English passengers (40 page)

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

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

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

‘‘Just go away.’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I began to climb down Tayaleah’s tree.

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

I
T WAS
my wife’s idea that I should embark on a little tour of Van Diemen’s Land, so I might gain a greater understanding of this, my new fiefdom. Her thought had been to visit Port Arthur, the larger towns and settlements and perhaps a farm or two, so I might attempt to establish a useful rapport with some of the island’s inhabitants, but I was curious to learn of all aspects of the colony, and it was this that led me to include upon our itinerary the aboriginal establishment on Flinders Island. I had heard a little about the unfortunate history of the natives even before I left English shores, while my interest had grown when I finally reached Hobart and chanced upon the reports sent by the settlement’s commandant, Mr. Robson. This officer had been achieving nothing short of wonders in that remote place, as he valiantly struggled to reform the blacks and bring them into a state of civilization. My predecessor had, I noted, suggested Mr. Robson should be considered for a post of aboriginal protector at the proposed new settlement at Port Phillip Bay, and while I had no doubt he would prove more than suitable for the position, it seemed sad indeed that he should have to abandon such promising work. I was greatly looking forward to meeting the man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘‘Surely the bread becomes stale?’’

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

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

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

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

It seemed a delightful notion.

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

Robson nodded brightly.

‘‘But not today?’’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘‘And the Second?’’

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

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

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

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

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

‘‘God gives me everything.’’

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

‘‘Burning for ever and ever.’’

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

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