English passengers (61 page)

I came awake and found dawn was breaking, while, to my great satisfaction, the fire was burning quite well. Though I was still feverish I felt a little better, and strong enough to raise myself up with my crutch. I had not been walking long and had covered no great distance when, stepping from some trees, I was amazed to find myself being stared at by a sheep. It was one of a large flock, and when I took a step towards them they all turned and fled together, like so many startled birds. I yelled and shouted for joy. Though my leg seemed somehow more painful now that I believed I was saved, I pressed on, and before long I came upon a wide dusty track, marvelously scored with marks of horseshoes, some looking wondrously recent. Climbing a low rise, I saw a wooden house, half hidden among trees, smoke trailing from its chimney. Dropping the mule bag, I hobbled forward, until, uttering a kind of giggle, I pushed open a gate and found myself in a garden, all brightest colours, such as I had hardly looked upon for all these many weeks.

How strange it was, though. Everywhere I looked, you see—on walls, atop stones and stood upon the lawn—were winged angels, dozens of them, all regarding me with smiling grey faces.

The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being savagery, he has no thought beyond preserving himself for the next few moments. His is a mind empty of any comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and he is content to live his primitive and dreary existence, running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few days longer. As such he may be pitied the terrible fate that awaits him…

The dominating characteristic of the Black Type being barbarism, he has no comprehension of ideas, of enterprise, or time, and yet he cannot be regarded as harmless. His dreary existence may seem innocence it-self—running naked through wilderness, in search of any form of wretched sustenance that may preserve him a few hours longer—and yet a closer examination will reveal a very different truth. Do not underestimate the savage, for though he lacks any faculty of reasoned thought, he is possessed of a brutish cunning. Worse, he is filled with a malevolent envy of those of races who have—in a fashion incomprehensible to him-self—developed the wondrous fruits of civilization. In Australia, Tasmania, New Zealand—and doubtless soon also Africa—the recent history of the Black Type has been one of swift and calamitous decline, even to the point of near-extinction, and in consequence it has become fashionable, in certain intellectualist and sentimentalist circles, to regard the dark-skinned races of this earth with feelings of pity: they are perceived as the victims of cruelest circumstance, suffering at the hands of unfeeling conquerors. Such a view, though doubtless well-intentioned, is dangerously misleading. The truth is that the Black Type, by reason of his flawed and dangerous nature, is largely the author of his own unhappy lot.

No finer instance of this truth can be provided than by that most diminished of nations, the aborigines of Tasmania. This sorry tribe has, ever since the island was brought within the fold of the civilized world, been widely acknowledged as representing the very lowest of all the races—or species—of men, being bereft of the most rudimentary skills, including even knowledge of agriculture, so it may be regarded as holding a place midway between humankind and the animal kingdom. In spite of this lamentable state of advancement, the aborigines’ British rulers have displayed great compassion towards their new charges, such sentimentalism being a rare and charming weakness of the Saxon Type (see Chapter Two above). The colonial government made every attempt to improve those blacks who were captured, and to lead them from idleness to civilized ways. One might suppose these efforts would have
been received with gratitude, but no, the aborigines showed themselves nothing less than contemptuous of the goodly teaching given them, and, beneath a thin veneer of civilized conduct, they remained quite as savage as before. Even now those few who are left are capable of every form of deceitfulness, violence (even murder) and theft of valuable property.

Such behaviour has all but exhausted the patience even of the kindly and sentimental Saxon, who—though it is not his nature to feel belligerence—will never shrink from righteous defence of himself and his possessions. There can be little doubt that when there begins the Great Conflagration of Nations, the Black Type will number among the very first nations to perish, and while it is in the heart of men to find sadness in any such occurrence, it may be considered that such an outcome is not without justice.

The Norman Type may by his cunning survive a little longer, but will meet a like fate. The Norman’s power is drawn from his stolen seat at the centre of affairs—notably his control of land, title and church—and from his ability to dazzle his Saxon better with the empty spectacle of tradition. Such a state of affairs will not long continue. With every passing day the credulity of the honest Saxon is subtly diminished. With every hour he sees more clearly the empty arrogance. the perversion of godliness that calls itself ‘‘noble.’’ One bright morning the Saxon will awake from his slumber and find his eyes opened to the mighty fraud committed upon him and, with one mighty blow, his strong arms will rend asunder the shackles that have bound him thus, casting into oblivion the parasitical lords and priests who have fed from his industry for these eight hundred years.

The Celtic Type, by contrast, will endure, though his station will be a humble one. The dominating characteristics of the Celt may be idleness and deceit yet he is not beyond the realms of reason, being generally possessed of a most useful instinct of obedience. It is, indeed, his very failings—his irresolution, his awe of his mightier and cleverer fellows—that will permit him to be preserved. His role will be as a servitor to the Saxon, whether he is waiting at his table, marching in his armies or labouring in his fields, his mills and his ships upon the ocean. The connection between the Saxon and Celt will thus be one of mutual advantage: a form of compact between superior and inferior, master and slave.

T
HE MARKS
I’
D
scratched on the wall told their story, and a low, rotten story it was too. Twelve weeks and more we’d been sailing. Twelve weeks locked below in my own vessel, and, worse, put there by a passenger I’d troubled to rescue from his own foolish dying. Twelve weeks of knowing that muck was strutting about the quarterdeck—my quarterdeck—like it was his own. Why, it was like watching some stranger sneak his fingers up my Ealisad’s skirts clean before my very eyes. Here was a fine piece of gratitude. I should have left him on that shore to starve, so I should.

The wind had been mostly fair and I reckoned we must be almost at Cape Horn by now, or halfway back to Potter’s England, as I supposed must be our destination. There was a pretty thought, and one I hardly could believe. Brew should have seized the vessel seventeen times over by now, in a mighty rush of Manxmen. Why, he could have caused a fine bit of havoc just by doing nothing—which any Manxman can do easier than kicking—as Potter and his three fritlags wouldn’t have been able to sail the
Sincerity
two yards by themselves. For a while I supposed he must just be biding his time and waiting his moment, but as days passed it grew harder. The Reverend and me were taken on deck every morning and evening for our visit to the heads—Skeggs and Hodges jabbing us on our way with their rifles—and each time I’d throw scrutineering looks at Brew and the rest of them, watching for a Manx wink or two in return. I got hardly a stare. Well, that sort of thing will set a man to thinking, and I often found myself recalling that old Peel saying,
Never trust a Brew at the Fair
. Or I remembered the little fritlag’s countenance that morning in Melbourne, when he’d been weighing up which would pay him better: to stay aboard in the hope of catching his share or to turn traitor and join those runaway dirts looking for gold. Wouldn’t it just be my luck if that sleetch was looking to drop all the blame on me—just like Potter had coaxed—and had carried the rest of those useless blebs with him.

A proper lawyer’s feast we’d make, for sure, if Potter got us back to his England, with passengers playing mutineer aboard a smuggling boat,
and all those skulls and bones besides. How would that play before some crab of a London judge? On the one side there’d be Dr. Potter, educated Englishman, with his three creatures and a boatload of turncoat Manxmen. On the other there’d be Captain Kewley, proud owner of a smuggling vessel, and his fine friend the gibbering vicar, who was turning more crazed by the hour. All in all I could guess who’d be served up on a plate for a long spell in gaol.

That sort of thing will work on a man’s mind, and it got so that I was sore tempted to try and make trouble even just by myself, as anything seemed better than just sitting waiting day after day. After a week Potter finally allowed us to have cots to sleep on, rather than just raw floor timbers, and I took a board from mine and had a try at forcing the door. The bolts were strong, though, while the Reverend wouldn’t help, being all in a huff now he’d found out I’d been trading in that certain rum and tobacco (I think he was worried my sinfulness might all rub off on him and catch him dirty looks from his fine friend the deity), and though I tried once and again I couldn’t even force the board through the doorframe to get leverage. Worse, my work left scars on the woodwork that Skeggs noticed. This brought a visit from Potter, who gave me his snurly look and had Christian fix three more bolts to the door. Our cots were taken away, so we had to sleep on floorboards again, which had the Reverend scowling seven times over. That was the end of my escaping for the while, as the door was fast as iron, while Skeggs and Hodges were careful as lawyers when they came with our food, standing well back when they pulled open the door and not coming inside till they’d had a good sight of us both looking harmless.

So I had the pleasure of Reverend Wilson’s company, and by the weekload. That fellow really was the end. Why, I do believe I’d have forgiven Potter his ship stealing if only he’d been kind enough to fling the old article quietly overboard. The man just wouldn’t stop. There I’d be, having myself a fine old time counting nails in the timbers, or listening to some interesting sound, you know, just to pass the time, when up he’d start again, wittering fit to rob a man of reason. His favourite was praying, and there wasn’t a thing under the sun the old fool wouldn’t pray for, from ‘‘the souls of our persecutors’’ to ‘‘hope in this darkest hour.’’ Worst was when he prayed for me, as he’d make all kinds of little
dirty snipes as he did so, saying how he forgave me for running the brandy, and even for my snoring in the night, which I’m sure I never did. There’s few things worse than being forgiven, as you never have a chance of answering back, and if I tried to defend myself he’d just turn all sanity and never-minding. Besides, there were times when I could have done with the odd prayer myself things being how they were, but I never had a chance with him droning away day and night. It was as if he’d hogged God all for himself

His other delight was to start fights with Hodges and Skeggs. This was pure showiness—not to myself naturally, but to his friend up in heaven—and it drove me distracted. Those four bodies had the guns, and the food, and a curious liking for collecting men’s skulls besides, so the way I saw it there was no great cleverness in troubling them with taunts, but no, Wilson had to have his way. The moment they came through the door he’d be preaching at them with all his charm, telling how they were a pair of low dirts to go following Potter—who was, it seemed, the devil himself come to call—and that they’d burn in hell for sure. Hodges would take it quiet enough, usually, being a dull sort of body, but Skeggs was another pair of oars entirely, and often he’d be tempted to give the Reverend a batting, which wouldn’t have mattered except that I was sure to get a nasty pelt or two myself though it had none of it been my idea. Worse still was when Wilson started playing martyr, which he did generally on Sundays.

‘‘Take your filthy food away,’’ he’d declare all snurly, though he needed feeding. ‘‘I have no need of it. My sustenance is of a higher kind.’’

It was all very well him being the grand hero but that was my food too, and I wanted it. We were never brought that much, while eating was one of the few joys to fill those empty days. At least he could have asked me before starting up, but no, not him: why should he consult a mere ship’s captain when he had divinity cheering him on. I’d have a try at saving my ration, perhaps making a little joke, calling out, ‘‘As for me, my sustenance is ordinary as seawater,’’ but it never worked. Skeggs would just have himself a good laugh.

‘‘Just as you like, Reverend.’’ Then he’d take himself a great mouthful of my dinner and offer some more to Hodges.

All in all it was getting so I almost hoped we’d sink, as that would be
better than watch Potter smirking in some Englishmen’s courtroom as I was led away to gaol. By the looks of it we might be doing just that, too, if the weather had its way. All night waves had been hammering at the stern loud as cannon, and the ship was rolling and pitching wilder than the horse that’s trod on the snake’s tail. That would fit with what I’d heard of Cape Horn, for sure. If it got worse then, with so few crew aboard, anything was possible.

I’d supposed our gaolers might give our morning visit a miss in such weather but no, there they were just as usual, with our feast of hard beef and old ship’s biscuit, and a shrivelled lime besides, all of it flavoured nicely by the dousing of seawater it had had on the way. After we’d finished we were nudged up the stairway for our visit to the heads. This was a proper bit of weather, for sure. One step onto the deck and I was soaked by the spray, while there was a sea roaring over the prow so big that it looked almost as if the ship was playing porpoise and diving down to put a sight on the ocean bed. Our poor Englishmen weren’t liking it one little bit. Up on the quarterdeck Potter looked pale as death, and had his arms round the mizzen shrouds as if they weren’t ropes but his dear lost ma. As I watched, a great roar of sea came rushing over the stern, knocking him onto his knees. For all that he still had a firm grip on that revolving pistol of his. Hooper must’ve been waiting to put a sight on us, as the moment the water started emptying into the scuppers he took his chance and skulked away below.