit of chatter through the coffin doors that night, with jokes aplenty about Governor Alder playing Napoleon against the crows. After that I heard the guards murmuring about it to each other sometimes, and calling it the Black Line. It sounded as if it would be a proper fuss, too, with soldiers and settlers by the thousand marching across Van Diemen’s Land to scare those blacks into their trap. That got me thinking. Mostly I thought how an army like that will need all sorts of jobs doing, and how any of them would be better than chipping away at stone. What’s more, with so many fellows about, a cove might just disappear and never be missed. Not that I said anything of this to those others. A good thought like that should be hid nicely in a man’s head, like a road-found dollar sewn into his coat hem. Besides, they never deserved any favours from me, that crowd.

So when the overseer started telling how some of us were needed for an expedition I was readier than any, and shouted out my name quick as could be. It was that quickness got me picked.

It felt sweet to be saying goodbye to that bridge, even with a chain clanking at my feet. Us who were going were got up soon after dawn, and then we had to stand waiting while the soldiers had their breakfast. That was when one of the those buggers that were staying thought he’d have a joke, and called out from his coffin, ‘‘Mind you don’t get a spear in your guts.’’ That started them all up, laughing from behind their little coffin doors as loud as they could manage, though it was just rage really, at our getting away. I wasn’t having that. I started making this noise that was something like ck, and I gave a nudge to the creepers in front of me till they did the same, and soon they’d all started up, ck, ck, ck, till we couldn’t have sounded more like so many poor miseries chipping away at a heap of rocks, which was what those others would be doing for the next hours and months. That gave a good laugh. I was about to chuck a pebble or two, just for good measure, but then the officers were walking back from their breakfast.

It just took us a little chain clanking and we were round the hill and that foul little stretch of river was gone. It was slow going, and after a few hours we stopped by the shore so the officers could have themselves a little rest and a smoke. That was welcome, and I was lying in the grass, catching my breath and rubbing my ankles where the chains had bit, when I looked up and there he was, riding along the road towards us, all fine and proper in his high saddle, quite the gentleman. My guess was he was on his way to Launceston to sign up for the Black Line like a good King’s subject. It was my old friend Bill Haskins.

He didn’t notice me, I suppose just seeing another gang in convict clothes, but steered his horse to the river for a sip. He did pay attention just after, mind. That was when I got myself up from the grass, picked up a stone, stepped quietly over, helped him down off his high seat and then gave him back a little change for that Spanish dollar and two French coins. I’m still not sure how much I managed before the redcoats grabbed me but I got in a good bit of work and I like to think I put out that fucker’s eye. I suppose it might seem a foolish thing to do, and certainly it wasn’t showing myself improved, but still I can’t say I felt regretful, even though it meant I missed the Line.

Of course, I didn’t know then where that little bit of payment would take me.

Ben Hayes, Van Diemen’s Land Farmer 1830

IF A FELLOW was looking for a good ripe sniff of gun oil then this was the place for him. In all my days I never seen so many muskets all at one time. Ranged along the walls, they were, and leaning against the cases they had been sprung from, filling the air with that newly oiled smell.

The depot had been got up at Oatlands, on the main roadway to Launceston. I had passed through there before and found it a quiet enough spot, just a roadside inn and a few houses, but that day it was lively as could be. Aside from soldiers and convicts there were volunteers like myself by the score, and the throng of the place quite took me back to Norwich on market day. Everywhere you looked there were halloos firing off quicker than crackers on Guy Fawkes Night, as fellows spotted some face they hadn’t seen for a month or a year. I had ridden down with Sam Ferris, Sam being a neighbour of ours, and a Norfolk man too— which is as fine a testimonial as I can think of—and a cheery morning of greetings and news we had. Then we went to get our weapons, which meant a good while of standing waiting. Even when I finally got my musket it was a rough sort of thing, so I was glad I’d brought along two pistols of my own. With it came a pair of handcuffs and a small heap of ammunition that I counted.

‘‘Is that all I get?’’ I said to the army clerk, though it was more for Sam, as he always was one for having a bit of sport.

‘‘Thirty rounds is the issue,’’ said the clerk, looking sour.

I held up the handcuffs. ‘‘What if I give you these back, which I won’t be needing anyway, in exchange for another thirty? That way if I miss once I’ll still bag fifty-nine of the buggers.’’

Sam had himself a good laugh at that. As we walked back out into the spring sunshine, who should we see riding up but the governor himself, playing general, though he was really too pale and scrawny for the part, looking more like some bloody preacher strayed onto a horse. A pair of his officers told everyone to hush and then he gave us all a little speech, thanking us for our help, which nobody minded, though he spoilt it all with some bleating about the blacks, and how we mustn’t harm a hair on their heads, but coax them over with kindly words. ‘‘Think of yourselves as beaters engaged in a grouse hunt,’’ I think he said. Well, if it was applause he was after he got hardly more than a patter, and that was more than he deserved. The fact was he’d never have done a thing if people like me hadn’t started kicking up such a fuss that he got scared.

In the evening Sam and me made for the inn. We weren’t the only ones, of course, and a merry spot it was, packed to the walls and out into the roadway, everyone knowing this was their last chance for drinking before we began our big stroll through the bush.

‘‘What we should do,’’ I told Sam, ‘‘is down one rum for each bloody crow we’ll bag.’’

That got him laughing. ‘‘It wouldn’t be fair. Why, we’d drink the whole place dry.’’

A sore head I had the next day when we started. The thing about plodding along, step after step, is that it will lull a man into daydreaming. Try as I would, it was hard to keep forever scanning the land ahead, and looking for trouble behind every bush, as my thoughts would wander, perhaps to that storehouse I was looking to build, or to where the price of wool might swing next. Then all at once I’d come awake sharpish at something moving up ahead and my heart would be going faster than a steam hammer. I’d crouch low and tug the gun off my shoulder, and peer round to see if Sam was in sight, or Pete Tanner, who was off to my left, and sometimes they were both vanished, the land having pulled us apart or trees having got in the way, which was a worry. Then I’d look again and see it had all been some foolishness, just a roo, or a branch caught by the wind. It wasn’t that I was frightened, for sure, but being so tired all the time will make a man jittery.

That was the fault of the bloody governor, as you couldn’t imagine a venture worse organized. For a start we didn’t even have tents. Here we were, a proper army, as he’d told us in his speech, and we were left to spend our nights on the ground like so many beggars. I never did get a proper sleep, as there was always some stone or root to punish the ribs, or the rain would start pelting down, finding its way through the mess of branches and leaves that we rigged up as shelters. It was hard, besides, not to keep awake listening. The more days that passed and miles we walked, the more a man would get to wondering if a few hundred savages were bunched up just ahead, perhaps even that crazed Amazon bitch that I’d heard talk of who swore like a trooper and would cut at a man in ways that weren’t to be thought of That wasn’t proper warfaring, that was plain bleeding savagery. Still it was the sort of thing that would come to a man sometimes, especially in the middle of the night.

I wasn’t the only one who was watchful in the dark, either. One time when it was cloudy and there was no more light than in a box, I was just dropping off to sleep when all of a sudden a musket went off, quick as death, over to the east. That had Sam and me on our feet fast enough. For a moment all was quiet, but then suddenly guns started firing off as if this was a proper battle, and from the hill we were stopped on we could watch flashes spitting away in the darkness, as far as we could see. At a moment like that it’s not easy to keep quietly staring ahead into a wall of black nothing. I couldn’t hear anyone coming but that didn’t mean they weren’t there, and the way I saw it there might have been five hundred bloody savages creeping up and thinking we were a gap in the line, so it was sense itself for Sam and me to let off a few rounds, just to warn them away. Finally all went quiet again. Still I can’t say I caught much sleep.

The next morning I expected to hear two dozen blacks had been brought down, but no. Soon after light word passed down the line that all that was found was a few possum prints, which seemed a proper mystery.

There wasn’t much to be done about it, mind, so we packed up and went on our way once more.

Peevay 1830

MOTHER MADE US go about for days near the fire where we’d all got so killed, looking for Tayaleah, though this was some grievous peril as num white men might come back any moment and kill us more. All the while she wailed and called Tayaleah’s name. My worry was that he might step out from some trees and I’d never be free of the little scut after all, but fortunately he never did, and finally Mother let us leave that terrible place. It was my hope that now he was vanished she would give me her cherishings like she should, but this was just some vain hope. No, she just gave me hating looks almost as if it was me who vanished him, while he got more adorings than when he was here. Always she was recollecting how clever and brave he was, while nobody said this was just foolishness, as they were too scared of getting her angry.

So we went on with our war, going east or south, hither and thither, further and again, till even the forest was strange, with trees I never saw before. That was sad, and often at night I dreamed of the world where I knew all blossom scents, where I could tell the stories inside every rock and river and where Tartoyen and Grandmother were quietly dwelling if they weren’t killed yet. Sometimes we said we wanted to go back, but Mother said it never mattered where we went now because every land in all the world was the same, and everything was just war with white scuts. She was right, yes, as white scuts were everywhere. Hardly one day passed when we did not see one, perhaps far away, chasing sheep or sitting on his tall laughing animal that was called HORSE. If they were in some small place and were few we would fight them. Sometimes we killed them and sometimes they killed us. A few times we found others of ours, lost from their ones, and speaking strangely, and we got more, but mostly we got fewer.

After every war Mother made us walk fast and very far, so they would not catch us all like before. Also she said we never could make big fires anymore, as these would tell num white scuts where we were, and we could only make some small fire put in a hole in the ground, so it hardly did warm us. Those were cold times and hungry too. Sometimes we’d pass many days just eating roots, which never made you feel full. Still, num didn’t kill us in the night anymore, so I suppose Mother was clever in her thinkings.

Then one day I went with Heedeek to hunt without fire, which meant going into forest early, when day was hardly started, and then standing in some bush very still, listening for wallaby’s long feet as he jumped. Heedeek was grown but only just and he never had any wife yet. He had thick hair, coloured red, unless we had no ochre, and it fell all round, like water dropping over some fat stone. He was a little clumsy, tripping on tree roots or kicking branches from the fire when he passed, but he was always kindly to me and never called me heinous names like Mother did. So he got like my old brother.

Heedeek wasn’t a clever hunter, no, and often going with him was just waiting and nothing ever speared, but this morning was different, so I did surmise. Yes, I stood for just a short time, cold as I must not move or make noise, when suddenly leaves were rustling and some branch was going snap. This was great good fortune, I divined, as others waiting by the fire were hungry for meat, and perhaps I could be their fine hero. From its crashing, so loud, I guessed this must be some fat wallaby, or even kanunnah, who was a little frightening, but we could eat him still. Heedeek gave me a silent look to point where this animal was coming, across that clearing, and I gave him one back to say yes. Then I crouched down behind bushes and got ready with my spear. Sure enough, leaves moved, just where we thought. But then, instead of any wallaby or kanunnah, out walked scut white man holding his gun and killing knife.

That was one puzzle to confound, as white scuts never came in forest. I pondered that perhaps he was hunting game like us, but this was foolishness, as every wallaby would hear his noise, and smell his stink too, which was strong so I could smell it even from this far place. Soon there was another mystery to confuse. He did not go through clear places, like any clever one, no, but walked straight forth as if he was on some empty hill. Soon he was having a great fight with trees, swinging his killing knife to try and make his road. I knew he must be doing this for some long time, too, as his dead skin, which was coloured red like blood, got torn and flapping like leaves, so you could see his real skin beneath, and even this was scratched all over, like possums climbed him.

Heedeek made a sign with his spear that said I’ll go round that way and spear him if I can, but you stay still, which was interesting but scaring besides, as white scut had his gun. In the end, though, it never happened. Just when Heedeek was creeping off to start his killing, more tree breaking sound started, now from another side. Sure enough, when I looked through leaves I saw another white scut, also coloured red, and then I could hear more noises besides, far away. That was heinous trouble, no denying. Heedeek looked at me, pointing his spear to where Mother and the others were waiting, and so we went back, going carefully.

Mother was interested. ‘‘Let’s go up higher where we can see,’’ she told Heedeek, as even still she would not speak to me, being too hating, and waving her strong short arms she led the way out of the forest and up some hill just behind. There we lay down flat so white scuts wouldn’t see, and we tried to make the dog animals go flat too. Surely enough trees started quaking and then one num stepped out, shook himself and pulled leaves and so from his hair and his dead skin, shouting with wrath as if something bit him. Then more trees shook and another stepped out, and another too, till all at once it seemed as if that whole forest was trembling and spitting out white scuts, all carrying one gun, far as we could see. So we gave looks at each other. We knew, you see, what this was. These white scuts never were just hunting wallaby. They were hunting us. So we began fleeing.

One good thing was that those num were slow as mud while we were fast. Away we went, like the wind, and by dark we were so far that their fires were just small like sparks in the night. Those fires were plentiful, though, so we knew these were many more even than those ones that came out from the forest, which was one heinous puzzle to confound. Truly, this was some giant creeping of white scuts, all across the land.

Still Mother was not despairing. ‘‘We ’ll just have to go round them,’’ she said as we sat by that small, cold fire hidden in its hole.

All that next day we went so, going fast, with dog animals hurrying round our feet as if this was some fine game. Soon we felt hungry and weariful besides, but still we went again, away from white buggers but also around. By and by I felt safer, as we were gone so far I divined we must be past them. Then, woeful tidings, we went over some hill and there they were still, plenty of them, walking towards us in their line, slow as ants.

‘‘Perhaps they’re just the same ones,’’ said Heedeek, hoping. ‘‘Perhaps they just followed us.’’

Mother saw more cleverly. ‘‘No. Those others were red like blood. These are brown.’’

That was lamentable. Up until then I never had pondered how many white scuts there were in the world, as we never did see many all together, but now I could surmise there was no finish to these hateful buggers, and I knew we never would be rid of them even if we fought forever and ever and never died. Even Mother looked woeful that moment. Not that there was much time for desponding, no, as those scuts were just coming nearer all the while. So we hurried away once more, as fast as we could, though that land was just bald rocks and I surmised they must see us. Rain fell and we were cold and hungry, so my feet hurt and my head got weak and floating. Finally we stopped, all falling down panting, just too tired to run further. Mother set two watching for white scuts coming, and then we had our talking.

Heedeek, who was always careful, thought we should go around again. ‘‘Maybe they’re not so many as they seem.’’

‘‘You saw their fires,’’ Mother told him, folding her arms and looking at him as if he was just some piss-poor foolishness. ‘‘We ’ll just get more tired and hungry and still they’ll be coming. No, it’s better to fight them now.’’

Nobody wanted to fight these whites, as they were so many that we knew this was dying, which was heinous, but she was right, I could surmise. Besides, Mother was frightening, especially when she was angry, so being killed seemed almost easier than saying no. Mother let us rest a short while, but then she took her spear and got to her feet. So she started going straight back towards white scuts, first slow, then faster, and all the while we followed.

Ben Hayes, Van Diemen’s Land Farmer 1830

FOR TWO DAYS we crossed farmland, which was sweet. I slept one night in a fine dry barn, and sometimes the women would see us coming and run out with hot milk and fresh bread, which tasted better than Christmas goose. It didn’t last, though. Before long we struck bush that was thick like it only knows how in Van Diemen’s Land, with thorns that tore our clothes and then tore us, so soon everyone was ripped halfway to rags, with so many scars it looked like they’d been napping on bloody bayonets. My worry was my boots, which were getting so bad that I had to tie them with strips from my shirt just to keep the soles on. I hated my pack by then. It is a fact that what seems light as daisies for a minute becomes heavy as rocks when you’re hauling it mile after mile, so hardly a moment passed when I wasn’t wishing I could fling away those handcuffs, and that I’d never brought those two pistols of mine.

We slept a night in forest, and the next day we climbed into high open country, which was welcome apart from the cold wind. It was that same afternoon that I saw them. I had stopped a moment to shift my pack and try to get more comfortable—though it never did any good—and when I looked up, there they were, two dozen or more of the buggers, scampering away over the next hill. I just froze. I glanced across to Sam and he was just the same. Then we looked at each other and sort of laughed. Not that it was funny.

We passed the word along and then kept going like before. Soon after it started raining, which was bad, as my clothes had barely dried off properly from the last wetting. It was coming on towards dusk when the shout went down the line to stop. Usually we made camp in just pairs, but this time, what with having seen those blacks, and so many too, this didn’t feel quite safe, and we ended being six. I suppose it did leave a bit of gap to eastwards, but the way we saw it, if they did start trouble at least we’d be enough to fight. Now Pete Tanner was one of those fellows who can get a flame out of pure pond water and soon he had a merry little blaze going, in spite of the wet that was still coming down all around. Well, there’s nothing better to warm the bones than a fire. We cooked some flour into damper, while Sam pulled out a small possum that he’d bagged with his musket that morning, and once we’d got his coat off he was soon doing nicely, smelling sweet as could be.

The way I look on it now it was the rain that was to blame, as, this being dusk, it did make it hard for a man to see far. Besides, it was so chilly that only a fool would stray off from that blaze we had going. We’d set a watch, for sure, but those blacks must’ve had some way of making themselves hardly visible, as he only saw them when it was nearly too late. All of a sudden there they were, running like the wind through the little valley just below us. Trouble they looked, too. Up at the front was a one that I could only think must be that Amazon I’d heard tell of. Stark naked she was, and holding a fowling piece in her hand. That was a shock, truly, as nobody’d said anything about them having guns. Why, we should’ve been warned. Behind her was another strange one, just a boy, and black as the rest, though his hair was pale as straw.

Well, we took up our guns quick enough, though it was hard to catch them in our sights what with all their running and jiggling. I was ready to fire, that’s the truth, and I would’ve too if one of the others had only given a shout, like I was expecting for them to do. None of them did. The fact was it was a worry that we might miss, especially with the blacks being so invisible in the dusk, as then they might come back at us, including that Amazon with her gun. Everything went quiet, so all you could hear was the rain and the crackle of the possum roasting on the fire, and inside half a moment they’d scampered away nearly out of range.

Sam was the one who finally spoke. ‘‘I suppose we should go after them.’’ The way he spoke made it sound like a question.

Nobody answered, but nobody moved either. We just stood watching. A moment later they’d reached trees and were gone from sight.

‘‘If we go after them that’d leave a gap in the line,’’ said Pete Tanner.

Sam chewed on his cheek a little, which was his habit. ‘‘Besides, there’s no telling if our guns would ever fire in this wet.’’

Soon after, we went back to sitting round the fire, where it was warm. The damper and that possum were tasty as could be, and later we brewed up some tea in the billy. That night we set a proper watch, with fellows staying awake in turns, just like the proper army. Nobody saw anything, mind.

It wasn’t that we ever decided to stay quiet about what happened, it was just that none of us said anything. There hardly seemed much purpose.

George Alder, Governor of Van Diemen’s Land 1830

ONCE BREAKFAST WAS DONE with and all was packed up once more, our mighty march resumed, with a great jangling of billies, water bottles and muskets. It was only now, as we approached the end of this great campaign, and the narrowness of the land brought together these two thousand men, who had been strung out half across the island, that they finally, by their concentration, assumed the appearance of an army. A brave little army they looked, too, in their ragged clothes and boots. What noble work they had done, to traverse this harsh land, and without suffering a single casualty, excepting those few who had died from mishap, or accidentally shot one another. Their great task was almost done. My chief concern now was that they should remember to treat the aborigines with gentle forcefulness, as I had urged.

Ned, my chief police magistrate, who is quite a worrier, feared that we might not have enough pairs of handcuffs. ‘‘The reports I have had say there could be as many as four entire tribes trapped.’’

‘‘If we run short, then we can always use rope from the tents,’’ I suggested. My attention being then distracted by the sound of shouting behind me, I glanced back and caught sight of a man who could hardly have looked more out of place in this wild spot if he had sought to do so: he bore no weapons, and rather than wearing rough outdoors clothes was dressed in a coat and top hat which would have been more appropriate for a visit to church. As he drew nearer, I recognized him as John Pierce. It was, I supposed, hardly a great surprise, as the man was an infamous maker of nuisance. He had once been employed as an agricultural officer by the New World Land Company, only to abandon his work and appear in Hobart, uttering the wildest claims of cruelties done to the blacks by his colleagues. Fortunately his employer, Mr. Charles, who is a most goodly fellow, had already written to warn me of the man, who he explained had grown quite demented, and had taken to living wildly in the bush like some vagrant. Pierce came several times to Government House with his denunciations, and once he even attempted to accost me in the street, so I was sorely tempted to have him arrested.

Observing me, he spurred on his horse, calling out in a frenzied voice. ‘‘Governor Alder, I demand that this operation be stopped this moment. You are committing deliberate murder here, nothing less.’’

He was a most curious-looking fellow, with eyes that were forever blinking and a wounded expression that almost made one wonder if he might break into tears. Demented though he was, I supposed I must give him some answer. ‘‘Mr. Pierce, you are thoroughly mistaken. There will be no murder here.’’ I began to tell him of the three hundred pairs of handcuffs we had prepared, and of the careful instructions I had given to the men, though it was to no avail. I dare say there is no arguing with a madman.

‘‘Your handcuffs are mere pretence,’’ he insisted. ‘‘Your intention, though you seek to hide it behind the contraptions of justice, is only too evident. I will not be removed. I will bear witness to this massacre so it can never be denied.’’

I was fast growing weary of the fellow. ‘‘Mr. Pierce,’’ I informed him. ‘‘I never suggested you should be removed, but if you continue to make a nuisance of yourself and to disrupt this most important military operation, then you certainly shall be.’’

It was then that, rather to my puzzlement, I saw he had fallen into silence, and was now staring ahead with a look of profound surprise. I followed his look. While I had been arguing with the fellow we must have ridden over a ridge, as now a fine view stretched out ahead. It was an exhilarating spot, with gulls hanging high in the wind and the crash of waves all around. To the left lay the sea, to the right also, with the thick line of men glinting and stamping away in each direction, as far as the shores. In front of us lay a wide expanse of open grassland, rolling gently down to the water, and looking a little like some wild part of the Devonshire coast. we had reached the very end of the peninsular, and our great march.

‘‘It is a miracle,’’ Pierce murmured.

The most noticeable thing about the scene, I should explain, was that it was wholly and utterly empty of aborigines.

Peevay 1830-31

TIME PASSED, summer came and our fleeing and fighting went on like before. Then one day we found a cider gum tree. This was good tidings, yes, as they never are usual. We cut his bark so gum dripped out into a hollow we made, mixing with water and getting changed into some sweet stuff which makes you foolish and dizzy. This was a good one, too, with enough for everybody, and soon we were laughing and so. All except Mother. Truth was Mother never was the same after that great creeping of num white scuts. Even though nothing happened, and they just stood there by their fire watching, and never killed us after all, still Mother got afflicted, worse than I ever saw her before, and even long after, her look was like stone. I supposed it was because she knew we never could win now, and she wished we got killed then, just so, all finished.

We were still sitting round the cider gum when Cordeve, who was keeping watch that time, called out. ‘‘Look there. It’s my sister!’’

Cordeve was Tommeginer and I never even knew he had any sister, but there she was, yes, walking through trees, with two other women I never saw before. That was great good fortune, truly, as we never saw any but white scuts all this long while, ever since we became Mother’s tribe, so it was joyous to find others like us were still alive. Usually Cordeve was just quiet but now he was gleeful and tidings of joy, running to these new ones. He got near, too, when suddenly his friendliness turned to a fighting run, and he raised his spear for throwing. ‘‘Watch out,’’ he shouted. ‘‘Behind you.’’

There coming after his sister, you see, was one white man. He was a puzzle to confound, yes. He had no gun or killing knife, and just stood there, short and fat and easy to hit, and smiling too. I think Cordeve would spear him, too, but then his sister didn’t go away like anyone would expect, but ran back to stand before this num and be his guard. ‘‘Stop!’’ she called. ‘‘He’s my friend.’’

Yes, that was strange, but strangest thing came just after. All at once that num white scut shouted to us, and d’you know he never shouted to us in white man’s talk at all, but in Tommeginer language. He didn’t speak very properly, truly, as his words were wrong and stupid, like baby’s, but still, whoever did hear of some white man speaking like us? ‘‘Don’t be frightened,’’ he told. ‘‘I only want to help you. My name is Robson.’’

‘‘You must listen to him,’’ said Cordeve’s sister, very beseeching. ‘‘He can save us.’’

This Robson was smiling now, as if we were foolish children. I suppose we were staring in mighty surprise at his knowing our own words. ‘‘She’s right. I know of a place where you’ll all be safe. A fine place where there are plenty of kangaroo to hunt and no bad white men can hurt you. I can take you there.’’ He reached into his dead skin, which was dirty, and pulled out some shiny round things of different colours, like flat stones. ‘‘These are for you. They’re called buttons.’’

His words were interesting, yes, as in truth I was too tired of always hurrying and fighting and being cold and hungry. Besides we were not many now and probably we would all be killed quite soon. Cordeve was going up to take one of the coloured things that were called buttons, and I thought I might too, as they were pleasing, but then Mother gave her hating look.

‘‘Don’t go near,’’ she told. ‘‘No white pisser brings anything but killing.’’ So she turned to white man Robson. ‘‘Go away and leave us alone or I’ll kill you.’’

Robson never seemed to hear her words at all, just smiling as if he never believed her. I suppose he never did know Mother. ‘‘We have meat for you if you are hungry,’’ he said, just smiling. ‘‘Plenty of it. And a fine warm fire to sit beside.’’

‘‘And there are many others with us who you’ll know,’’ said Cordeve’s sister.

All of a sudden Mother just raised her gun and fired. I never did surmise if she wanted to miss that fellow or if she was just confounded. Probably she was confounded. Though he wasn’t killed, still he was mightily fearful, and I recollect he went like some spider, crouching, running away and holding up his hands to stop anyone hitting him— though nobody was—all at the same time. Cordeve’s sister and the other two women went with him, running away into bushes, and then Cordeve went too, calling out his sister’s name. I suppose he was sad to lose her so quick after she got found.

‘‘We must go away from here,’’ said Mother.

So we went away. I did ponder, as we walked, that maybe this white man could save us like he said. Probably some others wondered too. Still nobody said anything to Mother, as no one ever did. All the while she was looking angry and calling us to go faster, as if she was more fearful of this one white scut with his smile and speaking Tommeginer language than all those others in the great creeping, with their guns and killing knives. By and by we reached a high place, and when we stopped and looked back there were tails of smoke from fire sticks, so we knew he wasn’t scared by getting nearly killed, but was coming after us still. Those smokes were several, too, so we surmised there must be plenty of our ones with him, just like Cordeve’s sister said.

So we were fleeing again, and this time it was from our own too, and not just num. This was much harder. When we looked back they always were close after us, so ours were watching our tracks, and seeing them even though we went carefully, which num never could. Even then I think we could evade them easily, except that coughing sickness came. I never had seen this till then, though I had heard of it as some heinous thing, and more killing even than white scuts. On that second day of fleeing it caught Cordeve’s cousin, whose name was Lawerick. After just a few hours he was hot and gasping, and by evening he was spitting out white stuff like bird shit, and was so crook he hardly could speak. That same night two others got sick besides. One was Mother.

A thing about Mother was she never would yield. If my skill was enduring, then hers was just going on by and by. Some other would know we must stop now as we were just ruination, but not Mother. Next morning her eyes were faint and her step was stiff, but still she never paid any heed. ‘‘We must go to the river,’’ she declared.

I soon saw her bold intention. First, when we got to the river, we put out all fire sticks except just one and put them in bushes, and we hid our tracks by brushing them with leaves. Then we stepped into the stream, though it was cold, and we began walking, shouting at the dog animals to try and make them stay in the water too. All day we followed that stream, though our feet got numb and were often cut by sharp stones, and Lawerick and Mother and those others got more crook all the while. Finally we came to a place where all was big rocks, smooth and flat like big shells, and Mother said we could go out onto these, as they showed no tracks. Behind was a small forest and this was where we went, wiping our footmarks so foes wouldn’t see.

I supposed we were safe now, but still we were getting sicker by and by. Mother said we couldn’t have any campfire here, even in a hole, as enemies would smell its smoke, and that night was cold. In the morning Lawerick was very bad, moaning and such, and though his eyes were open he didn’t know anybody. He died soon after, and his dying started a big fight, I do recollect, as his brother said we must burn him, which was correct, but Mother said no even to this.

‘‘We ’ll put him in the forest now and burn him later, when they’re far away,’’ she told. Lawerick’s brother was too angry, saying animals might find that body and eat it, but he was alone in his talk, and so Lawerick got put in the forest like Mother desired.

Later that day clouds went and warm sun shone, which was better, and everyone who wasn’t bad with coughing sickness went searching for roots to eat just nearby. I went with Heedeek. We found some, and though they weren’t so many still it was more food than we had since we started our fleeing, and we ate hungrily and then gave some to the others that were crook, who were six now. It is pleasing to eat when you are hungry, and afterwards everyone lay down to rest.

Everyone except me.

I was thinking, you see, of that white man’s warm fire and his meat to eat, and how blissful these things would be. Then I was thinking of his promised place with kangaroo to hunt, where we would be safe, I did surmise. For a time I looked at those others as they slept, and then, very quietly, I went away. Nearby was a tree that was tall, and so I climbed, going high till I reached just thin branches which leaned as I held them. From that place I could see half of everywhere, so it looked. Over to westwards were mountains, sharp like cutting stones. Near to eastwards was that same cold river where we walked to be hidden. And there, to southwards, were thin lines of smoke like rope. These were never so near as before now, and as I watched, holding on to those branches till my arms ached, I saw they were moving away from us now. Yes, I could divine, Mother’s walking in the stream had worked and they had missed us. When I climbed down I went over to Mother, who was hot and coughing in her sleep. I took some root I found, which was large and just good for eating, and I put this near her hand, just as some kindly thing. Next I went over to the small fire stick that was all the fire Mother let us have now.

It was too easy. Fire stick was stuck in the ground, but stupidly, so gum tree leaves were not far above. I looked but others weren’t watching. For a time I just stood there, pondering. Then gently I moved that branch till fire took it.

That was all it did need.