English passengers (28 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rose House, Bristol 12th October 1832

Mr. Harris,

It is with more than a little sadness that I must bid farewell to young George as he returns to his native land. It seems hardly possible that he has been with Mother and myself fully two years, so quickly has the time passed.

When Mr. Grigson first came to call at Rose House and suggested the arrangement, I confess I found myself not a little uncertain. For all my experience as a teacher I could hardly claim any expertise in the instruction of wild black boys from the furthermost antipodes, and I shall not deny I came close to declining so curious a proposition. In the event, I am more than happy that I took the decision I did, as matters have turned out better than I could ever have expected. True enough, the lad was quite difficult at first. He showed an aversion to sitting still which proved hard to overcome, and would sometimes jump to his feet even in the middle of dinner, a habit which was cured only by constant reproach. He was also restless at night, often crying out in strange wild words of his own language, until he had roused all the household with his mysterious nightmares. With time, however, he grew more accustomed to his new home, and he is now a most well-behaved and likeable child. He has developed a particular affection for Mother’s maidservant, Mrs. Cleghorn—a Welsh woman of warmest character—to whom he will cling about the waist quite as if she were some tree in a gale, showing such a visible reluctance to ever let go that she finds it no easy matter to attend to her duties.

As to the boy’s studies, here again I found myself surprised, as he has
applied himself well and progressed at a good pace. You will find he now speaks English with fluency, although he has difficulty still with prepositions and some of the past tenses. Likewise he writes a clear and neat hand, though his spelling still needs further practice. Altogether his memory is good and he has got off his Psalms very well.

My greatest delight, however, has concerned his Arithmetic. While in other subjects he is able rather than remarkable, here he has shown no small aptitude. He learned his multiplication tables with greater ease almost than his alphabet, which is most unusual, and has progressed so quickly with long multiplication and division that I have started him upon geometry. He seems to find a pure and simple enchantment in numbers, quite as if they are toys for his amusement. More than a few times I have found him writing out sums in his own time, almost with a secrecy, as if this were his personal pleasure. My surprise at his skills has been all the greater as it was in this subject, more than any, that it might have been expected he would find difficulty.

If I have written at some length about George’s talent for Arithmetic this is not without purpose. The fact is that it is my wish that I may impress upon you the value of continuing him in his studies. I hope you will not find it impertinent, but I cannot help but wonder if you might reconsider your intention, as reported to me by Mr. Grigson, of having him work in some simple capacity upon your farm. My fear is that in associating with persons far less educated than himself, he will come to forget his own learning. In view of the great progress he has made this would be no small waste. With encouragement and further instruction I do believe George could be well suited to some official post, perhaps in the service of the colonial government. Employment in an office would likewise be more favourable to his health, as I have observed his constitution is far from strong. I have provided him with all his writing and ciphering books so his present state of knowledge may be clearly shown, and it occurs to me that these might be of no little interest to the island’s governor.

It is left to me only to hope that you may find time to send us a letter now and then, that we may hear of the little fellow’s progress. I fear Mrs. Cleghorn will give Mother and myself no peace if she is not provided with news of ‘‘my George,’’ as she refers to him. Likewise should you discover any further such unfortunates who would benefit from a course of lessons here I would, naturally, be most pleased to offer my own services for their instruction.

E
IGHTEEN OF US
there were sat in that stinking ship’s hold, listening to the roar of chain as the anchor was let go, which meant we had surely arrived somewhere. It was sweet enough to step on the deck and feel the breeze, as it had been close as death down below. We were stopped in a narrow bay, I saw, the shore just wild trees and not a sign of men. This was hardly a surprise, mind, as we were the lucky bleeders supposed to get this new misery town started. It was sheltered by hills and had a little yellow beach, and I thought it a pretty enough spot in its way, this Port Arthur, as it was to be called. I’d have time to think on that prettiness again, of course, as it turned out.

Within a couple of days we’d built huts and a storehouse, and we had ourselves a fine little gaol village. After that we started work, which was cutting down the giant trees and sawing them into pieces, or hauling them through the harbour—which was cold as winter—and soon there were other buggers arriving to share our delight. I’d never been snared in a penal colony before, but I’d heard talk of what went on at Macquarie Harbour—stories that would scare the devil himself—and I wasn’t one to go waiting for it to happen to me. I reckoned the best way to stop trouble was to make it, and so I set about getting myself a name, which meant giving out hard looks and cracking any head that gave one back. I had to be careful of the guards, as to be seen was to catch a lashing, but it could be done in the quiet of the forest sometimes, or in the huts at night, and though I got caught and lashed once or twice I thought it was worth paying that price. I was careful never to forget any lip I was given, so my name was kept right, and I’d settle any bother in the end, even if it was weeks later. That served me well enough, too, at least through the first year or so, till the Macquarie Harbour boys blew in.

It was the whole lot of them we got, as Macquarie Harbour was being closed down for good. I suppose some office scribbler reckoned our Port Arthur could be made even worse. Proper hard cases they were, those buggers, with killing in their every glance, being the kind that
would as soon get themselves hanged than stomach a sneer or slight, and from the moment they arrived in the settlement—which was quite a little town of huts and saw pits by then—they were out to govern the place as if it was their own toy. They did too, fairly much, the commander and his creepers of soldiers running as scared of them as everyone else, so they hardly troubled if some poor bastard got beaten half to death or worse. I did what I could. I tried keeping out of their way, and I tried looking crazed too, and not a man to trouble, but it made no difference as they had me marked down as someone to cut down to size. All in all I don’t rightly care to recall what went on in those times.

The one good thing about those Macquarie boys was that they got us some fishing. After a while the store ran short, so our rations were cut, and they took themselves into a right temper at this, threatening all manner of joy if they weren’t given more to eat, till the commander ran scared and told us we must feed ourselves. Work hours were cut and we were told to catch some fishing and start growing vegetables. That was sweet, too, as nothing felt so bad when you were sat by the water with a line, or digging in seed potatoes. I wasn’t the only bugger to find it so, neither, and even those Macquarie boys got slowed down nicely. Why, it got so that the commander had to let his soldiers go fishing as well, as they were getting jealous of their own prisoners.

All good things must come to an end, so it’s said, and with Port Arthur the good things stopped with a little Christmas gift we got, this being a visit by George Alder himself, governor of Van Diemen’s Land. I’d heard a good deal about this fellow from the others, as he was often the subject of nighttime chattering in the penitentiary huts, when coves thought up all kinds of violent mishaps a great man like that should take care to avoid. There he was, stepping from his rowboat, a little troop of guards and creepers nursing him along. A bloodless face he had, almost as if he was crook, and eyes with no laugh in them, that made me think of purity vicars, or snakes studying at mice. He didn’t look much pleased with what he saw as he snooped about, but kept grim as Sunday, scowling almost as if we’d let him down.

After that little visit changes came thick and fast. We got a new commander, who was one of those military Irishmen that cackle at can-nonballs, and it was him that put a stop to our fishing and gardens. Our
plants were all taken up and put together in one big field, which meant they weren’t ours anymore and only a few lucky crawlers got to work on them. Then there were the new uniforms, all different according to how improved we were. Any coves that were thought on their path to salvation wore grey, while the rest of us that weren’t were in cheery yellow. As for any poor bleeders who’d somehow managed to get worse, these were different again, having yellow suits with a prettiest pattern drawn across them, all made out of the word ‘‘felon,’’ as well as a handsome pair of leg shackles to show off.

Another change was that tobacco was outlawed. In truth this caused more trouble than all the rest, as it drove the Macquarie boys half to madness, so they were always looking out for someone to punish. If you fought back—which I did—this was frowned on by the commander and his redcoats as showing you still unimproved, and so I stayed in canary clothes all the while. That was trouble, as time was passing and I was getting mighty weary of chopping at trees, feeling a lash on my back and staring always at that little yellow beach. Besides, I was getting no younger, and my fear was that if I got stuck here another four years I’d not be able to fight my corner, and would be just dead meat to any enemy I’d notched up, there being more than a few of those.

Port Arthur was getting older too. Convicts by the hundred there were now, with more buggers coming all the while, and from just a few huts by the shore it was grown into quite a Manchester, with work sheds turning out every kind of article, from boots to lampposts. There was a dock where ships were made, and strong guarded, too, while away to northwards there was a little coal mine with cells underground, that was said to be such a delight that even the Macquarie Harbour boys tried to keep away. If for some reason a fellow tired of all this joy and decided to take a little walk alone into the bush, there was a fine new semaphore on the hill behind the commander’s house, so that in just a few moments all Van Diemen’s Land might know of his strolling. If our fellow was caught—which he generally would be—and was left weary from his adventures, or had caught a bullet in his gut, there was a little railway to carry him back, with carriages pulled not by steam engines but by convicts, these being more plentiful. Why, if his excursion proved too exciting for his nerves we even had an island of the dead for the poor bleeder,
where he could be buried in a good Port Arthur coffin, that he might have worked on himself.