CHAPTER SEVEN

Timothy Renshaw AUGUST–SEPTEMBER 1857

THE SURPRISE of nearly being murdered by pirates had a quietening effect on all aboard the Sincerity, myself included, and for a time even Dr. Potter and Mr. Wilson treated each other with something approaching civility. It did not last, needless to say. Once we crossed the equator our vicar began to look restless, and it was then he started praying aloud at first light, which he called ‘‘dawn godliness.’’ That drove me halfway to distraction, as his moaning came straight through the holes in the partition wall, while Potter didn’t look pleased at all. Soon after that there was the business of the mug of tea that was found on the vicar’s Bible, which was answered in turn by a new and longer list of parson’s laws. Even that wasn’t enough for Wilson, and in his next Sunday sermon he insisted on lecturing us about how we must look deep into our hearts and cast out all envy and wickedness, hurling, as he spoke, little saintly smiles in the doctor’s direction. When the sermon moved next to praising the virtue of deference, and saying how it was the God-given duty of those ‘‘of junior station’’ to obey their ‘‘natural betters,’’ Potter’s face turned quite clenched.

It was that sermon that decided the next course of their little war. The moment it was finished the doctor marched across to Captain Kewley, while Wilson—who had seen his rage—followed just behind. I went too, being curious. Their feud was the nearest thing there was aboard the Sincerity to something happening, while, finding each party quite as annoying as the other, as I did, I suppose it afforded me some faint satisfaction to watch them assail one another.

‘‘It occurs to me,’’ Potter began, ‘‘that it might be of interest to the crew if I delivered a few educational lectures, perhaps on scientific matters.’’

Wilson cut in before Kewley had a chance to answer. ‘‘What a generous thought, Doctor. Though I should say that such a thing would hardly be suitable for the Sabbath, when we prefer to reflect upon the spiritual.’’

His thinking, I supposed, was that Kewley would not want lectures cluttering up the ship’s workdays, and so Potter’s proposal would be squeezed nicely into oblivion. He was probably right, too. Where he made his mistake was in being so very pushing. A weary look passed across Kewley’s face. ‘‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t have room for his talk as well as yours, Vicar. After all, the doctor’s science is also part of the good Lord’s world, is it not?’’

Wilson wriggled his best but, I was pleased to see, the Captain would have none of his bullying. So it was that the ship became quite a library of scribbling, as my two colleagues worked upon their discourses like swordsmen sharpening their blades, each casting his face into the most serious expression, as if to demonstrate the superiority of his work over the other’s.

It was early that same week that the weather began to change. The wind had been blowing strongly until then, propelling us swiftly southwards, and already the sun had begun to lose a little of its strength, its light turning subtly whiter, reminding us that we were venturing towards a part of the world where the season was still late wintertime. On the Thursday the wind backed round from the southwest, feeling suddenly chilly, and troubling the crew with a good work with the sails. Then on the Saturday morning it dropped away to nothing and we found ourselves becalmed, and that night the fog came. By Sunday morning the vessel was encased tighter than a hand in a glove. The light was so dim and the air so still that it felt almost as if we were not at sea at all, but were inside some kind of murky room. When one looked out over the side, the water was visible only for a few yards, while upwards the masts and sails vanished into the whiteness.

It was around noon that we heard a loud splash off the port bow, sudden and shocking in the stillness. We all hurried to the rail, though we could see nothing but fog. Captain Kewley even called out, ‘‘Ahoy there,’’ but there came no answer. Only when we stood, carefully listening, did we become aware of a sound from the same direction, faint and rhythmic, deep and low.

‘‘It’s creatures,’’ said Kewley in a whisper.

It seemed there were a good number of them, and as we listened their breathing grew slowly louder, until it extended all about the vessel, as if we were in the middle of some huge ocean dormitory. The beasts none of them ventured close enough to be seen, and I could only presume they must be some form of whale or grampus. It may seem foolish and yet I found their invisible presence unsettling, while even the Manxmen, who I would have expected to be used to such oddities, went about their work with furtive looks, speaking in lowered voices, quite as if the huge animals were listening.

Our two Sunday lecturers, by contrast, seemed little interested, being both far more concerned with the discourses they were to give, leafing hurriedly through their notes, or disagreeing with one another over the construction of the temporary pulpit. Dr. Potter was to speak first. He forwent Wilson’s dramatic preamble, simply marching onto the platform, from where he peered down at us with a serious look. ‘‘My lecture today concerns the process of animal magnetism, that is also known as mesmerism,’’ he declared solemnly, pausing for a moment as one of the creatures produced a faint blowing sound, eerie through the fog, ‘‘and will be concluded with a practical demonstration of this most important process, in which I hope to reveal great secrets of the soul of man.’’

His intention was, I supposed, to outshine Wilson’s sermonizing, and perhaps to deliver a few stabs along the way. To this end his choice seemed clever enough, mesmerism being a phenomenon of great popularity, which had filled more than a few music halls with eager watchers, delighted by the spectacle of some poor fool believing himself a donkey or bereft of a leg. I was quite intrigued myself, in fact, having never guessed the doctor was a practitioner of such an art. Rather to my surprise, however, the Manxmen seemed little pleased. For a moment I assumed they were still troubled by the presence of the sea creatures, but no, from their looks they seemed to be regarding the doctor with real dislike. I could only imagine they feared some form of joke might be played upon them. Wilson, who was sitting on a coil of rope well away from the proceedings—having insisted that ‘‘sadly’’ he could not listen as he must attend to his sermon—had also observed the crew’s displeasure, and was visibly smirking.

Potter himself pressed on regardless. The first part of his discourse dealt with something he termed ‘‘the geography of the mind.’’ It was a subject I knew little about, and I found it interesting enough in its way. He asserted that the brain was divided into many segments, almost in the manner of an orange, each of which contained one ‘‘impulse,’’ many of these being a moral quality. These varied no less than human character itself extending from wisdom to a fondness for sweet food, and from anger to a fear of heights. The power of each impetus would alter from one man to the next, and their strength or weakness would, when combined together, define the moral character of each individual. Thus a man with pronounced impulses of bravery and loyalty would make an excellent soldier, while another, who was weak in honesty and strong in greed, would likely fall into thieving. Between different races of men, as the doctor told us, variety was far greater still, as the very structure of the brain would alter. Thus we learned that the Chinese possessed a unique impulse of delight in bright colours, while among savages of Africa there was a complete absence of the impulse of civilization.

‘‘It is mesmerism that can unlock these wonders of the mind,’’ Potter explained. ‘‘Each impulse of the brain extends to the skull, and so, once a man is brought into the correct state of entrancement, the different elements of his brain can be made to reveal themselves simply by touches of the operator’s fingers, in a fashion remarkable to behold. It is, indeed, quite as if one is playing upon the keys of an organ. Press upon the segment of fear and the subject will at once show signs of great alarm, perhaps believing that a fearful chasm has opened up in front of him. Try deceitfulness and his every utterance will be untrue. Touch confession and he will admit to all manner of secrets. Ten minutes of mesmerism can reveal a man far more truthfully than months studying his apparent nature.’’

Some of the crewmen, I noticed, were showing signs of restlessness, tapping their feet upon the deck.

‘‘Mesmerism pays no heed to titles or other grand frippery. Enchant a pauper and you may discover him to be wiser than a lord,’’ Potter continued, undeterred. He cast a sudden glance towards the vicar: ‘‘And a simple butcher’s boy may be found richer in virtue than a priest.’’

So there was his first stab. Wilson’s smirk vanished and he buried himself in his notes.

Pleased with this little piece of violence, Potter stepped to the front of the temporary pulpit and peered down through the fog. ‘‘This, I hope, will have made clear the theory behind this most important process. The moment has now come to offer a practical demonstration, so you may see for yourselves, and for this I must ask for the assistance of a volunteer.’’

I had expected that this might prove awkward and I was not wrong. Potter smiled, and waited, only to find himself answered with a wall of silence. Soon the creaking timbers and water lapping against the ship’s side seemed loud indeed. The doctor looked quite taken aback.

‘‘Surely there is somebody?’’ Just as he was beginning to look a touch alarmed, the chief mate raised his hand. Potter broke into a smile. ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Brew.’’

‘‘Ah, but I’m not offering,’’ Brew declared, grinning in a way that looked hardly reassuring. ‘‘I’m just asking what’ll happen to the lucky body that does. Will you have him strip himself naked thinking he’s a bunny rabbit?’’

The crew let go a faint ripple of snickering.

Potter looked troubled. The very last thing he wanted was for his lecture to be turned into some kind of joke. He attempted to retrieve the mood of seriousness as best he could, assuring us all, with an awkward smile, ‘‘I have not the slightest interest in theatrical games. The fact is that mesmerism, besides being an invaluable tool of science, is also a most natural state in which to enter, being wonderfully calming to the nerves. While some persons are more susceptible than others, I do believe that there is hardly a single man or woman who cannot safely be brought into such a condition.’’

The Manxmen did not laugh at this little speech, it was true, but none of them volunteered either. So it was that the doctor made the mistake of trying to reassure us further. ‘‘It is; indeed, a process quite as normal and healthy as sleep. Why, there are numerous recorded instances even of animals becoming mesmerized, while in some cases that I…’’

He got no further. Up went Brew’s hand like a semaphore arm. ‘‘Animals, did you say?’’ He tilted his head to one side, all dangerous innocence. ‘‘Well, there’s a thing, is there not? I wonder, Doctor, could you mesmerize one of the swineys for us then? You know, just so we can see how it’s done.’’

This brought more than just looks and snickering. Mylchreest, the steward, uttered a curious squeaking giggle and this was enough to unleash all the rest. I will admit I laughed myself, while Wilson turned about on his coil of rope, clearly delighting in the spectacle. As for Potter, he was beginning to look greatly disconcerted. He had intended this occasion to be one when he would revenge himself on his enemy, and instead found himself humiliated before the whole ship, caught in that purgatory between feigned seriousness and open ridicule. It was quite a sight, especially in one who, until now, I had never seen lose command of himself.

‘‘I’m not sure that would be useful,’’ he declared, with the stiffest of smiles.

He would have been wiser just to say a very plain no. As it was, Brew pretended to take his words as some form of encouragement, nodding his head as if in agreement. ‘‘Wouldn’t we all love to see it, though, Doctor?’’ He glanced about him, stirring the rest into agreement.

‘‘But I have no experience of any such thing,’’ Potter declared weakly.

‘‘Ah, you’re doing yourself down,’’ said Brew, now maliciously supportive. ‘‘A clever fellow like you would manage it easier than kicking.’’

I believe the doctor would have wriggled his way free even then had it not been for Captain Kewley. Until this moment he had kept aloof from the whole matter, but now he gave the surgeon a sly look. ‘‘Come along, Doctor,’’ he called out in a cheerful voice. ‘‘We ’re far too interested to be put off now. Mesmerize a swiney for us, there’s a good fellow.’’

Potter threw the Captain a desperate glance, I suppose hoping he might show pity and make a joke of his suggestion, but it was in vain. The rest of the crew were already urging him on with shouts and cheers, and so, with as much enthusiasm as a condemned man strolling to his gibbet, he began making his way forwards through the fog. Wilson left his coil of rope to follow, as did I. Reaching the boat that served as the pigsty, the doctor looked crushed. Why, I would have felt quite sorry for him if I had not had to suffer his company through all those long weeks.

The reason that a pig had been proposed rather than any other creature was simple enough. We had eaten almost all the rest. All the bullocks were gone, and the chickens too, while of the sheep only one sorry specimen survived. Pigs were usually kept till last, being regarded as the best sailors, and three of the four animals still remained, all berthed in the main boat. As Potter and his audience gathered around this, the poor beasts showed some alarm, cowering and snorting, which was hardly surprising seeing as they had witnessed so many of their fellow animals being taken, one by one, to the front of the vessel and noisily dispatched from this world.

‘‘Don’t you go crowding them,’’ the cook, Quayle, protested, seeming the only one displeased by the turn of events. ‘‘I won’t have them upset.’’

Of the three beasts, two were sows while the third was a male, huge and sagging, with the most disquieting eyes: mournfully alert, as if he understood only too plainly the temporary nature of his situation. Potter stroked his beard, seeming now resigned to attempting the task forced upon him.

‘‘The method I will use,’’ he announced cautiously, ‘‘is the same as I have employed upon men, though there is no certainty that it will prove as effective on animals.’’

It was the male he picked, I suppose because this seemed the most humanlike of the three. He reached out towards the creature, looking it firmly in the eye, and then began passing his hands about its head in a kind of stroking movement, though without ever quite touching its skin. Whether this was part of his technique, or simple avoidance of the mud and worse with which the animal was caked, was hard to know. As for the pig itself it flinched away at first, but then gradually seemed to grow calmer, and after a time appeared even to be quite enjoying the process, meeting the doctor’s mesmerizing stare with a dozy look of its own. Gradually the movements of Potter’s hands extended, until they reached halfway down the creature’s back and he was leaning right into the boat. Then, peering determinedly at the beast, he drew back.

‘‘The animal,’’ he announced, suddenly proud, ‘‘is now entranced.’’

This won a hush of respect, and surprise too. Before the doctor could proceed any further, though, the creature uttered a loud snort and began sniffing among the pieces of muck and old food at the bottom of the boat. Potter ignored the sniggers that followed, now looking serious. It seemed the exercise had now caught his curiosity, causing him to forget his earlier reluctance. ‘‘There is another method that I can try which may prove more suitable to animals,’’ he declared. ‘‘This involves the subject intently staring at an object until entranced.’’

My curiosity was how the pig would know that he was supposed to stare at anything. In the event, I never discovered. Potter’s mistake, as I see it now, was that he did not arrange matters before he started. He was too impatient to place the creature once again into a receptive state— which he did with the same stroking and staring as before—and it was only when the animal began to respond, looking dozy, that he troubled himself with what mesmerizing object he would use.

‘‘What I now need,’’ he said in a soft voice, never turning from the pig’s small, doleful eyes, ‘‘is something bright and reflective. Anything of polished metal will do.’’

For a moment the Manxmen looked at one another, uncertain. Then the chief mate, Brew, reached to his waistband. It is possible, of course, that his choice was just accident, but considering the man’s character this seemed unlikely. He passed the object into the outstretched hand and then, as Potter brought this before him, both he and the pig found themselves looking at a long, shining knife.

The doctor saw the danger at once, pulling the blade back to hide it from the animal’s sight, but it was too late. I had no idea that a pig could make so great a noise. All at once the air became filled with a hideous squealing: a sound of pure, rawest fear. At the same instant he began plunging irresistibly about the longboat, quite like some steam locomotive, with the sows following just behind, their pen rocking violently from side to side, hay spilling into the air like coal dust, and the metal tubs that held their food banging and crashing as they were hurled back and forth. The Manxmen did their best to retrieve the situation, leaning forward with outstretched arms, but the fact is that three pigs in full flight are not easily stopped, especially when they are slippery with mud and dung. The wiser policy might well have been simply to leave the poor creatures be, as every grabbing hand encouraged their panic. Finally, though, the sows were halted, and then China Clucas, the ship’s giant, managed to catch the main beast by its tail, and though all three screeched dreadfully, the scene in the pen began to show signs of greater calm.

As to what followed, even now I could not say if it bore any connection with what had just occurred, or if it was merely a coincidence of timing. It seemed to follow, certainly, but the mind will sometimes play tricks at such a moment of excitement, seeing unconnected events as so many links in a chain. In truth I could not even say if sea creatures possess the power of hearing, let alone if they concern themselves with sounds emerging from beyond their watery domain. The fact remained, however, that hardly had the pigs been stilled when there was a momentous watery crash from somewhere beyond the port bow. We never saw what ocean acrobatics the beast had got up to, on account of the fog, but the consequence was clear as could be. The ship, which had been still as land, began suddenly and violently rolling.

For a moment I thought we had suffered nothing worse than surprise. A ship, after all, is well used to a bit of tipping. Then, though, I became aware of the excited chattering in Manx on the further side of the boat, and realized they were all looking at Clucas’ arm, which he was holding with his hand in a curious way, and I saw blood was spilling out between his fingers. The pig he had caught had toppled clean against him when the ship rolled, and he must have caught his wrist against a jagged corner of the creatures’ water tub. Clucas himself looked pale as a ghost.

It is curious how swiftly a mood can alter. One moment we were engaged upon what was, if truth be told, an unkind joke. Half an instant later all were grave faces. The greatest change, though, came to Potter. All at once he was transformed from dupe to hero.

‘‘Have my case brought,’’ he commanded. So he set to work.

The sea creatures did not stay long after that, and the fog was gone by the next morning. As for Clucas, within just a day or two he was recovered enough to sit quietly on deck in the cool sunshine, offering respectful greetings to his saviour whenever he came near. It was perhaps hardly a surprise that, from that afternoon, nobody, including Brew, tried to make a joke of the doctor. Potter even treated us to another lecture the next Sunday—this one on the benefits of vegetarianism—and, much to Wilson’s annoyance, his audience stood through the whole thing quiet as lambs.

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson OCTOBER 1857

FINALLY, AFTER nearly three full months at sea, we made our first landfall at Cape Colony, upon the most southerly point of Africa. This, I am glad to say, proved a most delightful spot, lodged prettily beneath the wide massif of Table Mountain. The streets are wide and the white-painted houses are charmingly decorated with pot plants and creepers, whose colourful flowers quite dazzle the eye. As to the population, though the native Africans seemed somewhat shy, and the Boers were a little rough in their manners, those colonists who hailed from English shores displayed a cultured gentility all the more creditable in this distant place.

Among my first undertakings was to visit the post office. Before we left London it had caught my notice that the steamer service to this corner of the world would generally outpace any sailing vessel by several weeks, and so I had told my dear wife that she could write to me here, considering that this might bring her some comfort in her loneliness. I had anticipated quite a little library of letters awaiting me and was, I confess, a little surprised to find only one envelope in her hand, though there were no fewer than four from busy Jonah Childs. His missives were full of helpful notions, reporting of how he had had word from an old friend of his by the name of Rider, who was now a colonel in the Cape Colony militia, and who had insisted we call upon him. It was pleasing to know that I would be received by one of the highest of the colony’s society. I was further flattered to hear that our arrival in Tasmania was now warmly awaited by none other than that island’s governor, who it seemed was an acquaintance of one of Mr. Childs’s many cousins. As to my wife’s news, her single letter was somewhat brief, concerning itself mostly with a new dress shop in Highgate that she had discovered. Any slight disappointment I felt, however, was quickly dispelled. She was, I realized, simply endeavouring not to worry me with her own distress, brave little poppet that she is.

It was as I was about to leave the post office that I saw, striding in through the door, Dr. Potter. It was hardly a happy meeting. He offered me only the curtest reply to my greetings, while I could not help but notice that he was holding a letter, whose address he seemed to be trying to conceal, though I could clearly see between his fingers the words ‘‘Mr. Jonah Ch…’’ I dare say it was his right to communicate to whoever he wished, and yet I felt it would have been only courteous to consult myself, as leader of this expedition, before writing to our patron. As it was, I was left wondering what such secrecy could signify.

I sent my card to Colonel Rider the next morning. A note arrived at the lodging house by return, addressed to myself, and inviting ‘‘the Reverend Geoffrey Wilson and any members of the Van Diemen’s Land Expedition who may be agreeable’’ to dine at the castle, where the colony’s militia were stationed. I mentioned the matter to Renshaw when he finally emerged from his sleeping, and if I did not also tell Potter this was only because, as had so often been the case since we arrived, he was nowhere to be found, being away on some mysterious business of his own. The colonel’s words ‘‘and any members of the Van Diemen’s Land Expedition’’ seemed, besides, hardly to require the presence of us all, while I had no wish to overwhelm him with our numbers. The whole matter would have ended there had not Renshaw—quite needlessly—spoken of it to the doctor that evening. Potter’s reaction was hardly to be credited. One moment he was whining like a spoilt child and the next he was blustering like a bully, insisting that he should have been asked too, and insinuating that I had somehow conspired to have him excluded. I was wholly satisfied with my own conduct, naturally, and yet, faced with this display of near-hysteria, I considered it wisest to have him to join us. I wrote to the colonel informing him we would now be three.

I soon regretted this charity. Hardly had we been welcomed by the colonel and his officers, and taken our places at table, when Potter began behaving in a manner that I can only describe as deliberately provoking. When Colonel Rider, a stiff but gentle fellow, inquired about our journey from London, he insisted on relating, in a tone of falsest commiseration, that I had suffered greatly from seasickness, even claiming that he had quite feared for my survival. This was despite the fact that he knew full well I had suffered only from poor food. Likewise when we began discussing Tasmania, he dwelt at length on the harshness of the wilderness, which he said was ‘‘rough country even for a fit young fellow like myself to go exploring, let alone anyone else.’’ I fought back keenly enough, suggesting, over the lamb and mint sauce, how it was a great shame that he had so little knowledge of geology or theology, and so would be left wholly in the dark as we set about our exploration. I also related my experiences of walking across the hills of Yorkshire, subtly implying that I was at least as well prepared for the venture as the doctor, whose life had been spent in dank hospital rooms.

It was only when we had returned to our lodgings, as I lay in bed, considering the evening’s events, that I suddenly grasped the doctor’s true intention. How slow can be the forces of goodness that, of their very nature, can barely perceive wicked designs. Potter’s purpose was more than mere insult, far more. The man, I realized with alarm, sought nothing less than to depose me from my rightful place as leader of this expedition. It was not Colonel Rider who was his real concern, but Jonah Childs. The colonel was sure to write to his old friend, and promptly, giving a full account of his impressions of us. What if he had been convinced by Potter’s poisonous suggestions? There was also the letter I had seen Potter about to post, whose address he had attempted to conceal. I was, I now saw, being attacked upon two fronts, as the doctor endeavoured to turn our patron against me, even from this great distance. What made this especially troubling was Mr. Childs’s own nature, that was so prone to sudden changes of mind. Had he not come close to appointing the doctor once already, I recalled unhappily, as we stood among the expedition’s stores in my sister-in-law’s parlour in Highgate?

I slept little that night. My mind was a frenzy of steamers. The mail service from Cape Colony to England took no more than five weeks. A letter sent directly from London to Melbourne in Victoria, as I recalled, took ten. The final journey from there to Hobart would, I imagined, require no more than a few days. Sixteen weeks in all. It was my hope that we would already have set forth into the wilderness of Tasmania before this time had elapsed, but this was far from assured. If the Sincerity suffered unexpected delay, as well she might, or we met with difficulties when organizing the expedition, there would be time enough for Mr. Childs—his mind poisoned with malicious falsehood—to write and command me to relinquish my office of leader, and to place Potter himself in my stead. It was something that I could not and would not permit.

Dr. Thomas Potter OCTOBER 1857

Cape Colony

Town = of greatest interest to self re notions as possesses quite remarkable variety of types. Among world’s greatest instances? Self spent many hours carefully observing. Soon came to new + unexpected conclusions. E.g. watched Boers visiting from outlying farms and noted they = braggardly + surprisingly sluggish: ride giant wagons (oxen) that = v. slow. Cf. English colonists = quick and energetic, filled with winning confidence. New notion: Dutch not Saxon Type as self previously supposed but in fact = Belgic Celts. Would explain absence moral fortitude + history of decline.

Races present of Cape Colony = as follows, listed by precedence:

1. British: Type = Saxon. Status = natural rulers of colony.

2. Boers: Type = Belgic Celtic. Status = assistants to British.

3. Malays: Type = Oriental. Status = farm labourers + servants.

4. Hindoos: Type = Indian Asiatic. Status = as Malays but lower.

5. Native Africans = Type: Negro. Status = low.

6. Hottentots: Type = lower Negro. Status = low and brutal.

11th October

Most satisfactory day. Began with news from India. Report in local newspaper indicates fighting continues v. fiercely, yet appears mutiny has not spread beyond Delhi + other areas of the north. British forces rallying well. Self feel certain rebellion will fail, though it may take much time, suffering etc. etc. This = quite as self anticipated.

Visited home of Dr. Louis Clive (he = fellow surgeon, introduction given by Dr. P.). Clive = excellent fellow + v. interesting on Hottentots. Told self these = among v. lowest types, barely of mankind. Self stayed to dinner with much joking. Clive v. interested re own notions, and most encouraging. Also v. helpful re obtaining specimens.

Wilson in sitting room when self returned to lodging house, giving self strangest + most malevolent look. Self beginning to wonder if he actually losing his sanity, especially after his scheming to prevent self joining he + Renshaw to dine with Col. Rider (though evening proved dull enough). Dementia = leading characteristic of Norman Type, indicating characteristic decadence and depravity? Matter = v. pertinent re notions. For moment, however, self have little time to study he, as chief concern = specimens.

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley OCTOBER 1857

WE HEARD the bad news even before we’d stepped onto dry land. Once the pilot was safely aboard and had started guiding us towards the harbour of that Cape Colony—a showy-looking place, lurking beneath a wide mountain, flat like a piano—I thought I might as well chance a little careful asking.

‘‘So how is it for pennies here? Will we be rich men or paupers compared to where we’ve come from?’’

He shrugged. ‘‘That depends on what you’re buying.’’

‘‘Well, let’s say a night of lodgings. Or perhaps a bottle of French brandy?’’

‘‘The lodgings won’t be cheap,’’ he answered cheerily, ‘‘but you’ll do handsomely on the brandy. Then you’ll know this is a free port.’’

Ah, but I didn’t. A free port? Well there was a useless, rotten piece of news. Truly, there’s none like Englishmen to find some new way of cheating a man out of his livelihood. I ask you. What was the point of annoying the world with customs men, coast guard cutters and other trouble if you leave a mighty gaping hole in it all, with not a penny of duty demanded on anything? Not that I’m saying I missed those revenue boys, but if we had to suffer them, then we should suffer them here too, like we expected. Why, it was nothing less than a disgrace. After all the fuss we’d gone to building the Sincerity like she was, and packing her full with that certain discreet cargo, it was worth no more here than if we’d stacked every bottle in the main hold, for all the world to see, like any plodding fool of a merchant. Where was the fairness in that?

It had us well spiked, besides. I had been relying on us slipping the Sincerity away to some quiet cove so she might open up her treasures and catch her reward. I’d reckoned this would be a handy place to do it, too, seeing as it was a busy corner of the earth, while, from the look of it on our chart of the world, that Hobart of the Englishmen would be worse than useless, being just a speck on the edge of nowhere. But now I found we’d been tricked into stopping in a land of cheap dirts.

As the wise man says, though, there’s no sense weeping over the herring you never saw, and I tried to cast it from my thoughts as best I could, attending instead to harbour chores, which were plentiful enough to keep me busy. First there was the paperwork to settle, and then I had to order in new water casks and food that we needed, which took a good few days to arrive. All the while the boys were whining and fussing for their wages and to be let on shore to make some trouble. I held them off as long as I could, but in the end I had to give way, handing out some pennies and letting them go hurrying down the gangway with their hungry looks. I kept a couple of them back, and China Clucas too, whose arm was fairly healed after the pig, to load up the last of the water casks, and the beasts I’d bought to keep us fed for the next piece of voyaging. This they did slower than snails, being all huffy at having to stay.

I didn’t tarry longer to watch. I left Kinvig to give them a yelling now and then, while Brew and me went off to find some decent charts, just so we’d be able to know which part of Australia we were staring at. Here, at least, we struck some luck. The first ones we saw were nothing less than robbery, being costly as if they’d been drawn with gold, but then we came across a little den of a shop, where I found a fine little map of Van Diemen’s Land—or Tasmania as they were calling it now—that was going for a quarter the price of the rest. It was a touch old, I dare say, having the year 1830 stamped at the top, but there seemed no harm in that. The coastline was clear enough, while any new roads or towns that might have happened inland were pure fuss to Manxmen in a boat. The shopman had another of all Australia, also a touch old, which would be handy too, if just to stop us sailing clean into it by mistake some dark night, and I was able to cog him down nicely and get us a good price for the two together.

There’s cheer in a bargain and I found my spirits, which had been dropped low by all that free-port cheating, lifted nicely. I even thought we might as well put a little sight of this Africa, seeing as we were here, and so we took a stroll about the town. A skittish sort of place it was, I’d noticed. When we first arrived it had been cold as could be, with a breeze chill enough for any Ramsey January—quite the surprise for this Africa, that was famous for being hot as ovens—but then the wind had swung round northwards and all of a sudden summer had come, bright and hot as you liked. Now we were back to cold once more. Another curiosity was the fatness of the locals. Truly I never did see such a place for fellows carrying their own lard. First I wondered if it was a handy way of keeping themselves warm in this cold wind, as if they’d grown themselves coats on the inside, but then we went to a tavern for a try of some Africa food and there was the answer. Fish we had, but the poor things were half drowned to death in purest grease. When I asked the innkeeper—one of those Dutchman Africans, and as swelled as any of them—he told us proudly that it was best sheep-tail fat. A few months of that would load a man nicely.

The Indian and bluemen Africans must have been eating something else, being mostly thin as rakes. Quiet these were, too, as if they didn’t want to get themselves too noticed. Nor was this surprising, I dare say, seeing as the Dutchman and Englishman Africans treated them like proper dirts, sneering and yelling at them in a way that wasn’t pretty to watch. Man Island has its portion of snots, for sure—most of them Englishmen or Scotsmen ruined by having some foolish lordly title before their names—but this was seven times worse. This wasn’t just a few old sticks thinking themselves high, but seemed one half of the town scoffing and tormenting at the other.

Brew was more interested in the shops. ‘‘Have you seen all that mining gear they’re selling?’’ he wondered as we had a peer round one of these, though I could hardly miss it, as there was half a room of the stuff, from bellows and buckets to tents and portable forges. High on the wall behind was a large sign.

‘‘What of it?’’

Brew took on one of his clever, knowing looks. ‘‘Perhaps we should take some for ourselves. It might make us a tidy few pennies. Besides, it seems a rotten waste sailing all that way with nothing in the hold but ballast and such.’’

‘‘Except,’’ I answered, surprised at the man’s foolishness, ‘‘that we’ve no spare money to pay for it, and we’re never going to Victoria at all, but to Tasmania.’’

The fact was Brew was the sort of fellow who did think a thing through, and it was rare to catch him out stupid. ‘‘Why shouldn’t we go to Victoria, though? We could make up any old story to tell the Englishmen and they’d never know the difference. They’re saying Victoria has gold popping out of the ground like rabbits in springtime, so it would be just the place to get a good price for our cargo.’’

‘‘What of the money we’d need? After stores and port fees and a few pennies for the crew we’ve nothing to spare to go purchasing mining gear.’’

‘‘That’s easy. We just peddle those forks and such that we caught back in Maldon. They’d sell well enough in a town like this.’’

The awful fact was that it wasn’t a bad idea. I made a play of shrugs and playing doubtful, just to keep him from getting too high, but I came round in the end. So we went back to the ship to get a few pieces of silverware as samples, and then started looking for a shop. If it was cheapness we’d been wanting with charts, now we were after dearness itself, and we settled on a place that was all silver candlesticks and dainty little tables in the window, with a snurly sort of a fellow peering out from behind the counter. I could see he was interested when we showed him the wares, though he tried to look as if he never cared.

‘‘I might find use for these, I suppose,’’ he said, peering at the spoon and fork I’d handed him. ‘‘D’you have the full set?’’

‘‘All but one or two,’’ I answered, remembering those that had dropped in the Blackwater mud when their owner had started shooting his gun at us. ‘‘But they’d hardly be missed, the many that there are. Why, there’s half a crate of them back aboard the ship.’’

‘‘Indeed?’’ He gave the pieces another scrutiny, and it was then that his eyes turned sort of narrow. ‘‘Where did you get these?’’

If there’s one thing sets a Manxman careful it’s questions. ‘‘One of those London markets.’’

‘‘Which one?’’

I shrugged as if I could hardly trouble myself to remember. ‘‘Does it matter?’’

‘‘It might.’’ All at once he was all beady eyes and cleverness. ‘‘It may be purest coincidence, yet I read something in the English paper only the other day about an unfortunate gentleman who was robbed of his silverware. Unless I’m mistaken his name was Howarth, Admiral Henry How-arth.’’ He held up the spoon, pointing with his finger at the letters HH. ‘‘His home was not far from London, I believe, being somewhere by the sea.’’

I managed to keep my smile burning nicely. ‘‘Is that so?’’ I was all lost in mystery. How could he have seen any such thing? Then it came to me clear as glass. The steamers. Hadn’t I seen them myself cluttering up the harbour, all belching out their nasty smoke? They’d have been rushing past us in their hurry for all these weeks, bringing their mail and newspapers and trouble. ‘‘Of course there’ll be fellows by the thousands and millions with names starting HH.’’

‘‘There’ll be some, certainly.’’ The shopman gave a careful sort of look. ‘‘It was a most unhappy business, as I recall. According to the Times he had been a commander in the last Chinese war, while the cutlery that was taken had been forged from silver from a captured Chinese vessel. It was a great loss to him.’’

As if we’d not had enough rotten fortune already, now it turned out we’d been tricked into robbing some hero.

‘‘Do you have any proof of previous ownership? A document of sale, perhaps?’’

There are times to linger and this was not one. I threw a look to Brew. ‘‘Have we now?’’

Brew was cross with himself for being so foolish. ‘‘D’you know, I clean forgot to bring it.’’

I was all forgiveness. ‘‘Ah, then we’d best go back and find it now.’’ I threw the shopman a broad Manx smile and reached out to take the fork and spoon he had. ‘‘We’ll not be long.’’ For just a moment, and a bad moment it was, too, he looked as if he might try to keep hold of them, but finally he let them go.

‘‘A fine piece of cleverness that was,’’ I growled at Brew as we stepped out into the street.

It was a rare thing to scrape shame out of Brew, what with his braininess, but I saw a little creeping from him now. ‘‘It was just bad luck,’’ he whined. ‘‘Besides, he won’t do anything.’’

Just wondering made me take a glance back, though I at once wished I hadn’t. There, stood like a sneak in his doorway, was the shopman, giving us a proper study. I made a little play of peering past him at something else entirely, though there was nothing much further down the street, as it happened, besides an old dog cocking its leg at a fence.

We were walking on now, and at good pace. ‘‘Even if he tells someone there’s little they can do,’’ insisted Brew, slipping back a peg. ‘‘Why, he doesn’t even know who we are.’’

He knew enough, mind. ‘‘We told him we had a ship, though, and that the silver was aboard.’’

Brew’s head fell at that. ‘‘But he doesn’t know her name. No policeman will want to go searching every ship that’s in just on a scran of a chance like that.’’

Or wouldn’t he? The shopman could tell him what we looked like, while it wouldn’t help that the business had been such a newspaper fuss, with hero admirals and Chinamen’s wars to catch the eye. That sort of foolishness might well tempt a policeman, even an African one. All at once I was thinking breezes. It was only today that the wind had swung round southerly and given us the chance to sail away from here. If it veered back to a warm northerly, which it might do any moment for all I knew, then we’d be caught tighter than the bear that tried to climb the chimney. Why, we could be stuck here for days or weeks. By the time we’d reached the ship I’d made up my mind.

‘‘I’m taking no chances.’’ I waved Kinvig over. ‘‘We’re sailing today.’’

The trouble was that it was never so easy. For a start there were still two dozen water casks waiting on the quay to be loaded, as well as a small zoo of creatures. As I watched, China Clucas and the other two boys were hauling up a trussed swiney by a pulley, which they did slow as treacle, being still in their huff at being made to stay. Aside from that, and far worse too, there was the little matter of finding the crew.

‘‘They’ll be drinking,’’ said Brew.

‘‘Or whoring,’’ added Kinvig.

‘‘Or both.’’

I doubted I’d given them enough pennies for both. Not that it helped much. ‘‘You’d better go and look for them,’’ I told Kinvig. ‘‘There can’t be many spots where they’d be.’’

He’d hardly turned to go when Brew thought up a new worry. ‘‘What about the passengers?’’

What indeed? Their lodging house was just across the quay from the ship and I’d seen them all strutting off that morning. Being Englishmen they’d never do anything easy to guess, like finding a pretty whore to soothe away the day, and they might be up to any madness. I gave a shrug. ‘‘I’ll have Kinvig ask at their lodgings. If they’re nowhere to be found we may just have to leave their stores on the quay and go without them.’’ They wouldn’t like that any, for sure, and would be fussing and shouting and calling us all manner of names, but still this seemed sweeter than to chance spending the rest of my days rotting in some African dungeon. ‘‘Now I’d best pay the port fees, or we’ll never be let out.’’

It was just as I was about to step down onto the quay when China Clucas called out, ‘‘I heard you. You want to sneak away without the Englishmen.’’

There’s few things worse than when a fellow without much brain in his skull starts trying to play clever. He gave me a stubborn, knowing sort of look. I gave him a stern stare. ‘‘Didn’t I tell you to shift those casks? Now get to work.’’

A wounded look came into his eyes. ‘‘It’s not right going leaving the doctor behind. It’s just not right.’’

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson OCTOBER 1857

I HAD ALREADY been waiting nearly an hour to see Colonel Rider. While this delay was more than a little annoying, it had at least permitted me to practise in my thoughts the discourse which I would give him. First I would endeavour to win him to my side, which I would do by telling him how I hoped to draw upon his great expertise as a leader of men. Next I would permit myself to grow troubled, relaying my doubts regarding Dr. Potter’s soundness of mind, and recounting his more strange and vindictive actions during the voyage from London, paying particular attention to his attempt to mesmerize a pig. Finally I would offer my confidence, reporting how I feared that the doctor felt resentment at not having been appointed as the expedition’s leader. This done, I would give no further opinions myself but simply request the colonel’s advice. While I have no interest in the trickery of strategies, naturally I have lived long enough to know how important it is to set forth one’s views in a form that will win others to one’s side.

Hearing footsteps and voices, I supposed I was finally to be admitted to see the colonel. Sadly it was not to be. ‘‘Mr. Brew? This is a surprise.’’

‘‘Ah, thank goodness, Reverend. Your landlady said I’d find you here. The Captain’s saying we must sail today. You’re to come at once.’’

It was a demand as unreasonable as it was unexpected. Only the morning before, the Captain had said we would remain at Cape Colony for at least several more days. ‘‘But why?’’

‘‘There’s no missing a breeze like this,’’ Brew insisted. ‘‘If it shifts back, then we could be stuck here for weeks and months or more. You wouldn’t want to be stuck here still Christmastime, now would you, Reverend.’’

‘‘The Captain never mentioned this danger before.’’

‘‘Ah, but that was before the breeze changed.’’

Infuriating though it was, there seemed little that could be done. Offering my excuses to the sergeant outside, I took my leave of the castle, quite wishing I had never informed our landlady of my destination of the morning. I had only done so, indeed, because I supposed she might find some small pleasure in knowing she had such distinguished guests.

Brew had a cab waiting. It was only as the vehicle was rumbling into motion that he asked his next question. ‘‘I don’t suppose you know where the other two may be?’’

There seemed no limit to the man. So I had been dragged from my own urgent purpose though the whereabouts of Renshaw and the doctor were still unknown. I might find myself waiting hours for them to return, when all the while I could be talking to Colonel Rider. ‘‘I have not the slightest idea,’’ I told him with some coolness.

His face fell. ‘‘That’s bad.’’

In the event the whereabouts of one of my colleagues was discovered soon enough. As the cab turned into the port I saw a straggling line of men ahead, whom I recognized as members of the ship’s crew. Thus it appeared that the vessel was far from ready to depart after all, despite Brew’s claims. The men could hardly have looked less prepared for resuming their duties, their hair and clothes wild as if they had lately sprung from their beds, while some were staggering as they walked, evidently drunk. All in all I would have more than a little to say to the Captain about this matter. It was only as the cab drew level with the men that, greatly to my own surprise, I saw Renshaw was walking sullenly alongside them. For a moment I thought he had injured his leg in some fashion, as he was walking with a limp, but then I realized he was missing one of his shoes.

‘‘What on earth has happened to you, Renshaw?’’ I called out to him from the cab window.

He merely shrugged, though one of the crewmen, giving me a curious look, called out, ‘‘Fishing, he’s been, Vicar, and at the same pretty riverbank as have we all. That’s where he lost his boot.’’

What he meant I had no idea and no great curiosity, being far more concerned with the ill-mannered way in which I had been treated. Reaching our lodgings, I saw all our belongings had already been packed and were waiting in the hall, and as soon as I had paid the bill I had the cab take me across to the Sincerity. Kewley, I saw, stood on the main deck.

‘‘Captain, I believe you owe me an explanation as to why we have had to leave so suddenly, not to say inconveniently.’’

The gall of the man. He did not answer but turned away from me, shielding his eyes to regard the port. ‘‘Ah, there he is. And about time, too.’’

Following his look, I saw another cab was drawing into view, through whose window was just visible the dour face of Dr. Potter. After his recent behaviour I would have felt no great sadness if he had contrived to have himself left behind. Seeing the frantic wavings from the ship’s crew, he directed his driver to the quay beside the vessel, where he at once clambered out and, with the help of the driver and the ship’s strongman Clucas, who had hurried down to greet him, he began unloading a number of wooden packing cases. Kewley, I was annoyed to see, seemed hopeful of using this distraction to make an escape, striding away to the quarterdeck. I had no intention of obliging him and followed.

‘‘Captain, you have not explained the suddenness of this departure.’’

Luck was not on my side. He was just turning his grumpy gaze upon me when we were interrupted once again, this time by an uproarious sound of barking. The port was a popular haunt for stray dogs, that were often to be seen scavenging for food, and a pack of these were showing great interest in Potter’s new luggage.

‘‘Off with you,’’ Potter shouted angrily, waving his stick. Though the animals scampered away it was only by a few yards, and they continued to bark keenly at the boxes.

‘‘What have you got in there, Doctor?’’ Renshaw called out as the first of these was carried onto the deck.

Potter gave him a cool look. ‘‘Specimens. Specimens for my studies.’’

‘‘Not cats, is it?’’ shouted out one of the crewmen, to some laughter.

I turned once again to Kewley. ‘‘Captain, may I ask you once again to explain…’’

It is an injustice of this world that any protest, however rightful it may be, will tend to lose its potency by repetition. Kewley appeared to have lost all sense of awkwardness, quite brushing my complaint aside.

‘‘Not now, Vicar. I have to attend to the ship. If you’ll excuse me I must ask you to clear yourself off the quarterdeck.’’

Greatly irritated, I had no choice but to step down to the main deck and bide my time until the ship had been got under way. I sat upon a coil of rope, only to find myself at once moved on by the second mate, Kinvig. I had never seen the Manxmen, who were usually the slowest of creatures, displaying such lively animation. Above, some were already at work hurriedly loosening the sails, while others had lowered a boat to bring the vessel around. In a moment the Sincerity was free of her berth and had been turned into the breeze. Before long the boat was hauled up and the three topsails were being unleashed and tied into place, giving the vessel a tug of movement. The crewmen on the deck pulled the yards round till they were angled to catch the wind, and soon we were making progress towards the open sea. It was only then that I noticed a puzzling sight behind us. There on the quayside, just where the Sincerity had been berthed, there stood two fellows, both waving excitedly in our direction.

Potter had seen them too. ‘‘Who on earth are they?’’ he called up to Kewley.

‘‘Them?’’ The Captain rubbed his chin with his hand, squinting at the pair. ‘‘Ah, they’ll be well-wishers.’’

Their waving seemed somehow not quite right. ‘‘Are you sure?’’

Rather than answer he turned and gave a great shout. ‘‘Come along, boys, give a wave to the well-wishers.’’ After a moment’s hesitation the whole vessel, from deck to highest rigging, became bedecked with waving arms. Curiously enough this appeared to diminish rather than add to the enthusiasm of those on the shore.

Thus it was we began our journey eastwards across the Southern Ocean towards Tasmania.