English passengers (46 page)

It was, in effect, a life of perpetual solitary confinement. After a few weeks here, I imagined, even a beating would seem like welcome socia-bleness.

‘‘The convicts are given work to do in their cells so they may learn industry, while the chaplain and schoolmaster visit on occasion to provide morality and learning.’’ Captain James pushed open a heavy door. ‘‘In addition they are each of them brought here five times a week for their religious improvement.’’

It was like no chapel I had ever seen before. The area of the congregation sloped steeply, in the manner of a surgery theatre, and was divided into row upon row of tiny wooden stalls, each of them just large enough to contain one standing man, and separated from its neighbours by doors.

‘‘The stalls ensure that each worshipper can see nobody except for the chaplain, while he has a view of them all,’’ Captain James explained with satisfaction.

‘‘How very ingenious.’’ Wilson appeared quite taken with the place, looking with thoughtfulness towards the lectern. ‘‘The preacher must find he has a most attentive congregation.’’

Potter was more practical. ‘‘Has the system proved successful in reforming the men?’’

‘‘That is still too early to say. Some of the prisoners have proved distressingly obdurate.’’

‘‘I imagine there have at least been no escapes.’’

‘‘There has been one,’’ Captain James admitted, causing surprise to us all. ‘‘It appears it was devised in this very room, and that the prisoners sang their plans to one another during the hymns. They were all captured in the end, of course, while measures have been taken to prevent such a thing from occurring again.’’

It was curious to think of these men, who had not seen one another’s faces for weeks or months, singing their plot to invisible neighbours. For all the wickedness they may have committed it was hard not to feel sympathy for their wish to escape such remorseless solitude.

‘‘How were they punished?’’ wondered Potter.

‘‘We have a pair of chambers known as the dumb cells,’’ our guide explained happily. ‘‘Their walls are of great thickness and they have a series of metal doors, so that no light or sound can pass within. A convict can scream and shout for as long as he likes for all the good it will do him. Just a few days there has a remarkable effect on even the hardest of them.’’ He led us back into the corridor, with its sound of faint whimpering.

‘‘What is that crying?’’ I asked.

‘‘That will be one of the lunatics.’’ A rare frown passed across the captain’s face. ‘‘Really they shouldn’t be here at all, as they quite spoil the silence, but I suppose they must be housed somewhere. They have grown so greatly in numbers of late.’’

‘‘Where are they from?’’ I asked.

‘‘As it happens, quite a goodly proportion were formerly convicts of the Separate Prison.’’ Captain James led us along the corridor towards
the whimpering sound, which I now realized was accompanied by a number of faint scratchings, clickings and murmurings, all muffled by the thick metal doors. ‘‘Sometimes they are noisier even than this. It really is a great shame.’’

All at once the vicar, who had been looking through one of the peepholes in the cell doors, uttered a kind of delighted laugh. ‘‘Renshaw, do come and look.’’

It was the first time he had seemed so cheerful since the business of the mouse bite and, curious, I peered in as he urged. In a corner of the cell sat a thickset man with the most intense and staring eyes, though he seemed to be regarding nothing but the empty wall directly opposite. As I watched, he reached out with his hand and, without warning, slapped the plaster beside him, as if some bothersome insect were there—though I had seen none—then resuming his perfect stillness. It was not this, however, that was most noticeable about the man.

‘‘Dr. Potter,’’ called out Wilson, ‘‘I do believe we have found your long-lost twin.’’

He was quite right. For all the man’s dark-coloured skin and black, lank hair, the likeness he bore to the surgeon was little less than remarkable: his face was of the same shape, while he held himself in the same somewhat stooped way. The stubble on his chin seemed to mimic the doctor’s beard, and even in his fixed stare there was a curious resemblance of expression.

Potter was far from taken with the discovery. ‘‘He looks nothing at all like me,’’ he insisted crossly.

Wilson would not let him go so easily. ‘‘Who is this man?’’

‘‘He is known as Black O’Donnell,’’ Captain James told him in his usual monotone. ‘‘He has, as I recall, quite unusual origins, being part Irish and part native Maori. He was held in the separate system for some time before being declared insane.’’

‘‘What were his crimes?’’

‘‘I would have to examine the records to be sure, but I believe he bludgeoned his father and uncle almost to death.’’

The vicar smirked delightedly. ‘‘You must admit, Doctor, that there is a strong likeness. Are you sure he is not some forgotten cousin?’’

Potter regarded him with coolness. ‘‘If you will only look carefully,
Vicar, you will realize there is no real likeness at all, but merely a superficial similarity, or trick of the eye. Besides, I have not a single Irish relative, let alone any among Maoris.’’

A glint came into Wilson’s eye. ‘‘Of course, it is possible to be misled as to one’s forebears.’’

It was a most poisonous remark, and all the more so for the innocent way in which it was said: if he had spat it out with feeling I believe it would almost have sounded kinder. For a moment I quite wondered if Potter might strike out at the man, but instead he simply turned away, breathing somewhat heavily. Having, as it seemed, regained control of himself he then turned to regard his persecutor afresh.

‘‘It would, I think, be altogether more useful to examine the matter from a scientific approach, rather than waste one’s time with foolish half-observation.’’ He stepped back with determination towards the man’s cell. ‘‘If you will permit me, Vicar, I will provide you with a little study of this man’s cranial features. Afterwards I will do the same for my own self and’’—a thoughtful look passed across his face—‘‘also you yourself Vicar.’’

I was anticipating some form of extended insult to the churchman—a prospect which, I will admit, I regarded with some curiosity—but it was not to be. Potter applied his eye to the peephole for some time, then declared in an irritated voice, ‘‘Where has he gone?’’

‘‘I think,’’ said Captain James quickly, ‘‘that you would be wise to step back from the door.’’

‘‘Whyever should I?’’ the doctor demanded crossly, peering still into the cell.

The answer, as it happened, was only too near at hand. Potter jumped back with a howl, clutching at his eye. ‘‘He jabbed me with his finger.’’

Captain James hurried across to help him. ‘‘He’ll get the dumb cells for that, lunatic or no,’’ our guide insisted, full of apology.

From the cell I heard another slow slap upon the wall. I could only suppose that Black O’Donnell had grown weary of being so discussed by strangers. Nor, in truth, could I blame him.

Captain James insisted that Dr. Potter visit the prison hospital but, fortunately, a brief inspection of his eye was enough to confirm that no lasting injury had been caused, though he was provided with a piratical
eye patch. It was then that, to my relief, a messenger brought us news that the search of the
Sincerity
was now complete, the vessel was preparing to depart, and so our tour was at an end.

‘‘I must say I found it a most interesting visit,’’ declared the vicar in a goading voice, as we walked back beside the little yellow beach. Potter scowled from behind his eye patch. If the spirits of one became raised, then those of the other would immediately fall, quite as if they were joined, like the poles of a seesaw. As we stood on the shore, waiting for the
Sincerity’s
boat, I found myself wondering if it was usual for expeditions of discovery to suffer such poisonous clashes, caused perhaps by the confinement of space, or the nature of the personalities drawn to such ventures. Had Captain Cook been grumpy and complaintive? Had Columbus found constant fault with his Spaniards’ table manners? Mutinies seemed suddenly comprehensible to me, and I was surprised, indeed, that they did not occur all the time.

‘‘What do they think they are doing?’’ complained Potter angrily, discharging a little of his discontent. ‘‘They must have seen us by now.’’

It was true that we had been waiting some little time, though several crewmen were clearly visible upon the deck and should have noticed us waving and calling out.

‘‘Hallo there!’’ called out Potter once again.

It was from another quarter that help came. A skiff containing several soldiers had, as we waited, been passing back and forth between the vessel and the shore—I supposed to discourage convicts from trying to swim their way to liberty—and its commander now took up our cause, hailing the
Sincerity
in the strongest terms. This proved encouragement enough, and in a moment some of the Manxmen clambered into the ship’s boat and were rowing, if unhurriedly, in our direction.

‘‘Why on earth didn’t you come before?’’ demanded Potter when they reached the shore.

‘‘Ah, but we didn’t see you,’’ chief mate Brew replied, in that peculiarly Manx fashion, at once evasive and yet somehow confiding, as if one were being entrusted with lies. As we took our places and set off the rowers could hardly have contrived to dip the oars into the water more sluggishly, as if they were not endeavouring to propel us so much as gently stroke the depths.

‘‘I’ll go up first and give you a hand,’’ offered Brew as we reached the ship’s side, though he did not help us so much as obstruct with his fussing. When I finally clambered past him onto the deck, I at once became aware of a most curious din rising up from belowdecks, as if some violent game of chase were being played in the cabins.

‘‘What’s that?’’

Brew shrugged. ‘‘Must be the Captain looking for beetles, like you wanted.’’

It seemed hardly the sound for such an activity. Before I could consider the matter further, however, the noise grew suddenly louder and, greatly to my surprise, there leapt onto the deck a wombat—just like the one that had been caught upon Flinders Island—hotly pursued by Captain Kewley and several of the crewmen. They struggled to catch the animal, though this proved by no means easy, as, in spite of his short legs, the creature was quite ingenious at eluding his pursuers, now suddenly changing his direction, now dodging beneath the keel of one of the boats. Just when it appeared he was finally trapped he crashed his way between two of the Manxmen and, uttering a strange grunting sound, hurled himself over the ship’s side. As we hurried by the rail, he could be seen paddling patiently towards an emptier part of the shore.

‘‘Wherever did it come from?’’ demanded Potter.

‘‘The creature?’’ asked the Captain slowly, as if he might have been referring to something else entirely. ‘‘That I wouldn’t know.’’ He turned away, ordering the crew to begin raising the anchor.

‘‘But you must have seen,’’ I insisted.

‘‘Ah, he’ll have been hiding himself somewhere,’’ suggested Brew thoughtfully. ‘‘Probably our checking for the beetles woke him up.’’

‘‘It seems strange that the search party never found him,’’ observed Potter.

Kewley simply shrugged. ‘‘That’s creatures for you.’’