CHAPTER TEN

Peevay 1831-35

THE FIRST TIME I heard about the white man’s God, who was called GOD, was when we were walking through the forest with Robson. It was interesting, yes, to have some white man here, so close I could even touch him with my fingers, when before the only num I ever saw before was getting speared or killing us. There he was, Robson, leading the way. He was a little fat, and dirty in his white man’s dead-skin clothes, but laughing as he took us hither and thither, on and again, fast like there was no waiting in him. All the while he would tell us about God.

‘‘Who made you?’’ he’d ask, with special watching in his eyes. If I didn’t answer he’d say it for me, looking just a little sad, so I felt like I was some rogue and bad fellow. ‘‘God made you.’’ Even then he wasn’t done. Another few walking steps and he’d start all again: ‘‘Who made you, Peevay?’’ This time I’d answer and quick, just to stop him from getting woeful.

‘‘God made me.’’

That would make him smile.

Of course, I knew it wasn’t really this fellow God who made us. It was other ones who are secret, like everybody knew. I never did say this to Robson, though, as I didn’t want to grieve him when he was kindly saving us. Besides, those things weren’t for telling to some foreign stranger. Truly Robson’s God was one puzzle to confound. Everybody knew where our real ones were, as they could see them every night shining in the sky, but when I asked Robson where God was, he just said, ‘‘He is everywhere.’’ He even said he was three people, which seemed some grievous mystery to confuse. Also he told that if we didn’t believe God was everywhere, then God would get angry and send us to some piss-poor place to get burnt, which was heinous, I did ponder. Our real ones never did care if you knew they were in the sky. They were just in the sky.

Except for God, though, those were better days. Three died from coughing sickness, which was a hateful thing, but after this dyings stopped, so most were still alive. Best of all, Mother was, though she was still too weak, needing others to lean on when she walked sometimes, so we must go slowly. Mother did hate Robson still, which was lamentable, and always she wanted us to spear him to death, urging this as often as she asked for water for drinking. Probably she would kill him herself yes, if she was stronger and us others did not watch her carefully, making sure she never got spears.

The rest of us were pleased with having him, as he was hardly like a num white man at all. His smell was strange, yes, and so were his dead-skin clothes and his ‘‘Who made you?’’ talking, but otherwise he was almost like one of ours. He could speak proper language, and though he made stupid mistakes so it was hard not to laugh, he was the first white scut we ever met who did. He even joined our dancings in the night and played his whistle, which he called FLUTE. He told us he walked two whole summers finding our ones to save, and already he got plenty away to his fine place, where they were safe. Strangest still, when he talked about num he was often angry as piss, as if they were not his ones at all but worst grievous foes. He said they were cruel and hating, with killing in their hearts—which was true—and I pondered this must mean he was ours.

Yes, I did like Robson in those walking-to-the-sea days, better even than Heedeek, though he was like my old brother. Robson would pat my head—I still was quite small then—and say, ‘‘Hello, little fellow,’’ and by and by I did like to think perhaps there was some great error long before, and he was my real father, which was some blissful thought. I even had dreamings that one day Mother would stop wanting to kill him, and that they would stand side by side and give me their cherishings both together.

There he was as we walked, now telling us, ‘‘Go faster,’’ now asking, ‘‘What do you call that tree?’’ now laughing loud at some muddy place where he slips, just to show he never minds. All of this to save us. Truly he was tidings of joy. Sometimes I was so pleased I wanted to tell others it was me who made this happen, when I burned the forest so he could find us.

It was great good fortune that I never did, of course.

First troubles started at the white men’s town. None of us had ever been into any such till now, except those who were with Robson before, like Cordeve’s sister, and even they seemed fearful as we stood on some hill looking down at those white men’s giant houses, plenty of them.

‘‘What if they don’t remember you?’’ asked Heedeek.

Robson laughed like this was some funniest thing. ‘‘They’ll remember me.’’

So we walked in. Well, if those white scuts knew Robson they never knew us, and they stood outside their houses watching as if we were some heinous foolishness, though in truth this was not us but them, with their empty hating eyes and voices screaming like birds. Even Robson looked fearing then, I did observe, and I was glad when we got into a big house made from rocks, whose name was GAOL, where we could be away from those staring buggers. Robson did not stay, leaving us with other num we didn’t know, but he did return by and by, looking so pleased, and that was when he said his strange thing.

‘‘You must stay here some more days, I’m sorry, as the ship’s not quite ready.’’

The strangeness, which we did all observe, was that YOU’LL. Where was WE’LL? I did ponder. Heedeek asked at once, ‘‘Aren’t you going with us?’’

‘‘But of course I can’t.’’ Robson looked at us as if we were some puzzle to confound not to know this already. ‘‘There are all your brothers and sisters still to be rescued, plenty of them.’’ Then he gave us his kindly look. ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll come back as soon as I’m able. Then we’ll have tidings of joy.’’

So he went away, which was troubling, especially in that num town. There was nothing we could do, though, as our room, which had walls like thin sticks, was strong and the door would not open. Besides, that place with its staring scuts was too fearsome to walk through without spears ready. So we stayed for some days in that house named gaol, eating white men’s heinous food, which was hard biscuits and old meat that was salty like seawater, and by and by we pondered if Robson had just tricked us all, ready for killing, though this was so terrible a thinking that nobody spoke it except Mother, who said it often.

Finally other white men came whose name was SOLDIERS, all coloured red and carrying one gun, and they took us past the shouting white scuts to a large white men’s boat like I had seen sometimes far away on the sea, that had huge skins to catch the wind. It was fast, that boat, and by and by we were far from the land so we hardly could see it anymore. The boat’s white men had guns, plenty of them, and they stared at us like enemies, so we did wonder if this was some trick still, and if they would come quietly in the night to kill us, and then throw us into the sea so nobody ever would know. We did keep watchful. In the end, of course, that boat was no trick at all, and nobody came in the night. Those white men never did any killing to us, just climbing up high to move the huge skins bigger or smaller. No, the cheating trick was ISLAND where we went.

Truly, that was one woeful thing, hateful to behold. I knew most num were bad scuts better speared dead, yes, but I never did think Robson would tell us piss-awful falsehoods. Robson, who said he was our friend and even spoke to us in our own talking to make us love him. Didn’t he say we’d go to a fine land? As soon as I saw ISLAND I discerned it was much too small, with only one hill, like it was no place at all. There could be no room for kangaroo to hunt there, or rivers to cross, I did surmise, nor even just walking, which is almost the first thing for being alive. As boat went round I saw a place with huts that was crowded with our ones, more than I ever did see before. Then we got put in a small boat with sticks to push it, and as we stepped onto land our ones watched us like we were some most interesting thing, and their eyes were empty, while even those who knew us from before were quiet in their greetings. So I did guess the whole truth. This was some dying place.

Soldiers took us across, windy sand jumping in my eyes, to meet their chief, whose name was SERGEANT WILKES. He looked old and hating like he had poison in his blood, and was holding one dog animal, very small, so it was like some rat. Sergeant Wilkes never even greeted us hello, but just told soldiers to take us to huts with dirty smell in them. All the while soldiers stared at our women like they were just fresh new food for tasting.

Truly there is nothing more hateful than feeling cheated to death. Worst of all it was me who let Robson find us in the forest, and I did revere him, even till I dreamed him as my own father. Robson, whose name was now FAT SCUT ROBSON. Robson, who was back in the world right now, seeking more of our ones to catch and bring to this heinous dying place. Robson, who I could not even tell to him, YOU ARE SOME LYING BUGGER.

Every one of us of Mother’s tribe wanted to go away that day, that very hour, as even being chased and killed was much better than this place, where there was nothing to do but sit and wait for more heinous white men’s food, or watch others to guess who got coughing sickness next.

‘‘I told you we should spear him,’’ told Mother, who was pleased by our sad lamentings, as this meant she was right. Mother always loved being right. ‘‘You should’ve listened to me when you had the chance.’’

That great good fortune about Mother, though, was that she never did despair. No, our new ruination even seemed to make her stronger. When we were woeful and deploring I could see from her eyes that she was already thinking up some new intent. Sure enough, as soon as she was strong again she started going into huts of others who spoke our language, for secret talkings. Several times I asked what was her design, though she would not tell me one word.

‘‘White scuts are your friends,’’ she would taunt. ‘‘Go and talk to them.’’

But it was my craving to join, as after Robson’s cheating falsehoods it was some heartfelt desire deep inside my breast to spear that Sergeant Wilkes with his poison eyes, and any of the other white scuts besides. Yes, I dreamed, do those pissers and be away from this place.

It was Heedeek who made her let me join after all. ‘‘I need Peevay’s help,’’ he said, though really this was just talking.

Mother scowled and said, ‘‘If he ruins us then it’ll be your fault,’’ but she did permit me. So I learned who was with Mother of our ones—or Palawa as we named ourselves now—and it was plenty of us, as almost everyone she asked did join. Some were hateful of this dying place, others were angry at soldiers and their lustful appetites, as they were always trying to lure our women into their huts with food, or even just pushing them within when Sergeant Wilkes did not see. That was heinous.

Next day Heedeek took me and some others over to other side of the island and I saw how Mother’s intent would go. Some others were there already, making spears round a secret fire, put where the wind was blowing away from soldiers and Sergeant Wilkes, so they never would smell smoke. So I started making spears too. Later when the sun was low we buried fire’s ashes in sand so there were no signs and came back towards the settlement, holding spears close by our legs so white scuts would not see. Then we put them in a secret place hidden by bushes, where there were already others, plenty of them. Heedeek told that when the next boat came, with more num heinous food, we would have enough spears ready, and could go out quietly in the dark and kill those white pissers, every one. After, we would take their boat and go back to the world again.

Of course the trouble with a hidden intention is that it is fragile like some old dry stick, and just one mishap can snap it broken.

Next afternoon was hot. Soldiers were in their huts, playing with flat painted cards which made them shout loud. Of ours, some were on the other side making secret spears like usual, but Mother said we must not go too many all at once, as we would get observed, and it was my day for staying. So I sat in that dirty hut by and by, throwing some stone at the wall or making dreamings of myself as a brave hero who saved Mother from twenty white scuts with guns. Flies buzzed there, making shapes like sticks in their flyings, and by and by I lost that throwing stone and even my dreamings got tired, so sometimes I got shot or Mother speared me. Finally I got angry with that hut and so I went out and walked up that little hill behind, so I was nearer the fire for making spears, which was exciting to ponder. I was still in that place when Sergeant Wilkes came walking with his dog animal.

This was usual, yes, as he walked with that dog many times every day. He did love that dog animal, which he called FERNANDO, and all of his cherishings went right into it, as he hated us and he hated his soldiers too, shouting at them often. Why he loved that dog was some mystery to confound, as it was too small like a rat and always barking, or feigning to be dangerous, even just at doors banging in the wind. Us Palawa ones never called him Fernando, but MOUSE TURD, and we would kick him too except that Sergeant Wilkes might see. There he was as I watched from the little hill, back and forth, running hither and thither, barking at flowers.

This I did not mind. No, what I minded was where these hithers and thithers were going. All of a sudden he was very near that secret place, with Sergeant Wilkes walking after. That was some worrisome thing. Now he stopped just near, raising leg for pissing. Now he was running back to some other spot for growling at sand, which was quite fine, but tidings of joy were short, as now he was running back, for sniffing where he pissed just before. Worse, now he went further, right to secret bushes themselves. So my heart went pounding deep inside my breast and I hardly could look. Sergeant Wilkes stood waiting, very patient, as Mouse Turd had his shittings right on that very place, on our clean spears. But even this would be all right if he just stopped then, but next he was sticking his arse into leaves for scratchings. Then suddenly I heard that yowl, and Sergeant Wilkes was stooping, peering, then reaching down. All at once he was looking raging and hurrying back to the huts, shouting to soldiers.

I just had enough time to go and wave to those by the fire to get away. Still it was one lamentable misfortune. Sergeant Wilkes made all us stand still for a longest time in front of huts, with soldiers pointing guns at our eyes, and him calling us MURDERING SAVAGES or DIRTY CHEATING BLACKS. After, we must watch as spears that we made so carefully were all put together in some pile and burned. Then Sergeant Wilkes walked very near, staring at our faces for a long time, and asking, ‘‘Which of you is the leader of this?’’

I suppose he thought we would all say nothing but he was wrong. Mother stepped towards him straightaway, looking like she never cared, and saying, ‘‘Me, you bugger,’’ in words of his own white men’s language.

That made him turn redder colour with hating, and next he made four soldiers take her to the shore, touching her bubbies and cheeks as they went, so she tried to hit them, and they pushed her in the small boat, very hard, so I could see her leg was hurt, though she never shouted. That was too hateful and I wished I could run out and spear every one of those scuts, dead and dead and dead, like in my dreams in the hut. Afterwards Sergeant Wilkes chose four other of ours to put with her, though one wasn’t part of Mother’s intent at all but just talked to her sometimes. That was mournful watching boat go away, and pondering they would shoot her and throw her in the sea. What they did was almost worse. When the boat was far, so its skin to catch the wind looked small like some leaf, it reached a big rock that I did notice before sometimes, and that was all alone with no trees or any other thing. That was where Mother and others got put. It was a saddest thing to see them there after the boat left them, looking like tiniest crawling creatures, too far almost to see us wave, though we waved still. That did grieve me and give me woeful feelings deep inside my breast.

That next day Sergeant Wilkes was as if he just forgot them. He never looked towards the sea at all but just shouted at his soldiers, making them walk and stand and twitch with their guns, ever and again. All the while we were watching that rock, hot in the sun. Finally Heedeek and some others went to ask Sergeant Wilkes to fetch them back but he just got angry and shouted that they must go away or they would get put on that rock too. So all day passed, which was mournful. Now I knew Sergeant Wilkes just wanted them killed in this slow, hating way. Being shot was better, yes, I did surmise. They would be dead, too, except that same next morning the boat came from the world with more white men’s heinous food. It stopped by Mother’s rock, I suppose thinking there must be some accident, and dropped a boat to get them up. When it reached us and Mother and those others were back, Sergeant Wilkes said nothing, but he looked hateful. Poor Mother and those others could hardly walk, being cut like they fell down rocks, eyes huge and closed, skin all broken from sun, and mouths heinous with white stuff from having no water.

That changed many things. Heedeek and me and others put Mother in the best of the huts to be kindly, and though she got better by and by, and she still hated white scuts very much, now she was quieter. Sometimes she just sat in front not speaking at all, and when she talked of killing num white scuts and feeding their arms and legs to dogs she did so in a small voice. Yes, she lost some fighting thing that time, and after that she started getting fat, until she was very huge. I changed too, as I learned something from those days. Now I knew that there was no fighting white pissers just with spears, as they would win each and every time, and we would only die sooner. No, I did surmise, if I was to endure it must be from some other way.

Sometimes it does seem that the difficult thing is just to know that puzzle to confound, and once you know him then his answer comes back quick as can be. So it was. One morning a few weeks after another boat came with new soldiers and their chief. Sergeant Wilkes was waiting as they rowed to the shore, and I observed his smile was stiff like he was angry, which was strange. More interesting still, this new soldier’s chief hardly greeted him at all but made them both go into that hut, so we knew he was stronger than Wilkes. So I went round outside to the back of the hut with some others of ours to watch through a small hole in the wood that we knew. Well, here was our surprise. New fellow talked to Sergeant Wilkes loud and shouting as if he was just some low scut and never island’s chief at all, telling him he was DISMISSED and other such words. That next day old poison blood took Mouse Turd, walked over to the shore and was rowed away, never to return, and other new fellow, whose name was COMMANDANT DARLING, became our white men’s chief instead.

Most interesting of all came just after. By and by Heedeek, who learned some white men’s words, like we all did now, asked Commandant Darling why poison blood was sent away, and Commandant Darling told that this was because he tried to kill Mother IN A WRONG WAY. He should not do what he did, you see, but must send her to other white scuts for a great talking. Even then they cannot just put her on a rock in the sun but must hang her with a rope, as this was white men’s correct killing way. I did ponder this by and by, and it showed me many things. So I knew that num white scuts had ways they must follow, just like us, though these were so hidden in their cheating falsehoods that I never guessed till now they were there. Well, I surmised, if I learned their thinkings, then I could know how to fight them with their own shit. This was my best intent, I did decide, as fighting them in our ways never worked at all.

By and by Commandant Darling took us away on the boat to another island, whose name was FLINDERS, that was just nearby. This was much bigger and was two days’ walking from one end to another, with game to hunt and small mountains to look at, and one that was tall and sharp like spears. Still it was some heinous windy place, with sand jumping in your eyes, so it never was like the proper world, where we knew every rock like old friends. Commandant Darling tried to be kindly, even asking us Palawa into his hut sometimes to eat heinous food with him. He said we must wear clothes like white men, which was hateful, but he also showed us how to grow grass and bushes to eat, which was interesting, and as time passed we got clever at this. So we almost liked him and once we gave him a parakeet we caught which he kept in his hut and called SHAKESPEARE. Then a summer was gone, and another too, and nothing much happened but we stayed on Flinders and more died from coughing sickness, plenty of them. By and by our place, whose name was Wybalenna, got bigger, with new huts for us and for stores, and more num coming there to watch us.

One of these was called SMITH, who said all Palawa children must come to his hut to hear about God who was called GOD. Smith was small with flat hair and little spying eyes, and some other children hated him and just ran away, but I went, because I wanted to learn num ways and words and every other white men’s shit so I could fight them. Smith was pleased, and told me if I knew about GOD I would be saved. I never believed him, no, as I learned from fat scut Robson that you never can trust any white man, but still I did go once and again, till I knew more things. Sometimes, and I also spoke to soldiers, as they told me magic words that Mother knew, like pisser, scut, shit, bugger, fucking fucker, cunt and other such. Once I said these at Smith, just to see their magic, and it was strong, as he hated me for them very much, telling me to go away from his hut for a week.

Mother was frenzied by my learning. ‘‘Why d’you go?’’ she asked me. ‘‘D’you like white scuts?’’

‘‘I want to know them so I can fight them.’’

‘‘It’s better just to kill them,’’ she would answer. ‘‘Know them too much and you may get like them.’’

Not that I listened. Already I was dreaming an intent of my own to get all of us back to the world, so I would be some hero, even to Mother. That was my secret craving.

So another summer passed, and another, and by and by I grew taller and got lustings, so I noticed females in that new way, and their bubbies and fluffs were tidings of joy and filled me with new hungry wanting. Even some of the white women were fine, though they were hidden in their thick dead skins, which were called CLOTHES, and their eyes looked crazed and sad and hard like stone, so I did prefer ours. Not that even ours let me near, as I was still too young, but sometimes they would let me kiss their lips and touch their soft round bubbies if nobody saw. That was great good fortune.

Mostly, though, those were just dying days. People got crook faster by and by, until we were always watching ourselves for signs. That was heinous, as it is too terrible to die hot and coughing and hardly able to breathe. White scuts hardly died at all, of course, and when we got bad they looked at us like this was just some usual thing for blackfellows—as they called us—which I hated most of all. Worst was when my friend Heedeek died, and it was one saddest lamentable day, when he got taken down to the shore and burnt on his funeral fire. That was too woeful.

So it was hard in those long-ago heinous times, and different fellows tried any different way to push days onwards. Some stopped doing anything, just lying down in their despond, like it was their rest. They died quick. Others went away across the island, hunting and so as if these were usual times and nothing flagrant was happening. They lived longer. Sometimes Mother’s ones would go away into the bush in the night and dance and talk in old ways. That was best, at least until day came. Some, especially women, talked about Robson and how he would come back soon, and save us, like he said that day in the house called gaol. I never believed this, of course, as if he liked us so then he never would put us on these killing islands.

Other women found a different friend to save them. This was Wraggeowrapper, who was only hateful before and would come at night watching in the trees to make us mad. Now they made a new dance just for him, and they did this in the night and sang songs just to please him. They even lay down with him for fuckings, so some told. Why not? I did ponder. If all the world was just death and dying, for no reason you could surmise, then perhaps it was cleverest to get help from your enemy. At least he was better than some false friend, like Robson.

Sometimes there were troubles. People got wrathful at this heinous waiting, so they did recollect old hatings, of fights from long-ago days. Mostly there were four nations now, as smaller ones got mixed up, and these kept apart usually, but sometimes spears got made and I surmised there must be a killing war soon. Once Tonenweener nation, who were our foes now, came with spears when we were dancing in the night, and they stood all around, watching and shouting they would kill us. In the end, though, there never was any fighting. I suppose death was too easy to make more.

Sometimes new Palawa ones came in the boat, sent by Robson, which was interesting for us but heinous for them. One day Mongana and his mother, Pagerly, came. It was strange to see them, yes, as it seemed another life ago when we lived all together and they hated me with their tauntings. Now they were not angry anymore, but just fearful. They told bad news, that most ones I knew in those long-ago days were dead now, from coughing sickness or white scuts’ killing. Worst, Tartoyen and Grandmother were gone. That was a sad thing. Till then I always hoped they might be saved somewhere, just like before, with Tartoyen telling his fine stories and Grandmother sitting by the sea with her long, bony fingers. That always gave me some small hope, even when we were on these islands, and it was woeful to see it taken.

Even that heinous time had some good things, though. Mongana was very fearful at seeing this Flinders Island, so he asked me to help him, which was pleasing as it made me feel cleverest. So I showed him where we waited for our heinous food, and I told him who everybody was and which num white scuts were hateful and which were better. So it was Mongana, my most grievous foe of before, became my fine friend. Another surprise was that his mother, Pagerly, became Mother’s friend. Often she would sit with Mother, listening to her hatings of white buggers, and how they should have their heads stove in and such, which she loved to tell. In truth she was Mother’s only friend. Some others did smile when they walked near her, and sometimes they even got heinous food for her, but deep inside their breasts they were too fearful to like her truly. Mother always was frightening.

So days passed, nothing much happening. I went to Smith’s hut for learning, and every day I did vow to endure. Thus it was when talk came that Commandant Darling would leave us and we would get a new commandant. But this one was no stranger but one we knew.

Robson was coming.

Mrs. Catherine Price, Wife of the Storekeeper, Wybalenna Aboriginal Settlement, Flinders Island 1835-38

I GUESSED at once that the ship from Launceston, which had been expected for several days, must finally have been sighted. Through the curtains of the front room I saw first the garden overseer, next the chaplain and his wife, then the tailor, and Mr. Dunn, the baker, and more, all hurrying through the rain in the direction of the jetty, their eyes betraying hopes of letters. My husband, Louis, was not long in joining them. I, however, preferred to remain indoors, having another slight headache, so felt not quite in a mood for gatherings.

A while later I heard the front door close and Louis call out, ‘‘Have you heard the news, Catherine?’’

I had not. Of course I had not.

‘‘The new governor of Van Diemen’s Land is coming to pay us a visit, and his wife, too.’’ Though he did not step into the front room to speak to me directly, still his voice sounded kindlier than it had for some time. Then again, it was ever Louis’ nature to delight at the prospect of meeting men of influence. Ever since I had first known him he loved to talk of ‘‘connections,’’ and the advancement he believed these could bring, though in truth they seemed to have brought him little enough till now. ‘‘Think of it,’’ he declared from the hallway, ‘‘the new governor, coming all the way here to visit. D’you know he was an explorer in the seas of the Arctic?’’

I knew. It was the one thing that was always said about the man, being told and repeated, I assumed, for lack of anything more revealing. I realized that it was a great honour to have him visit us—all the more so as the previous governor had never thought to come—but still I confess I found myself rather less excited than my husband. He did not stay long, the ship’s arrival necessitating a good deal of work for him at the store, and I spent the morning teaching the children their letters. Through the curtains I could observe the settlement’s wives as they hurried back and forth through the rain to one another’s homes, doubtless to discuss the exciting prospect once and again, and perhaps fret over what they might wear for the occasion. I did consider paying a call or two myself The inclement weather, though, was so very discouraging.

That same evening Mr. Robson called everybody together in the chapel, and as we stood, oil lamps faintly murmuring, he related the arrangements he had devised for the governor’s visit. It was the first time I had looked upon his face for almost a week, and I thought he was looking sadly tired. He spoke well, as ever, beginning by admitting that he had been as surprised as anybody by the news, and then urging us all to strive hard to present a good impression of the settlement. As for his plans, these struck me as most sensible. It seemed the governor had, aside from being a polar explorer, a reputation for judging things greatly by their appearance, and so, in the two weeks remaining to us, we were meticulously to clean every building, from the natives’ huts to the storeroom and the chapel. Our exalted visitor would be given a full tour of the settlement, while in the evening a grand banquet was to be held in his honour, outside if the weather was good, with all of the aborigines attending. His day would be completed with a service in the chapel.

Mr. Dunn, the baker—who can never resist an opportunity to utter some humorous remark—asked if the governor would be fed ‘‘the usual quails and suckling pig,’’ or ‘‘just roast swan,’’ and, seeing as none of us had enjoyed any but the dreariest of diets since we had arrived upon Flinders Island, this caused a good deal of amusement. Mr. Robson laughed as loudly as any, replying, ‘‘After his explorations of the Arctic I imagine even our simple fare will suffice,’’ which won a little applause, causing him to smile, quite as he used to do. When the meeting was finished, though, and we stepped out into the moonlit night, the aborigines watching us from their huts, I was certain I discerned in his face a look of anxiousness. Nor can I say that I was surprised. The governor’s visit was a great honour, certainly, but it was not without dangers. Most of all there was the troubling thought of what he might be told.

It seemed already quite an eternity since Mr. Robson first took up his place as our commandant, almost three years before. His arrival, I recall, had come at a time when I was finding life on Flinders Island far from easy. The settlement’s location, on the western shore of the island, provided delightful sunsets but also exposed us to the full force of the fierce westerly winds, and these could be a great strain upon the nerves, forever rushing through the trees, blowing sand in one’s eyes or causing doors suddenly to slam. A further source of disquiet to me was our unhappy charges, the blacks. While these unfortunate creatures were mostly merely piteous, sadly lingering as disease took its toll ever more upon their numbers, still it was hard not to recall upon the brutality of their history, and the great cruelties they had committed upon innocent settlers. The creatures had only recently been induced to wear clothes, while the loose way they carried these upon their bodies—barely attaining decency—did nothing to reassure one as to their state of mind. When I looked upon them, loitering by their huts, or striding away in a group to hunt, the expressions upon their faces seemed at once so wild and impenetrable that it was hard not to feel some unease. At night I often found the thought of them, dwelling so very near, made sleep hard to come.

Matters were not helped by the paucity of diversions to be found on the island. The supply vessel visited only every three months, making news and letters rare pleasures, and the days passed slowly indeed. Boredom will bring out the devil in men, and in our case its progeny were feuding and rumour. Louis and myself did our best to distance ourselves from all such behaviour, naturally, but this was not always easy. All too often to converse was to be entrusted with unwanted confidences, while to stand aloof from such talk was to find oneself quietly excluded. One of those with a particular love of gossip was the catechist, Mr. Smith, who was a lively man of, it was said, thwarted ambition. While we never encouraged Mr. Smith to call on us, in so small a place it was hardly practical—or wise—to prohibit others from visiting, while he could be most humorous in his retelling of some piece of news, so that even Louis, who was generally inclined to the serious, found him most diverting. After a time his visits to our home became commonplace.

It came as the greatest shock to us, naturally, when we learned that the settlement’s commandant, Mr. Darling, was abruptly to be removed, and that this was largely the consequence of critical letters sent to the government in Hobart. Worse still was the discovery that the letters’ sender had been Mr. Smith. I knew the two had felt a coolness for one another for some time, ever since the commandant had accused Mr. Smith of wastefulness regarding settlement supplies, but still the action seemed wholly unwarranted. I understood Mr. Smith had accused Mr. Darling of neglectfulness in his religious instruction of the aborigines, a charge that was all the more dangerous for being to some extent true, as the man had hardly troubled to instruct the adult natives save in the most mundane of matters, such as farming. The commandant took the matter very badly, and confronted his persecutor one Sunday outside the chapel, calling him Judas in front of all. It was a most painful incident.

My instinct was to let the matter rest but Louis could not do so. He was much distressed by the commandant’s removal, believing Mr. Darling had been about to promote him, and he made it clear to Mr. Smith that he was no longer welcome at our home. The catechist, in turn, behaved quite as if it were ourselves, rather than he, who had behaved unreasonably, directing us haughty, wounded looks whenever we passed. Curiously enough he displayed particular coolness not to Louis but to myself If I found myself walking towards him in some part of the settlement he would embark on an elaborate and embarrassing charade of turning in another direction, while if I had the misfortune to meet him at another’s house he would stare quite over my head. The whole matter became most distressing.

In the event, of course, Mr. Smith’s treacherous conduct did have one happy consequence, Mr. Darling’s replacement being Mr. Robson. I had heard something about this man, of course, from both admirers and detractors: the famous Robson, who had journeyed for months at a time through the wilderness of Van Diemen’s Land with none for company but blacks, that he might endeavour to save their unhappy race. For some reason I had imagined he would be a giant of a fellow, with a look of military severity. How wrong I was! The man I saw sitting in the rowboat, as it made its way from the supply vessel to the settlement jetty, was a most ordinary-looking figure, round and clumsy in shape, whose speech, as he directed the coxswain, betrayed humble origins. Only the lively look in his eyes hinted at the power of resolution that lay within. As to his family, I observed that his wife, sitting beside him, was regarding the island with what appeared to be an expression of distaste, while his sons seemed curiously distracted, showing no sign of the famous determination of their father.

‘‘He has a nice face,’’ I observed to Louis.

My husband, pressing forward that he might be among the first to offer his welcome, nodded in agreement. The blacks likewise seemed greatly raised in their spirits by the sight of this new commandant. He had brought with him a number of their fellows that he had found on Van Diemen’s Land, thus inspiring a most touching scene, as siblings separated all these years burst into tearful recognition, and mothers quite shrieked with delight at the sight of children who, doubtless, they had thought lost to them forever. All at once some of the natives began excitedly to babble to him in words of their own strange languages. I had heard that he was able to speak in their tongue, and was looking forward to hearing him reply in a like fashion, but instead he waved his hand with a look of cheerful firmness. ‘‘But you must speak English now,’’ he insisted kindly, ‘‘only English.’’ Thus he displayed, even then, his resolve to bring improvement to the unfortunate creatures.

He was especially proud of one of those he had brought with him, a slight boy by the name of George Vandiemen, of nervous disposition, who, most charmingly, tried to hide behind his commandant’s back. Robson explained, as our large party began walking back towards the settlement, that the child had been found wandering alone by some farmers near Devonport, who had then sent him away to Bristol to be schooled, where he remained long enough to acquire more than a little learning. Robson had discovered him working as a serving lad in the farmers’ house, and had induced them to release him only with some difficulty. Thus described, young George was of great curiosity to us all, and as we reached the area of the natives’ huts Mr. Robson attempted to coax him into giving a little demonstration of his knowledge. This was not easy, the boy being so shy, but finally he was enticed into uttering a few greetings, which he did with a fluency of language that was indeed remarkable, far surpassing that of any of our own aborigines, winning applause from his smiling watchers, and laughter too, as Mr. Dunn, the baker, observed that the boy even spoke with an audible West Country accent.

The display was, sadly, of short duration. Just as the child grew more confident in his performance he seemed to falter, then uttered some incomprehensible cry in his own native speech. Then, greatly to our surprise, he began impatiently pushing his way between us and ran away towards one of the huts. There, staring at him with the strangest look, was Walyeric: that monster of a creature, undeserving of the title female, about whom such dreadful stories are told, and who answers the kindliest smile with a glower of insolence. It was hard to believe, but I could only assume from little George’s excited cries that this terrible woman must be his mother. Though I knew her to be wicked to her bones, still I could not help but be shocked by her behaviour. As he raced towards her, calling out, she simply rose to her feet, then delivered him a mighty slap to his face—though he was her own child, lost to her all these years— and cruelly strode away. Poor George was dreadfully upset, bursting into sobs, and though we tried to coax him back to us, he insisted on scurrying away alone.

It was not long before Mr. Robson’s presence among us—striding about, always so energetically—began to transform the atmosphere of the settlement, and greatly for the better. Everybody soon found himself thrown into activity, instantly banishing the devil boredom. Louis was required to rearrange all supplies in the cramped storehouse, as a new and better building was to take its place, this forming only one part of a mighty campaign of construction. The sawyer and bricklayer found themselves in constant toil, their lazy convict labourers lazy no longer, while even some of the aborigines were induced to help in the work. The fruits of these labours were soon evident, as new wooden huts sprang up almost like mushrooms, and a proper brick front was added to one of the double huts, which was to be fashioned into a new school chapel, it being Mr. Robson’s stated aim that the blacks should be both housed and led in worship entirely in buildings made of brick.

Mr. Robson’s chief concern, it soon became clear, was to mount nothing less than a crusade to civilize the blacks. Louis, who was much impressed by our new commandant, explained how the aborigines were each to be allotted a craft, from shoemaking to animal husbandry, that they would be required to develop as their own. All were to work, although those of lesser ability would be expected only to perform some simple task, such as digging potatoes, or graves for their less fortunate fellows. We both considered this a most delightful notion, which might with time transform them into something like a happy band of English villagers. More ingenious still, Mr. Robson insisted that every one of them would receive a wage for his toil, and announced that a market would be held once each week, where the poor creatures might spend their new wealth on some useful item, such as tobacco, or a new straw hat. His intention was most clear: he was subtly introducing them to that most essential pillar of the civilized world, commerce. There are always grumblers, of course, and some among the officers’ wives complained, when we met for tea, that the market—which was, after the first week, somewhat poorly attended—was of little usefulness. I, however, strongly contested such pessimism, pointing out that the market’s value was as an example to the natives, and as such it was beyond all measurement.

A still more ambitious innovation was the announcement that the settlement was henceforth to have its own newspaper, the Flinders Island Journal, which—with Mr. Robson’s help—was to be compiled even by the aborigines themselves. The journal was, it was true, much restricted by the island’s lack of a printing press, which required all text to be repetitively copied out by hand by those few natives practised in their letters, and I recall seeing only one issue, whose brief pages were concerned with simple daily occurrences about the island (there being, in truth, little news to relate apart from further deaths among the natives, upon which it was undesirable to dwell). For all this both Louis and I thought the venture a fine demonstration of a new sophistication of settlement life. As I recall, it even won the praise of the Colonial Times in Hobart— Mr. Robson having written to the newspaper to tell of our efforts to bring advancement to the natives—which printed a most favourable account of all his innovations.

It never occurred to me, naturally, that I might myself become involved in Mr. Robson’s great campaigns, but so it was. This stemmed from the first occasion when I met him to speak to, being one morning when I happened to be passing the site of the new settlement store, just as my husband was showing him how the building work was progressing.

‘‘Catherine,’’ Louis called out, delighted. ‘‘Look who is here.’’

Mr. Robson greeted me with a kindly smile. ‘‘Your husband has been doing a splendid job here.’’

Louis beamed.

‘‘You seem to be changing every inch of our little establishment,’’ I remarked to Mr. Robson in a faintly chiding voice. ‘‘What will we have next? I wonder. A railway? A manufactory?’’

He laughed with enthusiasm. ‘‘I’m afraid I must disappoint you, Mrs. Price. From now I will be concerning myself less with building and more with the natives’ learning. Their religious knowledge in particular appears to have been much neglected.’’ Though he did not mention any name I had no doubt it was to his predecessor, Mr. Darling, that he was alluding. ‘‘My intention is that every one of the blacks, including the adults, shall be thoroughly schooled. It will be no easy thing to achieve, of course, but it will be done.’’

It was Louis who produced the suggestion. ‘‘But you have taught, have you not, Catherine? Perhaps you should help.’’

It was a thought that had not occurred to me. ‘‘I would hardly call it teaching,’’ I insisted. ‘‘I have instructed the children in their letters and sums.’’

‘‘Then you are nothing less than an expert.’’ Mr. Robson’s laugh could be quite infectious. ‘‘The truth is, Mrs. Price, we will be in need of all the help we can find. I am planning to take classes myself’’

‘‘Go on, Catherine,’’ Louis coaxed. ‘‘You would not be required to instruct them in anything difficult.’’

Mr. Robson gave me a smile. ‘‘You would be greatly valued.’’

I began a week later. What a daunting moment that was, knowing that I would shortly find myself standing before a crowded class of those strange-looking faces, all awaiting my words. Mr. Robson proved a great comfort. ‘‘Remember,’’ he urged, ‘‘that they are far less acquainted with learning than you are with teaching. Simply start by asking one of them his commandments and you will find all follows from there.’’

I did just as he suggested and found it most effective advice. Then again, I observed Mr. Robson possessed a quite remarkable understanding of the aborigines, being full of ideas as to how some point of grammar or theology might be explained in simple terms they would comprehend. With his kindly help I soon became accustomed to my new work, and even found I was enjoying myself. After so long spent merely passing time upon this island I suppose I was more than ready for an occupation, and those became times of great hope, there being something about the very process of learning which can instil in all a mood of smiling enthusiasm. The teachers were, it was true, a mixed group—they included Robson’s older son, two of the officers’ wives and also Mr. Smith, while the educated aborigine child, George Vandiemen, also took a few lessons—but we were kept so busily employed that disagreements were rare, and matters remained civil even between Mr. Smith and myself. As for the blacks, though these continued to seem strange to me, I gradually found I lost my earlier nervousness of the creatures.

Finally there came an evening when, as I was teaching Psalms to a class of children, I saw the door open and, greatly to my surprise, Mr. Robson quietly took a seat at the back, and began observing my poor efforts. By this time autumn had arrived, the nights were long, and I well recall the howling of the wind upon the classroom roof, and the flickering of the oil lamps, as I endeavoured to continue, feeling that my every utterance was foolish and ill chosen. What astonishment I felt when, as my students trooped away, Mr. Robson rose and gently patted me upon the hand, remarking, ‘‘Did I not say you would be greatly valued?’’

That was a proud moment indeed.

One of the delights of Mr. Robson’s leadership was that one never did know what might next occur. Thus it was with the aborigines’ names. I had observed for some days that he had been devoting his free moments to what appeared to be a long list, but still I was taken wholly by surprise when he suddenly called all the blacks, and the settlement officers, to gather in the open space in front of the school, where he announced—to the amazement of all—that the natives were to be renamed. It seemed a most bold notion, and as I watched him call the natives up one by one to receive their new appellations—quite in the manner of a general awarding medals to his soldiers—I was full of admiration. I fully understood the significance of his intention. He meant the aborigines to be begun afresh and reborn as civilized, Christian beings.

As for the names themselves, these were quite charming. Some of the older and more exalted of the natives were rewarded with titles of quaintest grandeur, such as King Alpha, Queen Adelaide or Princess Cleopatra. Others were allotted names of purest romance, from Neptune and Semiramis to Achilles. I observed also that Mr. Robson sometimes indulged himself in delightful artifice as—unbeknown to the blacks them-selves—he made playful reference to some aspect of their character. Thus a little fellow whose expression seemed always stern now became Cato, while a girl who was dreamy and sad was now Ophelia. This was not only humorous in itself, but made the names easy to recall, especially in comparison with those they replaced, that had been so very long and confusing.

In some cases I was amused to note that a title concealed some clever sting in its tail. Thus the monstrous female, Walyeric, became Mary, and while this might seem innocent enough, I had little doubt as to which murderous monarch was in Mr. Robson’s mind. Her half-caste son, Peevay, who had such a curious round mop of blond hair above his little black face, and who insisted on regarding one with such disconcerting seriousness, was now Cromwell, that most sombre of rulers. His friend Mongana, who seemed always to delight in troublesome questioning, was ingeniously reborn as Voltaire, while Mongana’s mother, Pagerly, who was often in a state of sinister commune with the dreadful Walyeric, was now Boadicea.

That was a joyous day, and yet it was soon followed by disappointment. Mr. Robson was thorough in his efforts to ensure that the new names would become quickly familiar to everyone, insisting that all teachers and officers henceforth address the natives exclusively by their new titles, and for a time it seemed as if the natives had (with a few exceptions, such as the incorrigible Mary) adopted their new titles happily enough. As weeks passed, however, I became increasingly sure that when they spoke among themselves—using that curious language they had evolved, part English and part native tongues—they secretly continued to address one another by their old, savage appellations. It may seem a small matter, but it distressed me greatly, seeming nothing less than a betrayal of the man, by those whom he had striven so hard to save.

Looking back, I do believe that moment proved something of a turning point, as with every week and month that followed I found myself growing increasingly troubled with doubts as to the success of our great campaign of instruction. Part of the difficulty lay with the other teachers, as, if truth be told, poor good Mr. Robson had not been blessed with the assistants he deserved. Mr. Smith proved as lazy of purpose as he was unkind of tongue, until Mr. Robson was forced publicly to rebuke him, causing no little resentment. Mr. Robson’s son proved hardly more able, while his wife, who appeared as dissatisfied with her life on Flinders Island as her first dismal stare at its shore had suggested, quite refused to help. As for the two officers’ wives, these seemed of little usefulness, forever loitering about the school—though it was hardly spacious—and distracting Mr. Robson from his work with their fussing.

The authorities in Hobart proved also a great disappointment. Though the Van Diemen’s Land governor had been quick to declare his support for our efforts, little was shown in the way of tangible assistance, and Mr. Robson’s requests for further books and teachers were met with a succession of excuses. Worse was to come, notably with regard to the business of the seal hunters. These, I should explain, were Europeans of brutal disposition who lived on other islands in the Bass Strait, and many of whom had abducted aborigine women, who they used with abominable cruelty. Some lived close by, and would even visit the settlement to purchase goods from Louis’ store, swaggering and uttering vilest language. Our own blacks had long known that their women were held captive by these fiends and were greatly pleased when Mr. Robson announced that he would rescue them from their fate. He made every effort to achieve this, sending letter after letter to Hobart, and yet, hateful as it is to recall, the colonial government quite refused to assist in the matter, claiming the women had borne so many children to their tormentors that it was too late to remove them. The decision was not merely callous and unjust, but also served to undermine Mr. Robson’s standing with the natives.

The greatest cause of our difficulties did not, however, lie with white men, but, I regret to say, with the blacks themselves. It may seem harsh and yet I could not help but observe they showed an increasing reluctance to apply themselves to their reformation. There were always a handful, such as the monstrous Mary, who quite refused to attend school classes, but as time passed this number began gradually to increase, almost as if the majority of the blacks had attended only out of curiosity, or boredom, and were now growing tired of this novelty. Even those who continued with their learning would suddenly disappear on some foolish hunting expedition. This made their instruction most difficult, especially in the case of the older ones, whose powers of memory were feebler. How frustrating it was after weeks of practice upon, for instance, the Ten Commandments, to have half a class abruptly vanish, only to return days later, excitably clutching speared wallabies, their commandments all but forgotten.

There was not one among them, if truth be told, who showed a full and enthusiastic devotion to his studies. George Vandiemen himself, the school’s finest scholar, who could recite his Psalms so well, would often drift into some troubled distractedness of his own, or petulantly complain that he wished to be taught Arithmetic, though he had been told often enough that it was neither useful nor practical for him to learn. His half brother Cromwell was no better. It was true that he showed a talent for English, surprising some with his mastery of odd and difficult words, yet there was a sullenness about him, so that even when he recited his commandments correctly it was hard to believe he was persuaded of what he said.

Here, indeed, lay the fundamental problem. Though some among the blacks might learn lines of the Scriptures tolerably, they seemed obstinately unable to see the bright light of faith. During Sunday services some would even tie handkerchiefs around their foreheads to hide their eyes, so they might sleep unobserved: this, as the very word of God was being brought to them! It was quite as if they imagined that Christian knowledge had little pertinence to their lives. Sad to say this could hardly have been less true. As time passed, the blacks’ numbers were diminishing at a perilous rate. The outbreaks of disease, which had seemed to slow when Mr. Robson first arrived, had grown more frequent than ever, with several deaths sometimes occurring in a single week. The aborigines, who had comprised some two hundred even in the early days, were now reduced to less than half that number, and their huts, whose crowded conditions had caused Mr. Robson great concern when he first arrived, were now all too sadly sufficient. Little by little the settlement began to acquire an aura of sombre emptiness, only the graveyard remaining busy.

There was, inevitably, much talk as to the reasons for this decline. The settlement surgeon—a man greatly neglectful of his religious devotions, so that some doubted his Christian convictions—cited purely practical causes, such as the blacks’ lack of exposure to European diseases, and their being restrained in one place when it was in their nature always to be roaming. I, and others too, perceived a greater force at work, however. If the aborigines had only shown greater reverence for the Scriptures I had no doubt that the good Lord would have been moved to protect them from suffering. It might seem unkind, but I could not help but feel that they were reaping the reward for what was, in truth, their own betrayal of Mr. Robson. Had he not risked his own life and health to rescue them from the wilderness? Had he not devoted his every waking hour to their improvement, bringing them new knowledge, and even new names? They had returned his kindness only with indolence and unconcern.

Poor Mr. Robson was much affected by the natives’ decline, naturally, and with each new death his sadness became a little more marked. In spite of this he never allowed himself to lose his determination. ‘‘If we cannot save them in one way,’’ I recall him confiding in me one terrible day, when two had been taken within only hours of one another, ‘‘then we must endeavour to save them in another.’’

I understood his meaning only too well. It was soon after this, indeed, that he began his final campaign, which was not so much concerned with the education of the natives as with the need to win them away from their pagan customs. A number of announcements were made in quick succession, including a prohibition upon their occasional nighttime revels of singing and dancing, and also upon their hunting expeditions, which were, in truth, often little more than an excuse to evade the scrutiny of the settlement officers. The blacks were also required to discard the superstitious health charms they wore about their necks, which contained, so I heard, bones of their dead relatives, and could hardly have been more barbarously removed from Christian ways.

Sadly these noble intentions proved not easy to put into effect. While Mr. Robson had some success with the charms, the hunting expeditions were undertaken with so little warning that they were nearly impossible to prevent. It seemed for a time that he had made progress with the nighttime revels—several times he sternly marched out into the nearby bush and caused one to cease—but before long ashes of the fire and footmarks were discovered merely further distant, beyond earshot of the settlement. Unchanged and unrepentant, the blacks seemed obstinate in their refusal to be saved. So the life of the settlement continued week after week, month after month, though each was marked with sadness.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, the supply boat arrived, quite as usual, and we found ourselves shaken with news. It had been known for some time that there were plans to establish a new settlement on mainland Australia at Port Phillip Bay, just across the Bass Strait from Flinders Island, and now we learned that Mr. Robson was being considered—and most seriously so—for a position as government protector of the aborigines of this new settlement. If he won the post, as seemed very likely, and he considered it acceptable, which seemed no less so, he would start work there within a few months.

I was most pleased for him, naturally. Having worked so closely with the man, I believe I understood him as well as any. Why, I would even say he was possessed of a kind of greatness. I considered he amply deserved reward for his great toil. The sad truth was, besides, that in many ways his work on Flinders Island was largely complete, his charges being now so greatly reduced in numbers, after all, that their future was unhappily evident. How much more fitting for him to progress to a new land where there was much still to be done. I was saddened, naturally, for those natives who still remained, and who, I knew, would miss him most dreadfully. They had, I supposed, come to rely on his presence, and to presume upon his gentle kindliness. I had no doubt that they would find great difficulty in letting him go. They must, I considered, endeavour to be strong.

As for the Europeans of the settlement, the discovery of Robson’s likely departure had, I am afraid to say, a most regrettable effect. The poisonous and malicious atmosphere, that I had thought long banished, soon began to creep back, as I witnessed myself. One late winter’s afternoon, only a few days after the supply vessel had come with its news, I was on my way to the school, intending to prepare my lessons for the next day, when I found myself passing the surgeon and the garden overseer as they stood beside the store, sheltering from the chilly wind.

‘‘It’s what he wanted, after all,’’ I overheard the surgeon declare. ‘‘A fine little career he’s won for himself from those blacks.’’

I stopped. ‘‘For a moment, Doctor,’’ I told him in a warning voice, ‘‘I almost imagined you must be talking of Mr. Robson, but that would hardly be the way to describe a brave man who risked his very life to rescue the aborigines.’’

The surgeon assumed a derisive look. ‘‘He did well enough from his rescuing, too, as I recall, at five pounds per head.’’

I could not let pass so wicked an utterance. ‘‘That was honourable payment for noble and perilous work,’’ I told him coldly, ‘‘and it does you no credit to try and belittle a man whose achievements are so much greater than your own.’’ With that I strode on. The incident continued greatly to upset me, however, and when I reached the school, which was empty, as was often the case in these days of dwindling classes, I sat at one of the desks, preparation work lying unheeded before me, and my eyes filled with tears. Thus I remained for I do not know how long. Finally, greatly to my dismay, I heard the door creak open. The arrival, I knew from the sound of his tread, was Mr. Robson. Though I lowered my head in an effort to hide my distress, I regret to say this was to no avail.

‘‘Mrs. Price. What is distressing you?’’ he demanded, full of concern.

I could not tell him. How could I when it was he himself and the poisonous remarks concerning him that were the reason? ‘‘It’s nothing,’’ I insisted, ‘‘I’m quite all right.’’ Ever the gentleman, good Mr. Robson offered to get me some water, but for some reason I cannot explain, this caused me only to become more greatly affected. I rose to my feet. ‘‘I’m sorry. I must go.’’

‘‘You still have not told me what is wrong.’’

I hurried towards the door.

‘‘But, Mrs. Price,’’ Mr. Robson called out behind me, ‘‘you do not have your shawl. You cannot go out like that.’’

I had, in my distress, quite forgotten the garment and yet it seemed somehow too late to turn around. I do believe I hardly cared, such was my upset. Stepping out into the falling dusk, I felt an urgent need to find some quiet place, away from all else, that I might collect my thoughts. I turned towards the sea.

‘‘Mrs. Price,’’ I heard Mr. Robson call out behind me, ‘‘your shawl.’’

I should, I suppose, have stopped, but I simply could not do so. On I strode to the shore, grey waves roaring in the biting wind, until I reached those curious spherical boulders that lie near the jetty, that have red marks upon them, and are so disquieting in their appearance, almost like eyes. Feeling the chill all of a sudden, I found I could go no further. I paused, taking shelter from the breeze beside one of the rocks. Would you believe it, poor, good Mr. Robson had followed me all the way. He hurried to place my shawl about my shoulders.

‘‘Mrs. Price, you risk your health. Whatever is the matter?’’

What could I say? ‘‘After all the hard work we have done here, all the hopes we have had, I feel …’’ I reached for words. ‘‘So very sad.’’

He regarded me keenly. ‘‘You must not despair, Mrs. Price. Our efforts have not been in vain. The situation of the blacks may be wretched indeed, but think how much worse it could be. Imagine them still on Van Diemen’s Land, beyond the reach of Christian teaching, harried by wicked men. Even if each and every one of them dies here, at least he will have had a chance to pass to the bosom of the Lord.’’

His words of reassurance brought, I am afraid, only more tears. ‘‘I feel that I have failed.’’

‘‘You must not permit yourself to think any such a thing. You have triumphed,’’ he declared with a brave smile. ‘‘Why, if anyone should feel blame it is me, as commandant.’’

It was a most unexpected remark. I gave him a searching look. ‘‘Do you really think that?’’

For a moment his confidence seemed to weaken, and a look of doubt flickered across his face. ‘‘It has been hard at times…’’

My only wish was to comfort this noble, troubled soul. It was this, nothing else, that caused me to place my arms upon his shoulders, and then kiss him gently upon his cheek, just as a sister would to her distressed brother. Nothing more. How cruel men can be. How wickedly can the innocent be made to seem otherwise. All at once I became aware of a faint tapping sound, slow and even, like a woodpecker striking at a tree. Glancing about, I saw that, some distance back along the shore, was Mr. Smith, knocking his pipe against one of the huge boulders as he stared silently out to sea.

Weeks passed. Terrible weeks. There is no disproving scandal generally suspected, however misplaced it may be. Awful were the looks, and of these the very worst were those of Mr. Robson’s wife. I had no idea that the human eye could express such malignancy. I did once try to speak to her, and tell her of the terrible misunderstanding that had occurred, but it was to no avail: she simply threw me an icy glance and turned upon her heels. Most distressing of all, I suspected that she and her husband were no longer on speaking terms with one another. It was a terrible burden to think that I might unwittingly have been the cause of such unhappiness. As for Louis, he quite refused to listen to my assurances, treating me with hateful coldness. He demanded, of course, that I cease my teaching at the school forthwith. As if I would ever have thought of continuing.

All the while Mr. Robson was taken with a kind of terrible awkwardness towards me, and wherever possible he attempted to avoid my presence altogether. I could not blame him. Occasionally, when I walked through the settlement I would catch a glimpse of him hurrying away, his noble face sadly troubled. My great fear, of course, was that the unhappy incident might somehow place in jeopardy his chance of taking up the post at Port Phillip Bay. It was a most dreadful thought that he might be denied this opportunity—that he so richly deserved—and would be forced instead to remain with us on Flinders Island.

A month passed, and all the while we were expecting Mr. Robson to be summoned to Hobart to discuss the new position. When the supply vessel finally arrived, however, it brought quite different news. Thus it was that we learned we were to receive a visit by the governor of Van Diemen’s Land.

Peevay 1838

IT WAS BAD to watch Fat Robson climb out of his boat that day when he came to Flinders Island, so smiling and adoring himself, but a worse thing was seeing who he brought with him. Tayaleah. I thought my nearly brother was vanished forever, and great good riddance, and suddenly here he was once again. Worse, he was speaking num talk quick like some white man—much better than me—so Fat Robson and others smiled with surprise and gave him cherishings for his cleverness. That was some provocation, as it seemed the little shit was always intending to be better than me, like it was his secret design. So it was pleasing when he ran to Mother and got her grievous blow. Yes, I pondered, how do you like that?

By and by he became Robson’s best blackfellow, and if there was any new thing to do, he was doing it. He did CRAFTS and he was FARMER. Then he did GIVING THINGS FOR COINS, whose name was MARKET, and got a hat called STRAW. When MARKET fin-ished—which it did very soon—he did NEWSPAPER, whose name was FLINDERS ISLAND JOURNAL, and which stopped quicker even than MARKET. Mostly, though, he was TEACHER. I supposed he must be pleased at this fine greatness but he never looked so, and mostly he was just sad, like he was some great puzzle to confuse. One moment he was hungry for Fat Robson’s cherishings, like these were everything he wanted in the world, but then he got fretful and would try to go back to Mother once again, though all she gave him was more hatings. So then he would be craving at Robson once more, and became like the sea, going up and down, up and down, never stopping anywhere.

Fat Robson was always shouting and walking hither and thither to get new things. There was new STORE, and new house for god who was called god, whose name was CHAPEL, that was made from BRICKS. Later we got new huts that were made from bricks too, and were small and dark with our ones all crowded within and coughing in the night. Also there were new school lessons for knowing about GOD, plenty of them. Mostly, though, everything was just the same, as us Palawa died just like we did before. Those were heinous times, I do recollect, as we got smaller, like days after summer, till even those who said Robson was our friend started pondering that he never could save us like he promised. Robson said yes, he was our friend, and he looked sad when we died, but he would not let us burn dead ones, which was the correct way, as he said burying was what GOD liked best. That made me hate him more.

By and by our thinking was all sickness and dying. Sometimes it was hard to stay hoping, and not to surmise that we would all be dead soon so nothing mattered anymore. I even grew fearful that I might forget to try and endure, which always was my special skill. When this happened I would just think of my own intent, and I would say it in my head, like one of Robson’s prayers that he made us know.

How we would fight them I didn’t know, and I hardly troubled either, as just getting away was enough for this time. I was already trying, yes, writing letters to GOVERNOR, who was the chief white scut, in his place, which was called HOBART. I needed help to make these correct and so I went to the only num I ever liked on Flinders Island, whose name was SURGEON JONES, who was kindly and never tried to make us do anything. He told me about writing YOUR EXCELLENCY and helped with spellings, and so I wrote one letter every time there was a boat. Nothing happened, no, but still I did persist, ever and again. Then, finally, one morning the boat came like usual, and though there was no letter for me as usual, Surgeon Jones came hurrying to my hut to say that GOVERNOR, who was a new one, was coming to Flinders Island to visit us. That was interesting, and great good fortune, I did surmise, as I could talk to him, and tell him how he must let us go back to the world, while he must listen to me if I was stood there before him.

Days passed and white men were all hurrying hither and thither to make everything clean for governor, and making tables, plenty of them, for us all to eat governor’s dinner. Then one morning I was sitting by the shore, near big stones like eyeballs, when a surprise happened. This was a favourite place, as I could look at the jetty and dream us all getting on a ship to go home to the world, and so I stayed there, watching birds sitting in the sky, and waves come following, following onto the sand, and as I watched I saw a small boat sailing, one white man inside. By and by he came to the jetty, tied up his boat and walked right past me, going towards the settlement. He was some ugly one, I did observe, smelling of salt and mutton bird and white man’s stink, with big scar down one cheek, and no hair, so his head was like some pink stone. Still he seemed no great puzzle to confound, as strange ones like him did arrive sometimes, to get flour and tea and so from the store.

Surely enough, by and by I saw him coming back, carrying two sacks that were heavy so they pulled his arms long. Then, just when he was getting near, a most interesting thing happened. First I heard running, and I knew it was angry running just from the feet. Looking round, I saw Mother, coming fast and holding a waddy stick, and her face was hateful like I hardly saw before, even in her long-before fighting days. White man saw also, and he gave her a strangest look, so mystified, then dropped those sacks very quick. This was clever, yes, as when Mother swung her stick to dash his head with a grievous blow he could cringe, and so she did miss her killing. Next he got that waddy stick too, and so both were holding it and fighting. White scut was stronger, pushing her down so he got her stick, which was worrisome, so I jumped up now to try and save her. But rather than hit her dead, like I surmised, instead he threw that waddy away, then took his sacks and ran away, fast as he could, getting into his boat and pulling at oars to be gone.

Mother was too old for fighting really. She sat there looking angry and rubbing her side where it hurt from falling. ‘‘Who was that?’’ I asked. But she just got up, never saying a word, and walked away.

That was some puzzle to confound, yes, as it was years since she tried to kill anybody, though the answer came soon enough. Later, when I walked back to the settlement, my friend Mongana, who was sitting by the huts, looked up and gave me a hating stare, just like he did in those long-ago small days when he was my childhood foe.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’ I asked.

His answer was angry like spitting. ‘‘My mother said she saw your father, walking by the store.’’ Then he looked shamed, as if he did not know what to say. ‘‘He shouldn’t come here.’’

So, here, on some usual morning just like any other, I saw Father, who I never beheld before. It seemed strange that I never even guessed him, but just thought THERE’S ANOTHER UGLY WHITE SCUT. But then how could I guess him? When I dreamed meeting him, which I still did sometimes, I made him a fine fellow with a kindly face and hair, rather than some piss-poor one smelling of salt and mutton bird and white man’s stink. Still it was interesting, as it meant I had one still. Perhaps I would meet him again, I did ponder, if he came back. Now I wasn’t sure if I wanted this or not.

A second strange thing came later on that same day, when I went to school. Today was Smith, and GENESIS again. IN THE BEGINNING GOD CREATED THE HEAVEN AND THE EARTH and so and so and so. I learned it well, you see. But when I went into the classroom Smith was not ready but was just sitting, waiting, and there was Fat Robson, looking troubled.

‘‘Thank goodness you’re here, Cromwell. Have you seen George? He should have two lessons here this morning but never came. That is some mystery, as he never misses any. I’ve looked for him everywhere, but nobody saw him.’’

George was Fat Robson’s name for Tayaleah and yes, it was interesting that he was not here. This was not just some puzzle to confuse, no, this was some impossible thing, as Tayaleah always went to school. When others went away hunting, and even when he got crook, still he would go.

‘‘I haven’t seen him,’’ I told.

That made Fat Robson too woeful. I knew why, too. Num chief whose name was GOVERNOR, was coming so soon, and I surmised Fat Robson wanted to show him Tayaleah’s cleverness, to try and get this fellow’s adorings. Well, I never wanted to be kind to Fat Robson, as he was my hated enemy, but I was curious to know the answer, especially as it was the second very strange thing this day. Now in my thinking two strange things both at the same time are usually just one strange thing, like two ends of some stick buried in sand.

‘‘I can look for him.’’

‘‘Thank you, Cromwell.’’ Fat Robson gave me his look. This was smiling and creeping because he needed my help, but it was a little angry too. Then, you see, Robson always gave me a bit of hating, because I showed him with my face that I never forgot he betrayed us so. I supposed he could not endure my thinking that he was not a fine fellow after all, but just some lying, cheating, heinous scut, which he was.

So I went seeking. I never much liked Tayaleah but I did know him and I knew places where he went. Sometimes, when Mother gave him scornings, I saw him creep off towards a hill near the settlement, and so thither I went now. Earth was soft there and good for footprints, and soon I could observe some that were small and thin just like Tayaleah’s weakly feet. After that I went carefully, using hunting cleverness to follow on and again, till finally footsteps went into a forest and stopped by a large tree. Up above, through leaves, I could hear some faint sound like sobbing, and so I started climbing. Tayaleah was high where the tree was thinner, and it moved a little in the wind when I reached him.

‘‘What d’you want?’’ he shouted, angry that I found his secret place.

But it was interesting here. Tree split three ways so it made a seat for him, while he had branches and leaves and such laid all around, so they were a kind of ground, and I surmised he could even sleep here if he was careful. He had pieces of bread, a bottle with water and a cup, a little broken, for keeping sugar. Also there was his man on a horse made from metal whose name was TOY SOLDIER, that I saw before, and which he got from white men’s land. I saw he carved num numbers into tree bark, and though some were just small, like eight or twelve, others were too big to read, so they went halfway round the tree.

‘‘Why aren’t you at school?’’ I told him back. ‘‘Robson’s angry with you.’’

‘‘Just go away.’’

His words were fighting but his voice was getting weak, like some old dry stick, and I could see in his eyes that he wanted me to like him. Then again Tayaleah was always so. Ever since I could first recollect, the little scut wanted me to be his friend, which was a mystery to confound, as I never gave him anything but hating. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ I made my voice kindlier, though this was just pretending. ‘‘You can tell me, Tayaleah.’’

That was enough, yes. He just broke, looking at me with pleading like I was his best friend. ‘‘I don’t know what to do. Mother came just this morning and said she saw your father. She said we must kill him and all the other white men too, and that we must do it now, as soon we’ll all be dead and then it’ll be too late. She said I must help her, and that this is a last chance to win her forgivings.’’

So this was the stick hidden in the sand. I suppose it had been some guess in my head, yes, as I surmised she would delight in killing Father. ‘‘How does she want to kill them?’’

Tayaleah looked away. ‘‘She said I must not say it to anyone.’’

‘‘You can tell me. I’m your brother.’’

Really he was too easy. He rubbed his face with his fingers, making his eyes hidden. ‘‘She said we must spear them when governor visits, at the end of the dinner, when they’re all fat and tired. After, we must take the governor’s boat and go to your father’s island and kill him too. Then she said we can go back to the world. She says if I want to be her son again I must spear Mr. Robson.’’ He sniffed. ‘‘But he’s my friend.’’

That was Mother’s joke. Mostly, though, this was just some grievous puzzle to confound. Yes, it would be tidings of joy to see Fat Robson get speared, which was his deserving. But this was the first time in so many years when I had hope that I could save us. ‘‘Who else is there?’’

‘‘Pagerly and three others were with her, and they were trying to get more. Then they were going away to make spears.’’

It was too few. Even with more I guessed something must go wrong. Probably we would get noticed even before they started killing, and then soldiers would shoot us. Even if we had great good fortune and got that boat we still didn’t know how to make it move with those skins for the wind, and probably we would just drown. In truth I doubted Mother cared much if we lived. All she wanted was some chance of spearing Father and other white scuts. One thing was sure. If we tried to spear whites, all my learning and writing letters would become just some foolishness, and we never would leave this terrible place. No, I did divine, only I could save us and get us back alive. It was some heinous thing to try and fight Mother’s intent, and to thwart her once again, but so I did resolve.

I began to climb down Tayaleah’s tree.

‘‘Wait,’’ he called out after me. ‘‘What should I do?’’ ‘‘Do nothing.’’

William Frampton, Governor of Van Diemen’s Land 1838

IT WAS my wife’s idea that I should embark on a little tour of Van Diemen’s Land, so I might gain a greater understanding of this, my new fiefdom. Her thought had been to visit Port Arthur, the larger towns and settlements and perhaps a farm or two, so I might attempt to establish a useful rapport with some of the island’s inhabitants, but I was curious to learn of all aspects of the colony, and it was this that led me to include upon our itinerary the aboriginal establishment on Flinders Island. I had heard a little about the unfortunate history of the natives even before I left English shores, while my interest had grown when I finally reached Hobart and chanced upon the reports sent by the settlement’s commandant, Mr. Robson. This officer had been achieving nothing short of wonders in that remote place, as he valiantly struggled to reform the blacks and bring them into a state of civilization. My predecessor had, I noted, suggested Mr. Robson should be considered for a post of aboriginal protector at the proposed new settlement at Port Phillip Bay, and while I had no doubt he would prove more than suitable for the position, it seemed sad indeed that he should have to abandon such promising work. I was greatly looking forward to meeting the man.

The tour began splendidly. We found ourselves blessed with delightful weather, warm and sunny—being, as I was regularly assured, quite unusual for a Van Diemen’s Land spring—and as we journeyed northwards across the green countryside of the island, through Oatlands, Ross, Campbell town and Launceston, we received an enthusiastic welcome. All the while I was, with a few exceptions, well satisfied with the cleanliness and good order of the offices and barracks we visited, and the homes and lodging houses where we passed our nights. At George Town we boarded a schooner and set sail across the Bass Strait. The wind was light, so our progress was slow, but when we woke the next morning Flinders Island was there before us. This was largely flat, but supported a few sudden clusters of rocky hills, including one peak that was steep and sharp almost as an obelisk. Within the hour we were being rowed towards the shore.

As to my first impressions of the aboriginal settlement, these were, I must confess, something of a disappointment. In his reports Mr. Robson had given detailed accounts of the many traditional crafts he had had the natives adopt, and it had seemed only natural to assume the aborigines would be clothed in accordance with their new skills. I had, as I recall, been looking forward to finding myself in some form of rustic scene, as might—except for the blackness of the faces—be found in some English village, with ploughmen in their smocks, a blacksmith in his trusty apron and wives in cheery cotton dresses. This, I am sad to report, could hardly have been further from the case. As my wife and I stepped onto the jetty, I observed the blacks gathered upon the shore were dressed in the most dismal of garments, that would not have been worn even by the poorest of the colony’s white settlers. Looking upon these unfortunates, indeed— the posture of some of the women being barely respectable—I found myself little surprised that their race had suffered so disastrous a decline.

As to Mr. Robson, he seemed a most decent sort of fellow, who greeted us with warmth. He was a touch nervous as he introduced us to the various officers and their wives—being, as I supposed, quite out of practice with social niceties in this remote land—but became filled with cheerful enthusiasm as he led us forth to begin our tour of the establishment. Hardly were we out of sight of the jetty when he was approached by one of the establishment’s soldiers.

‘‘We ’ve searched everywhere, sir, but I’m afraid there’s not a sign of either of them.’’

Our host seemed troubled by this mysterious news. ‘‘Then look again.’’

I could not help but be curious. ‘‘Who have we mislaid?’’

‘‘Merely a couple of the aborigines, Your Excellency. They can be so naughty. I’m sure they’ll be discovered in no time.’’

I was pleased to observe that the settlement was tidily kept, even if its inhabitants were not. Our visit began with the bakery hut, from which there issued forth an enchanting scent of flour and fresh bread, and walking inside I was happy to note the floor was swept and the baking implements well polished.

‘‘How often do you bake?’’ inquired my wife.

‘‘Once a week,’’ answered the baker, a fellow with a foolish-looking grin, whose name was Dunn. ‘‘Sometimes twice.’’

‘‘Surely the bread becomes stale?’’

Mr. Dunn shrugged a little uneasily. ‘‘It keeps well enough, ma’am.’’

The exchange was typical of my wife, who, I should explain, possesses a quite remarkable talent for chancing upon telling truths. Let her glance upon some stranger for only a moment and she will confidently declare whether he is a good fellow who can be trusted or a cheating rogue, while she seems so often right that I have almost been moved to wonder if she has a sorceress or two among her ancestors. There are times when I find it useful to take note of her opinions, I will freely admit, though I should add that I know also when to treat her with firmness and trust to my own opinion.

After we had examined the bakery we were led to an empty, grass-covered area at the centre of the establishment, that was faced on one side by the chapel, and on the other by a long row of cottages built in the shape of the letter L, which, Mr. Robson explained, were the dwellings of the aborigines. The buildings were neat enough in appearance but the blacks, some of whom stood loitering before their homes, seemed dismal indeed, regarding us with a sullen curiosity. Again I found myself disappointed. Where was their resolution, their wish to improve their lives?

‘‘This is the Natives’ Square,’’ Mr. Robson explained. ‘‘It has been my hope that one day it may be paved, in the manner of an Italian piazza.’’

It seemed a delightful notion.

‘‘How charming,’’ observed my wife. ‘‘Am I right in assuming this is where the market is held?’’

Robson nodded brightly.

‘‘But not today?’’

I observed that the commandant looked a touch uneasy. ‘‘As it happens, the market is in abeyance just at the moment, but I hope to have it restored very shortly.’’

‘‘I see.’’ Once again she had struck, and once again it was a complete mystery to me what could have led her to her supposition. I could only consider that, while others, including my own self marched stolidly forward upon the solid path of logic, she would be carried along upon the swift—if unreliable—flight of womanly instinct.

Mr. Robson led us now into one of the cottages: a tidy enough dwelling, except for a troubling smell of old clothes. It was most noticeable, however, for its sparseness, being divided by no walls, so it formed a single windowless room, which contained nothing except for a few rough-looking blankets folded in the corner. ‘‘The natives prefer to sleep on the ground,’’ he explained. ‘‘It is their tradition.’’

‘‘You still have not introduced us to any of them,’’ remarked my wife as we stood glancing about the darkened space.

‘‘That is most easily resolved,’’ Mr. Robson told her with a cheerful smile. ‘‘Simply tell me who you wish to meet and it shall be arranged.’’

My wife considered for a moment. ‘‘Then I for one would most like to meet the editor of the Flinders Island Journal.’’

‘‘Oh yes, your paper,’’ I agreed, pleased that she had thought to remember. On my return from my Arctic journey I once visited a London newspaper and it had been a most exciting sight, with reporters and typesetters hurtling about at the greatest speed, and the printing presses in the cellar beginning their mighty clatter. This would, I supposed, be a much smaller affair, and yet I remained more than a little curious. ‘‘I would most like to have a look.’’

Mr. Robson again frowned. ‘‘It’s a difficult moment, I’m afraid.’’

My wife gave him a curious look. ‘‘Also in abeyance?’’

Do you know, she was right again. Mr. Robson seemed most put out. I even felt a little sorry for the poor fellow. There are moments when even I have myself felt the sharpness of my wife’s tongue, while our guide had, after all, been doing his best to be kindly and helpful.

‘‘Perhaps you would be interested in having a look at our school?’’ Mr. Robson now suggested. ‘‘It is just nearby. I have been much encouraged by the progress we have made regarding the natives’ Christian learning.’’

I agreed, naturally, and soon our little party was making its way into a good-sized classroom, doing so quietly, as a lesson was already in progress. This was being taught by an uncertain-looking young man who, Mr. Robson explained in a whisper, was his own son. His students were aboriginal children of varying ages, and a most quaint sight they would have made, sat at their rows of desks with their little black faces, if only they had paid more attention to their appearance. Few if any seemed to have taken proper care of their clothes, while one in the rearmost row was coughing and spluttering in a most unseemly manner.

‘‘Ophelia,’’ the younger Robson called out, regarding a little girl with a sad expression on her face. ‘‘What is the First Commandment?’’

She began promisingly enough. ‘‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’’

‘‘And the Second?’’

Here her concentration began to waver. To be fair, I suppose the presence of so many strangers must have proved a great distraction. The younger Mr. Robson made two further attempts to coax the answer from her but without success, and then his father, who had been displaying signs of impatience, stepped up to his side.

‘‘Dear boy, would you mind very much if I took charge of the class, just for a moment?’’

His son looked little pleased, but accepted obediently enough, and so his father took his place, regarding the children with a robust smile. ‘‘Cato,’’ he called out in a voice full of authority. ‘‘What did God make us for?’’

It seemed the boy was amply familiar with the question, as, with a sternness befitting his name, he answered without a moment’s hesitation. ‘‘His own purpose.’’

Mr. Robson nodded. ‘‘Quite so. And what do you love God for?’’

‘‘God gives me everything.’’

‘‘Very good. What sort of place is hell?’’

‘‘Burning for ever and ever.’’

Just when the lesson was proceeding smoothly a very small child piped up from the back, though he had been asked no question: ‘‘Does God eat kangaroo?’’

For a moment Mr. Robson seemed a little taken aback by this curious enquiry, but he soon recovered himself uttering a little laugh. ‘‘You must understand, Napoleon, that God is not as we are. God is everywhere all of the time. He is watching us every moment.’’

Napoleon showed a persistence worthy of his name. ‘‘Does he eat nighi?’’

Before I could enquire what this mysterious substance might be, the sad-looking girl, Ophelia, turned to the questioning Napoleon. ‘‘God never eats nighi. God is a white man.’’

‘‘He’s not,’’ called out another little fellow. ‘‘God is a ghost.’’

Mr. Robson evidently felt it was time to call a halt to this little theological discussion, however diverting it might be. He clapped his hands together, shouting out in a cheerful voice, ‘‘Quiet! Quiet! Now let us begin again.’’ Then he turned to the stern fellow who had proved so able before. ‘‘Cato, who made the earth.’’

Quick as a flash the little fellow rattled off his answer. ‘‘God did.’’

‘‘Very good.’’ He turned next to Ophelia. ‘‘Who made the sky?’’

‘‘God did.’’

‘‘Omega, who made the trees?’’

‘‘God did.’’

Now Mr. Robson was striding about among the pupils themselves, catching their eyes as he went. There was no denying he was a most impressive teacher. ‘‘Napoleon, who made the potatoes in the fields?’’

‘‘God did.’’

‘‘Leander, who made the sun?’’

‘‘God did.’’

‘‘Betsy, who made you?’’

‘‘God did.’’

Now he came to a youth in the back row with a somewhat disagreeable expression. ‘‘Voltaire, who made me?’’

‘‘The devil.’’

It was a most unhappy moment. Some of Voltaire’s older classmates even laughed, and Mr. Robson tried to do so, though he looked quite wounded. It was impossible to know, of course, if the youth had deliberately chosen his answer with the purpose of causing offence—his classmates had, after all, produced some most unlikely statements—and yet, in view of the pattern of repetitive response that Mr. Robson had so cleverly contrived, the correct reply had seemed only too obvious. Whatever the case, the remark had a discouraging effect upon the lesson. Mr. Robson did his best to resume his instruction, cheerfully testing his little charges upon their knowledge of the Lord’s Prayer, but he was never able to recapture his earlier fluency.

‘‘It is a great shame, Your Excellency,’’ he confided when the class finally ended, ‘‘that our two ablest pupils should be absent. You would, I may assure you, be quite astonished by the skills of these young men.’’

‘‘These are the two that have vanished?’’ enquired my wife. ‘‘Where can they have got to? I wonder.’’

‘‘Away playing, I imagine. I’m confident they will be discovered in time for our little banquet.’’

I had been greatly looking forward to this event, which sounded as if it would prove most diverting. Mr. Robson told us how something similar had been held three years before, to celebrate his own arrival as commandant, and he recounted how the blacks had displayed a most delightful exuberance throughout: a prospect that was all the more welcome as, until now, they had seemed such a sombre race. It was to be held outside, in the Natives’ Square, which, by the time our tour was finally completed, was already filled with simple tables. These were arranged in the shape of a long, narrow horseshoe, and had been decorated with jugs of spring flowers, giving a delightful pleasance to the scene. The sun was now low in the sky, and as the aborigines appeared, one or two carrying hoes or other farming implements, they were caught in striking silhouette against the reddening sky, making me think, after all, of some rural English scene. As we took our places, my spirits, which had been subdued, began to revive. All those of seniority, including myself and my wife and the Robsons, took our places at the upper end of the table, with the two strands of the horseshoe trailing away before us, and I could not help but remark to my wife how this resembled the arrangement of High Table at an Oxford college.

‘‘Let us hope,’’ she replied, in typical fashion, ‘‘that the food also compares.’’

Sadly this proved hardly the case. The surly convict labourers who were acting as our waiters distributed dishes of a kind of stew, and while every effort had been made to give this a pleasing appearance, with little sprigs of parsley resting to one side, it was evident that the main ingredients were overripe potatoes and very hardy mutton. Even the blacks seemed little pleased with their fare and, somewhat to my surprise, I observed a number of them consumed only a portion of their meal before rising from their places and quietly slipping away.

My wife remarked on this curiosity. ‘‘D’you think something has displeased them?’’

Mr. Robson seemed as surprised by their departure as was she. ‘‘Milton? Leonidas?’’ he called out in a cheery voice. ‘‘Where are you going?’’

They appeared not to have heard, and continued to stride away towards the trees. ‘‘The call of nature, most probably,’’ Mr. Robson observed, laughing heartily at this simplest of explanations. ‘‘I’m sure that they’ll be back shortly.’’

They were not, as it proved. As the light faded and candles were brought—giving the scene a most charming atmosphere—the number of empty places around the horseshoe seemed rather to increase. Mr. Robson, however, seemed more concerned with other matters. Several times I saw him glance towards the paths that led into the square, and finally he rose to his feet.

‘‘I hope you’ll excuse me, but I see my son has returned. He’s been helping the soldiers look for the two I told you of’’

By then our plates had been collected and before us lay bowls of an ominously stolid-looking pudding that gave off a faint odour of flour and molasses. It was just as I was about to try this dish when I felt a faint pressure upon my shoulder, as someone made their way behind me. This seemed hardly surprising—convict waiters and others had been pushing back and forth throughout the evening—but what was unusual was the folded piece of paper that I now saw had appeared on my lap. I glanced round, but whoever was responsible had already vanished into the dark. Curious, I held the note close to a candle to read.

More than a little curious, I passed the document to my wife. She was most definite. ‘‘You must go.’’

‘‘D’you think so? I would not want to be a party to some sort of rumourmongering.’’

My wife smiled. She has, in truth, something of a weakness for intrigue. ‘‘It is your duty to be informed about all aspects of the colony, is it not?’’

This was true enough, I supposed. It could be easily enough done, besides, and so, making my excuses, I rose from my place and, a candle to light my way, I ventured forth in the direction of the Robsons’ house, as if I were intending to visit the privy. The ground behind the natives’ huts was much overgrown, and from the direction of a tangle of branches and shadows I heard a rustling, then a whisper.

‘‘Your Excellency, thank you so much for coming. I should not have troubled you, I know.’’

As I stepped closer, my candle illuminated the face of one of those Mr. Robson had introduced us to that morning: a good-looking woman in her way, with dark hair and a troubled expression. I believe she was the wife of the settlement storekeeper, though the man’s name, and likeness, had quite escaped my memory. I had never imagined the mysterious informant would be female and I found myself somewhat taken aback, my concern being far from diminished when, almost at once, she broke into crying. I quite regretted having followed my wife’s advice, indeed having no wish to become embroiled in some scene of hysteria.

‘‘I’m very sorry, Your Excellency,’’ she exclaimed, attempting to control herself ‘‘I did not mean to grow upset in this way. I wanted only to speak to you about Mr. Robson. You see, there is something you simply must know about him. He is a good man in so many ways, certainly, and yet it would be most unwise of you to permit him to take up his new post at Port Phillip.’’

‘‘Whyever not?’’

‘‘He has…’’ Words deserted her for a moment. ‘‘He has been unfaithful to his wife. He has done so, what is more, with the wife of one of the settlement officers. I cannot tell you who this is, but you must believe me, it is so.’’

It was a most serious allegation. I hardly knew what to say. ‘‘You have proof of this?’’

‘‘Proof enough to have no doubts.’’ She gave me a pleading look. ‘‘You will not send him to Port Phillip?’’

‘‘I will consider the matter most carefully.’’

My reply seemed enough for the woman, and, without another word, she slipped away into the darkness.

Mr. Robson had seemed a forthright and well-presented individual, and seemed a most unlikely candidate as a philanderer. Was it not possible, I wondered, that the whole matter was merely some form of misunderstanding? The storekeeper’s wife had, after all, declined to tell me the identity of the mysterious woman whom he had supposedly scandalized. Whatever the case, it was a most awkward matter, and one on which I was more than curious to learn my wife’s opinion. In the event, this proved, for the moment, impossible to obtain. As I returned to the table, I found Mr. Robson waiting for me.

‘‘Fortune has smiled upon us, Your Excellency. I am glad to report that my son has found one of our errant pupils. May I introduce you to Mr. Cromwell.’’

There before the table, illuminated by one of the lamps, stood a curious-looking young man. He was a half-caste, and while his face was as dark as those of his fellows, his hair was palest blond. Despite the commandant’s introduction he seemed hardly very prepossessing, and I observed his shirt was dirty and torn, and was quite blackened along one sleeve, quite as if he had strayed too near a fire.

Mr. Robson gave him a cheerfully chiding look. ‘‘Now that you have finally deigned to join us, Cromwell, I hope you will oblige the governor by telling him your Lord’s Prayer.’’

On some previous occasion I had chanced upon an illustrated piece in a scientific book which described what were termed ‘‘adulterers’ ears,’’ and if I allowed myself to be distracted from the young man’s utterances this was only because I was engaged in trying to recall the salient features of these, and to determine whether these were possessed by Mr. Robson. I had cast several careful glances towards the fellow, only to find myself no more decided than before, when I realized that Cromwell was not repeating the Lord’s Prayer, as he had been instructed, but instead was addressing my own self

‘‘We need your help, Governor, I do request you.’’ His delivery was slow and careful, leading me to suspect he had prepared his words in advance, quite in the manner of a formal speech. ‘‘We are dying here and if you will not save us from this woeful ruination we will soon all be gone.’’

For an instant I wondered if the incident had been deliberately contrived, but Mr. Robson seemed no less surprised than I. ‘‘This is hardly the moment for such things, Cromwell,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘The governor is waiting to hear your Lord’s Prayer.’’

It was as if the half-caste had not heard. ‘‘I request you let us go back to Van Diemen’s Land, as it is the only way to save us from this dying.’’ He regarded me expectantly. ‘‘Please, Governor, will you do so?’’

I hardly knew what to say. It was most awkward, and I could not help but feel annoyed with Robson for permitting such a thing to occur. ‘‘You must know that everything is being done to help you,’’ I assured him in a kindly voice. ‘‘Mr. Robson has been doing all in his power to preserve your people.’’

Now he stepped up to the table, fixing us with a stare. ‘‘You must let us go back,’’ he demanded, in a tone of voice that seemed almost threatening. ‘‘If you leave us here you will be killing us.’’

I confess that I found myself wondering if we were safe, or if he might suddenly pick up some piece of cutlery and launch himself upon us in violent attack. At that instant I believe I began to understand the fears that had been voiced to me many times during our journey across Van Diemen’s Land, and remained from those terrible years that were termed the Black War, when fellows such as this Cromwell, whether provoked or not, had devoted themselves to cruelest violence. I even cast a glance to Mr. Robson, wondering if I should require him to call soldiers.

Fortunately this proved unnecessary, the alarm being only shortlived. Help came to us, indeed, from a wholly unexpected source. All of a sudden a heavily built aboriginal woman marched briskly along the centre of the horseshoe of tables. Where she had been hiding herself I could not have said, as I had no recollection of having seen her until then, but she showed the keenest awareness of our predicament. Striding up to the young man Cromwell, another fearsome black matron close behind her, she took him by his shoulder and seemed to quite spin him about, delivering such a mighty slap to his face that he was knocked down. This done, she turned to all of us as we sat watching in wonder, and threw us a most curious look, almost defiant, as if to say, ‘‘There, it is finished with!’’ and in a moment she and her black shadow were gone.

‘‘You may leave us now,’’ Mr. Robson told Cromwell in a warning voice.

The young man regarded us for a moment, but his troublemaking seemed quite beaten from him. He shook his head unhappily and marched away.

‘‘Who was that woman?’’ I asked.

‘‘The boy’s mother.’’

‘‘An admirably firm parent she seemed.’’

Mr. Robson laughed a little uneasily. ‘‘Quite so, Your Excellency.’’

My wife was concerned with other matters. ‘‘D’you think something has caught fire?’’ she wondered. ‘‘I’m sure I can smell smoke.’’

She was, as ever, quite correct. We were informed soon afterwards that a bush fire had broken out somewhere to the north of the settlement, though what its cause might have been remained a mystery, as it was in an area that was rarely frequented. It was this, as it happened, that served to bring my official duties on the settlement to a close. Though the fire was still some distance away, Mr. Robson was concerned for the settlement’s safety, and the service in the chapel had to be abandoned. I myself joined the party sent to inspect the blaze, and found it a most impressive sight: the flames burned so brightly as to quite dispel the darkness, filling the night air with floating cinders, while some of the trees seemed quite to explode as they ignited. Fortunately the wind swung round to southwards before long, removing all immediate threat, and by morning I was pleased to see that the fire had largely extinguished itself.

It was only as the schooner began its journey back to Launceston, and my wife and myself rested in the privacy of our cabin, that I finally had a chance to tell her of the curious claim made by the storekeeper’s wife with regard to Mr. Robson. Rather to my surprise she considered the accusation was likely to be well founded. ‘‘Whyever not?’’ she said simply.

‘‘But that’s dreadful,’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘I can hardly ignore such a thing. A man of such character cannot possibly be permitted to take up an important post in the new settlement.’’

She gave me a most curious smile. ‘‘Can he not? I would say it is the very thing for him.’’

It was not the first time I had found myself quite mystified by her words. ‘‘What on earth do you mean, my dear?’’

‘‘If Mr. Robson is at Port Phillip, then his actions shall no longer be any responsibility of the governor of Van Diemen’s Land.’’

Peevay
1838–47

THAT DAY after governor went away, soldiers found Tayaleah on the ground beneath his tree, broken by falling. Fat scut Robson was woeful about this, though he was lying again, even now. When he saw Tayaleah’s secret place in the branches he said he fell just from mischance, but I knew it never was so. I knew he jumped wilfully. Ever since he came to Flinders Island on Robson’s boat I saw Tayaleah was like some fellow who is snared between his awake and his dreamings, and is pulled by both, stronger and stronger, never knowing what is true, till he is torn like paper. Tear got too big, so he jumped. I never did think I would be woeful at Tayaleah dying but yes, it was so. I suppose now he was finished I could not feel hateful, and so he was just my brother and my only one. Besides, perhaps I got accustomed to the little shit by and by. Mother was transported with lamentation, of course, forgetting she did hate him lately. Probably she would detest me anyway, because of fire that burned all her killing spears—which she guessed I made—but Tayaleah’s getting dead made her even worse. So it was that from that day she never would speak to me at all, even for hating, and if I came near she got up and walked away, cold like winter wind. Worse, she and Pagerly made others hate me too, telling them I’d spoiled their last chance for going away from this dying place. Even my fine friend Mongana forsook me then, which was bad, I do recall, as I was too alone. So I stayed in a hut that was empty, just spending my time, watching light peer through holes in the roof, or rain drip, tap tap tap, and hearing my own thinkings in my head, too loud.

Soon after then Fat Robson went away to his fine new place, that was called PORT PHILLIP, and though he talked at us of his sad and tender feelings deep inside his breast at leaving us behind, I did observe that his walk was happy, so I knew this was just more hateful, heinous, piss-poor lying. One good thing of his going was Palawa who liked him before could see now that he was just some low, cheating provocation, like I always told. Still it made no difference, as Mother told everyone I was white men’s friend.

Days passed too slowly after that, so it was almost like when you’ve got some heinous pain and moments won’t move but sit still like some big stone. Those weeks and months were worst, and it seemed as if they never would stop, so they are woeful to recollect, even now. I still wrote letters to governor in Hobart by and by, for every boat, but I only got one back, and that was short, just saying my desire was not possible, with no reason why. That was some hardship to endure, yes, as I did hope governor heard my words to him that night, so I could be a fine hero after all.

Summer came and was gone, then another. Huts got older and emptier, and it seemed this island was all I ever did know, as walking hither and thither in the world with Mother’s tribe was so long ago that it felt as if it never happened to me but to some other fellow. By and by Mongana and Pagerly and others got tired of hating me, which was pleasing, and I could sleep in their hut once more. Mother never forgot, though, and if I went near her she would give me cold-wind looks and turn away, which was heinous. By then I stopped growing taller, as there was no child left in me anymore. I was strong, too, so I would be a good warrior in any spearing war except that they were all finished now. Being grown seemed just some foolishness here, yes, as there was nothing to do with it except sit and wait and push time to go on a little further, or ponder how long I would endure before I got sick like others. Deaths went on, you see, and though these were less often this was only because we were fewer left to die. One day Mongana died, which was terrible. His mother, Pagerly, wailed for days and I wailed with her.

So I got older, till being grown was no new thing but just ordinary. We got new commandants, though they were nothing interesting. All the while num got fewer, not because they died, which they hardly ever did, but because we were so few now that it was easy watching us. By and by they even stopped trying to teach us about God, I do recollect. I suppose it seemed foolish, as we just kept dying anyway. Summers passed, and more summers, and still I was alive, though I couldn’t surmise why. Then, quite a surprise, a wondrous thing happened to me. This was Dray, who Fat Robson called Ophelia, who was younger than me, so I hardly did observe her before. Now all of a sudden she was so grown, fine and beautiful, so I liked to watch her sometimes, and if she saw me she looked away in a special way.

One day in autumn I was walking in the forest near Tayaleah’s tree, and there she was, so we just lay down, hardly speaking any word, as if it was already said, which was curious. So a new thing started, when I had surmised there could be no new things. I got holding and tasting, and feeling hither and thither, and getting weak and lovely. Later I got more, which was blissful and tidings of joy, and by and by we often went into woods and hills and so, lying in soft grass and getting our great good fortune. She was kindly and soft, and we had some sweetness as wind blew in trees above. This was the first time I had someone who I must preserve from heinous things, and this meant I must live, which I almost forgot till then. Yes, in those days I could believe I found great good fortune after all, and I surmised Dray was my enduring, so even being stuck on that piss-poor Flinders Island seemed hardly of any account.

It is hard, though, to get lovings in a dying place, as sometimes you do feel you are impossible, so you hardly dare let yourself feel your delight. Besides, it was right not to believe. When weather got cold Dray got a little crook with coughing, so we both were too fearful. I tried to do everything, getting Jones the surgeon to look at her once and again, which he did kindly, but it was like trying to stop waves coming higher with your hands. Quite suddenly one afternoon she died.

After that I forgot my talent to endure, as there seemed no purpose to me. I wanted to die also, I do recollect, just like that time all those years before, when I ran off into that forest and lay down by that log. But it is hard to choose dying. Dying chooses you.

That was when Smith gave me his book. I was sitting in front of huts doing nothing, trying to think nothing too, as this was better than thinking something, when he came sneaking up. ‘‘I thought this might give you comfort.’’

I never had read a whole book before, as nobody ever gave me any. I hardly wanted to read this one, no, but there was nothing else to do, so I did begin, and though I was too slow at first, I got faster by and by. Book was called TWO LITTLE ORPHANS and was very sad.

Some family gets stuck on horses in river grown big after rains, and mother and father both get drowned trying to save two sons—very small—who are now the orphans. Mother’s drowning is slow, and her last dying thing is to put some interesting CROSS round older orphan’s neck. Later the orphans go to another house filled with other orphans, plenty of them, and here they must work hard, as their commandant is cruel and hateful, shouting and giving piss-poor food. One day commandant beats some other orphan very hard, and when our smaller orphan tries to help this other fellow, commandant hits him as well, and with so many grievous blows he is almost dead. In that night both orphans run away to some large town, where they have nothing to eat unless strangers give them coins.

This is a woeful time for the orphans, yes, as weather grows cold with frost and smaller one gets crook. Then one day some kind man comes and gives them money, and as kind man looks he sees that same cross that mother gave to big orphan, which is interesting to him. Kind man says they must wait here while he ponders some other thing, but he will be back soon. Very sadly, though, hateful boys come just after, and try and steal interesting cross, so orphans must flee, and they never can find kind man after. Then weather gets colder by and by, and so little orphan dies, very slow, in a burying place beside some chapel. Big orphan puts him by the chapel door so he will be buried by vicars.

After that bigger orphan is so woeful at dying of little orphan that he gets crook too, and it does look as if he will die too, so everybody will be dead. But then in the night he has some dream, and in this little orphan comes and tells him he must endure, as everything will get better by and by. This gives bigger orphan cheer, and d’you know that same day kind man comes back again and finds him. A great surprise is that in truth he is orphan’s own uncle, and he has some fine huge house, though he never knew orphan’s mother—who is his sister—all because of other thing. So older orphan gets good food, plenty of it, and cherishings, and even shows new uncle that place where vicars buried little orphan, and they give little orphan a great stone with his name carved so neatly. Finally, at the end, big orphan dreams again in the night, and now little orphan is in heaven, sitting on God’s knees with all those ANGELS, and he is smiling as if he is so happy now.

For a time, I must tell, this book was my delight. I read saddest parts sometimes and again, and I did want it to be true. Sometimes I thought yes! I am those poor orphans, and I cried with hungry sadness.

Then, one day, everything changed. Ship came just like usual, with heinous food and letters for white men, but this time it also had something for us. News! News that I hardly could believe. Governor who visited us was finally gone now, and a new governor was arrived instead. Best of all this new governor saw my letters and said we could return to the world.

That day was great good fortune. We were only forty-nine Palawa left now, but still we were some and I did believe we could strive again once we returned. Yes, just thinking of getting away from this heinous, hateful island and going back to our forest and mountains and secret remembered places, that did fill us with delight. Also this meant I was correct, and my intent to fight white scuts with their own cleverness was some fine success after all. Everybody—except Mother—was cheering me as some great good hero that day.

Leaving was swift, yes, as we must go back on that same boat, but still I had time enough to do important things. First I went to the burying place to say goodbye to my poor Dray, and also to Mongana and Heedeek, and to all those many others who were my friends in there, which was a most sorrowful thing, giving me tenderest feelings deep inside my breast. Then I went to Smith’s house. Now that we were saved, you see, all of a sudden I could discern what Smith’s TWO LITTLE ORPHANS book really said. No, it never was some kindness at all, but just a clever trap to catch me when I was despairing and easy. It was shaming to me, yes, that I got so caught. What his book said was, GO ON, LITTLE BLACKFELLOW, DIE SWEETLY NOW, DIE QUIET

AND SMILING AND THANKFUL, AS THIS IS YOUR LAST TASK FOR US.

Probably Smith guessed my thinking from my face, as he never came out but just peered round his curtain once, and then pretended he was too busy getting ready for the boat. But I knew he was secretly watching as I tore those pages, each and every one, and put them all together. So I burned those orphans, just like I burned Mother’s spears before.