CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Timothy Renshaw
JANUARY–MARCH 1858

SO HERE I WAS, bruised and broken, just below the summit of some unknown Tasmanian mountain. At least I was on the leeward side, so the wind hardly troubled me, though it was still badly cold at night and when the rain fell.

Despite Cromwell’s warning words I found it hard to believe the others would not return for me, and I was constantly listening for the sound of approaching footfalls. As days passed, my disappointment grew, then turned to sudden fits of anger, though at other moments I would imagine them loyally striding back to the settled districts so they might collect together a rescue party. Often and again I attempted to calculate how many days this would take them, though my guesses were different each time, being sooner when I felt in a good mood, and later when I was caught by gloominess.

The longer I was alone, the harder it became. I found myself often chattering to myself in a solitary way, and I greatly looked forward to the chance appearance of wild creatures, as even the native wolves seemed a kind of company. A pair of these soon stole by, just as Cromwell had predicted—strange loping creatures with dark stripes on their rumps— though fortunately they seemed shy of me, being only concerned with the mules. Wallabies would sometimes come bounding through the trees, and I had regular dusk-time visits by a wombat that would rummage through the vegetation and stop, regarding my tent with blank eyes, then amble away. Less cautious were the possums, with their curious little heads, that appeared at night when I cooked my dinner, which they would steal if I turned my back for a moment. I coveted all, thieving or otherwise. Having food enough, I never thought of using the spears Cromwell had left.

The passing days had at least one use, healing my injuries. I found myself able to walk about my tent ever more easily, though I never strayed far, having a great fear that the others would arrive and I should miss them. All the while my chatter to myself became more drawn to the dilemma before me. “The evenings are drawing in. It’s hard to say without a watch but I’d swear it’s no later than six-thirty and already the sun is setting. The nights are feeling colder, too. The longer I stay, the harder it will be for me to reach safety, that’s certain. But what if they are coming to rescue me after all? Why, they could be climbing up the mountainside this very moment. That is, if they haven’t just turned tail and left me for dead. Rotten, treacherous scum. But I cannot believe they would do such a thing as…”

So I would go on, round and again, and each time I was a fraction closer to making the hard decision to leave. Finally one afternoon I began assembling what I would need for my journey. The weight of it came as a shock. The tent seemed deliberately contrived to be heavy, with its thick canvas and clumsy wooden frame, while even the pots of food, though each was light in itself added up to a proper burden. Nor did it help that everything had to be carried in a mule bag, whose straps were all wrong. In the end I decided I could not manage a whole tent but would take only a wide strip of canvas that I would rig up from trees. I took food to last me about ten days, which I hoped would be enough.

I set off early the next morning, clutching the spears that Cromwell had left me, my legs still stiff from my injuries. Several times in those first few yards I stopped, listening, in the hope that I might, even now, hear the others approaching, but the only sound was the breeze blowing the tops of the trees and the faint murmur of insects. Hurling a few foul names into the wind, I turned my back on my lonely home for the last time and went on my way. Cromwell’s directions were invaluable, and though the going was not easy—beginning with a mighty scrabble down the mountainside—I soon found the path he had described, which I began following southwards. On the second day I reached the curious skull-shaped peak that he had talked of which I kept to the east of just as he had said I must. By the third day the land began to grow less wild, and I felt my spirits revive. I even laughed at my earlier nervousness about setting out, as it seemed it would be no great hardship to find my way to safety.

I dare say one should never think such thoughts. It was that same afternoon that I missed my step and grazed my knee. I cleaned the wound in the river and considered it nothing more than an inconvenience. The next day, however, it began to throb, then to swell, and with time it became so painful that I was obliged to make a crude crutch from a tree branch to help me walk. My progress was greatly slowed, till one morning I woke to find myself feverish, so I could not get up from beneath my poor canvas shelter, and I remained there all day, fitfully sleeping. At dusk I was woken by a rustling in the undergrowth and saw one of the native wolves was stood nearby, regarding me with patient interest. Clambering to my feet, I hurled one of Peevay’s spears in the creature’s direction, and though my aim was wide indeed, it scampered away. The incident scared me into faint strength and I managed to build a fire, which I made as large as I could, shaping it into a kind of line, in the hope the burning would slowly move, and so last through the night.

At some early hour of that same morning, I came awake, or so I thought. There, stood watching the flames, which were grown very faint now, were my parents and my older brother.

‘‘He has built it very poorly,’’ remarked my father, poking at the ashes with his umbrella. ‘‘He should have found more wood, really he should. I cannot think it will last much longer.’’

‘‘He always was a lazy boy,’’ agreed my mother with a shake of her head.

‘‘If he is eaten, which I suppose he will be, then it shall be entirely his own fault.’’

My mother glanced towards my brother. ‘‘If only Jeremy had made the fire.’’

My brother, though evidently content with this remark, merely shrugged. ‘‘I would have tried my best, Mama, that is all I can say.’’

‘‘You are too modest, child,’’ declared my mother approvingly.

All at once I felt something welling up inside, like a kind of sickness. ‘‘I renounce you, d’you hear?’’ I shouted out. ‘‘I renounce you all. Now just leave me be.’’

The three of them regarded me with looks of surprise, even indignation. Then, one by one, they turned their backs and walked away into the trees.

I came awake and found dawn was breaking, while, to my great satisfaction, the fire was burning quite well. Though I was still feverish I felt a little better, and strong enough to raise myself up with my crutch. I had not been walking long and had covered no great distance when, stepping from some trees, I was amazed to find myself being stared at by a sheep. It was one of a large flock, and when I took a step towards them they all turned and fled together, like so many startled birds. I yelled and shouted for joy. Though my leg seemed somehow more painful now that I believed I was saved, I pressed on, and before long I came upon a wide dusty track, marvelously scored with marks of horseshoes, some looking wondrously recent. Climbing a low rise, I saw a wooden house, half hidden among trees, smoke trailing from its chimney. Dropping the mule bag, I hobbled forward, until, uttering a kind of giggle, I pushed open a gate and found myself in a garden, all brightest colours, such as I had hardly looked upon for all these many weeks.

How strange it was, though. Everywhere I looked, you see—on walls, atop stones and stood upon the lawn—were winged angels, dozens of them, all regarding me with smiling grey faces.

Dr. Thomas Potter
FEBRUARY 1858

The Destiny of Nations
Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men

The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being savagery, he has no thought beyond preserving himself for the next few moments. His is a mind empty of any comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and he is content to live his primitive and dreary existence, running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few days longer. As such he may be pitied the terrible fate that awaits him…

The Destiny of Nations
Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men (correction)

The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being barbarism, he has no comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and yet he cannot be regarded as harmless. His dreary existence may seem innocence it-self—running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few hours longer—and yet a closer examination will reveal a very different truth. Do not underestimate the savage, for though he lacks any faculty of reasoned thought, he is possessed of a brutish cunning. Worse, he is filled with a malevolent envy of those of races who have—in a fashion incomprehensible to him-self—developed the wondrous fruits of civilization. In Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand—and doubtless soon also Africa—the recent history of the Black Type has been one of swift and calamitous decline, even to the point of near-extinction, and in consequence it has become fashionable, in certain intellectualist and sentimentalist circles, to regard the dark-skinned races of this earth with feelings of pity: they are perceived as the victims of cruelest circumstance, suffering at the hands of unfeeling conquerors. Such a view, though doubtless well-intentioned, is dangerously misleading. The truth is that the Black Type, by reason of his flawed and dangerous nature, is largely the author of his own unhappy lot.

No finer instance of this truth can be provided than by that most diminished of nations, the aborigines of Tasmania. This sorry tribe has, ever since the island was brought within the fold of the civilized world, been widely acknowledged as representing the very lowest of all the races—or species—of men, being bereft of the most rudimentary skills, including even knowledge of agriculture, so it may be regarded as holding a place midway between humankind and the animal kingdom. In spite of this lamentable state of advancement, the aborigines’ British rulers have displayed great compassion towards their new charges, such sentimentalism being a rare and charming weakness of the Saxon Type (see Chapter Two above). The colonial government made every attempt to improve those blacks who were captured, and to lead them from idleness to civilized ways. One might suppose these efforts would have been received with gratitude, but no, the aborigines showed themselves nothing less than contemptuous of the goodly teaching given them, and, beneath a thin veneer of civilized conduct, they remained quite as savage as before. Even now those few who are left are capable of every form of deceitfulness, violence (even murder) and theft of valuable property.

Such behaviour has all but exhausted the patience even of the kindly and sentimental Saxon, who—though it is not his nature to feel belligerence—will never shrink from righteous defence of himself and his possessions. There can be little doubt that when there begins the Great Conflagration of Nations, the Black Type will number among the very first nations to perish, and while it is in the heart of men to find sadness in any such occurrence, it may be considered that such an outcome is not without justice.

The Norman Type may by his cunning survive a little longer, but will meet a like fate. The Norman’s power is drawn from his stolen seat at the centre of affairs—notably his control of land, title and church—and from his ability to dazzle his Saxon better with the empty spectacle of tradition. Such a state of affairs will not long continue. With every passing day the credulity of the honest Saxon is subtly diminished. With every hour he sees more clearly the empty arrogance. the perversion of godliness that calls itself ‘‘noble.’’ One bright morning the Saxon will awake from his slumber and find his eyes opened to the mighty fraud committed upon him and, with one mighty blow, his strong arms will rend asunder the shackles that have bound him thus, casting into oblivion the parasitical lords and priests who have fed from his industry for these eight hundred years.

The Celtic Type, by contrast, will endure, though his station will be a humble one. The dominating characteristics of the Celt may be idleness and deceit yet he is not beyond the realms of reason, being generally possessed of a most useful instinct of obedience. It is, indeed, his very failings—his irresolution, his awe of his mightier and cleverer fellows—that will permit him to be preserved. His role will be as a servitor to the Saxon, whether he is waiting at his table, marching in his armies or labouring in his fields, his mills and his ships upon the ocean. The connection between the Saxon and Celt will thus be one of mutual advantage: a form of compact between superior and inferior, master and slave.

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
APRIL 1858

THE MARKS I’D scratched on the wall told their story, and a low, rotten story it was too. Twelve weeks and more we’d been sailing. Twelve weeks locked below in my own vessel, and, worse, put there by a passenger I’d troubled to rescue from his own foolish dying. Twelve weeks of knowing that muck was strutting about the quarterdeck—my quarterdeck—like it was his own. Why, it was like watching some stranger sneak his fingers up my Ealisad’s skirts clean before my very eyes. Here was a fine piece of gratitude. I should have left him on that shore to starve, so I should.

The wind had been mostly fair and I reckoned we must be almost at Cape Horn by now, or halfway back to Potter’s England, as I supposed must be our destination. There was a pretty thought, and one I hardly could believe. Brew should have seized the vessel seventeen times over by now, in a mighty rush of Manxmen. Why, he could have caused a fine bit of havoc just by doing nothing—which any Manxman can do easier than kicking—as Potter and his three fritlags wouldn’t have been able to sail the Sincerity two yards by themselves. For a while I supposed he must just be biding his time and waiting his moment, but as days passed it grew harder. The Reverend and me were taken on deck every morning and evening for our visit to the heads—Skeggs and Hodges jabbing us on our way with their rifles—and each time I’d throw scrutineering looks at Brew and the rest of them, watching for a Manx wink or two in return. I got hardly a stare. Well, that sort of thing will set a man to thinking, and I often found myself recalling that old Peel saying, Never trust a Brew at the Fair. Or I remembered the little fritlag’s countenance that morning in Melbourne, when he’d been weighing up which would pay him better: to stay aboard in the hope of catching his share or to turn traitor and join those runaway dirts looking for gold. Wouldn’t it just be my luck if that sleetch was looking to drop all the blame on me—just like Potter had coaxed—and had carried the rest of those useless blebs with him.

A proper lawyer’s feast we’d make, for sure, if Potter got us back to his England, with passengers playing mutineer aboard a smuggling boat, and all those skulls and bones besides. How would that play before some crab of a London judge? On the one side there’d be Dr. Potter, educated Englishman, with his three creatures and a boatload of turncoat Manxmen. On the other there’d be Captain Kewley, proud owner of a smuggling vessel, and his fine friend the gibbering vicar, who was turning more crazed by the hour. All in all I could guess who’d be served up on a plate for a long spell in gaol.

That sort of thing will work on a man’s mind, and it got so that I was sore tempted to try and make trouble even just by myself, as anything seemed better than just sitting waiting day after day. After a week Potter finally allowed us to have cots to sleep on, rather than just raw floor timbers, and I took a board from mine and had a try at forcing the door. The bolts were strong, though, while the Reverend wouldn’t help, being all in a huff now he’d found out I’d been trading in that certain rum and tobacco (I think he was worried my sinfulness might all rub off on him and catch him dirty looks from his fine friend the deity), and though I tried once and again I couldn’t even force the board through the doorframe to get leverage. Worse, my work left scars on the woodwork that Skeggs noticed. This brought a visit from Potter, who gave me his snurly look and had Christian fix three more bolts to the door. Our cots were taken away, so we had to sleep on floorboards again, which had the Reverend scowling seven times over. That was the end of my escaping for the while, as the door was fast as iron, while Skeggs and Hodges were careful as lawyers when they came with our food, standing well back when they pulled open the door and not coming inside till they’d had a good sight of us both looking harmless.

So I had the pleasure of Reverend Wilson’s company, and by the weekload. That fellow really was the end. Why, I do believe I’d have forgiven Potter his ship stealing if only he’d been kind enough to fling the old article quietly overboard. The man just wouldn’t stop. There I’d be, having myself a fine old time counting nails in the timbers, or listening to some interesting sound, you know, just to pass the time, when up he’d start again, wittering fit to rob a man of reason. His favourite was praying, and there wasn’t a thing under the sun the old fool wouldn’t pray for, from ‘‘the souls of our persecutors’’ to ‘‘hope in this darkest hour.’’ Worst was when he prayed for me, as he’d make all kinds of little dirty snipes as he did so, saying how he forgave me for running the brandy, and even for my snoring in the night, which I’m sure I never did. There’s few things worse than being forgiven, as you never have a chance of answering back, and if I tried to defend myself he’d just turn all sanity and never-minding. Besides, there were times when I could have done with the odd prayer myself things being how they were, but I never had a chance with him droning away day and night. It was as if he’d hogged God all for himself

His other delight was to start fights with Hodges and Skeggs. This was pure showiness—not to myself naturally, but to his friend up in heaven—and it drove me distracted. Those four bodies had the guns, and the food, and a curious liking for collecting men’s skulls besides, so the way I saw it there was no great cleverness in troubling them with taunts, but no, Wilson had to have his way. The moment they came through the door he’d be preaching at them with all his charm, telling how they were a pair of low dirts to go following Potter—who was, it seemed, the devil himself come to call—and that they’d burn in hell for sure. Hodges would take it quiet enough, usually, being a dull sort of body, but Skeggs was another pair of oars entirely, and often he’d be tempted to give the Reverend a batting, which wouldn’t have mattered except that I was sure to get a nasty pelt or two myself though it had none of it been my idea. Worse still was when Wilson started playing martyr, which he did generally on Sundays.

‘‘Take your filthy food away,’’ he’d declare all snurly, though he needed feeding. ‘‘I have no need of it. My sustenance is of a higher kind.’’

It was all very well him being the grand hero but that was my food too, and I wanted it. We were never brought that much, while eating was one of the few joys to fill those empty days. At least he could have asked me before starting up, but no, not him: why should he consult a mere ship’s captain when he had divinity cheering him on. I’d have a try at saving my ration, perhaps making a little joke, calling out, ‘‘As for me, my sustenance is ordinary as seawater,’’ but it never worked. Skeggs would just have himself a good laugh.

‘‘Just as you like, Reverend.’’ Then he’d take himself a great mouthful of my dinner and offer some more to Hodges.

All in all it was getting so I almost hoped we’d sink, as that would be better than watch Potter smirking in some Englishmen’s courtroom as I was led away to gaol. By the looks of it we might be doing just that, too, if the weather had its way. All night waves had been hammering at the stern loud as cannon, and the ship was rolling and pitching wilder than the horse that’s trod on the snake’s tail. That would fit with what I’d heard of Cape Horn, for sure. If it got worse then, with so few crew aboard, anything was possible.

I’d supposed our gaolers might give our morning visit a miss in such weather but no, there they were just as usual, with our feast of hard beef and old ship’s biscuit, and a shrivelled lime besides, all of it flavoured nicely by the dousing of seawater it had had on the way. After we’d finished we were nudged up the stairway for our visit to the heads. This was a proper bit of weather, for sure. One step onto the deck and I was soaked by the spray, while there was a sea roaring over the prow so big that it looked almost as if the ship was playing porpoise and diving down to put a sight on the ocean bed. Our poor Englishmen weren’t liking it one little bit. Up on the quarterdeck Potter looked pale as death, and had his arms round the mizzen shrouds as if they weren’t ropes but his dear lost ma. As I watched, a great roar of sea came rushing over the stern, knocking him onto his knees. For all that he still had a firm grip on that revolving pistol of his. Hooper must’ve been waiting to put a sight on us, as the moment the water started emptying into the scuppers he took his chance and skulked away below.

More curious to my eyes than the Englishmen, though, was the crew. For one, there was Jamys Kinred, the body at the wheel, and lashed to it too, to stop the seas from carrying him away. Now, Kinred was a decent enough seaman, no mistaking, but he was no giant. If it’d been me giving orders I’d have had China Clucas at the helm in a drop of weather like this. China wasn’t far off, as it happened, being up above, repairing the mizzen ratlines. Well, wasn’t that just another fine little mystery? Repairing ratlines is a handy enough sort of chore but it’s a fair-weather job and shouldn’t be troubled with in hurricanes. Why, to my eye they didn’t even look as if they needed fixing. Brew was just below, and d’you know, this time he did throw me a wink. That was enough to get me watchful. It seemed I’d got the little fellow all wrong. He must’ve just been waiting for a good dose of dirty weather.

Skeggs didn’t usually bother himself to shepherd the Reverend and myself forwards, leaving Hodges to do the work while he kept an eye, while today, the wet being so bad, he crept back into the stairway. The truth was it seemed hardly needful to fight our way to the head to piss and shit into the ocean, when the ocean was coming to us. Just as we started on our way the ship plunged down clean into a departing wave, and a rush of water all but vanished the heads from sight. That was enough to start the Reverend whining.

‘‘You can’t expect me to go up there,’’ he moaned at Hodges.

I could have knocked him down, so I could. It hadn’t escaped my notice, you see, that, despite all the wild dousings he was catching, Chalse Christian the carpenter was stood just behind the heads, where he was fiddling away tightening one of the jib guy ropes, though it looked right as rain to me. Fortunately Hodges just gave Wilson a sharp nudge with his gun, and so we staggered on, stopping to grab the rail and taste some ocean as another wave broke from behind. We were just arrived, and Hodges was standing back to let me open the door, when Christian took a belaying pin from his belt, and caught him the tidiest little knock on his head. I didn’t need telling what to do next. Christian jumped on him, and I jumped on him too, and we both tried to get a catch on his gun. Not that our problem was Hodges—who was hardly your fighter—but the next wave, being a proper monster, which struck the vessel so hard that we were all knocked sprawling.

That was when the Reverend started up. ‘‘Hurrah!’’ he yelled, loud as his little nasty piping voice would go. ‘‘Hurrah, hurrah! Praise be to God!’’

Now, there are times for hurrahing, I dare say, and this was not one of them. Glancing aft, I saw our friend Dr. Potter darting a look at our little mess, and then taking a look upwards. What did he see there but China Clucas, just getting ready to fling a belaying pin at his own sweet skull? A handy sort of look that was, too, as it let Potter dodge clean out of the way, so the pin brained nothing but deck timbers. Potter made a lunge back to the rail before the next sea came, and though Brew’s belaying pin knocked him in the shoulder, he didn’t lose hold of his revolving pistol, which he fired off at the sky, scaring Brew back. Here was trouble.

‘‘Hurrah, hurrah!’’ shouted the Reverend.

I’d have hurrahed him myself if I’d not had better things to do. I made a lunge for Hodges’ gun. By the time I’d got hold of it and turned about there was a fine proper battle raging. Skeggs had poked his head out from the stairway, only to find himself in a tussle with Tom Karran over his rifle. Meantime Potter was gripping the rail and pointing his pistol at anyone and everyone, his aim looking mighty wild, as the Sincerity bucked and rolled over the waves. There were four stood facing him, including Brew and China, and even that old fool Rob Quayle, the cook, all waiting their chance, and I reckoned if he didn’t dare fire off a shot it was only for fear that if he hit one, the others would have him.

I might be able to give them a little help. I swung Hodges’ rifle round till I had the good doctor nicely lined up in the sights, and I pulled the trigger. Now, it must have been loaded for sure, as otherwise what was the point in Hodges carrying it about night and day? D’you know, though, all I heard was a little click. I could only think it had suffered from getting drenched. There was a fine rotten piece of cheating. Day and night your Englishmen go boasting about how clever they are with their steel and railways and ships that they’re saying the whole world wants to have, and now it turned out their rifles couldn’t even take a little wet. Did they expect everyone to go fighting Russians and hunting tigers only in fine sunny weather? Truly, it was a miracle to me how they’d ever managed to conquer half the world like they had.

As it happened, that was the end of our little war. In a moment Hooper had darted up from wherever he’d been skulking below and gave Tom Karran a nasty crack on the head with the fat end of his rifle, which in turn ended Skeggs’s troubles, and all of a sudden where there had been only one Englishman pointing his gun there were three, which was a power too many. Brew, China and the rest sort of slumped and started backing away. Nor could I blame them. Next Hodges was pulling himself up from the deck and grabbing back his useless weight of rifle, which he used to give me a good jab in the ribs, just to show his thanks. There was a rotten, dirty sort of moment. Nor was it helped any when the Reverend gave me his mad, snurly look.

‘‘If only you had prayed forgiveness for your sins, Captain, as I have many times urged, don’t you think matters might have turned out rather differently?’’

Dr. Thomas Potter
APRIL 1858

The Destiny of Nations
Chapter 4: On the Future Fate of the Races of Men (correction)

The Celtic Type, like the Black and Norman Types, is fated to become wholly extinguished during the Great Conflagration of Nations. The Celt may try to beguile all with his idle, servile manner, but the stolid Saxon will not be deceived. He will recognize the dominating characteristics that lie beneath that foolish smile: the cunning, the deceit and, above all, the delight in unprovoked and malevolent violence. The Celt lacks even the simplest faculty of reason, and this omission alone shall cause him to perish. The Saxon, provoked ever and again by acts of belligerence and trickery, will reach the limit of his mighty patience, and slap away his foe like some troublesome fly. Thus will the Celt himself be the cause of his own complete and utter destruction, till hardly one will remain upon this earth.…

New Rules to govern the ship Sincerity: Manxmen

For the prevention of further acts of violent mutiny upon the members of the Force of Command, the following rules will henceforth apply. All rules shall be rigidly enforced.

Rule One

No repairs to the vessel shall henceforth be permitted, from scrubbing the deck to tarring the spars, as it has been observed such work is merely a means to conceal intended attacks upon members of the Force of Command. The only exception shall be daily use of the pumps, while those working these shall always be lashed to their places.

Rule Two

The mizzen mast is no longer to be worked by crew under any circumstance. Mizzen sails are to remain permanently furled.

Rule Three

Manxmen shall not be permitted on quarterdeck under any circumstances except the following:

i. The crewman taking the helm (who will be lashed to the wheel).

ii. The acting chief mate (who will be lashed to the mizzen mast).

Note: Any violation of this rule will be met with harshest punishment.

Rule Four

All crew except the tillerman and the acting chief mate shall henceforth remain locked in fo’c’sle except when Dr. Potter agrees that they are required on deck to work the ship.

Rule Five

Prisoners held below shall henceforth be permanently shackled to their places. Chamber pots will be provided.

Rule Six

The use of the Manx language is banned at all times. Any infringements of this rule shall be regarded as intended mutiny.

Note: Any violation of this rule will be met with harshest punishment.

New Rules to govern ship Sincerity: Members of the Force of Command
Rule One

All members of the Force of Command must carry loaded guns at all times.

Rule Two

At least two members of the Force of Command are to be present upon quarterdeck at all times of day and night (see new system of watches).

Rule Three

All four members of the Force of Command must be present on deck whenever the Manx crew are at work aloft (tacking, taking in sail etc. etc.) and must remain throughout such operations.

24th April

Self locked all crew in quarters, but then obliged release they, as storm growing worse (fore topsail and main topgallant both burst). Selves kept watch v. carefully with rifles ready.

25th April

Weather finally calmer. Hooper proposed selves should throw Brew + Kinvig overboard as ringleaders. V. tempting. However, self decided would be dangerous re own circumstances when (if) reach England. Also require they re working of ship. But permitted Hooper give both thorough lashing with all other Manxmen assembled to watch (Hooper made own lash from ship’s stores: v. effective). Afterwards sent Brew below with Kewley + Wilson. Had carpenter Christian thoroughly shackle all three to floor timbers to prevent further trouble.

Afterwards self fortified quarterdeck with barricade of crates, ballast etc. etc. Also made use of old cannon from prow. No rounds for this aboard but took gunpowder from rifle cartridges + wrapped in paper to make explosive packet, then made second packet of loose bullets, small stones from ballast etc. etc. Assembled Manxmen on deck for demonstration. Self concerned if had guessed quantities correctly but in event went v. well. Hooper lit fuse (string dipped in oil + little gunpowder), then all watched as cannon roared + fired mighty spray of shot out across the sea. Manxmen pleasingly awed. Self then reloaded + set weapon atop barricade so surveys main deck. Lamp to be kept burning in sheltered part of barricade at all times.

Unhappy fact = mutiny = gravest blow. Self had never trusted they (fortunately) yet had hoped they might = won over vs. Kewley, if only from instinct own self-preservation. Own position now = v. unhappy one. England = better destination than Hobart with its foolish sentimentalists, yet fact remains all destinations now = perilous. Manxmen sure accuse self of piracy. Rev. will attack self re specimens + claim selves intended his murder. Have no doubt that self have acted always wholly correctly yet am aware may be judged with great harshness by ignorant others. At very least self will suffer disastrous scandal. Worst = beyond contemplation. Prospect of own reputation harmed = especially distressing, as would cause terrible damage re The Destiny of Nations. In truth this now = almost of more importance to self even than own prospects. Do believe it = own legacy to this world + = of greatest importance re men’s understanding of future. Self simply cannot permit it be slandered + destroyed.

Three fellows also v. disturbed by Manxmen’s unprovoked violence. Self have endeavoured convince they that selves = fully justified re seizing vessel from proven criminals. Insist this = not lawbreaking but civic duty + that selves shall receive commendations (in truth self = doubtful re this). Fortunately now = far too late to go back. They = already implicated in this course of action. Selves only hope = to remain resolute.

Other worry = supplies. Had been considering calling at port (Falkland Islands? Argentina) but this now = quite impossible as Manxmen certain to abscond, betray, attack etc. etc. Yet food = insufficient for journey back to England. Self obliged order considerable reduction in Manxmen’s rations to ensure remaining supplies = conserved. Besides, self now consider previous overgenerosity may have encouraged they become instilled with rebellion. Rations of food for selves also = reduced though less so, as = imperative selves retain strength to fight off further attempts mutiny (also quite wrong to deprive Saxon Type of vital nourishment). These = v. difficult decisions yet simply will not permit self be swayed from greater purpose. If Manx suffer this = their own doing.

New arrangement watches etc. already = v. wearying. Self much bothered by distressing thoughts + dreams. Attempting find peace in work. Continuing to attempt reassemble + reclassify specimens, though this = v. difficult as destruction wrought by Wilson = terrible + many = too damaged, mixed up etc. to be saved (v. distressing). Self also working hard upon manuscript where can report = making much progress. Chapter on skull shapes of inferior types now nearly complete.

Peevay
FEBRUARY–APRIL 1858

WEATHER WAS BRIGHT as I walked across the world for the last time, trees getting lovely with autumn, but it was mournful to think I was the final Palawa here, and after me there would just be white scuts or nobody. This never could be their place, I did divine. Yes, they could go hither and thither, thinking IT IS MINE NOW, but they never would feel it like my ones did. How could they when they didn’t know any-where’s name, or how it got there? Num never would have this place deep inside their breasts, no. They would just be dwelling here.

It got hard being just alone. Why, I almost felt sad that hated Potter and so were gone now, as even hating and killing them was some kind of company. By and by lonely madness came to me in the night, whispering that everything was just ruination, and putting aches in my shoulders and bones, as if tears got inside and made them damp like rotten wood. But then day would come, bright and new, and so I would stretch my arms, get up, and endure again. So it came that I left mountain places and I went among white men’s roads and farms. I went carefully here, though it was too easy, yes, as they never were watchful anymore. Why should they be, too, when our ones were all gone now? I could see them from my hidden place, going on CARTS or riding hither and thither to make sheep animals run all together, and I observed their eyes looked still and empty, as if there was nothing inside except smallest thoughts, WHAT IS MY NEXT WORK? WHAT IS MY NEXT FOOD? WILL WEATHER BE FINE DAY AGAIN TOMORROW? Yes, these were their delights now that we were dead. I did detest them for this.

Slowly slowly land got flatter till one day I went over some low hill and there was sea, northern sea. I followed shore east until, one good good weather morning, I saw, far away behind the waves, that so familiar mountain, thin and pointed like some spear. Robson’s island, where he brought us and watched us die. That was strange to behold like seeing some saddest ghost. Nearer in the sea was a hill, round and low, and I surmised this must be Father’s island, as when Mother tried to kill him with her waddy stick that time I could recall he sailed that way. I quickened my walk, islands got nearer, and by and by I came to some num place. This was small, with just few houses by a river and few white men near, making sheep run hither and thither like always. River by the sea was muddy and on its mud were two boats, one of them just correct, with two oars and small mast for sail. So I went away to nearby forest, where I made spears, plenty of them, and then I waited. When evening came and white scuts were all gone inside their houses I went to that boat, going carefully, then pushed it into the water, though it was too heavy, and climbed inside and went away.

Night was light enough with half a moon and I put up the sail and I rowed sometimes besides. When morning came hill island was near and world behind was gone in cloud. First I could see nothing, but when I went round all of a sudden I could see houses, six of them, long and low. These were enough for plenty of white men I did surmise, too many for me to fight, which was worrisome, as I supposed they would kill me before I ever could spear Father. Then I observed a puzzle to confound. I could see nobody there, you see, while chimneys had no smoke. Were they all hiding, waiting with their killing surprise? I pulled sail smaller, going slowly, but still no one came to look or shoot his gun, so I went to the shore and pulled boat from the sea. Going to nearest house, spears ready, I pushed door open. Inside were no people but there was TABLE and CHAIRS and smell of mutton bird, while when I went to fire and touched it with my fingers, ashes were still warm. Other houses were just the same, which was interesting. So I decided to observe. I took my boat, very heavy, and hid it in bushes. After that I sat behind, watchful, with all my spears ready in a line.

It was nearly dark and I was sleeping when I got woken by faraway voices murmuring over the water. Lights were shining on the sea, four of them, with little splashes as oars dipped. From lights’ movings I knew this was four boats, and though I couldn’t see rowers I knew from their voices they were many, which was bad. Still there was nothing to do now and so I remained thus, watching as boats came near, touching spears once and again, to be ready, and wondering if Father had some whole heinous tribe these days.

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
APRIL–JULY 1858

EVERY DAY DUSK came just a scran later and the night felt a touch colder. Well, there was no mistaking the story of that. We were getting into northern seas. It couldn’t be long now before we’d reach Potter’s England. There was a poor sort of prospect to look forward to.

My marks on the wall counted nine weeks since we’d rounded Cape Horn, which was two full months, and I couldn’t think of a poorer, more starved pair of months than these. I don’t know if it was the scare they’d got, or the cleverness they felt at winning I couldn’t say, but ever since our little battle by Cape Horn it was as if frost had got into those ship stealers’ veins. Dr. Potter had the sweet notion of chaining Brew, the Reverend and me to the floor timbers, while he even came down himself to make sure it was done to his liking, which meant too tight, so it was hard as could be to catch a proper dose of sleep at night. From then our visits to the heads were traded for buckets, which seemed a vengeful, shaming sort of thing. Even Hodges, who was the softest of the four, started handing out jabs with his gun keen as mustard, almost as if this was a new game that he’d never dared play till now. Hooper was the worst, though. He was the one who gave poor Brew and Kinvig their lashing—which we all had to watch—while he looked like he was enjoying his work, grinning and smirking and taking little runs so he could make more of a mess of their backs. Giving that scelping seemed to give him an appetite for more, and several times I heard him padding down the stairs, quiet as ghosts, hoping to catch Brew and me chattering in Manx, as this was now forbidden under Potter’s new laws. Your Manxman may have his faults, I dare say, but he’s never sneaking and brutal like that. This was finding a kind of joy in handing out pain.

It wasn’t long before he lost his chance to play that particular game. After just a couple of days Potter noticed he didn’t have enough Manxmen to sail his vessel, and off came Brew’s shackles. That was a shame, too, as I’d enjoyed having some company other than that droning crab of a parson. As it turned out, though, Brew’s stay had usefulness even afterwards, as it had showed him where I was chained. That same night after he went I heard a scratching from the wall behind me, faint, like some mouse having adventures, and it kept up all through the night. That caught my interest, not least because I knew that behind the wall was the fo’c’sle. Sure enough, early the next morning a shine of metal broke its way through one of the timbers by my elbow, then vanished away, leaving a little hole, and when I leaned down to listen I heard the sweet sound of Manx. The metal, Brew explained in a whisper, was a teaspoon, this being all that Potter would allow them to eat their dinners with, as it seemed he was afeared that forks and such would make these men of Peel a proper peril against his poor babes that were armed just with rifles.

There was a fine change. All of a sudden I could hear all the talk, and know how things were up on deck. Not that everyone was pleased. Whenever one of the boys whispered hello I could see Wilson turning tetchy, and his eyes would look round corners as if he was trying to hear what they were saying, though it could do him little good, seeing as every word was pure Manx. The man was jealous, though he had not a scran of right to be. It wasn’t even as if he was losing my own sweet company as it was days since he’d thrown me so much as a word, preferring to keep all his chatter for heaven. Sometimes when Brew mumbled hello Wilson would start praying extra loud, just to stop me hearing, and I quite feared he’d find some way of blurting about it to Skeggs and Hodges, or making them see the hole in the wall with his staring (I hid it as best I could with my arm). Truly, that vicar was a handsome bit of meanness. We were only equal now, were we not, after all. He had someone to chatter to, in his good friend the Almighty, and now so did I, though, judging by his curiosity, mine was better for telling the latest news.

Not that there was any I was pleased to hear, as it was all bad. Brew said the fo’c’sle was nothing more than the crew’s own private gaol, being so fixed up with bolts that there was not a chance of breaking out even with the mighty help of teaspoons, and the boys were kept there except when there was some need for them to man the pumps or work the sails. Worse, by the sound of it they were beginning to lose heart. I tried to urge them on to venture some more havoc—perhaps at night when the Englishmen were tired—but they wouldn’t be coaxed. Then again the true fact of Manxmen is that deep down they’re purest mood, being the kind that’ll fill out and fall slack like sails in the wind. When all’s going well and their hopes are high there’s no stopping them, but if things once turn sour then the soo will spill clean away, till they’ve lost all believing in themselves. Getting beat by the Englishmen had knocked the boys badly, while having to watch Brew and Kinvig get lashed, with-out being able to do a thing to help, was worse again. Nor was this the end of our troubles. Your Manxman is as sensible as cold water most of the time, but certain things will creep under his skin and plague him, and Potter’s mystery of skulls and bones was just one. Not that I’m one to pay any heed to such things myself, but I’ll own it had got some of the others a touch nervous, and there was talk that Potter had certain ones on his side, so he’d never be caught out, however clever we were. That sort of notion did bring a body low.

The ship was getting into a poor way, too. Potter’s new madness of forbidding all repairs soon started to take its toll, especially when we reached those doldrums, where we were caught for two weeks and more. That was all hot sun and sudden windless squalls, just the sort of thing to spoil a sailing vessel, and by the time a breeze took us away I could hear the sound of the Sincerity’s aching spilling down through the deck timbers. It was there in the screeching of the metal blocks, too shrill and scanky to be right, and in the thuds of the boys’ boots on the deck planks, which should’ve rung out dull and solid, but instead were getting a touch hollow, as if they were dancing on some cheap fellow’s coffin. Most of all it was in the slushing sound of water down below, which was getting gently slower and deeper—like a tin bath that’s beginning to fill— and it was in the squealing of the pumps as they were worked, trying to keep the ship’s belly dry. Any ship that’s been a year or two afloat will need pumping now and then, but this was different. There seemed hardly an hour, day and night, when they weren’t going.

It was no mystery what the trouble was. We were falling apart. Very slowly, as it happened, but falling apart still. Starve a sailing ship of mending and she’ll soon set about turning herself into so much rotten wood, torn ropes, rusted metal and rising seawater. Without their daily dousing and caulking the deck planks will shrink and let in rainwater to slosh about the bilges, and start a little rot besides, and sure enough I began to notice wet seeping down from the deck during squalls, till spots of damp were springing up along the walls. Brew said the ropes were fraying and going slack, as Potter was too suspecting to let them be tightened regularly. If he wasn’t careful the masts themselves would go, as without fresh tarring there’d be nothing to stop them turning rotten and brittle. Little by little the Sincerity was trying to reach that fine state that every wooden vessel is always hankering to become: a wide spread of driftwood and canvas decorating some empty stretch of ocean.

There was a low, dirty piece of vandalism. My own Sincerity, that I’d had built from wrecks, almost with my own hands, and kept trim as could be, brought to ruin by ignorant mutineering dirts. Why, it was like having someone go pissing on your favourite child. I’d have almost been pleased if she’d just gone completely and sunk, but we didn’t even luck enough for that. Brew said that, for all her leaks, she was still high in the water. For a time that had me puzzled but then I guessed the why. It was the contraband holds. They must be acting like two great floats, holding us on top of the ocean. I suppose it’s no easy thing to send a vessel to the bottom when she has two hulls to preserve her.

The shame was that us poor Manxmen didn’t have a second hull to save us. Ever since our Cape Horn battle Potter had cut our rations right down, till we weren’t getting enough hardly to famish a mouse. Soon all I could think of was eating, and that ache that gnawed at my gut and wouldn’t stop. It soon showed. The Reverend had been thin enough to start with, and by the time we left the doldrums he was a proper skeleton, while I could see my own arms and legs getting bonier by the day. Brew said the boys were getting so light and fleshless that their faces were looking like so many dead men. All the while I was pleased to see the Englishmen were keeping themselves nicely fed, and I could have sworn Skeggs put on a new inch or two on his fat belly.

He wasn’t so lucky with the scurvy, sad to say. I knew this must come, as I’d not seen a lime since before the doldrums, and I was already getting a mad hunger for vegetables. Skeggs was the first it caught, for all his meat, turning pale and weary—which I thought a fine improvement on the man—till his mouth began to swell so there was no question left. After that Brew’s news was scurvy and more scurvy, who’d got it, and who thought they might next. I caught it like the rest, and I can’t say it was a pleasure, neither. First it took me with a tiredness strong as death, so it was hard to imagine doing so much as a thing, and then my gums and mouth became raw, making it rotten painful to eat. I knew where it went from there. Next a fellow would go blotchy like he had seven plagues, then his teeth would start working loose, till finally he’d find himself wrapped in a slip of spare sailcloth and dropped quietly over the side to puzzle the fishes.

Wouldn’t you know who was the very last one aboard to get struck? The Reverend. How he managed it I just couldn’t say. Perhaps he’d found a way of stealing limes. He loved that, of course, and hardly an hour went by without him praying more thanks to the Lord God his Father for making sure he, the Reverend Geoffrey Wilson, was still fine as fiddles, when all us other poor dirts were bloating up like corpses and feeling our teeth go slack. The relief I felt when he finally fell sick too. Not that it made much difference. Why, I do believe he got worse. He wouldn’t rest quiet even for an instant, and if he couldn’t think of anything to say to his friend the Almighty, then he’d just start humming, or making strange little put-put-put noises with his lips, or drumming on the floor timbers with his knuckles, just to play pest. The jink I’d have given to be loosed from my shackles, so I could coax him into quiet with a good honest pelting.

All the while the evenings grew longer and the air cooler. A day came when Skeggs stopped coming on his errands, and Hooper came to give us our scraps of food instead. Brew said two of the boys were so hobbled they could hardly stagger aloft to work the sails. Still we sailed gently on. Storms? Why, I hardly knew what this ocean was playing at. Since our wetting by Cape Horn the Atlantic had been shaming itself, giving us hardly anything worse than pretty boating weather. Cape Finis-terre, Bay of Biscay, with all their bragging of ships smashed and sent to the bottom. Why, they should’ve been ashamed of themselves.

Finally, one morning, as I was feeling a tooth coming loose from my mouth, there came a whisper from Brew through the wall that I didn’t want to hear.

‘‘We passed Ushant last night.’’

We ’d be well into the Channel by now. We were almost back in Englishness.

Kinvig guessed my thoughts, though I never spoke a word. ‘‘Don’t you worry, Captain. I’ve had a thought. We’re not finished yet, so we’re not.’’

The Reverend Geoffrey Wilson
JUNE 1858

LORD MY FATHER who art in heaven, these cool nights tell me we are nearly returned. Another man might feel despair at the ordeal I have endured: hungry, shackled, suffering from sickness, forced to suffer the company of a trafficker in liquor, and to watch my persecutors—Thine own foes, the agents of the evil one—strut in triumph. Another man might feel abandoned, and even cruelly betrayed. Another man might be filled with rage at the seeming futility of his great quest, that he embarked upon with such high hopes, and endured so bravely, all merely to serve Thou thyself. I feel no bitterness. I cast no blame. Lord my Father who art in heaven, I valiantly preserve my faith still. I only ask that if Thou hast some great design for me still—as I can only assume Thou must—then let it be soon. I am more than ready, and watch every moment for Thy smallest sign, though there has been nothing till now.

Was Eden here, in England, all along? Is this the answer? Has all of this great venture merely been some kind of grand test? But then why didst Thou send me all that way?

Lord my Father who art in heaven, at least couldst Thou ease this hunger that I feel. Surely that is not so much to ask? I have such a strong longing for apples, and see them often in my dreams. Even the miracle of an onion would be greatly welcome, or perhaps a raw potato.

Dr. Thomas Potter
JUNE 1858

MANXMEN= treacherous even to v. last. Self heard Brew (lashed to mizzenmast as per usual) instructing helmsman to steer NNW. When self questioned he re this he claiming we = carried into Bay of Biscay by difficult sea currents + must set course to avoid Breton Peninsula. He pointing to distant point of land to NNE, claiming this = Brittany. Self = doubtful. From own inspection of charts had supposed we = already further N. Also could see several distant vessels journeying E or W. These = entering or leaving English Channel? If distant land = not Brittany but Cornwall, then NNW course would take selves into Irish Sea + to Isle of Man. Brew hoping lead selves into trap + wreck ship on some Manx shore, so his Celtic Type compatriots may murder selves? When self accused he his reply = weak and unconvincing. Evident own suspicions = well founded.

Self considered only most radical action will answer this latest attempt subversion. Cannot jeopardize selves by continuing entrust ship to lying + conniving criminals. Decided selves must take complete command of vessel, including navigation + control of ship’s wheel. Cannot be so difficult if even Manx Celtic Type = can manage, while selves have = observing Brew, Kinvig etc. etc. long enough to gain ample understanding re their craft. Self acted at once. Had Brew unlashed from mizzen-mast + thrown off quarterdeck. Self announced henceforth self will act both as captain and chief mate + crew to take orders directly from self. Brew whining protests, prophesying disaster etc. etc. (of course) but self determinedly ignored. Likewise dispensed of China Clucas at the helm, replacing he with Hooper. Hooper worried that he = too weak (scurvy) but self assuring he that = not far now to go. England = within sight.

Issued own first order = ‘‘loosen more sail.’’ Wind = light while self suspecting Brew = deliberately attempting slow vessel. Brew claiming more sail = dangerous, saying wind will strengthen + masts = weak from lack repair. His complaining only serving strengthen own resolution. Ordered more sail still! Crewmen v. slow in performing duties aloft, so self = obliged fire one round from revolving pistol into air. V. effective. Self at once proved correct in judgment. Sails held, ship making better progress. Self had crewmen returned to fo’c’sle or lashed to pump, as before. Set course ENE.

Self feeling v. tired. Decided go below for rest, leaving Hooper (helm) + Hodges at watch. Looked in on Skeggs. He v. bad. Own mouth + hands painful with scurvy, so difficult even write this entry. Find self filled with most unhappy feelings re shore of England that selves = approaching. Am greatly troubled by fears. Must land or die, though this means self will suffer accusation, if not arrest + imprisonment by ignorant men. One comfort = that have now completed Destiny of Nations.

Whatever own fate may be, do hope + believe this work shall = my child for a future (+ wiser) age.

Captain Illiam Quillian Kewley
JUNE 1858

I WAS WOKEN by the sound of creaking wood, though it wasn’t like any wood creaking I’d heard before, being sort of slow and huge, as if half a forest was falling on its face. Just as I sat up there was a mightiest crash and all at once it seemed as if some kind of guts had been slit, with great lumpers of things spilling down from above all in a rush, filling the air thick with dust. Something dropped onto my lap, dull and heavy as a dead body, knocking the wind clean out of me, and in the same instant I could feel the whole vessel rolling sharp to larboard, as if some great hand was tugging her over. She started righting herself, only to swing right back. Had the keel gone? If she capsized, then seawater would come seeking a road through every hole and rottenness and take us to the bottom fast as could be. I’d never fancied drowning, but it’s not up to a body to choose his way, while there was little I could do. I counted seconds, and more, and though the ship rolled on, still we floated. Finally she calmed into a sharp lean, and I decided I wouldn’t be breathing seawater just yet.

I gave a spit as mouth was dry with the stink of tar and paint dust. Looking down at my lap, I saw I hadn’t caught anyone’s corpse after all, but just a big coil of rope. By then the air was starting to clear a little, showing me how our gaol now had a brand-new piece of furniture, this being a proper tree of wood that was skewed clean across the place, and had smashed the door to pieces. There’s a magic about things that have got into their wrongest place and it was hard to think this was one of the yards that on an ordinary day would be sat halfway up a mast, with a length of sailcloth dangling from it to trouble the wind. A proper show it made, too, spearing through the floor timbers, with its fuss of canvas and ropes cluttering up the cabin. I was glad it had chosen to drop in slantwise, as it happened, as straight down might have knifed me along with the boards. There was no doubt how it had got in. Glancing up, I saw the hole it had fingered through the deck timbers, which was wide enough to drop a cow or two, and told a tale on that rain tickling my face. I could just make out part of the mast it should’ve been fixed to, which was now lying along the deck. Beyond I could see sky, all prettiest pink with the dawn. And a good morning to you, too.

Here was a fine piece of rottenness. My poor Sincerity, ruined by dirts of Englishmen that should never have been allowed near a sailing ship. It was hardly much of a surprise, as Brew had said Potter had piled on a madness of canvas. On another vessel he’d have suffered nothing worse than a burst sail or two, but not this one. Thanks to his wrecking, the bands and bolts would’ve been rusted through, the ropes would be slack and the mast itself would’ve been half rotten and aching to split into so many spillikins. All that was needed was a good puff of wind and over she’d go. Then I found myself in puzzles, though. This could only be the mizzen, as the others were too far forward, yet, as I recalled, Potter had said in his rules that no sail was to be set aft. Then why had it come down?

I pushed the coil of rope off my lap, like some old dog that’s got too comfortable, and had a try of my arms and legs, finding that though I had some fine bruises nothing seemed actually broke, which was something. I could hear voices calling out from up above, and from their direction I guessed they must be the pair lashed to the pumps. I was glad they’d not been smashed to death by the mast. Though I couldn’t catch their words for the wind, they sounded raging as could be. As it happened, the reason came soon enough. All at once there was a mighty thump from the ship’s side, jarring the whole vessel. That little noise told me that not one but two masts were down. The main must have pulled the mizzen with her. Worse, while the mizzen had dropped along the deck, nice and tidy, the main had sheared clean over the side, where waves had just battered it against the hull. If the mast kept scelping her like that, it was only a matter of time before it poked a hole clean through the ship’s timbers and down we’d sink, nice as nip.

‘‘Thank you, Lord, for preserving me from disaster,’’ mumbled the Reverend into the dust, catching, as ever, just the wrong moment.

It was then I noticed another interesting change. The fact is that if a body happens to find himself shackled to the floor for a few months, he soon comes to know every little habit and mood of his chains, almost better than he knows his own wife. The fetter between my wrists, being small, had a mean and nagging feel, rattling at any fuss, while the larger one, which was held to a ring bolted to the timbers, was more heaviness, tugging me back with a start like it bore some grudge. Now, though, I realized that this last seemed a touch lazier than usual, giving just a scran before it hauled at my arms. I soon saw the cause. The yard had smashed a mighty rent across the timbers of the floor, which had cut nearly through to the metal ring. Here was a welcome piece of curiosity. One of the ring’s bolts was quite loose, so I could pull it free without trouble, and though the other was stuck, that was a fine start. Fingers trembling at this chance of not getting drowned after all, I set about trying to work it from the floor. This wasn’t easy, for sure, but little by little the wood began to splinter, till I could feel the bolt loosening nicely, like a bad tooth. Finally I crouched above it, gave a mighty tug, and out it jumped. There was a fine sweet moment. I was free! Aside, that was, from the half a hundredweight of chain still trailing from me.

Now I was wondering what was happening up on deck. ‘‘Is anyone still in there?’’ I called out through the hole in the wall.

‘‘Every one of us,’’ Brew’s voice called back. ‘‘And all right as rain except that we’re about to drown.’’

Here was a rotten piece of wonder. I’d assumed Potter would let some of them free so they could cut away the mast. What did he think he was doing? ‘‘I’ll get you out of there, don’t you worry,’’ I promised, though it was more wishing talk than anything known.

‘‘Captain Kewley, you must help me.’’

It was so long since I’d heard the Reverend speak to me rather than to his friend in heaven that I almost jumped. So he wanted rescuing, did he? The gizzard of the man. All these weeks he’d hardly troubled himself to tell me the time of day and now, when he needed some help, he was all talk. I was sore tempted to leave the troublesome article to rot, which was all he deserved. The fact is, though, that if you’ve been shackled next to a fellow for a power of time it is awkward to just step away and leave him to breathe seawater, however low and useless he may be. Before you know it you’re wondering how you’d feel if somebody did the same to yourself and that’s the finish of your rushing. I kicked away the leavings of the door and was about to step outside into the passage, but then I turned back.

‘‘All right, Vicar.’’ The surprise I got when I put a sight on his chains. Would you know it, he was hardly held to the floor at all, if only he’d bothered himself to look. The timbers by his feet must have taken more rainwater wet than had mine, as they were flaky with rot, while the mast had done the rest. All it took was a bit of a tug and he was settled. However much time we had left, and whatever I might have to do, I couldn’t see myself doing it with a weight of chains to carry, that was sure. Just along the passage was the boatswain’s locker, where, in normal times, there was kept an axe, just in case some rope needed snapping in a rush. Normal times these weren’t but the axe was there nonetheless.

‘‘Stretch your chains over the there,’’ I told the Reverend hurriedly, pointing at the yard that had dropped on us.

He obeyed with a kind of giggle, and so I brought the axe down, aiming for the little ring that held them all together. My strength being half gone with scurvy, it took four tries, but in the end the ring snapped, so the main chain dropped away and the smaller one was sheared in two. His hands free, Wilson picked up a long nail from the floor and began fiddling at the rings round his wrists.

‘‘There’s no time for that,’’ I told him quickly. ‘‘Here.’’ I handed him the axe and started gathering up my chain, hoping he had a good eye for chopping. I never did discover, of course. I suppose I should have learned my lesson by now, as the fact is there’s no doing favours to Englishmen. Rather than show a proper bit of gratitude, like a body might have expected, the evil old article just murmured, ‘‘I have work,’’ and then, while I was still trying to guess his joke, he started clambering onto the yard and up towards the deck. There was a low, dirty piece of helpfulness. I managed to catch one of his feet, but d’you know he gave me a nasty kick with it right in the eye, while, the chains still tugging at me, this was enough to knock me clean over. There’s words for that sort of thing, and I called him them, too, but it didn’t stop him scampering away. Truly, that fellow really was the end. As I watched, he was already trying to pull himself through the hole in the deck timbers.

All at once what little time I’d had was robbed from me, and my troubles—which had been more than enough before—were doubled and trebled and doubled again. It’s a clever man indeed that can shear a chain between his wrists with an axe that he’s holding himself. Worse again, there was the question of surprise, this being the one solitary thing that I’d have had on my side in whatever wild, desperate something I’d have do against the Englishmen. With the Reverend scrabbling through the hole to the deck, my surprise would be as fresh as last month’s kippers. Still, there was no use in staying here and waiting, so I reckoned I might as well venture something, however desperate. Gathering up my chains in an armful and picking up the axe, I hurried back along the passage and up the stairs.

So it was I found myself putting a sight on a world that I hadn’t seen for a good little while, and a rotten sort of world it looked, too. I knew those dirts had made a mess of my vessel but still I never supposed it would be so bad as this. A proper ghost ship she seemed, with her paint flaking and her deck timbers buckled. Why, she was worse, as even a ghost ship will have a full quota of masts. The Sincerity had lost two, just as I had supposed, leaving a pair of stumps, like dead trees, while the foremast looked lonely as could be. Why, she was hardly like a sailing vessel at all anymore, being all sky and mad strewn wreckage. A tangle of ropes pulled taut over the side told me where the mainmast was, though I hardly needed telling, as that moment another wave sent it thumping into the ship’s timbers. That little mess would have put paid to the rudder, and leave the ship drifting like a dead thing. All in all we were now nothing more than a big wooden lumper of wreck, waiting to sink.

This took me to my next little piece of rottenness, which was quite the king of them all. At a moment like this any normal seaman, whether angel or pirate, will have only one thought, and that’s to save his vessel. Inside half an instant he’ll pick up the nearest axe and start chopping at wreckage before it sinks her. What was going on here was rather different. The Englishmen were all busy as beavers, for sure, but their delight was all in trying to lower the main boat. All in all it seemed they weren’t eager to clutter themselves with Manxmen, preferring to keep this a private ride just for themselves. I could see the shore, with a prettiest line of surf breaking, and though it was a few miles off it looked near enough to suit them nicely.

What a fine case of Englishman’s murder this was. Murder by doing nothing, which is your Englishman’s favourite, I’m sure. Shooting or bludgeoning a shipload of men to death is such a dirtying sort of thing to do, as well as being legally awkward besides, so what could be prettier than to quietly set out for the shore and leave all this untidiness behind, handy as kittens drowning in a bucket. All my friend Potter needed to do was shut his eyes for a moment, dream up a smart little story to tell the curious, and, with a little gentle rowing, all his worries would be gone. He must, I supposed, be quite hugging himself beneath his beard. No wonder the two bodies at the pumps were raging and screaming so. The boys in the fo’c’sle must’ve heard them, as they were hammering and shouting fit to burst.

Not that the Englishmen were doing so well in their murdering. Truly, you never saw a gang of dirts less fit for messing with ships than these. All they had to do was lower a boat, which is hardly your most difficult piece of seamanship, but a proper pig’s ear they were making of it. The boat was hanging over the ship’s side, but only a foot or two, as it was nicely jammed. As for the Englishmen, Skeggs—who looked pale as death—was lying inside it with his head propped up on one of the rowing benches, while Hodges and Hooper stood beside him tinkering with the blocks, and Potter was facing them over the rail from the deck, a pile of guns and a leather carrying case at his feet. Was that our gold in there? Our gold that we’d sailed clean round the world to earn? The low mucks.

An ill-tempered gang of dirts they were, too, yelling at one another like drunks raging over the last swallow from the bottle. I suppose they were getting scared they mightn’t escape after all, and would accidentally murder themselves along with everyone else. The poor babes. If only they’d thought to ask, I could’ve told what was wrong, as I could see it with one glance. The blocks were nearly solid with rust while the ropes holding the boat were fraying like sheep’s hair. This was their own fault, too, seeing as it was them that had brought the ship into such a handsome state of ruin in the first place.

‘‘We must cut the ropes,’’ shouted Hooper.

‘‘But that’s madness,’’ Potter yelled back. ‘‘The boat could capsize when it hits the water.’’

If only I could get to the fo’c’sle and free the others, then we might have a chance. It wouldn’t be easy, though, with chains to carry and a heap of guns lying at Potter’s feet. I was getting ready to have a try when I heard a shout of ‘‘Lord God who art in heaven, I pray to Thee, smite down thine enemies.’’ Strange to say I’d almost forgotten about the Reverend in these last moments. Here he came, striding across the deck, bold as brass. For a second I feared he might give me away, but no, he didn’t cast so much as a sneer in my direction, being far too intent on his own madness. It was high time he made himself somebody else’s nuisance for a change. Why, he might even come in handy, giving Potter somebody else to stare at.

‘‘Get back from here,’’ Potter shouted, as if he’d seen a ghost.

I didn’t wait but darted out from the stairway fast as I could, to the stump of the fallen mizzenmast, which I reached without getting shot even once. Getting to the fo’c’sle would be harder. I gave a wave to the two poor skeletons at the pumps to keep quiet.

I could hear Wilson droning behind me. ‘‘I must have this boat.’’

‘‘I’m telling you to get back.’’ Potter should have known better than to try giving orders to the Reverend.

‘‘God says it is mine.’’

‘‘God told you wrong.’’

Glancing back, I saw Potter waving his pistol at the Reverend. Not that it made any difference, as the only way he could’ve persuaded that old article was by putting a bullet through him. He must’ve wished he’d done just that, too. The next thing I knew Wilson uttered a kind of piping yell, then took a rush at the rail, and sort of scampered and hurled himself over, quite your flying vicar, landing himself nicely in the boat. The surprise, though, was what came next. The weight of him can’t have been much, being all skeleton like he was, but it was enough for those frayed ropes. One held and one gave, so the thing dropped down purest vertical. How Wilson held on I couldn’t say, but he did. The rest were less lucky, or less wilful. All of an instant Hooper, Skeggs and Hodges— and the oars too—were sprinkled nicely onto the ocean with pretty little splashes. I heard them wailing up from the water, already getting fainter, as the wind was carrying us away. Here was a wonder. Why, I could’ve shaken the Reverend by the hand for vanishing three quarters of Potter’s Englishmen quietly away like this. I didn’t wait but took my new chance. One more dash and I was standing before the fo’c’sle door. Dropping my chains in a heap, I started pulling bolts free. A proper army of the rotten, murdering things there were, too, half of them tight with rust.

‘‘How dare you,’’ Potter shouted at the Reverend. Casting a quick glance back, I could see he looked undecided, now looking over the side, I suppose in the hope he might save his friends—though I could see no sign of them—now throwing a raging look at Wilson, as if he was trying to work himself up to shooting the old article. If that was his notion he was too slow. The second rope will have been straining nicely, having the whole of the boat’s weight to carry, and all of a sudden it snapped, dropping the boat with a mighty splash. That turned Potter’s face redder than his beard, and he leaned over the rail and fired his pistol empty. I couldn’t see if he’d had any luck, the boat being too close to the ship’s side, but his aim looked wild.

Not that I had time to dwell on such things. Finally I had the last bolt free, the fo’c’sle door was being pulled back open from inside and familiar bodies were staring out. Though, in truth, they were only just familiar. If I thought I was bad, they were seven times worse, as I’d never seen men so starved. Their faces looked like masks, while their arms and legs were hardly more than bones with a little scran of skin wrapped about them, like skeletons in stockings. Even China Clucas seemed half wasted away. If I needed any more rage inside me—which I didn’t—that gave me a fine dose. I was amazed they were all able to stagger out at all, especially the two that were half killed with scurvy. Then again, I suppose there’s nothing like being locked away and left to drown to give a man a bit of eagerness. In a moment we were freeing the pair lashed to the pumps.

Potter looked all raging amazement at the sight of us, shouting out, ‘‘Get back in there.’’ How fat he was compared to the rest of us.

I never gave an order, but it was as if we all knew what to do. We started stumbling towards him, the sick giving a shoulder to the worse.

‘‘One step nearer and I’ll shoot,’’ Potter yelled.

We were too raging to care. As we tottered closer, he grabbed up all the rifles from the deck, slinging three over his shoulders and grasping the fourth in one hand, while he had the revolving pistol in the other, so he looked a proper medical bandit. Here was a fine little battle so it was: on one side nine Manx skeletons, one in chains, two hardly able to walk, with hardly a toothpick for weaponry among them; on the other a single Englishman pretending himself a whole army.

‘‘I will shoot.’’ He waved his rifle back and forth along the length of us, but it seemed as if we were just too many to choose from. For a moment he reached into his pocket, I guessed for more bullets for his pistol, but then sort of yelped, like a kicked dog, and, grabbing the leather carrying case, he darted away, guns clattering, to the stairs to the officers’ cabins. His rifles nearly stopped him, catching the hatch with a proper jarring that made him spit curses, but he managed to scamper down before we could reach him. ‘‘If any man steps down here I will shoot him,’’ he promised kindly. I could hear a scraping sound, of boxes being moved, so it seemed he was trying to make some kind of nest for himself

I let him be, having more urgent worries. ‘‘The wreckage,’’ I called out. I hardly need have troubled myself as China Clucas was already reaching for the axe. In just a few moments the mast and its mess were cut loose and drifting away, and Vartin Clague had the wheel to steady us. I took a quick glance over the rail at the timbers. A nasty sight they made, too, as the mast had scraped and bashed them something terrible, so I could only hope they wouldn’t cave in at the next big wave. Nor was this the finish of our troubles.

‘‘We’ll never get past that,’’ growled Brew. All this while that we’d been playing our games with the Englishmen the wind had been pushing the ship straight at England, and we were drifting nicely into a bay. Brew had his eyes on a long point jutting out into the ocean to larboard. ‘‘Even if we put more sail on the foremast, and it held, too—which I doubt it would—the wind’s too far round.’’

The sad thing was that he was right. Not in a thousand tries would we slip round that big chunk of rock. It seemed those Englishmen had done for my poor Sincerity after all. The rottenness of it. Halfway round the world she’d taken us, and the other half too, and now she was to be broken on rocks of their own muck of a land. All that was left was to hope we wouldn’t go down with her. Spreading my chains over the fallen mizzenmast, I had China Clucas set to work with the axe, which he did neatly enough, then snapping the rings off with Christian’s chisel. That was something, at least. After all this time shackled my arms felt light as air, so they kept sort of floating up without my intending.

‘‘Look, there’s the Reverend,’’ called out Kinvig.

Sure enough, there he was, sitting in the longboat a hundred yards distant, his hands clasped together for another bit of praying, just in case God was feeling neglected. His vessel being low in the water the wind seemed to be leaving him in peace, and he was drifting away with the current. By the looks of it he’d even clear the point. That fellow had the devil’s luck, no denying. Though I couldn’t believe he’d last long in the open sea, especially without oars. There was no sign of the other three.

We had none of his fortune. I took a look at the rest of the boats, but the fallen spars had done for them nicely, smashing two to splinters and giving the third a handsome crack stretching clean across her bow timbers. It seemed we’d just have to take our chances as best we could. We might be half an hour, we might be more, but it would be soon enough. It was hard to see how savage we’d have it, but the way surf was jumping at the shore looked hardly friendly.

That was when Brew came up with his question. ‘‘Where’s the gold?’’

What a fine little question that was. I’d thought those Englishmen had used up all their nuisance, but no, the doctor had found a sweet way of riling us even now. The rotten thief with his leather carrying case. Glancing down the hatchway, I could see he’d blocked up the door of the dining cabin with a heap of packing boxes. A rifle was sticking out from a hole in the middle.

‘‘Keep away,’’ he shouted. ‘‘One step nearer and I’ll shoot.’’

Taking a run down there wouldn’t be clever, that was clear as glass.

‘‘We could lower someone over the stern,’’ suggested Brew.

‘‘He’d be sure to see, and put a bullet through him.’’

‘‘How about the cannon?’’ wondered China Clucas, in a grim sort of voice. ‘‘We could just blast him.’’

One look put paid to that. The mizzenmast had landed clean on top of the thing, squeezing it flat as a rat in a mangle. But I had an idea now. ‘‘What about the contraband holds. Does he know about them?’’

Brew wasn’t sure. ‘‘He must know they’re there.’’

There was a sight of difference between knowing they were there and knowing how to get in, as the London customs had proved nicely. It would be a risk, for sure, especially seeing as we had no guns, but what was risk when we were about to go smashing into a rocky shore. ‘‘We may as well have a try.’’

‘‘Let me come,’’ offered China Clucas, picking up the axe.

He’d do as well as any for a jaunt like this. I took a belaying pin and we were all set. Aside from the dining cabin, the other way in was from the hold, so we opened up the main hatch. A proper lake of bilge water there was down below, slooshing through the ballast and licking at the empty store casks, and giving me a good soaking as I clambered down the rope. Fortunately it hadn’t reached those particular timbers on the wall. I heard a faint click as Kinvig pulled that certain cable, making them twitch, and they prized open nicely enough. Lighting a candle and peering in, I learned for sure why we hadn’t sunk or capsized. D’you know the contraband hold was all but dry, with just a little wash of water dribbling about in the bottom. We couldn’t have built the Sincerity a better pair of floats if we’d wanted.

In I climbed. I could see no light shining in from Potter’s end, so the hatch to the dining cabin must still be closed, which was something. Unless he’d guessed us, of course, and was waiting his moment. Whatever he was doing, we couldn’t afford being heard, that was sure, so I whispered to the boys to take themselves aft and pester him with all the noise they were able. Before long I could hear them shouting into his den, calling him names—which is a fine skill of Manxmen—and China and me started our little journey.

This wasn’t easy. We had to drop down to where it was narrower and more slanting so we’d not slip, and even then it was hard to feel a way ahead—our legs being all sort of twisted with the timbers—while all the time we were trying to keep from scraping the axe and the belaying pin, and so giving ourselves away. The further we went, the darker it got, and the stronger was the smell of brandy and tobacco. All around me I could hear the timbers creaking, to remind us that we were lodged in just a little slip of air, with seawater by the ton pressing in from both sides. I’d chosen the side that hadn’t been battered by the mast but it wouldn’t make much difference, as if the timbers went the Sincerity would dive down quicker than porpoises. My other worry was that some bit of England might suddenly come smashing through the side, as our surprise. As we went, the sounds of the boys’ tauntings changed and changed again, growing louder and softer, harsher and muffled, as they found some different way to seep through the ship’s woodwork. Finally there was a loud bang that was answered with laughter and told me they must have riled Potter into wasting a bullet. It seemed they’d found the right names for him, then.

By then we’d finally reached the end. We wedged ourselves between the timbers like a proper pair of chimney sweeps, then prized our way upwards, till finally I felt the touch of the cable that sprang the trap. I could hear no sound apart from the shouting of the boys. If Potter had stumbled upon the entrance—as he well might have, squatting in my cabin for all these months—then he’d be ready as rabbits, but there was nothing to do but try. The hatch had never creaked before and I hoped it hadn’t got into bad habits. Gently as could be, I pulled up the cable, holding the catch to stop it clicking too loud. Jump it went and the hatch came loose. I waited a moment—for no reason at all, you know, except to put it off—and then, very gently, I pushed it upwards, holding its weight, so Queen Victoria swung over nice and gently.

Out I peered, quite dazzled by the light. There was Potter, or rather his back, crouched with all his guns behind a proper wall of his packing cases, as he stared away down the passage. That was a piece of luck. One of the boys must have just said something, as even while I looked he pointed his pistol and fired it off. That was more luck again. My ears were ringing like seven bells and his would be worse. Belaying pin ready, I was just about to pull myself up through the hatch when all of a sudden I felt myself tugged back. Would you believe it, that big gorm China Clucas was pushing me out of the way, so he could clamber up himself. For a bad moment I quite feared he meant to warn Potter—after all, he’d quite worshipped him for healing his pig gash—but no, I couldn’t have been more wrong. By the time I poked my head up through, Potter was twisting round—must have heard him coming—though he was too slow. I’m sure China didn’t mean to do for him, as he didn’t use the axe blade but gave him a tap with the metal back of the handle. Then again there’s nothing to get a man’s rage going like admiration gone sour. He caught Potter on the head, just above his eye, making a strangest sound, like a barrel being staved. That was enough. Down went the doctor, all clattering guns and flying mess.

I pulled myself through the hatch and had a scratch of my chin. ‘‘That’s that then.’’

China looked sort of sheepish. ‘‘I didn’t mean to…’’

I shook my head. ‘‘Don’t you go troubling your conscience with that one, China. He’s not deserving.’’ I called out to the boys through the hole in the packing cases. ‘‘It’s all right now. We’re finished here.’’

Brew’s face peered down the stairway. ‘‘You’d best get back up here, Captain. We’re getting close to the land.’’

That was when I noticed a curious thing. There on my shelf just where I’d left it all those months before, was our same bag of gold that I’d got from Jed Grey for our brandy and tobacco. Potter had just left it. It looked like he’d never even troubled himself to open the thing and see what was inside. What a strange body he was. But then what was in his leather carrying case? It must be valuable, or he’d not have been clutching it so keen.

‘‘Hurry up, Captain.’’

China had cleared the packing boxes out of the doorway. I grabbed the gold, and the leather case, too, and hurried up towards the deck.

So we finally had our disaster at sea, and a curious one it was besides. Your traditional shipwreck is all noise and wind and bodies getting landed against rocks, but this was nothing like. The sea, which had been a little choppy before, was calming nicely, while there was even a bit of sunshine to warm our bones. We didn’t so much as founder on rocks as get wedged between two of them, the Sincerity’s timbers grinding and creaking something terrible, as the waves pushed at her once and again. Well, we didn’t wait for fortune to go changing her mind, but lowered a rope onto a big flat chunk of stone below, and dropped ourselves down fast as fright, all giving a hand to the two that were so gone with scurvy.

I hadn’t thought beyond these rocks. Why should I have? It was good, and better than good, that we’d not all been drowned after all.

Now we were actually here, though, panting and gasping on this miracle of solid ground, I could see all sorts of new troubles raising their nasty heads.

It was as well we hadn’t dawdled. Hardly had we sat down and caught our breath when there was a crunching sound, and the poor Sincerity gave a mighty shudder. The timbers that had been battered by the mast must have gone, crushed by those rocks, as all at once there was a wild sort of gurgling and she was sliding back down fast as could be. The contraband holds had no bulkheads, so they’d fill as quick as a sieve dropped in a well, and sure enough her poor battered hull slipped down so she was gone in hardly an instant. The foremast poked up above the water for a short while but soon even that was tilting to one side, and then disappeared. She’d gone down whole.

That was bad as well.

Here was a hard sort of moment. Saying goodbye to the Sincerity, the first and only vessel I’d ever owned. I’d still felt she was my ship even during all those months I was stuck below, with Potter playing captain and making a wreck of her. Why, she’d saved our lives, keeping us afloat just long enough. Not that that was all my thinking. There was also the little matter of what was still in her—or rather who—waiting to be found. I quite wished I hadn’t taken China Clucas along for that jaunt. Mind you, what else could we have done?

‘‘Is that the jink, then?’’ asked Brew, pointing at the leather case.

I’d clean forgotten about the thing. Mind you, it was a proper waste of time as it turned out. There I’d been, dragging it off the vessel like my life depended on it, and when I opened it up all I found was paper. Where was the use in that? From what I could see it was purest gibberish, too, being all about types and characteristics and other nonsense. I couldn’t think why Potter had been hanging on to it so.

China pointed at the sand dune behind us. ‘‘Someone’s coming.’’

Following his look, I saw two bodies on horseback riding towards us. Rescuers, that was all we needed. From their clothes they looked like farmers. They were good and shocked at our being so starved.

‘‘What on earth happened to you?’’

It was questions that would hang us and this was the first. ‘‘We’ve come from Tasmania. We ran out of food.’’

That was enough to quiet them, at least for now. ‘‘I’ll fetch the cart.’’ The only safe thing would be to get far away, and soon too, before it was too late. It might be salvagers, or scavengers, or just some Englishman with a curiosity. Any would do. After that it wouldn’t matter a spit that we’d been in the right. It’s never being right that matters, after all, it’s being believed, which is another animal entirely. One quick study of the ship would spring enough mysteries to put us in some Englishman’s court of law, being called smugglers and murderers. All the while bodies with letters after their names would be remembering what a fine respectable fellow Dr. Potter had been.

Wouldn’t that just be my luck, to spend all these months battling against the old scriss, and then, just when I thought I’d won, to be hanged by his own dead corpse.