CHAPTER EIGHT
Nathaniel Stebbings, Bristol
Schoolmaster, to John Harris,
Van Diemen’s Land Settler and Landowner
Rose House, Bristol 12th October 1832
Mr. Harris,
It is with more than a little sadness that I must bid farewell to young George as he returns to his native land. It seems hardly possible that he has been with Mother and myself fully two years, so quickly has the time passed.
When Mr. Grigson first came to call at Rose House and suggested the arrangement, I confess I found myself not a little uncertain. For all my experience as a teacher I could hardly claim any expertise in the instruction of wild black boys from the furthermost antipodes, and I shall not deny I came close to declining so curious a proposition. In the event, I am more than happy that I took the decision I did, as matters have turned out better than I could ever have expected. True enough, the lad was quite difficult at first. He showed an aversion to sitting still which proved hard to overcome, and would sometimes jump to his feet even in the middle of dinner, a habit which was cured only by constant reproach. He was also restless at night, often crying out in strange wild words of his own language, until he had roused all the household with his mysterious nightmares. With time, however, he grew more accustomed to his new home, and he is now a most well-behaved and likeable child. He has developed a particular affection for Mother’s maidservant, Mrs. Cleghorn—a Welsh woman of warmest character—to whom he will cling about the waist quite as if she were some tree in a gale, showing such a visible reluctance to ever let go that she finds it no easy matter to attend to her duties.
As to the boy’s studies, here again I found myself surprised, as he has applied himself well and progressed at a good pace. You will find he now speaks English with fluency, although he has difficulty still with prepositions and some of the past tenses. Likewise he writes a clear and neat hand, though his spelling still needs further practice. Altogether his memory is good and he has got off his Psalms very well.
My greatest delight, however, has concerned his Arithmetic. While in other subjects he is able rather than remarkable, here he has shown no small aptitude. He learned his multiplication tables with greater ease almost than his alphabet, which is most unusual, and has progressed so quickly with long multiplication and division that I have started him upon geometry. He seems to find a pure and simple enchantment in numbers, quite as if they are toys for his amusement. More than a few times I have found him writing out sums in his own time, almost with a secrecy, as if this were his personal pleasure. My surprise at his skills has been all the greater as it was in this subject, more than any, that it might have been expected he would find difficulty.
If I have written at some length about George’s talent for Arithmetic this is not without purpose. The fact is that it is my wish that I may impress upon you the value of continuing him in his studies. I hope you will not find it impertinent, but I cannot help but wonder if you might reconsider your intention, as reported to me by Mr. Grigson, of having him work in some simple capacity upon your farm. My fear is that in associating with persons far less educated than himself, he will come to forget his own learning. In view of the great progress he has made this would be no small waste. With encouragement and further instruction I do believe George could be well suited to some official post, perhaps in the service of the colonial government. Employment in an office would likewise be more favourable to his health, as I have observed his constitution is far from strong. I have provided him with all his writing and ciphering books so his present state of knowledge may be clearly shown, and it occurs to me that these might be of no little interest to the island’s governor.
It is left to me only to hope that you may find time to send us a letter now and then, that we may hear of the little fellow’s progress. I fear Mrs. Cleghorn will give Mother and myself no peace if she is not provided with news of ‘‘my George,’’ as she refers to him. Likewise should you discover any further such unfortunates who would benefit from a course of lessons here I would, naturally, be most pleased to offer my own services for their instruction.
Jack Harp 1830–37
EIGHTEEN OF US there were sat in that stinking ship’s hold, listening to the roar of chain as the anchor was let go, which meant we had surely arrived somewhere. It was sweet enough to step on the deck and feel the breeze, as it had been close as death down below. We were stopped in a narrow bay, I saw, the shore just wild trees and not a sign of men. This was hardly a surprise, mind, as we were the lucky bleeders supposed to get this new misery town started. It was sheltered by hills and had a little yellow beach, and I thought it a pretty enough spot in its way, this Port Arthur, as it was to be called. I’d have time to think on that prettiness again, of course, as it turned out.
Within a couple of days we’d built huts and a storehouse, and we had ourselves a fine little gaol village. After that we started work, which was cutting down the giant trees and sawing them into pieces, or hauling them through the harbour—which was cold as winter—and soon there were other buggers arriving to share our delight. I’d never been snared in a penal colony before, but I’d heard talk of what went on at Macquarie Harbour—stories that would scare the devil himself—and I wasn’t one to go waiting for it to happen to me. I reckoned the best way to stop trouble was to make it, and so I set about getting myself a name, which meant giving out hard looks and cracking any head that gave one back. I had to be careful of the guards, as to be seen was to catch a lashing, but it could be done in the quiet of the forest sometimes, or in the huts at night, and though I got caught and lashed once or twice I thought it was worth paying that price. I was careful never to forget any lip I was given, so my name was kept right, and I’d settle any bother in the end, even if it was weeks later. That served me well enough, too, at least through the first year or so, till the Macquarie Harbour boys blew in.
It was the whole lot of them we got, as Macquarie Harbour was being closed down for good. I suppose some office scribbler reckoned our Port Arthur could be made even worse. Proper hard cases they were, those buggers, with killing in their every glance, being the kind that would as soon get themselves hanged than stomach a sneer or slight, and from the moment they arrived in the settlement—which was quite a little town of huts and saw pits by then—they were out to govern the place as if it was their own toy. They did too, fairly much, the commander and his creepers of soldiers running as scared of them as everyone else, so they hardly troubled if some poor bastard got beaten half to death or worse. I did what I could. I tried keeping out of their way, and I tried looking crazed too, and not a man to trouble, but it made no difference as they had me marked down as someone to cut down to size. All in all I don’t rightly care to recall what went on in those times.
The one good thing about those Macquarie boys was that they got us some fishing. After a while the store ran short, so our rations were cut, and they took themselves into a right temper at this, threatening all manner of joy if they weren’t given more to eat, till the commander ran scared and told us we must feed ourselves. Work hours were cut and we were told to catch some fishing and start growing vegetables. That was sweet, too, as nothing felt so bad when you were sat by the water with a line, or digging in seed potatoes. I wasn’t the only bugger to find it so, neither, and even those Macquarie boys got slowed down nicely. Why, it got so that the commander had to let his soldiers go fishing as well, as they were getting jealous of their own prisoners.
All good things must come to an end, so it’s said, and with Port Arthur the good things stopped with a little Christmas gift we got, this being a visit by George Alder himself, governor of Van Diemen’s Land. I’d heard a good deal about this fellow from the others, as he was often the subject of nighttime chattering in the penitentiary huts, when coves thought up all kinds of violent mishaps a great man like that should take care to avoid. There he was, stepping from his rowboat, a little troop of guards and creepers nursing him along. A bloodless face he had, almost as if he was crook, and eyes with no laugh in them, that made me think of purity vicars, or snakes studying at mice. He didn’t look much pleased with what he saw as he snooped about, but kept grim as Sunday, scowling almost as if we’d let him down.
After that little visit changes came thick and fast. We got a new commander, who was one of those military Irishmen that cackle at can-nonballs, and it was him that put a stop to our fishing and gardens. Our plants were all taken up and put together in one big field, which meant they weren’t ours anymore and only a few lucky crawlers got to work on them. Then there were the new uniforms, all different according to how improved we were. Any coves that were thought on their path to salvation wore grey, while the rest of us that weren’t were in cheery yellow. As for any poor bleeders who’d somehow managed to get worse, these were different again, having yellow suits with a prettiest pattern drawn across them, all made out of the word ‘‘felon,’’ as well as a handsome pair of leg shackles to show off.
Another change was that tobacco was outlawed. In truth this caused more trouble than all the rest, as it drove the Macquarie boys half to madness, so they were always looking out for someone to punish. If you fought back—which I did—this was frowned on by the commander and his redcoats as showing you still unimproved, and so I stayed in canary clothes all the while. That was trouble, as time was passing and I was getting mighty weary of chopping at trees, feeling a lash on my back and staring always at that little yellow beach. Besides, I was getting no younger, and my fear was that if I got stuck here another four years I’d not be able to fight my corner, and would be just dead meat to any enemy I’d notched up, there being more than a few of those.
Port Arthur was getting older too. Convicts by the hundred there were now, with more buggers coming all the while, and from just a few huts by the shore it was grown into quite a Manchester, with work sheds turning out every kind of article, from boots to lampposts. There was a dock where ships were made, and strong guarded, too, while away to northwards there was a little coal mine with cells underground, that was said to be such a delight that even the Macquarie Harbour boys tried to keep away. If for some reason a fellow tired of all this joy and decided to take a little walk alone into the bush, there was a fine new semaphore on the hill behind the commander’s house, so that in just a few moments all Van Diemen’s Land might know of his strolling. If our fellow was caught—which he generally would be—and was left weary from his adventures, or had caught a bullet in his gut, there was a little railway to carry him back, with carriages pulled not by steam engines but by convicts, these being more plentiful. Why, if his excursion proved too exciting for his nerves we even had an island of the dead for the poor bleeder, where he could be buried in a good Port Arthur coffin, that he might have worked on himself.
It might sound grand enough already, I dare say, but our military Irishman commander was dreaming of greater things still, being unhappy that his little kingdom was all made of wood, which would hardly do for the likes of us. So it was that anyone who’d been fortunate enough to work with stone—perhaps playing at making some bridge—was suddenly wanted. I’d never thought I’d be pleased to find myself chipping at rocks once again, but after all these years sawing trees with the likes of the Macquarie boys it seemed gentleness itself. First I was put building a guardhouse for the barracks, that was round like some bloody castle, and after that there was the new church we had to have, so some parson could tell us how wicked we were every Sunday, just in case we’d forgot. That church was a mighty piece of work, and took a full year of splitting our hands before it was done. By then I was beginning to get hopeful that I’d soon be bidding farewell to Port Arthur. The rock chippers were mostly creepers that I could scare with just a few words and looks, so it was easy enough to keep myself improved, and after just a few months I traded my canary yellow for my very first suit of grey. If I stayed quiet and bided my time I reckoned I’d soon be away making roads or such, which would be soft as milk after here.
My next job after the church looked quietness itself, being a fountain and other foolishness for an ornamental garden, that was the toy of our Irishman commander’s wife. She’d only been married to the old brute a few months and was a tasty-looking piece, fresh and ripe as could be, with a sad sort of look in her eyes, I suppose from being stuck on the furthest edge of nowhere with nobody for company but soldiers and coves in chains. The talk was that this ornamental garden was her husband’s stab at keeping her cheerful, and it seemed to be working, as most every day she came strolling out to fret herself with some new little change she wanted, as everything had to be just so. Not that we much minded being ordered, seeing as she was such a juicy little piece. She never went anywhere alone, always having a little troop of soldiers keeping watch, just in case anyone got any thoughts, as well they might. It was hard not to stare, as she had a fine tempting shape, even covered up like she was, and on hot days I was sure I caught a faint whiff of her musk, sweet and ready as could be. After all this time locked away that got me feeling quite faint-headed with dreaming up the rest of the picture, and how she’d squeal with a fine good working. Still I took only careful glances, being keen not to lose that grey suit of mine.
She hardly spoke to us stone chippers, keeping her words for a fellow named Sheppard, who was doing the cherubs. Sheppard wasn’t much skilled at them, in truth, having only been picked because he’d once had a trade carving tombstones—which is hardly the same—and they never looked like flying babies so much as fat boys with something nasty flapping on their backs. The commander’s wife took it very serious, though, and was forever peering at them and giving advice, for all the little difference it made. It was those cherubs caused all my trouble in a way. By now we were in January and it was hot as ovens, while chipping stone is thirsty work. I’d been working out in the sun a good few hours, hacking at stone blocks for the summerhouse we were making next, and I’d taken a good few swigs of water from the bucket to cool my throat. Water will as water will, and, seeing all was quiet, I took a stroll across to some bushes that were near.
Hardly had I got set when I heard a sort of gasp. There she was, the commander’s little pet, all hot and damp in her corsets and such, just on the other side of that bush. She must have stepped back there so she could get a look at the cherubs from a distance. Her eyes were staring wide, almost as if she’d never seen one before. As for me, I never meant any trouble. It was just I was caught by surprise, so rather than put him away smartish, like I suppose I should, I just stared right back. That was my mistake. All at once she let out a scream loud enough to be heard in Hobart town and soldiers were running.
To be fair, she never did push to get me punished. I even heard talk that she asked her husband to let me off. Not that it made any difference. Probably he didn’t much like the thought of her seeing any but his own, just in case she started getting too interested. Inside half a moment I’d traded my suit of grey for a yellow one with ‘‘felon’’ written all across it, and a handsome pair of leg irons to match. Nor was that the end of the commander’s thank-you. The finish of it was the work gang I was put into, and most of all the gang’s overseer, Ferguson, who was known as the keenest lasher in all Van Diemen’s Land.
Ferguson’s skill was in finding your worst spot and then pushing at it, day after day, till you’d be maddened into doing some wildness that would earn you a nice little spell on the triangles. His favourite was asking questions. ‘‘You look tired,’’ he’d say, looking all sad, so that for a moment you wondered if he really was worried for you. ‘‘Perhaps you should have a little rest?’’
The rule in the gangs was strictest silence, so if you were foolish enough to give an answer his smile would vanish as if it had never happened, he’d be stamping his foot and calling you every stinking name he could think of and next he’d have the soldiers running over to haul you off to the triangles for your reward. Not that it was much better if you stayed dumb. Then the bastard would shake his head, as if he was surprised. ‘‘Well, if you’re not tired I’ve just the job for you.’’ This would be the very worst thing he could dream up, such as dragging double-sized logs, or standing waist-deep in cold harbour water, pushing timber to some boat. Even then he’d not be finished. When you were half dead from that, he’d come sidling up to you again.
‘‘Something troubling you, is there?’’ he’d ask, all kindly concern. ‘‘I know it. You’re worried you’ll have to leave this little spot one day, and venture back into the world, with its wicked temptations. All that rum to drink and tobacco to smoke, and tasty young females lifting up their skirts.’’ Then he’d peer so close that his face was a blur of nearness and bad breath. ‘‘Don’t you fret yourself Jack, as your old friend Ferguson will keep you safe. Why, I’ll fix it so you don’t have to leave till you’re old to your bones, and those females won’t annoy you with so much as a glance.’’ Then he’d pat you on the shoulder as if he really was your friend, which was worst of all. ‘‘Your old mate Ferguson will see you right.’’
After being worked on this for a while there wasn’t one in his gang that wasn’t inches away from throwing a punch. If anyone did, then he’d be ready—he was a good watcher, was Ferguson—and would usually dodge out of the way without catching himself a mark, it being easy enough to skip out of range of a fellow with shackles round his ankles. Then he’d call up soldiers and have you hauled off and he’d be smiling wide, as there was nothing he loved better than seeing one of his boys catch a stroking from the Port Arthur Cat.
But I should stop here a moment, as this was no ordinary lashing device. Of all the many ones on Van Diemen’s Land this bugger had quite a name, and with good reason. Nine tails and eighty-one knots it had, and all of them soaked in salt water and dried in the sun, till they were purest wire. A hundred from this was enough to make pig’s liver of any bastard’s back. Still I will insist—and I’m quite the man to ask—that the part of being lashed that worked on a man’s mind most was never the stinging, but something different altogether. It was that dangling helplessness. No feeling could compare to being tied fast to a wooden triangle quietly waiting for the lasher to catch his breath—they never liked to hurry themselves—and start his next run, while all the time not being able to do a thing to stop him. Even weeks later just the very remembrance of this delight could make a cove’s head boil clean over, like milk in the pan, so the smallest thing, such as some fool blocking his way on the path, would set him kicking and punching.
This was just how Ferguson liked his gang to be, too, as then they were easy as lambs to rile into another beating, being all in circles, like snakes eating their own tails. He showed a particular interest in me—I dare say he liked to please his commander—and after a few months and several visits to the triangles I was well primed. I hardly caught a glimpse of my eyes in those days, being out of reach of pretty mirrors, but I’d wager that they were madder now than they ever had been when I was trying to look crazed.
Hardly an hour seemed to pass without my thinking of ways of bolting, and I was soon past caring how wild or foolish they were. Now, a stranger to Van Diemen’s Land might think there’d not be many ways to step out of Arthur, but there were more than you might guess. The first, being the one that worked most often, was just to sit quietly and look harmless for months and years, till finally you got let out. The trouble with this bugger, of course, was that I’d given it a proper try already, while it had done me no good, and now my patience was too thin for such slow work. A second way was to come up with some daring act of improvement, such as betraying some little secret of your fellow convicts. The worry here was that snitching was so common a trade in Port Arthur that it was hard to get word of anyone’s trouble-making, while if you just invented some plot and hung it round some bleeder’s neck—which was done often enough, too—there was the worry that you’d be found out, and lashed rather than freed. A third and better road was to play the hero, perhaps saving some fool of a redcoat from drowning, or from getting mashed when a tree came down. This could work handsomely, and there were stories of men who’d jumped from chains to full pardon all in one leap in just this way, but sadly it was hardly the kind of thing you could rely upon, unless you arranged the drowning or the tree all yourself which wouldn’t be easy. Besides, the commander had me marked as his special enemy, so I’d need to perform a proper barrelload of miracles to win his forgiveness.
This takes me to the fourth route—one that was discussed a good deal in hushed voices—being to simply make a run for it into the bush. This was tried regularly enough, too, though not with much success, the difficulties being many. Even if you managed to chop through your chains with your axe and dodge the nearest soldiers, in half a moment the arms of the commander’s semaphore would be waving and search parties would be out, while it was hard to get far on account of the ocean. The dirty piece of land Port Arthur was sat on was as close to being an island as a chunk of land can be, being joined to the rest of Van Diemen’s Land only by a strip of dirt a few yards wide, called Eaglehawk Neck, and though I’d never seen this spot it was well known to be guarded more carefully even than the commander’s wife’s petticoat secrets. A whole troop of redcoats was posted there, together with a row of giant dogs on chains, while I heard that offal was slung into the sea alongside to tempt in sharks. Even if some bastard did manage to get past, there were miles of bush—all thorns and mud and nothing to eat-before he reached farmland. Bolters often gave themselves up freely, as just a few days of roaming made Port Arthur seem comfort itself Still I was interested in this particular road, mostly because it was there all the while, so tempting, while I was too crazed by now to care much if it would work. We were working close to the railway at that time, and as I watched those little carts trundle by, pulled by their convicts, I’d keep a careful watch on whether soldiers were near, and play little games with myself of what I might do.
But I’ve left out the fifth and last way out of Port Arthur, which I also liked to think on. This had worries, certainly, but it also had the rare joy of being entirely and absolutely certain. Why, I’d seen more than a few buggers taking it, waving their farewells as they marched through the settlement, giving a jaunty shout of how they were looking forward to having their carriage ride through Hobart town and a smoke of tobacco. The method was simple as could be. You just chose some cove—any would do, though my choice would be friend Ferguson—and then waited till he was looking off into some other direction. Next you walked up to him, nice and quiet, raised up a rock, or your chopping axe if you had one, and gently carved open his skull. Within just a few days you’d find yourself saying goodbye to Port Arthur forever, and having a grand journey all the way to Hobart, for a cheery spell in gaol cells and courtrooms, and a final dangle from a rope. It was hardly the choicest way out, I’ll admit. After a few months gadding back and forth between Ferguson’s gang and the triangles, though, I was past playing choosy, and was ready to bag whichever chance first showed its face.
Julius Crane, Visiting Inspector of the London Prison Committee 1837
THE WAVES were tossing the vessel about like a leaf in a storm, and as I stood upon the deck, in a brief foray from the shelter of my cabin, there drifted up through the hatches faint cries and moans, together with a most dreadful odour. It was the smell of humanity that has been reduced almost to the animal. The thought of the huddle of convicts tethered below was greatly distressing to me, and not merely because of the physical discomfort they must be enduring. As I knew only too well, their being pressed all together in such proximity would be permitting a terrible process to occur among them—a process as inevitable as chemical osmosis—as criminality and lawlessness spread from the most evil to those still possessed of any lingering innocence. Given a few more days they would, I had no doubt, all be equally contaminated with wickedness.
‘‘They should be brought on deck so they can get some air,’’ I exclaimed.
Knowles, my unsought-for travelling companion, remained unmoved. ‘‘I’d rather keep them nicely shackled, Professor.’’
It was a game of his to call me by this title, though I had told him several times that I was nothing of the kind. Knowles, who was journeying to Port Arthur to conduct an inspection upon the establishment’s water supply, was one of those beings who relishes his own pitiless views of mankind, which he seemed to regard in much the same manner as he might a defective system of plumbing. Since we had left Hobart I had learned to treat his remarks with a certain coolness, as to show feeling seemed only to fan the flames of his cynicism. ‘‘You have no sympathy for your fellow men,’’ I told him, more as a rebuke than from any expectation that he might take notice.
‘‘Ah, but I have, Professor.’’ He cheerfully patted his chest, as if to point out the sympathy’s exact whereabouts. ‘‘There it is, just below my desire not to have my throat cut.’’
It was typical of the man. ‘‘If they heard your talk,’’ I told him, ‘‘I would hardly blame them for wishing to cut yours.’’
Another curious quality of Knowles was his eyes. He kept these so narrowed that at times only his moving about informed one that they were open at all, and that he was not in a state of profound sleep. This, when combined with his habitual absence of any facial expression, gave him the look of some scornfully squinting bear. At most, as that morning on the ship’s deck, a faint flicker might pass across his face—a kind of twitch—which I had learned to recognize as laughter. ‘‘Don’t think they’d stop at me,’’ he declared cheerfully. ‘‘They’ll not have been reading the same books as you, Professor, but ones of their own devising, which prize nothing so high as cutting the throat of a good Christian philanthropist such as yourself’’
Four more days I had to endure his company as we remained sheltering from the gales in Pirates Bay. How gladly I would have spent those four days inspecting the Port Arthur settlement, rather than endure Knowles’s insufferable goading. Already I had been greatly delayed during my journey from England, while I had prison settlements on the mainland to visit after this one. To make matters worse, we were, throughout this time, absurdly near to our destination. The ship was hove to just by Eaglehawk Neck, the narrow bridge of land that links Port Arthur to the remainder of Van Diemen’s Land. As the days passed, I became unhappily familiar with the sight of this cruel-looking spot, with its guardhouse and the line of cruel-looking dogs held in place by chains, one of which was lodged several yards into the water, upon a curious little platform furnished with a kennel, I suppose to discourage any convicts from trying to creep through the shallows. I knew that it lay only a few brief hours’ journey overland from the main penal settlement, and it was most infuriating to look upon it, so near that I could easily hear the barking of the dogs, and yet to remain stranded.
The difficulty lay with the ship’s captain. ‘‘This is no weather for rowboats,’’ he insisted whenever I asked, being as obstinate in this as he was in refusing to allow the poor convicts up from the hold. Even when the wind eventually swung round to a more helpful direction, still he would not let us land, now claiming that the delay of lowering a boat might cause him to miss his chance to sail. Thanks to his stubbornness it took a full two further days and nights of beating our way round the coast before, peering out through the dawn light, I at last gazed upon my quarry of Port Arthur.
I had never expected the settlement to be so large. From a distance the throng of sheds gave the impression of a shabby manufacturing town, while the sound of bugles and shouted commands added a military touch. As the ship drew nearer, the establishment’s purpose became more sadly evident, with gangs of convicts clearly discernible, tramping back and forth in chains. Knowles speedily scuttled away to attend to his watery duties and I confess I was happy enough to be free of him. I myself was taken to see one of the establishment’s officers who, I was pleased to note, treated me with polite helpfulness, this being not always the case when an inspecting visitor arrives at an institution he may later have call to criticize. I was shown to my quarters, introduced to a second officer who was to serve as my guide and was even provided with an invitation to dine that evening with the commander and his wife. Thus prepared, I could finally begin my work.
If there is any advantage to being greatly delayed it is that one is left primed with impatient determination, and I accomplished more in that first day than I ever could have expected. I visited almost every building frequented by convicts: every workshop and sleeping quarter, every kitchen and punishment cell. I also accompanied a chained work gang as they processed into the nearby forest to cut down trees. Most useful of all, however, was the chance I had to speak to some of the convicts, that I might learn what influence their punishment was having upon them. While most were too hardened to cooperate, and refused to give answers of more than a single word, some proved more loquacious, and while their replies were guarded, still they formed, in their way, a most useful testimony.
As to my impressions, I considered that the settlement was efficiently run, and seemed little to suffer from those habits of vengeful cruelty which are often the most detestable feature of such establishments. What it lacked, however, was that most essential element: a system of moral enlightenment. The tiny settlement school offered only a handful of lessons each week, while the library—a miserable affair— seemed to be visited only by those few convicts who were already educated, and so had least need of learning. As for the church, while this was a most impressive stone building to look upon, my conversation with convicts indicated that the pastor’s influence was distressingly slight, many of the felons hardly troubling to conceal their scorn for the man, whom they referred to as the ‘‘god botherer.’’
Being thus untouched by improving influences, the malefactors were ruled only by the threat of harsh punishments, which were given out for even the slightest wrongdoing. Such a system was both crude and painfully cruel to witness, being not so much a mechanism for the transformation of men as the kind of brutish training that might be used upon a wild dog. Hardly less troubling was the freedom with which evil influences were permitted to spread from felon to felon. Only in the work gangs was a strict code of silence enforced, while in the penitentiary sleeping huts beds were not even separated by dividing walls, allowing evil chatter, and worse, to occur in the dark hours.
This was far indeed from the modern ideas of prison systems currently gaining ground in England and the United States. These new and admirable notions did not rely upon chains and whips, but instead employed the gentle force of silence. Felons were to be kept always separated from one another, and thus would be removed from all influences except hard work and Christian teaching, until these noble qualities could win over their minds. A prison settlement such as Port Arthur, where malefactors could mix freely, was, by contrast, hardly a place of moral improvement so much as a school for criminality, where pickpockets might learn from housebreakers, and housebreakers from murderers, till all were surfeited with wickedness.
Such thoughts were far from the ideal preparation for a polite social gathering—especially one in the home of the very man I regarded as being most at fault, the commander of the establishment—and as I washed and dressed I would gladly have exchanged the approaching dinner even for the simplest fare. The moods of men are unpredictable, however, and by the time I was making my way through the muddy ways of the settlement towards the man’s house—a most attractive building, with a long verandah facing the water—I was surprised to feel my spirits beginning to rise. After so long spent aboard ship, and in the unhappy company of convicts, I suppose I was ready for a little domestic comfort. As I was shown inside, it was hard, certainly, to resist the spell of a clean and orderly home, graced with feminine taste.
My hosts were most welcoming. The commander’s wife was young and charming, and displayed a disarming excitement at the prospect of this little social gathering in her home. I supposed life for her in this remote and harsh place was hardly diverting. Her husband—who I had expected to be a martinet every bit as crude as his notions—also proved most hospitable in his gruff way, quite thrusting a large glass of punch into my hand as I was shown into the parlour. My only disappointment, indeed, was the sight of Knowles, standing narrow-eyed in the corner, from where he gave me a barely perceptible wink. I suppose I should have guessed he too would be invited.
It was Knowles, needless to say, who insisted on goading me into a discussion of the one matter I had been determined to avoid: my own views upon the penal colony. By then we had progressed to sitting around the dining table, where three convicts—one of them a huge fellow with a face like a cliff—were attempting, with no great success, to play the part of domestic servants.
‘‘So how do you like Port Arthur?’’ Knowles asked, regarding me with a taunting look through his near-closed eyes. ‘‘Are the robbers and knife men well enough spoiled for your tastes?’’
I felt the wisest course was to say as little as possible. ‘‘I have hardly had time properly to consider all that I have seen.’’
It was the commander’s wife, rather to my surprise, who pressed me further. ‘‘But we are all most curious as to your thoughts, Mr. Crane. Surely you must have reached some conclusions?’’
There was something in the glance she cast at her husband which made me wonder if I had strayed into some area of disagreement between them. There seemed, certainly, a discernible tenseness. Having no wish to criticize my host in his own home, I chose my words with care. ‘‘I have been most impressed by the efficiency of the establishment. I will admit, though, to being a little surprised that more concern is not shown for the improvement of the convicts’ minds.’’
The commander smiled warily. ‘‘And how would you suggest such a thing be done?’’
‘‘Speak with candour, Mr. Crane,’’ added his wife, smiling a little sadly. ‘‘We would so much like to know your opinions.’’
My unsaid thoughts of that long day must have been weighing upon me, demanding voice, as it took no more than this for me to quite forget my caution and begin warmly recounting some of the latest notions in this sphere. I talked of those men of vision I admired, in both England and America. I endeavoured to explain the advantages of separation over corporal wounding, and of silence over chains. All the while Knowles regarded his napkin with a mocking stare. As for the commander, he listened patiently enough, though he looked more than a little doubtful. His wife, I was interested to see, quite beamed.
‘‘But this is fascinating,’’ she remarked, darting a glance at her husband. ‘‘Surely such things could be done here?’’
‘‘I’m afraid it’s hardly so simple, my dear,’’ the commander insisted. ‘‘For a start such matters are hardly in my power, being more the concern of the governor, and the Colonial Office in London. At present both are urging me to make the lives of convicts here ever harsher, so that Port Arthur may retain its fearsome reputation.’’
This brought Knowles into the fray. ‘‘What our kindly friend Mr. Crane doesn’t understand is that His Majesty’s colony of Van Diemen’s Land is not intended to reform criminals, but simply to store them, like so much rubbish in a dust heap, so that England can be emptied of troublemakers once and for all.’’ He sat back, well pleased with the vileness of his own views. ‘‘I’m not saying it’s a pretty arrangement but it’s the arrangement there is, and I for one see little advantage in wasting money and time worrying over the morals of a dung hill.’’
The commander cast him a look of faint amusement. I, however, was unable to respond with such levity. ‘‘If the sole purpose of the system is to empty England of troublemakers, as you say, then it hardly seems to be succeeding very well. After all these decades of exiling men to the ends of the earth one is quite as likely to have one’s pocket picked in London or Glasgow as before. For that matter I feel a good deal safer here in Van Diemen’s Land. The fact is, Knowles, that you perceive the whole matter entirely in the wrong way. It is not a question of banishing men, but finding a way of reforming them. Is not every man capable of being redeemed?’’
‘‘That’s easy to say,’’ Knowles answered cheerfully. ‘‘But a tiger cannot change his stripes.’’
The commander’s wife shook her head. ‘‘My thinking is quite with Mr. Crane. I am sure that there are convicts here who are capable of great goodness.’’
I was delighted to find myself not alone. Knowles, however, seemed not at all troubled by this stiffening of the opposition ranged against him. ‘‘Perhaps we should have ourselves a little test,’’ he declared, turning to the huge, cliff-faced convict, who was in the act of placing upon the table a dish of stuffed mushrooms, all arranged in the pattern of a flower. ‘‘You there, could you tell us what brought you to this place?’’
The man was greatly startled, glancing about the table, doubtless in the hope of discerning what hidden dangers might lie in the question. A nod from the commander helped to reassure him. ‘‘I was taken for robbing a baker’s shop in Great Yarmouth High Street.’’
Knowles sat back in his chair like a judge. ‘‘And would you do the same again?’’
The convict frowned for a moment, puzzling through the words. Finally he shook his head. ‘‘How could I? Not now. I’d never get back to Yarmouth from here.’’
His answer could hardly have been more unfortunate. Somehow it missed the point so completely as to be favourable to Knowles’s views, though ludicrously so. Even the commander’s wife, my new ally, could not conceal her amusement, while her husband quite lost himself in laughing. Knowles, naturally, was insufferable.
‘‘What did I tell you, Mr. Crane?’’ he roared.
It was, in truth, a most unfairly phrased question. The convict should have been asked if he now saw the error of his ways, rather than if he would commit his crime again. There is, sadly, little so poisonous to logical debate as laughter, and, though I tried my best, it proved quite impossible to return to the serious matter at hand. When I walked back to my quarters that evening I was left with a sense of profound frustration. I had had an opportunity to champion ideas of the greatest importance, only to find myself thwarted by foolishness.
As if this were not annoyance enough, I learned the next day that I was to suffer the company of my persecutor during my return journey back to Hobart. It seemed Knowles had finished his work as speedily as had I, and it was assumed we would wish to journey as a party. The weather had taken a turn for the worse once again, and the commander thought it wiser to return to Hobart not by sea but overland.
‘‘You can take our train,’’ he declared, adding, with some pride, ‘‘I’m told it is the only railway in all the Southern Hemisphere.’’
Train was hardly the word that came to mind when, the next morning, I stood in the windy rain, looking upon the device. Though it ran on rails it had more the appearance of the kind of small cart used in quarries having only two seats, one in front of the other. As for propulsion, it had not even the dignity of a pit pony, being driven by four fearsome-looking convicts, who pushed at bars extending from its sides.
‘‘So what are you here for then?’’ Knowles asked one of the convict drivers as he climbed into his seat, at the same time giving me a provoking wink. ‘‘Talking in church, was it?’’
The man, understandably enough, gave no answer but to faintly scowl. In a moment he and his fellows began pushing the little carriage down the track, first at a walk, then a trot and finally at running pace, causing it to trundle away swiftly. The vehicle lacked any shelter from the elements, and I saw this was destined to be a most wet journey. Of greater concern to me, however, was the vehicle’s safety. I had journeyed on steam trains on several occasions without experiencing the slightest alarm, but this had none of the weight and stability of such machines. The wooden rails were of a most rough manufacture, causing the carriage to shake and jar a good deal, while on downward slopes it would hurtle along at alarming speed. On one corner we came close to springing free completely.
‘‘D’you think this is safe?’’ I remarked to Knowles, who had the advantage of the rearmost seat.
I suppose I should not have expected he would give a serious reply. ‘‘Safe?’’ he asked in a goading voice. ‘‘How could it be anything else when we are being driven by angels such as these?’’ He glanced at the four men, who were now engaged in pushing us up a long, gradual slope, the exertion causing them to pant. ‘‘What d’you make of them, Professor?’’ he asked, quite as if they could not hear. ‘‘Schoolteachers, would you say? And each and every one of them a victim of mistaken identity?’’
It seemed hardly wise to provoke the men seeing as we were in their hands, and I was considering telling him so, when I saw we had reached the top of a little ridge. Before us the ground fell away abruptly, descending for a considerable distance, and in the distance I could see a gang of chained convicts working at cutting down trees beside the track. The pushers set the cart in motion with a heave and in a moment we were quickly gathering speed. All the while the four pressed at the bars with greatest determination, until they could hardly run to keep up, whereupon, at the very last moment, they hurled themselves onto the sides of the vehicle, their own weight seeming to add further to our headlong progress. All at once I had not the slightest doubt we were about to suffer a mighty accident.
‘‘The brake!’’ I cried out.
One of the convicts, whose face was marked by a huge scar across his forehead, sullenly pointed to a kind of wooden crowbar fixed above one of the wheels, though he made no effort to apply it, merely turning away. Doubtless he was still angry at Knowles’s mocking chatter. I had no intention of permitting the man’s cruel cynicism, of all things, to cause my death, and as nobody else seemed willing to act, I did so myself Clambering to my feet, I leant forwards and reached out for the brake lever. It seemed, unfortunately, that I had underestimated the effect my movement would have on the balance of the little vehicle, which at once began to lean to one side. I do believe all would have gone well enough even then, if only the others had thought to remain calm. Knowles himself uttered a sudden yelp, while the faces of the convicts, which had seemed so hard, turned suddenly pale, and they all began to lean in a contrary direction. While this might have seemed only sensible, the effect of their movement was greatly excessive, imbalancing the carriage even more the other way. In a moment it was swaying from side to side with ever greater wildness, until the inevitable occurred.
Whether the vehicle toppled over sideways, flew clean through the air or was tipped upwards upon its front wheels—or all three—I never will know. I recall the wheels uttering a desperate rasping sound, and after that all was incomprehensible hurtling and falling. I must have passed out for an instant. Coming to, I found myself beside the roots of a huge tree, and the only sounds I could hear were the wind in the trees, the pattering of rain upon the leaves and the whirring of the upturned carriage’s wheels. Close by me was the slumped figure of Knowles, while next to him—entangled with him—was the prone form of someone not of our party. It appeared Knowles had flown clear into the fellow, knocking both unconscious. Each was bleeding from his injuries, though I was glad to see they still showed signs of breathing. As to myself when I attempted to sit up I discovered that my left leg was injured, and likely broken. It was then, as I glanced around me, that I saw we were not alone. A gang of convicts—presumably the tree cutters I had observed before—stood nearby, staring.
It seemed essential to assert some authority over the men. ‘‘Where is your overseer?’’ I demanded.
‘‘There.’’ The speaker was a bulky fellow with a hairless dome of a head, a mighty scar across one cheek and the most troubling eyes, with dark rings beneath them, like a madman’s. He was, I saw, pointing to the man entangled with Knowles. It was hardly a pleasing discovery. More encouraging was the sight of our four drivers, who I discerned were sprawled on the further side of the wooden railway tracks. They did not look greatly injured, while at least they were known to me. ‘‘These men must be taken back to the settlement at once,’’ I called out. ‘‘They need help.’’
‘‘Don’t we all,’’ answered one. At this the rest uttered faint yet malevolent laughter.
If matters were not already alarming enough, it was then that the fearsome-looking bald tree cutter stepped forwards to a flat rock and stretched his leg irons carefully over this. All at once he then raised up his axe and delivered a number of mighty blows, quite filling the forest with ringing. In a moment the chain was parted. With a clinking of trailing chains he began striding slowly towards us.
I thought it best to try and address him directly. ‘‘Please spare us. We have done you no harm. We need help.’’
He seemed not to hear. His fellows watching his every movement, he stepped past me till he stood above Knowles and the overseer. Next he raised his axe. My mind filled with horror and I turned away. Moments passed in silence, however, and when I finally looked again he was just as before, like some demonic statue, frowning at the two figures before him. He glanced at the little carriage, though this was broken beyond any usefulness. Then, to my amazement and wondrous relief, he suddenly hurled his axe away into the trees. Suddenly he was stooping, gathering up Knowles, and lifting him up, quite as easily as if he were some child.
‘‘I’ll get him safe, don’t you worry.’’
Jack Harp 1837
IT WAS QUITE a stroll back to Port Arthur, especially carrying that fat bugger. I never got him all the way there in the end, being stopped by a group of soldiers just nearby, who took one look at my snapped shackles and the bleeding head of the cove I was carrying, and all but knocked me down on the spot. After that I was in a cell, wondering if I’d played things right or been the biggest fool in all Van Diemen’s Land. Finally, though, an officer came along and said I had to go up to the hospital.
I had hope from the moment I walked in. There, lying in a bed was the fat bugger I’d carried. Also there was the commander himself, and the soft fool who’d called out to me to help. This last gave me a mighty hello, sitting up from his bed and holding out his hand for me to shake, though I wasn’t sure if this was allowed. Truly, I couldn’t have got a better preacher for me if I’d chosen one specially, and he wouldn’t stop telling the others what a proper hero I was, and how I should never have been put in chains but should be rewarded. The commander didn’t look much pleased, and neither did the fat cove I’d carried—which seemed hardly grateful—but it never mattered, what with my new friend singing my praises. D’you know, he pestered the commander into promising me a ticket-of-leave there and then. So I was pleased enough at how it had gone, even though I’d missed stoving in Ferguson’s head.
Of course, ticket-of-leave is never full pardon but it’s not far off So long as I kept out of trouble and stayed in Diemen’s Land I could do much as I liked. After all those years it was hard to believe it, especially coming so sudden. Still, it didn’t take me long to make up my mind what to do with myself I never have much liked towns, nor farms neither, while I’d had more than enough chipping at stones and cutting trees. No, I’d go back to one of those little islands, where I’d spent my hiding days. That hadn’t been such a bad life, skinning seals and chewing mutton birds with nobody spying on you or telling you what to do. Why, I might even catch myself another little black miss, if there were still any left to find.