English passengers (29 page)

It might sound grand enough already, I dare say, but our military Irishman commander was dreaming of greater things still, being unhappy that his little kingdom was all made of wood, which would hardly do for the likes of us. So it was that anyone who’d been fortunate enough to work with stone—perhaps playing at making some bridge—was suddenly wanted. I’d never thought I’d be pleased to find myself chipping at rocks once again, but after all these years sawing trees with the likes of the Macquarie boys it seemed gentleness itself. First I was put building a guardhouse for the barracks, that was round like some bloody castle, and after that there was the new church we had to have, so some parson could tell us how wicked we were every Sunday, just in case we’d forgot. That church was a mighty piece of work, and took a full year of splitting our hands before it was done. By then I was beginning to get hopeful that I’d soon be bidding farewell to Port Arthur. The rock chippers were mostly creepers that I could scare with just a few words and looks, so it was easy enough to keep myself improved, and after just a few months I traded my canary yellow for my very first suit of grey. If I stayed quiet and bided my time I reckoned I’d soon be away making roads or such, which would be soft as milk after here.

My next job after the church looked quietness itself, being a fountain and other foolishness for an ornamental garden, that was the toy of our Irishman commander’s wife. She’d only been married to the old brute a few months and was a tasty-looking piece, fresh and ripe as could be, with a sad sort of look in her eyes, I suppose from being stuck on the furthest edge of nowhere with nobody for company but soldiers and coves in chains. The talk was that this ornamental garden was her husband’s stab at keeping her cheerful, and it seemed to be working, as most every day she came strolling out to fret herself with some new little change she wanted, as everything had to be just so. Not that we much minded being ordered, seeing as she was such a juicy little piece. She never went anywhere alone, always having a little troop of soldiers keeping watch, just in case anyone got any thoughts, as well they might. It was hard not to stare, as she had a fine tempting shape, even covered up like she was, and on hot days I was sure I caught a faint whiff of her
musk, sweet and ready as could be. After all this time locked away that got me feeling quite faint-headed with dreaming up the rest of the picture, and how she’d squeal with a fine good working. Still I took only careful glances, being keen not to lose that grey suit of mine.

She hardly spoke to us stone chippers, keeping her words for a fellow named Sheppard, who was doing the cherubs. Sheppard wasn’t much skilled at them, in truth, having only been picked because he’d once had a trade carving tombstones—which is hardly the same—and they never looked like flying babies so much as fat boys with something nasty flapping on their backs. The commander’s wife took it very serious, though, and was forever peering at them and giving advice, for all the little difference it made. It was those cherubs caused all my trouble in a way. By now we were in January and it was hot as ovens, while chipping stone is thirsty work. I’d been working out in the sun a good few hours, hacking at stone blocks for the summerhouse we were making next, and I’d taken a good few swigs of water from the bucket to cool my throat. Water will as water will, and, seeing all was quiet, I took a stroll across to some bushes that were near.

Hardly had I got set when I heard a sort of gasp. There she was, the commander’s little pet, all hot and damp in her corsets and such, just on the other side of that bush. She must have stepped back there so she could get a look at the cherubs from a distance. Her eyes were staring wide, almost as if she’d never seen one before. As for me, I never meant any trouble. It was just I was caught by surprise, so rather than put him away smartish, like I suppose I should, I just stared right back. That was my mistake. All at once she let out a scream loud enough to be heard in Hobart town and soldiers were running.

To be fair, she never did push to get me punished. I even heard talk that she asked her husband to let me off. Not that it made any difference. Probably he didn’t much like the thought of her seeing any but his own, just in case she started getting too interested. Inside half a moment I’d traded my suit of grey for a yellow one with ‘‘felon’’ written all across it, and a handsome pair of leg irons to match. Nor was that the end of the commander’s thank-you. The finish of it was the work gang I was put into, and most of all the gang’s overseer, Ferguson, who was known as the keenest lasher in all Van Diemen’s Land.

Ferguson’s skill was in finding your worst spot and then pushing at it, day after day, till you’d be maddened into doing some wildness that would earn you a nice little spell on the triangles. His favourite was asking questions. ‘‘You look tired,’’ he’d say, looking all sad, so that for a moment you wondered if he really was worried for you. ‘‘Perhaps you should have a little rest?’’

The rule in the gangs was strictest silence, so if you were foolish enough to give an answer his smile would vanish as if it had never happened, he’d be stamping his foot and calling you every stinking name he could think of and next he’d have the soldiers running over to haul you off to the triangles for your reward. Not that it was much better if you stayed dumb. Then the bastard would shake his head, as if he was surprised. ‘‘Well, if you’re not tired I’ve just the job for you.’’ This would be the very worst thing he could dream up, such as dragging double-sized logs, or standing waist-deep in cold harbour water, pushing timber to some boat. Even then he’d not be finished. When you were half dead from that, he’d come sidling up to you again.

‘‘Something troubling you, is there?’’ he’d ask, all kindly concern. ‘‘I know it. You’re worried you’ll have to leave this little spot one day, and venture back into the world, with its wicked temptations. All that rum to drink and tobacco to smoke, and tasty young females lifting up their skirts.’’ Then he’d peer so close that his face was a blur of nearness and bad breath. ‘‘Don’t you fret yourself Jack, as your old friend Ferguson will keep you safe. Why, I’ll fix it so you don’t have to leave till you’re old to your bones, and those females won’t annoy you with so much as a glance.’’ Then he’d pat you on the shoulder as if he really was your friend, which was worst of all. ‘‘Your old mate Ferguson will see you right.’’

After being worked on this for a while there wasn’t one in his gang that wasn’t inches away from throwing a punch. If anyone did, then he’d be ready—he was a good watcher, was Ferguson—and would usually dodge out of the way without catching himself a mark, it being easy enough to skip out of range of a fellow with shackles round his ankles. Then he’d call up soldiers and have you hauled off and he’d be smiling wide, as there was nothing he loved better than seeing one of his boys catch a stroking from the Port Arthur Cat.

But I should stop here a moment, as this was no ordinary lashing device. Of all the many ones on Van Diemen’s Land this bugger had quite a name, and with good reason. Nine tails and eighty-one knots it had, and all of them soaked in salt water and dried in the sun, till they were purest wire. A hundred from this was enough to make pig’s liver of any bastard’s back. Still I will insist—and I’m quite the man to ask—that the part of being lashed that worked on a man’s mind most was never the stinging, but something different altogether. It was that dangling helplessness. No feeling could compare to being tied fast to a wooden triangle quietly waiting for the lasher to catch his breath—they never liked to hurry themselves—and start his next run, while all the time not being able to do a thing to stop him. Even weeks later just the very remembrance of this delight could make a cove’s head boil clean over, like milk in the pan, so the smallest thing, such as some fool blocking his way on the path, would set him kicking and punching.

This was just how Ferguson liked his gang to be, too, as then they were easy as lambs to rile into another beating, being all in circles, like snakes eating their own tails. He showed a particular interest in me—I dare say he liked to please his commander—and after a few months and several visits to the triangles I was well primed. I hardly caught a glimpse of my eyes in those days, being out of reach of pretty mirrors, but I’d wager that they were madder now than they ever had been when I was trying to look crazed.

Hardly an hour seemed to pass without my thinking of ways of bolting, and I was soon past caring how wild or foolish they were. Now, a stranger to Van Diemen’s Land might think there’d not be many ways to step out of Arthur, but there were more than you might guess. The first, being the one that worked most often, was just to sit quietly and look harmless for months and years, till finally you got let out. The trouble with this bugger, of course, was that I’d given it a proper try already, while it had done me no good, and now my patience was too thin for such slow work. A second way was to come up with some daring act of improvement, such as betraying some little secret of your fellow convicts. The worry here was that snitching was so common a trade in Port Arthur that it was hard to get word of anyone’s trouble-making, while if you just invented some plot and hung it round some
bleeder’s neck—which was done often enough, too—there was the worry that you’d be found out, and lashed rather than freed. A third and better road was to play the hero, perhaps saving some fool of a redcoat from drowning, or from getting mashed when a tree came down. This could work handsomely, and there were stories of men who’d jumped from chains to full pardon all in one leap in just this way, but sadly it was hardly the kind of thing you could rely upon, unless you arranged the drowning or the tree all yourself which wouldn’t be easy. Besides, the commander had me marked as his special enemy, so I’d need to perform a proper barrelload of miracles to win his forgiveness.

This takes me to the fourth route—one that was discussed a good deal in hushed voices—being to simply make a run for it into the bush. This was tried regularly enough, too, though not with much success, the difficulties being many. Even if you managed to chop through your chains with your axe and dodge the nearest soldiers, in half a moment the arms of the commander’s semaphore would be waving and search parties would be out, while it was hard to get far on account of the ocean. The dirty piece of land Port Arthur was sat on was as close to being an island as a chunk of land can be, being joined to the rest of Van Diemen’s Land only by a strip of dirt a few yards wide, called Eaglehawk Neck, and though I’d never seen this spot it was well known to be guarded more carefully even than the commander’s wife’s petticoat secrets. A whole troop of redcoats was posted there, together with a row of giant dogs on chains, while I heard that offal was slung into the sea alongside to tempt in sharks. Even if some bastard did manage to get past, there were miles of bush—all thorns and mud and nothing to eat-before he reached farmland. Bolters often gave themselves up freely, as just a few days of roaming made Port Arthur seem comfort itself Still I was interested in this particular road, mostly because it was there all the while, so tempting, while I was too crazed by now to care much if it would work. We were working close to the railway at that time, and as I watched those little carts trundle by, pulled by their convicts, I’d keep a careful watch on whether soldiers were near, and play little games with myself of what I might do.

But I’ve left out the fifth and last way out of Port Arthur, which I also liked to think on. This had worries, certainly, but it also had the rare joy
of being entirely and absolutely certain. Why, I’d seen more than a few buggers taking it, waving their farewells as they marched through the settlement, giving a jaunty shout of how they were looking forward to having their carriage ride through Hobart town and a smoke of tobacco. The method was simple as could be. You just chose some cove—any would do, though my choice would be friend Ferguson—and then waited till he was looking off into some other direction. Next you walked up to him, nice and quiet, raised up a rock, or your chopping axe if you had one, and gently carved open his skull. Within just a few days you’d find yourself saying goodbye to Port Arthur forever, and having a grand journey all the way to Hobart, for a cheery spell in gaol cells and courtrooms, and a final dangle from a rope. It was hardly the choicest way out, I’ll admit. After a few months gadding back and forth between Ferguson’s gang and the triangles, though, I was past playing choosy, and was ready to bag whichever chance first showed its face.

T
HE WAVES
were tossing the vessel about like a leaf in a storm, and as I stood upon the deck, in a brief foray from the shelter of my cabin, there drifted up through the hatches faint cries and moans, together with a most dreadful odour. It was the smell of humanity that has been reduced almost to the animal. The thought of the huddle of convicts tethered below was greatly distressing to me, and not merely because of the physical discomfort they must be enduring. As I knew only too well, their being pressed all together in such proximity would be permitting a terrible process to occur among them—a process as inevitable as chemical osmosis—as criminality and lawlessness spread from the most evil to those still possessed of any lingering innocence. Given a few more days they would, I had no doubt, all be equally contaminated with wickedness.

‘‘They should be brought on deck so they can get some air,’’ I exclaimed.

Knowles, my unsought-for travelling companion, remained unmoved. ‘‘I’d rather keep them nicely shackled, Professor.’’

It was a game of his to call me by this title, though I had told him several times that I was nothing of the kind. Knowles, who was journeying to Port Arthur to conduct an inspection upon the establishment’s water supply, was one of those beings who relishes his own pitiless views of mankind, which he seemed to regard in much the same manner as he might a defective system of plumbing. Since we had left Hobart I had learned to treat his remarks with a certain coolness, as to show feeling seemed only to fan the flames of his cynicism. ‘‘You have no sympathy for your fellow men,’’ I told him, more as a rebuke than from any expectation that he might take notice.