CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dr. Thomas Potter
DECEMBER 1857

The Destiny of Nations (excerpt)

This robust and ever-growing empire that is called British is, as we are told by so-called political theorists, nothing more than the consequence of chance. It is, they claim, a mere totality of small accretions, snatched by traders and adventurers for their own enrichment; a kind of accident of weaponry and greed; some vast yet pilotless engine, whose great hands reach out across the globe, one scattering soldiers, convicts and priests, another drawing in gold.

Such a view could be hardly more misleading. There is, in truth, no finer manifestation of the destiny of men than this mighty institution of imperial conquest. Here we see the stolid and fearless Saxon Type, his nature revealed as never before as he strides forth in his great quest, subduing and scattering inferior nations—the Hindoo, the American Indian, the aboriginal race of Australia—and replacing these with his own stalwart sons. Brave yet unseeing, he little comprehends the unalterable destiny that leads him on: the all-powerful laws of the races of men. Beside him march others, though their step tells of a purpose less resolute. The Roman Type of France petulantly struts southwards across desert wastes, quelling once proud Arab chieftains. The Slav Type of Russia dismally saunters through the icy east, overcoming Asiatics with his every step. The Iberian Type of South America rides across his pampas, lazily extinguishing the savage Indian. The Belgic-Celtic Type plods onwards against island Orientals, stolidly adding to his frail domain. All shall find themselves the unwitting destroyers of their conquered foes, until hardly a subject race, whether African, Australian or Asiatic, remains.

It is when this work is done, and only the strongest Types remain, that another stage in the unfolding of history shall begin. Thus will a new and terrible great conflagration draw near: a final battle of nations, when the trusty Saxon will be required to struggle anew; a conflict of titans; a battle of the Supreme Types, in which…

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
DECEMBER 1857

I COULD HARDLY guess what Dr. Potter saw in this particular island, as it looked a poor sort of spot to me. Flat and dry as ship’s biscuit it was, excepting for a few clutches of mountains huddled here and there, bleak and spiky, as if they might cause injury to careless angels. My own chart, being, as I said, not so very new, showed nothing but the coast and a few peaks, while the rest was pure as virgins, with not so much as a farm or a settlement marked. I had to set a course to a little sketch map drawn by some doctor friend of Potter’s, our destination being a cross on the western coast marked ‘‘abandoned settlement.’’ Well, to my mind it must have been a pretty poor sort of settlement if it had come and gone so quick.

The Reverend had been all sulks at us stopping here—if only because it was Potter’s delight that we should—and moaned that we’d been delayed too much already. The fact was, though, that a short halt at such a spot would suit me well enough. For one thing, the rush we’d had leaving Port Phillip meant I’d never been able to take on a proper supply of water. As to my other certain reason, this was different again, and hardly the sort of thought I’d go troubling Englishmen with.

Now, a handy thing about dropping anchor at some bleak island in the very centre of nowhere was that at least there was no danger of anyone jumping ship, unless, that was, they wanted to go playing hermit. Just nine Manxmen we were now—and no sailmaker—when only days before we’d been fourteen, while even that had been a touch on the thin side, what with the two that had run off from that London sealed dock. It was bad trouble, no denying. We were enough for pretty boating weather, to be sure, but if we struck a proper storm, or even had to unload that certain cargo in a rush, we’d be well hobbled. I’d had to send that old fool Quayle the cook and Mylchreest the steward aloft once or twice, though they were getting too old for such work. It could have been a good scran worse, mind. It took a day and a night to cross Port Phillip Bay and all the way I was wondering if a messenger was riding along the shore, and if our customs friend at the Heads, Robins, would come charging out on his cutter, cannon firing and marines stabbing with their bayonets. But no, he was gentleness itself, having another fine chat with the Englishmen and then waving us on, with never a word about beaches or oars or bodies waking up tied and doused with water. Perhaps we’d been lucky and Bowles had decided to stick quiet after all.

Potter’s little scrawl of a map was no use for navigating, but as we passed along the coast of the island just after dawn, we saw a little jetty springing out from the shore, which could hardly be chance, so we dropped anchor and lowered the boat. I watched the Englishmen being rowed away, and waited until they’d landed too—just in case they changed their minds, there being no end to their nonsense—and then went below to find Mylchreest. Down to the pantry we stepped, where I reached for that certain piece of cord and gave it a gentle tug. Then on to the storeroom to that loose wall panel, and those two certain cables behind, that I pulled. Then finally to the dining cabin and the trapdoors beneath the busts of Queen Victoria and Albert, that prized open so neat. I’d been thinking about what that unfortunate little fellow Harry Fields had said that night on the beach at Port Phillip—before Kinvig had had the bright idea of knocking him cold with an oar—when he’d complained that our tobacco was damp. My worry was that the whole cargo might be going. I had no wish to see the Sincerity’s treasures, which she’d kept so well hidden from prying customs all this while, go all to rottenness just from neglect. Fortunately when we took a look it proved not so bad as it might have. Mylchreest had a quick poke about and in the end only pulled out a single bundle that had to be dropped over the side.

‘‘We ’d be wise to leave all open for a time, mind,’’ he suggested, ‘‘and let some of the damp out.’’

This was easy done, seeing as the passengers were all safely away, and could not return except by the ship’s boat. I left the panels open wide as could be, and the door to the cabin likewise, so the air could move freely. By the time I stepped back onto the deck I saw the boat was on its way back from the shore, filled with water casks like she should be, and soon after chief mate Brew was clambering up the ship’s side, all smirks. ‘‘We found water all right. And something else besides.’’

He shot a glance at a bundle of tarpaulin that the others were hauling up the ship’s side. From their faces it looked heavy.

‘‘What is it? Rocks?’’ asked Mylchreest as it was sat on the deck before us. Hardly had he spoken, though, when his words were made foolish, as the tarpaulin twitched.

‘‘Near as,’’ Brew told him with a smile. ‘‘At least if rocks had fur.’’ He stooped down to untie the rope and all at once a big snubby nose started trying to butt its way out, and with a power of force, too. It was all Brew could do to grab the mystery’s shoulders and hold him back.

‘‘What is he, then?’’ I asked.

‘‘I hardly know. The little fellow Renshaw thought he might be something called wombit.’’

Wombit? It hardly seemed a proper name for a creature. Whatever he was, he was no kitten, that was clear as glass from all his butting and wrestling to escape. Three of them it took to get him in the boat where we’d kept the swineys, all of them getting in each other’s way and tripping on the tarpaulin. Then we had a good peer at our first proper Australian monster. He was hardly a giant, and had the most foolish little stumpy legs, but there was something about his shape that was pure strength, as if he was some kind of hunched stone. He behaved much like a stone, besides. Even as we watched he started bashing his head against the side of the boat, again and again, almost as if it was his enjoyment.

‘‘Some kind of badger, is he?’’ I asked, as the boat shuddered once more. He was about the right size, though his face was more like some small bear’s.

‘‘Something like,’’ agreed Brew. ‘‘He was making for a burrow when I jumped him.’’

Whatever he was, he’d be welcome enough, seeing as we’d never had time at Port Phillip to get any creatures. ‘‘We’ll have Quayle show us how he tastes with some ship’s biscuit.’’

After that I thought I might as well put a sight on this Flinders Island, and oversee the boys as they loaded up the casks. I left Myl-chreest to keep watch over the ship.

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson DECEMBER 1857

CONSIDERING THAT Dr. Potter had never shown the slightest interest in this island till now, it was hard not to wonder at his sudden curiosity regarding the place. He claimed that it had been a refuge for aborigines of Tasmania, and that items of value might be found amid the remains of their settlement. I could not help but suspect, however, that this was nothing more than an excuse to delay us further. My fear, indeed, was that he would attempt to have us drop anchor at every empty rock and bay between Port Phillip and Hobart. What was especially worrisome was that Kewley barely troubled to listen to my own objections, reasoned though they were, so I could not help but suspect that Potter had in some way tempted him to his side. It seemed not impossible, seeing as the Manx were great lovers of gold.

The doctor was most assiduous in acting out his pretence of exploration, and as the boat was lowered, he commanded his servant, Hooper, to bring up one of his new wooden packing cases from the hold, for ‘‘artifacts’’ that he claimed he might discover. It really was too much. Then, as we were being rowed towards the shore, a thought occurred to me. What if I were able to prove that the doctor was merely endeavouring to waste our time? That would turn his own weaponry against him, and would deprive the Captain of any excuse from further needless delay. Why, it might even provide me with justification for removing him from the venture altogether: a prospect that was increasingly desirable— purely for the good of the expedition—as his behaviour became ever more malevolent. It would not be easy to do, I realized, being far harder to prove a man is not doing something than to prove that he is, and yet I had no doubt that it should be attempted.

I considered it would be useful to recruit Renshaw as a helper and witness in this important task, and so, as soon as the boat’s crew had dispersed in their search for water and Potter and his servant were out of earshot, I endeavoured to explain the matter. The botanist, who had perched himself, somewhat foolishly, atop one of several curious round rocks that quite resembled giant eyes, proved obstinately uncooperative.

‘‘I’m not playing spy for anyone,’’ he declared in a dreary tone of voice, quite as if his refusal formed some instance of fine virtue.

Further attempts at persuasion being in vain, I was left with no choice but to pursue the two alone. They had, by now, quite vanished from sight, but it seemed easy enough to follow them, there being only one path I could see: an old track greatly overgrown with plants. After a few hundred yards I saw a number of brick buildings ahead, and found myself in the midst of the abandoned settlement. It seemed mostly to have been a poor sort of place. At its centre lay a line of dwellings, ill constructed and resembling slum houses, and I supposed that, if this had been a refuge for aborigines as Potter claimed, these must have formed their habitations. I glanced inside one, but found nothing but bird droppings and a few old rags. There was no sign of the doctor’s ‘‘artifacts.’’

Of greater interest to me was the building opposite. This was of a good size and stolidly built, its walls and roof standing proud and well preserved against the ravages of time and the elements. Only the door gave a sense of abandonment, swinging loosely on its hinges, so it banged monotonously in the wind. As soon as I stepped within I guessed this must have been the settlement chapel, being possessed of a lightness and dignity that formed a mighty contrast with the grim dwellings opposite. Knowing that the aborigines of Tasmania had been greatly eclipsed, it was pleasing to reflect that, whatever their sufferings may have been, some had found comfort in the bright light of faith.

It seemed more than coincidence that, as I stepped out into the daylight once again, still gladdened by this happy thought, quite the first thing I looked upon was two pairs of footsteps, clearly distinguishable in the soft muddy ground. There could be no doubt that they were recently made. Much pleased, I began to follow, doing so with care, as I had no wish to reveal myself before I had been able to observe my quarry. The steps led away from the settlement and into woodland beyond. Here, however, a thin carpet of leaves fallen from the silvery trees made them increasingly difficult to discern, obliging me to resort to guesswork, as I looked for gaps in the trees that might denote a track. I found, before long, that the trail had eluded me, but still I struggled onwards. By now I was feeling the warmth of the day, being further inconvenienced by an infuriating cloud of flies and mosquitoes that insisted on buzzing about my head, paying no heed to frequent swings I directed at them with my hands.

It was these same tiresome creatures, indeed, that were greatly the cause of the trouble that was to ensue. I was walking midway along a slope of soft ground, even a steep slope, though the fact seemed of no great consequence. As I swung round once again to fend off the flying insects, however, all at once I felt my footing slip, and found myself suddenly sliding. My attempts to clutch at vegetation proved in vain and, realizing I was passing close by a large tree, it seemed only natural to strike out with my leg to try and halt my progress. This manoeuvre proved most effective, but was not without cost. My foot, which was now shoeless, did not so much as strike the tree as seemed to sink into it, becoming, as I realized, lost in some form of hollow. Distressing though this was, it was nothing as compared to what next followed. Just as, unhappily aware of new bruises, I began endeavouring to pick myself up and pull my leg free, I suddenly felt, somewhere close to my big toe, a terrible, searing jab of pain.

Though I was barely arrived in Tasmania, I was, from my reading, amply acquainted with the fearsome and deadly creatures that were to be found so commonly all across that land, there being, as it seemed, hardly a spider or shellfish or snake that lacked the power to kill. I had not the slightest doubt that I had just suffered a venomous attack, and that, even at that very moment, poison was entering my frail body. Why, I could even feel a terrible numbness begin, as it spread, so swiftly, through my foot, my leg, and into my torso. My heart thumping wildly, I pulled my foot free from the tree stump and peered in, but it was too dark to see any sign of my attacker. Hearing a faint rustling sound, I drew back, having no wish to be afflicted afresh. I tried to get to my feet, only for a wave of dizziness to pass through me, causing me to slump upon the ground, where I struggled to keep from losing consciousness.

It was at this most dreadful of moments, as I wrestled with death itself, that, greatly to my own surprise, I felt myself suddenly filled with profound peace. Thus it was that, lying there beside the tree, I began drifting into some kind of wonderment, a state that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, as I became aware of what I can only describe as a visionary dream. I found myself looking upon a bank of angels, their little wings flapping so prettily, and each giving me a warmest smile as they waved their pudgy hands. Then, as I watched entranced, I observed that they then seemed suddenly to grow saddened, their faces turning to sombre frowns.

Following their gaze, I now saw my own dear loyal wife, sitting in a darkened room, her face lost in silent tears. An opened letter lay by her side. Now the scene changed once again. What was this strange land that I glimpsed next, with its walls of shining stone, its wondrous greenery? I was, I realized, looking upon Eden! This time, however, I heard no voices from the ferns and flowers urging me onwards, and a cold wind blew across this forgotten spot. Worse was to follow. All at once I found myself looking upon a mighty lecture hall, its auditorium filled with innocent faces, eager for guidance. There upon the rostrum sat none other but my own enemies in the war of letters: a row of atheist geologists, the face of each filled with terrible triumph.

I felt myself come to, quite as if I had been in a state of unconsciousness. For a moment I remained beside the tree stump, quietly praying and, in some way I cannot even begin to describe, I simply knew, that my prayers were heard. Once again I struggled to regain my feet. This time, miraculously, I felt myself succeed, quite as if some great hand had come to my aid. I took a short step. I paused. I took another. I felt pain. In addition to my wound, the sole of my shoeless foot was exposed to every sharp stone and stinging plant upon the way. Still I pressed onwards. As I hobbled slowly forth, I felt darkness creeping upon me, reaching out with a terrible coaxing. I fought the darkness back. Little by little I advanced by yards, then more. I began to hope that I might at least find strength enough to reach the settlement, where I might be discovered, and given a Christian burial, rather than remain lost, perhaps to be devoured by beasts. It seemed as if an age were passing, but finally, surely enough, I discerned the buildings of the settlement become visible through the trees. Now, wildly, I permitted my hopes to grow greater still, even to the jetty, where others would be found. I persevered. Despair threatened anew, and anew I cast despair away. With each further yard gained I prayed thanks, and I prayed for strength to endure the next. Then, suddenly and wonderfully, I found myself stumbling into clear sight of the sea.

Timothy Renshaw DECEMBER 1857

THERE WAS little enough to do on that shore, while the sun was shining strong, making it warm in a windy way, and after a time, watching the waves and the seabirds, I felt yawning creep upon me. I had a lie-down on the jetty but this was worse than useless, what with the Manxmen forever tramping past with water casks, or kicking up a mighty fuss over the wombat that Brew caught—a foolish-looking creature with vacant eyes—and finally I took myself away to the beach. This was all pebbles, but they were smooth enough, and dry too, so I dug away, till I had made a fine hollow and a kind of pillow too. Stones are awkward, and there was a good deal of adjusting needed, but in the end I had them just about right, and was comfortable so long as I resisted the urge to try and roll over. I was just nodding off nicely, in fact, when I heard footsteps, and suddenly Wilson was shouting fit to wake the dead that he had been bitten by a snake. He looked in a poor way, I must admit. One shoe was gone, causing him to hobble badly, while his trouser leg was torn and the rest of him was spotted with dirt and mud. His face was pale as could be.

‘‘I have not long to live,’’ he faltered.

In a curious way it was all the more shocking because I had always thought him such a bothersome old ninny. There is, I suppose, nothing like a fellow strolling up saying he is about to die to make you feel you should have liked him.

‘‘Where’s the doctor?’’

‘‘I cannot say.’’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘‘I fear, anyway, that it is already far too late. Just take me back to the ship, so I may find peace.’’

It seemed a simple enough request, and yet it proved hardly so. I helped Wilson to the jetty, where Kewley was directing his men, only to find that, though he seemed dismayed by this terrible news, the Captain was hardly very sympathetic.

‘‘But we can’t go now,’’ he complained. ‘‘We ’re still bringing in the water.’’

It seemed a most uncharitable remark, and quite unjustified, however irksome the vicar might have been to him in the past. Wilson took it very ill.

‘‘I fear I shall not last much longer,’’ he moaned, with an accusing look.

Thus reproached the Captain agreed to have us rowed back, if with some reluctance. Nor was this the end of his insensibility. As we were in the midst of our journey, and I was endeavouring to help the stricken man lie comfortably, he insisted on suddenly clambering past us both to the front of the boat, so he might hail whoever was still aboard the Sincerity, bellowing out with increasing impatience until, finally, the steward, Mylchreest, called out a reply. Even when we came alongside the vessel he made no effort to help carry Wilson aboard, but hurried up himself, mumbling something about finding medicine, though he produced nothing beyond a few grubby rags, that he described—most opti-mistically—as bandages.

Though I offered to take the stricken churchman down to his cabin, he insisted on remaining on deck, where, as he put it, he might, ‘‘gaze upon heaven.’’ I did what little I could, carrying up a few pillows to ease his discomfort, and also a pen and paper, which he wanted so he might scribble a few final instructions for the expedition, and soon he was propped up by the mainmast, quite in the manner of Nelson at Trafalgar. By then his face seemed to have regained a little of its colour, and I remarked on this, hoping that it might give him encouragement.

‘‘The darkness may have drawn back a little,’’ he murmured with a brave smile, ‘‘but I fear it will soon return. It is nothing less than a miracle that I have been preserved this long. I can only believe that I may have been looked upon kindly.’’

I felt there must be something that could be done, and began to rack my brains for any recollection of what could overcome the effects of snakebites. ‘‘I have heard that the flesh around the wound should be cut away.’’

Wilson shook his head. ‘‘I fear the poison has already passed within.’’

‘‘Perhaps you should suck it out?’’ suggested the cook, Quayle.

The vicar seemed to look more kindly upon this plan. ‘‘I suppose it might be worth attempting,’’ he declared faintly, moping his brow with a handkerchief

The foot had to be cleaned first, being so dirty that I could not so much as see the wound, so I had Quayle fill up a bucket with fresh water and find a soft piece of cloth. I set to work most carefully, but Wilson— though his look was purest bravery—would wince and utter a kind of squeal at my every dabbing. Matters were not helped by distractions elsewhere upon the deck. The Captain, though he had ordered everyone to keep quiet, so that the churchman might be given some peace, then insisted on noisily rebuking the steward, Mylchreest, in a mixture of English and Manx, for, as it seemed, having been asleep when he should have been keeping watch. Hardly had he finished his denunciation when he began all over again, now bawling at the man over the wombat that had been caught, which had, it seemed, butted its way through the woodwork of the boat in which it had been secured, and had vanished, presumably to swim back to the shore.

‘‘I did hear him thumping,’’ Mylchreest admitted, ‘‘but how could I know he’d smash it so?’’

‘‘If darkness comes upon me,’’ declared the vicar, looking irked by the incessant racket, ‘‘will you promise me two things?’’

‘‘Certainly.’’ By now I had dirt all cleaned away and could see his wounds clearly. I was surprised, in fact, that they were not worse, being little more than a series of tiny cuts, caused, I supposed, by the stones he had walked upon. His foot would have suffered easily, being curiously soft, almost like a woman’s. The bite itself seemed very small. Then again, I supposed, a snake would have only small teeth.

‘‘Firstly, I would like you to seek out my wife, and give her this letter.’’

I was about to attempt sucking the poison from the wound when one of the Manxmen called out, ‘‘There on the jetty. It’s the doctor and his servant.’’

It seemed only wise to wait for the surgeon. The boat was sent at once, and before long Potter was climbing onto the deck, his servant struggling behind him. ‘‘A snakebite?’’ the doctor declared with some interest. ‘‘I cannot say it is a field much known to me, but I will do my best.’’ He took my place by Wilson’s foot. ‘‘Do you have any feeling in the limb?’’

‘‘Very little.’’

I found myself somewhat surprised by the answer, seeing as he had winced and wailed at my every touch.

‘‘Let us try.’’ With this the doctor began a series of pinches, first to the knee, next to the calf and ankle and finally to the foot itself prompting, with each, a faint yelp from his patient. Potter seemed perplexed. ‘‘Did you see what kind of snake it was?’’

‘‘I did not see it at all,’’ his patient answered a little impatiently. ‘‘The creature was concealed in a tree stump. For all I know it might have been some venomous spider. It is nothing less than a miracle that I have endured so long.’’

‘‘I see.’’ Potter now examined the foot. ‘‘There’s no swelling I can see, apart from a few minor bruises. As for the wound itself…’’ He raised the limb so he might look more easily. ‘‘It hardly looks like the work of fangs.’’

By now all the crew were gathered round.

‘‘What then?’’ I asked.

Potter pondered a moment. ‘‘A rodent of some kind?’’ He peered at the foot once more. ‘‘Perhaps some form of mouse.’’

Someone among the ship’s crew let out a faint cackle. I would have joined him, I dare say, had I not felt more than a little resentment at having been induced to show such sympathy. What with the man’s wailing and cries for pillows I quite felt as if I had been cheated. Why, I had very nearly had to suck out the imagined poison.

Wilson, needless to say, insisted that Potter was entirely mistaken.

‘‘The pain was such that it can only have been venom,’’ he declared grandly. ‘‘A man knows well enough when his life is slipping from him.’’ He kept to his line all that day. For several hours, as the ship was made ready, the anchor was weighed and we resumed our journey, he remained slumped on his pillows by the mainmast, while he then bullied the carpenter into making him a stick, with which he raised himself up— with some drama—and began hobbling about, casting reproachful looks. By the next afternoon, however, I observed he allowed himself to walk unaided once again. He kept quiet enough about spiders and snakes after that, as I recall.

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley DECEMBER 1857

AFTER FLINDERS ISLAND the breeze kept steady northerly, pushing us along well enough, and we put a sight on Van Diemen’s Land, or Tasmania, or whatever it was now calling itself just that same evening. A bleak sort of spot it looked, with a long, flat mountain like a wall. The Englishmen all came up on deck to have a good stare, Dr. Potter all jokes and pointing, while the Reverend said hardly a word, being still all in sulks, I supposed, on account of the mauling he’d had from his mouse. I was grateful to the creature, as it happened, as it was the first cheer we’d had since half the crew jumped ship back at Port Phillip. Hardly an hour went by without some chattering in Manx about lonnags—this being the proper shipboard term for mice—especially if the Reverend should be on deck, and it could be done just in front of his own nose.

Early the next morning we rounded a point on the northeastern edge of Tasmania and from there we had a clear run southwards. The breeze was as good as any we’d had since leaving Maldon, keeping light but steady, and coming from nearly straight behind us, nicely warmed by all that Australia it had blown over, and, seeing as the boys could do with a distraction, I decided I might as well give us a see of what the vessel could do. The topsails and mainsails were already spread, and the jibs and such too, but that still left a good deal more, and I had them put out the royals and skysails, which had her leaping nicely. Even then I felt there was more give in her, and, feeling in a mood for venturing, I told the boys to start roving some studdingsails as well. Studdingsails are awkward creatures at the best of times, perching to either side of all the rest like paupers clinging on to a mail coach for a ride, and, the ship jumping along already at a mighty pace, there were nervous looks all round as, one by one, they and their booms were hauled aloft and put into place. Though Brew and Kinvig never said a word, they both looked as if they were expecting sails to go bursting into streamers and yards to snap like matchwood any moment. I’d judged the breeze well enough, though, and while the spars were straining forward almost like trees in a gale, everything held. The crew even let out a little cheer.

It was the first time we’d had the Sincerity under full sail and she looked a fine sight. Snub-nosed though she was, she quite jumped from wave to wave, almost as if she might fly away completely, while the sea roared beneath her bows and washed over her fo’c’sle like a proper river. I had two men at the wheel just to hold her steady, and even then one of them was nearly flung sprawling half across the deck. The wind keeping even, I kept her so through the day and that night too, and we made better speed than any dirty steamship. The next morning the breeze began to back round westerly a scran, so I thought it best to go more carefully, bringing down the studdingsails. It was just as the boys were doing this, in fact, that Potter stepped up on deck with his questioning look.

‘‘It’s probably nothing, Captain, but there’s a peculiar noise in the cabin. It may seem strange but it sounds almost as if it’s coming from the timbers of the hull.’’

As soon as I heard those words ‘‘timbers of the hull’’ I smelt trouble. All at once I was regretting I’d thought to push the Sincerity so, and I was imagining casks shaken loose from their stacking, thumping and rasping. ‘‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’’ I told him, as cheerily as I could manage, giving a wave to Brew that I was going below. ‘‘But I’ll have a see.’’

Down in their cabin the Reverend was sat on his cot reading some theological book, looking far too grand to be troubled by noises, and he hardly paid me a glance, being still in sulks over his mouse. Renshaw, though, had been well caught by the mystery, and was crouching by the wall to listen.

‘‘I heard it just a moment ago.’’

I took my place next to him. The vessel was still jumping pretty wild and I feared I’d hear the casks grating nicely, but there was nothing. I began to hope the whole thing might be nothing more than English windiness.

‘‘There it is,’’ Renshaw declared proudly. ‘‘It’s definitely below us, and right by the hull.’’

Only after some careful listening did I catch it. A curious noise it was besides, being like nothing so much as a faint scratching.

‘‘D’you think it could be some kind of tropical beetle that’s devouring the timbers?’’ wondered Potter.

‘‘I’d be surprised.’’ I was as puzzled as he was. I didn’t know much about warm water creepers, but the wood was clean as could be, with not a hole. Worms would leave their mark.

Renshaw laughed. ‘‘It almost sounds as if there’s some great creature down there scratching at his fleas.’’

I laughed with him, giving out a proper merry cackle, as the terrible thought came to me. ‘‘I’m sure it’s nothing to be troubled over,’’ I told them, as calm as I could manage. ‘‘Probably it’s just caused by the sea flowing past the ship’s side.’’

‘‘Difficult currents?’’ asked Potter.

For a moment, and a bad one it was, I thought he had seen it all, every last bit, but no, he was serious. Truly, there’s no overestimating the foolishness of Englishmen, especially brainy ones like these. There was a moment to breathe careful and be grateful. ‘‘That’s right. Those currents,’’ I coaxed, and they both nodded, tame as kittens.

After that all I could do was wait as quietly as I could manage. I bided my time through the afternoon, trying not to scare myself with thoughts of beastly yowls suddenly sounding out from the Sincerity’s side. At dinner I made sure the Englishmen didn’t linger by driving them out with dullness, chattering with Brew about how much things cost in Peel City till I was half asleep myself Even then it seemed half an age before they finally went. I waited till I could hear snoring, then set to work. Brew stayed on deck minding the ship, while I took Mylchreest to help, and Kinvig too. So I gave a pull to that certain piece of cord above the door to the pantry, banging a few jars as I did so to hide the noise. Next there was that particular loose panel at the back of the storeroom, and the cables just behind. After that I had Kinvig take his place on the steps to keep watch, just in case any passengers started straying. Finally I swung open the trapdoor beneath the bust of Queen Victoria, took up the lamp and peered in.

There, sure enough, a dozen yards off was the wombit creature, scrinching up his eyes at the light. He must have tramped down when Mylchreest was snoring, and thought the open door was a handsome new burrow. He’d made a kind of nest for himself all out of tobacco bales, and looked as if he’d even been eating tobacco besides. As for his place, he could hardly have judged it more neatly, as I guessed it must be clean beneath the Reverend’s berth. Startled by the light, he shrank back into his nest, making a rustling sound, scandalous loud. That was enough to have me close the panel again quick.

It was a tidy little problem. If we left him there it would surely be only a matter of time before he started making some noise that would cause even those dawds of Englishmen to wonder. If we stepped in and tried to catch him, though, there’d be so much din that we might as well just call the passengers into my cabin to take a look for themselves.

‘‘I suppose we could try and get him out sometime in the day, when the Englishmen are all on deck,’’ suggested Kinvig.

It was hardly safe. ‘‘There’d be no certainty they’d stay up there. Especially if the creature turned to screeching and such.’’

‘‘Perhaps we should just hang on till we reach Hobart,’’ said Mylchreest. ‘‘It’s not so far now.’’

That seemed worse still. ‘‘What about the customs? They’re sure to give us a search, while if they hear scratching through the timbers that’ll be the finish of us.’’ Their notions were useful in a way, there being nothing like listening to nonsense to help you know your own mind. ‘‘What we want is a nice quiet spot where we can drop anchor for a day or two and send the Englishmen landwards, like we did at Flinders.’’

Kinvig was still worrying. ‘‘They won’t like that. Wilson kicked up a mighty fuss at our stopping there.’’

‘‘He’ll keep quiet if he thinks the ship might start sinking under him,’’ I told him. ‘‘Potter thinks we’ve got creepers in the timbers. D’you know,

I think he might just be right after all, and proper perilous creepers they are besides. Yes, to my mind we’d best drop anchor and have a search.’’

I had Mylchreest bring out the chart, and, spreading this out on the table and having a careful look, I couldn’t help but feel that luck was finally coming our way. There, just a few miles off from our course, was a little harbour, looking sheltered as could be. As for settlements there was none marked for many miles, the spot being stuck away at the end of a large peninsula shaped like a great flailing hand.

‘‘That’ll do, nice as nip. I’ll set us a course.’’

Timothy Renshaw DECEMBER 1857

AT SOME EARLY HOUR of the morning I was woken by the loud thump of a boat running along the Sincerity’s side, followed by boots stamping on the deck. As if not already enough, this at once inspired Potter and Wilson to clump from their beds and begin noisily pulling on their clothes. I persevered even then, being no slave to curiosity, and reasoning that if it were anything of importance I would find out soon enough, while if it were something terrible—perhaps some band of Tas-manian pirates—I might as well preserve my ignorance as long as possible. I pulled the pillow carefully over my head, so that both ears were covered but I could still breathe freely—this being no easy thing to get exactly right—and had just begun to doze off nicely when the anchor was dropped. There was, in truth, no more agitating thing the Sincerity could conspire to do a poor fellow than this, with its huge clanking roar, causing all to judder and creak, and so, drowsiness being now quite smashed out of me, I resigned myself to rising for the day. A curious scene I found as I emerged onto the deck. A dozen red-coated soldiers were stood about, leaning on their long guns as soldiers will, while their officer was engaged in talking—or more precisely shout-ing—at Captain Kewley. ‘‘I really find that very hard to believe.’’

Kewley looked far from happy, though he endeavoured to throw off a grin. ‘‘It’s every word of it true, Lieutenant, so it is.’’

Glancing at the shore, I wondered for a moment if we had reached Hobart, though it was surely too soon. Facing us across a little narrow bay was a settlement, and a considerable one besides. Though it was easily large enough to be a town, still it did not somehow seem quite right, and, looking more carefully, I realized there was hardly a single house, but only what seemed to be dozens of sheds or workshops. In the centre stood a huge stone building with row upon row of large square windows, resembling some textile mill. The whole place, indeed, resembled nothing so much as a kind of military manufacturing town.

‘‘Where is this?’’ I asked Kinvig, who was standing just nearby, looking subdued.

‘‘Port Arthur.’’

I suppose I should have guessed. I now discerned the soldiers strutting about the shore, and the bands of hunched convicts in their dismal uniforms. I looked with new curiosity upon this place, whose name was so grimly familiar, seeming nothing less than a description of harshness and retribution. Port Arthur: two words that had been usefully employed by scores of mothers on the other side of the earth to threaten misbehaving children.

Captain Kewley, I now saw, was holding what I saw to be a map of Tasmania. ‘‘Here we are,’’ he declared, pointing at some part of the chart, which was flapping in the breeze. ‘‘See? There’s nothing marked at all.’’

The officer was unimpressed. ‘‘You mean to say you’ve been setting a course to this?’’

‘‘It’s done us well enough till now.’’ Kewley seemed quite put out.

The officer gave him a diminishing sort of look. ‘‘I think you had better come ashore, so you may explain yourself to the commandant.’’

That had Wilson started. ‘‘I cannot believe this is really necessary, Lieutenant. May I remind you that this expedition is of the greatest importance, and our time is short.’’

Captain Kewley beamed. The appeal, however, seemed to have the opposite effect to that intended. ‘‘Very well,’’ declared the officer briefly. ‘‘You may come along too.’’

I found myself included in this invitation. It was not as if I had done anything wrong, and yet it was hard not to feel a certain apprehension as we were rowed towards the shore of this great engine of punishment, watchful soldiers for company. Though we had not been arrested, nor anything like, we seemed hardly free either, being quite marched along beside the yellow-coloured beach. I could not help but feel some sympathy, indeed, for those miscreants who had found themselves suddenly gripped by the scruff of their necks, and deposited in this terrible place.

The establishment’s commanding officer was all beard and curled military moustache. ‘‘The fact is that we’re not normally honoured with unexpected visitors,’’ he informed us dryly. ‘‘My curiosity being so greatly aroused, I hope you’ll not object if we conduct a little search of your ship.’’

Captain Kewley did object. ‘‘But where’s the need? It’s not as if anybody’d try to sneak something into a prison town like this.’’

The commanding officer gave him a puzzled look. ‘‘What might be brought in is not our concern, so much as what might be taken out. Or rather who.’’ He regarded us with a kind of warning nonchalance. ‘‘The search will only take an hour or two. Unless, of course, something of interest should be found.’’

Rather than have us pass our time idly waiting, he arranged for the three of us—Kewley being intent on overseeing the Sincerity’s search—to be given a tour of the settlement, under the guidance of a brisk-looking fellow in spectacles named Captain James. I was briefly drawn to the grim prospect, but soon found my curiosity vanquished. The establishment was simply too monstrous. As we passed among the sheds and barracks, I found myself unwillingly glancing upon one terrible sight after another: now a gang of convicts, their looks hardened and even jaunty with hatred, and their ankles marked with black sores where their shackles had bit; next a man quietly engaged in cleaning buckets, his torn shirt revealing a mighty pattern of scars upon his back.

Matters were not helped by Captain James. He had, judging by his fluent patter, conducted a good number of parties about the settlement, and seemed to be enjoying his task. The details of every building, every process of punishment, appeared to inspire in him the kind of satisfaction that a collector of butterflies might show at the sight of his display of catches, each pinned neatly in its place. ‘‘There is the penitentiary,’’ he declared with comfortable monotony. ‘‘It was converted only recently from being a granary, and is the largest building in Port Arthur, being also built of stone. To the right we can see the triangles, used to secure prisoners during punishment, while behind them…’’

Curiously enough, my two colleagues of the expedition seemed far less affected by the cruelties all around than I. From time to time Wilson would murmur, ‘‘Such a shame,’’ and other pious sentiments, but mostly he appeared not greatly interested. As for Potter, he seemed to be enjoying himself listening to Captain James’s description with cheerful attention, and frequently offering questions.

‘‘Has any attempt been made to study the physical features of the criminals here? Or likewise their origins?’’

‘‘Not that I am aware of’’ Captain James preferred to keep to his established chatter. He pointed to a long, low building we were approaching. ‘‘This is the Separate Prison, which is often of interest to visitors.’’

Potter was not so easily discouraged. ‘‘You may even have noticed some tendencies yourself Are there any particular crimes, perhaps, that are peculiar to Scotsmen? Or Irishmen? Or foreigners perhaps?’’

‘‘I fear I am not the one to ask,’’ the captain told him brightly. Having reached a low stone building of elegant design, he opened a door and led the way into a long stone corridor. All was silent except for a curious whimpering, emanating from the furthest end. ‘‘The Separate Prison,’’ our guide explained in a lowered voice, quite as if we had entered a church, ‘‘houses convicts who require further punishment. It is, if you like, a prisoners’ prison. It is a most modern establishment and employs the very latest methods of moral reformation. No physical punishment of any kind is used here.’’

It was a relief to hear this after all I had seen before. My only puzzle was why every convict did not take refuge in this place, where they might escape the lash.

‘‘This has never been a difficulty.’’ Captain James seemed a little surprised by my question. ‘‘In fact the Separate Prison is much feared.’’

I soon began to understand why. As he led us forward, two officers stepped into view, suddenly and quite silently. A little surprised, I realized that both of them were wearing not shoes but some form of slippers, almost as if they were intending to enjoy some restful Sunday morning. They paused to unlock one of the thick metal doors that lined the corridor and, glancing within, one of them called out, as I was surprised to note, not a name but a number.

‘‘Seventeen?’’

From the cell there emerged a man clothed in a grey uniform, a large brass badge sewn onto the jacket displaying the number by which he had just been addressed. No less curious was the covering he wore over his face, which concealed his features so completely that nothing remained visible but his eyes. These twitched strangely in our direction as he was led past.

‘‘He’s being taken out to one of the exercise yards,’’ the captain whispered contentedly. ‘‘There are four of these, and in size they are…’’

I was beginning to loathe the sound of his voice, which made me think of railway timetables. ‘‘What is the mask for?’’ I interrupted.

He regarded me with something like pique. ‘‘I was just coming to that, Mr. Renshaw.’’ He turned to Potter, who was now clearly established as his favourite listener. ‘‘The mask prevents prisoners from recognizing one another. The system keeps each man wholly separate from the others’ influence, so that their previous, criminal natures may be gradually erased. As you may have observed, even the men’s names are not used, and they are referred to only by the numbers of their cells. By keeping them always alone and silent in this way, it is ensured that they are exposed to none but improving influences.’’

It was, in effect, a life of perpetual solitary confinement. After a few weeks here, I imagined, even a beating would seem like welcome socia-bleness.

‘‘The convicts are given work to do in their cells so they may learn industry, while the chaplain and schoolmaster visit on occasion to provide morality and learning.’’ Captain James pushed open a heavy door. ‘‘In addition they are each of them brought here five times a week for their religious improvement.’’

It was like no chapel I had ever seen before. The area of the congregation sloped steeply, in the manner of a surgery theatre, and was divided into row upon row of tiny wooden stalls, each of them just large enough to contain one standing man, and separated from its neighbours by doors.

‘‘The stalls ensure that each worshipper can see nobody except for the chaplain, while he has a view of them all,’’ Captain James explained with satisfaction.

‘‘How very ingenious.’’ Wilson appeared quite taken with the place, looking with thoughtfulness towards the lectern. ‘‘The preacher must find he has a most attentive congregation.’’

Potter was more practical. ‘‘Has the system proved successful in reforming the men?’’

‘‘That is still too early to say. Some of the prisoners have proved distressingly obdurate.’’

‘‘I imagine there have at least been no escapes.’’

‘‘There has been one,’’ Captain James admitted, causing surprise to us all. ‘‘It appears it was devised in this very room, and that the prisoners sang their plans to one another during the hymns. They were all captured in the end, of course, while measures have been taken to prevent such a thing from occurring again.’’

It was curious to think of these men, who had not seen one another’s faces for weeks or months, singing their plot to invisible neighbours. For all the wickedness they may have committed it was hard not to feel sympathy for their wish to escape such remorseless solitude.

‘‘How were they punished?’’ wondered Potter.

‘‘We have a pair of chambers known as the dumb cells,’’ our guide explained happily. ‘‘Their walls are of great thickness and they have a series of metal doors, so that no light or sound can pass within. A convict can scream and shout for as long as he likes for all the good it will do him. Just a few days there has a remarkable effect on even the hardest of them.’’ He led us back into the corridor, with its sound of faint whimpering.

‘‘What is that crying?’’ I asked.

‘‘That will be one of the lunatics.’’ A rare frown passed across the captain’s face. ‘‘Really they shouldn’t be here at all, as they quite spoil the silence, but I suppose they must be housed somewhere. They have grown so greatly in numbers of late.’’

‘‘Where are they from?’’ I asked.

‘‘As it happens, quite a goodly proportion were formerly convicts of the Separate Prison.’’ Captain James led us along the corridor towards the whimpering sound, which I now realized was accompanied by a number of faint scratchings, clickings and murmurings, all muffled by the thick metal doors. ‘‘Sometimes they are noisier even than this. It really is a great shame.’’

All at once the vicar, who had been looking through one of the peepholes in the cell doors, uttered a kind of delighted laugh. ‘‘Renshaw, do come and look.’’

It was the first time he had seemed so cheerful since the business of the mouse bite and, curious, I peered in as he urged. In a corner of the cell sat a thickset man with the most intense and staring eyes, though he seemed to be regarding nothing but the empty wall directly opposite. As I watched, he reached out with his hand and, without warning, slapped the plaster beside him, as if some bothersome insect were there—though I had seen none—then resuming his perfect stillness. It was not this, however, that was most noticeable about the man.

‘‘Dr. Potter,’’ called out Wilson, ‘‘I do believe we have found your long-lost twin.’’

He was quite right. For all the man’s dark-coloured skin and black, lank hair, the likeness he bore to the surgeon was little less than remarkable: his face was of the same shape, while he held himself in the same somewhat stooped way. The stubble on his chin seemed to mimic the doctor’s beard, and even in his fixed stare there was a curious resemblance of expression.

Potter was far from taken with the discovery. ‘‘He looks nothing at all like me,’’ he insisted crossly.

Wilson would not let him go so easily. ‘‘Who is this man?’’

‘‘He is known as Black O’Donnell,’’ Captain James told him in his usual monotone. ‘‘He has, as I recall, quite unusual origins, being part Irish and part native Maori. He was held in the separate system for some time before being declared insane.’’

‘‘What were his crimes?’’

‘‘I would have to examine the records to be sure, but I believe he bludgeoned his father and uncle almost to death.’’

The vicar smirked delightedly. ‘‘You must admit, Doctor, that there is a strong likeness. Are you sure he is not some forgotten cousin?’’

Potter regarded him with coolness. ‘‘If you will only look carefully, Vicar, you will realize there is no real likeness at all, but merely a superficial similarity, or trick of the eye. Besides, I have not a single Irish relative, let alone any among Maoris.’’

A glint came into Wilson’s eye. ‘‘Of course, it is possible to be misled as to one’s forebears.’’

It was a most poisonous remark, and all the more so for the innocent way in which it was said: if he had spat it out with feeling I believe it would almost have sounded kinder. For a moment I quite wondered if Potter might strike out at the man, but instead he simply turned away, breathing somewhat heavily. Having, as it seemed, regained control of himself he then turned to regard his persecutor afresh.

‘‘It would, I think, be altogether more useful to examine the matter from a scientific approach, rather than waste one’s time with foolish half-observation.’’ He stepped back with determination towards the man’s cell. ‘‘If you will permit me, Vicar, I will provide you with a little study of this man’s cranial features. Afterwards I will do the same for my own self and’’—a thoughtful look passed across his face—‘‘also you yourself Vicar.’’

I was anticipating some form of extended insult to the churchman—a prospect which, I will admit, I regarded with some curiosity—but it was not to be. Potter applied his eye to the peephole for some time, then declared in an irritated voice, ‘‘Where has he gone?’’

‘‘I think,’’ said Captain James quickly, ‘‘that you would be wise to step back from the door.’’

‘‘Whyever should I?’’ the doctor demanded crossly, peering still into the cell.

The answer, as it happened, was only too near at hand. Potter jumped back with a howl, clutching at his eye. ‘‘He jabbed me with his finger.’’

Captain James hurried across to help him. ‘‘He’ll get the dumb cells for that, lunatic or no,’’ our guide insisted, full of apology.

From the cell I heard another slow slap upon the wall. I could only suppose that Black O’Donnell had grown weary of being so discussed by strangers. Nor, in truth, could I blame him.

Captain James insisted that Dr. Potter visit the prison hospital but, fortunately, a brief inspection of his eye was enough to confirm that no lasting injury had been caused, though he was provided with a piratical eye patch. It was then that, to my relief, a messenger brought us news that the search of the Sincerity was now complete, the vessel was preparing to depart, and so our tour was at an end.

‘‘I must say I found it a most interesting visit,’’ declared the vicar in a goading voice, as we walked back beside the little yellow beach. Potter scowled from behind his eye patch. If the spirits of one became raised, then those of the other would immediately fall, quite as if they were joined, like the poles of a seesaw. As we stood on the shore, waiting for the Sincerity’s boat, I found myself wondering if it was usual for expeditions of discovery to suffer such poisonous clashes, caused perhaps by the confinement of space, or the nature of the personalities drawn to such ventures. Had Captain Cook been grumpy and complaintive? Had Columbus found constant fault with his Spaniards’ table manners? Mutinies seemed suddenly comprehensible to me, and I was surprised, indeed, that they did not occur all the time.

‘‘What do they think they are doing?’’ complained Potter angrily, discharging a little of his discontent. ‘‘They must have seen us by now.’’

It was true that we had been waiting some little time, though several crewmen were clearly visible upon the deck and should have noticed us waving and calling out.

‘‘Hallo there!’’ called out Potter once again.

It was from another quarter that help came. A skiff containing several soldiers had, as we waited, been passing back and forth between the vessel and the shore—I supposed to discourage convicts from trying to swim their way to liberty—and its commander now took up our cause, hailing the Sincerity in the strongest terms. This proved encouragement enough, and in a moment some of the Manxmen clambered into the ship’s boat and were rowing, if unhurriedly, in our direction.

‘‘Why on earth didn’t you come before?’’ demanded Potter when they reached the shore.

‘‘Ah, but we didn’t see you,’’ chief mate Brew replied, in that peculiarly Manx fashion, at once evasive and yet somehow confiding, as if one were being entrusted with lies. As we took our places and set off the rowers could hardly have contrived to dip the oars into the water more sluggishly, as if they were not endeavouring to propel us so much as gently stroke the depths.

‘‘I’ll go up first and give you a hand,’’ offered Brew as we reached the ship’s side, though he did not help us so much as obstruct with his fussing. When I finally clambered past him onto the deck, I at once became aware of a most curious din rising up from belowdecks, as if some violent game of chase were being played in the cabins.

‘‘What’s that?’’

Brew shrugged. ‘‘Must be the Captain looking for beetles, like you wanted.’’

It seemed hardly the sound for such an activity. Before I could consider the matter further, however, the noise grew suddenly louder and, greatly to my surprise, there leapt onto the deck a wombat—just like the one that had been caught upon Flinders Island—hotly pursued by Captain Kewley and several of the crewmen. They struggled to catch the animal, though this proved by no means easy, as, in spite of his short legs, the creature was quite ingenious at eluding his pursuers, now suddenly changing his direction, now dodging beneath the keel of one of the boats. Just when it appeared he was finally trapped he crashed his way between two of the Manxmen and, uttering a strange grunting sound, hurled himself over the ship’s side. As we hurried by the rail, he could be seen paddling patiently towards an emptier part of the shore.

‘‘Wherever did it come from?’’ demanded Potter.

‘‘The creature?’’ asked the Captain slowly, as if he might have been referring to something else entirely. ‘‘That I wouldn’t know.’’ He turned away, ordering the crew to begin raising the anchor.

‘‘But you must have seen,’’ I insisted.

‘‘Ah, he’ll have been hiding himself somewhere,’’ suggested Brew thoughtfully. ‘‘Probably our checking for the beetles woke him up.’’

‘‘It seems strange that the search party never found him,’’ observed Potter.

Kewley simply shrugged. ‘‘That’s creatures for you.’’