English passengers (43 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘‘What is he, then?’’ I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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