CRANKEY JEM'S HISTORY.
My father's name was Robert Cuffin. At the death of _his_ father he
succeeded to a good business as grocer and tea-dealer; but he was very
extravagant, and soon became bankrupt. He obtained his certificate, and
then embarked as a wine merchant. At the expiration of three years he
failed again, and once more appeared in the _Gazette_. This time he was
refused his certificate. He, however, set up in business a third time,
and became a coal merchant. His extravagances continued: so did his
misfortunes. He failed, was thrown into prison, and took the benefit of
the Insolvents' Act—but not without a long remand. On his release from
gaol, he turned dry-salter. This new trade lasted a short time, and
ended as all the others had done. Another residence in prison—another
application to the Insolvents' Court—and another remand, ensued.
"My father was now about forty years of age, and completely ruined. He
had no credit—no resources—no means of commencing business again. He
was, however, provided with a wife and seven children—all requiring
maintenance, and he having nothing to maintain them on. I was not as yet
born. It appears that my father sate down one evening in a very doleful
humour, and in a very miserable garret, to meditate upon his
circumstances. He revolved a thousand schemes in his head; but all
required some little credit or capital wherewith to make a commencement;
and he had neither. At length he started up, slapped his hand briskly
upon the table, and exclaimed, 'By heavens, I've got it!'—'Got what?'
demanded his wife.—'A call!' replied my father.—'A call!' ejaculated his
better half, in astonishment.—'Yes; a call,' repeated my father; 'a call
from above to preach the blessed Gospel and cleanse the unsavoury
vessels of earth from their sinfulness.'—His wife began to cry, for she
thought that distress had turned his brain; but he soon convinced her
that he was never more in earnest in his life. He desired her to make
the room look as neat as possible, and get a neighbour to take care of
the children for an hour or two in the evening, when he should return
with a few friends. He then went out, and his wife obeyed his
instructions. Sure enough, in the evening, back came my father with a
huge Bible under one arm and a Prayer-Book under the other, and followed
by half-a-dozen demure-looking ladies and gentlemen, who had a curious
knack of keeping their eyes incessantly fixed upwards—or heaven-ward, as
my father used to express it.
"Well, the visitors sate down; and my father, whose countenance had
assumed a most wonderful gravity of expression since the morning, opened
the prayer-meeting with a psalm. He then read passages from the two
sacred books he had brought with him; and he wound up the service by an
extemporaneous discourse, which drew tears from the eyes of his
audience.
"The prayer-meeting being over, an elderly lady felt herself so overcome
with my father's convincing eloquence, that a considerate old gentleman
sent for a bottle of gin; and thus my father's 'call' was duly
celebrated.
[Illustration]
"To be brief—so well did my father play his cards, that he soon gathered
about him a numerous congregation; a chapel was hired somewhere in
Goodman's Fields; and he was now a popular minister. His flock placed
unbounded confidence in him—nay almost worshipped him; so that, thanks
to their liberality, he was soon provided with a nicely-furnished house
in the immediate vicinity of the chapel. Next door to him there dwelt a
poor widow, named Ashford, and who had a very pretty daughter called
Ruth. These females were amongst the most devoted of my father's flock;
and in their eyes the reverend preacher was the pattern of virtue and
holiness. The widow was compelled to take a little gin at times 'for the
stomach's sake;' but one day she imbibed too much, fell down in a fit,
and died. My father preached a funeral sermon, in which he eulogised her
as a saint; and he afforded an asylum to the orphan girl. Ruth
accordingly became an inmate of my father's house.
"And now commences the most extraordinary portion of the history of my
father's life. You will admit that the suddenness of his 'call' was
remarkable enough; but this was nothing to the marvellous nature of a
vision which one night appeared to him. Its import was duly communicated
to Miss Ashford next day; and the young lady piously resigned herself to
that fate which my father assured her was the will of heaven. In a few
months the consequences of the vision developed themselves; for Miss
Ashford was discovered to be in the family way. My father's lawful wife
raised a storm which for some time seemed beyond the possibility of
mitigation; the deacons of the chapel called, and the elders of the
congregation came to investigate the matter. My father received them
with a countenance expressive of more than ordinary demureness and
solemnity. A conclave was held—explanations were demanded of my father.
Then was it that the author of my being rose, and, in a most impressive
manner, acquainted the assembly with the nature of his vision. 'The
angel of the Lord,' he said, 'appeared to me one night, and ordered me
to raise up seed of righteousness, so that when the Lord calls me unto
himself, fitting heirs to carry on the good work which I have commenced,
may not fail. I appealed to the angel in behalf of my own lawfully
begotten offspring; but the angel's command brooked not remonstrances,
and willed that I should raise up seed of Ruth Ashford: for she is
blessed, in that her name is Ruth.'—This explanation was deemed
perfectly satisfactory: and, when the deacons and elders had departed,
my father succeeded some how or another not only in pacifying his wife,
but also in reconciling her to the amour which he still carried on with
Miss Ashford.[19]
"Thus my father preserved both his mistress and his sanctity—at least
for some considerable time longer. The fruit of that amour was myself;
and my name is consequently Ashford—James Ashford—although my father
insisted upon calling me Cuffin. Time wore on; but by degrees the
jealousies which my father had at first succeeded in appeasing,
developed themselves in an alarming manner between the wife and the
mistress. Scenes of violence occurred at the house of his Reverence; and
the neighbours began to think that their minister's amour was not quite
so holy in its nature as he had represented it. The congregation fell
off; and my father's reputation for sanctity was rapidly wearing out.
Still he would not part with my mother and me; and the result was that
his lawful wife left the house with all her own children. My father
refused to support them; the parish officers interfered; and the scandal
was grievously aggravated. Death arrived at this juncture to carry away
the principal bone of contention. My mother became dangerously ill, and
after languishing in a hopeless condition for a few weeks, breathed her
last.
"Having thus stated the particulars of my birth, it will not be
necessary to dwell on this portion of my narrative. I will only just
observe that, at the death of Miss Ashford, a reconciliation was
effected between my father and his wife; and that the former contrived
to maintain his post as minister of the chapel—though with a diminished
flock, and consequently with a decreased revenue. Nevertheless, I
obtained a smattering of education at the school belonging to the
chapel, and was treated with kindness by my father, although with great
harshness by his wife. Thus continued matters until I was fifteen, when
my father died; and I was immediately thrust out of doors to shift for
myself.
"I was totally friendless. Vainly did I call upon the deacons and elders
of the congregation; even those who had adhered to my father to the very
last, had their eyes opened now that he was no longer present to reason
with them. They spurned me from their doors; and I was left to beg or
steal. I chose the former; but one night I was taken up by a watchman
(there were no police in those times) because I was found wandering
about without being able to give a satisfactory account of myself. You
may look astonished; but I can assure you that when a poor devil says,
'_I am starving—houseless—friendless—pennyless_,' it is supposed to mean
that he can't give a satisfactory account of himself! In the morning I
was taken before the magistrate, and committed to the House of
Correction as a rogue and vagabond.
"In prison I became acquainted with a number of young thieves and
pickpockets; and, so desperate was my condition, that when the day of
emancipation arrived, I was easily persuaded to join them. Then
commenced a career which I would gladly recall—but cannot! Amongst my
new companions I obtained the nickname of '_Crankey_,' because I was
subject to fits of deep despondency and remorse, so that they fancied I
was not right in my head. In time I became the most expert housebreaker
in London—Tom the Cracksman alone excepted. My exploits grew more and
more daring; and on three occasions I got into trouble. The first and
second times I was sent to the hulks. I remember that on my second trial
a pal of mine was acquitted through a flaw in the indictment. He was
charged with having broken into and burglariously entered a jeweller's
shop. It was, however, proved by one of the prosecutor's own witnesses
that the shop door had been accidentally left unlocked and unbolted, and
that consequently he had entered without any violence at all. Thanks to
the laws, he escaped on that ground, although judge and jury were both
convinced of his guilt. Time wore on; and I formed new acquaintances in
the line to which I was devoted. These were Tom the Cracksman, Bill
Bolter, Dick Flairer, the Buffer, and the Resurrection Man. With them I
accomplished many successful burglaries; but at length I got into
trouble a third time, and a stop was put to my career in London. It was
in the year 1835 that the Resurrection Man and I broke into a jeweller's
shop in Princes Street, Soho. We got off with a good booty. The
Resurrection Man went over to the Mint: I let Dick Flairer into the
secret, gave him a part of my share in the plunder, and then took to a
hiding-place which there is in Chick Lane, Smithfield. Now I knew that
Dick was stanch to the back-bone; and so he proved himself—for he
brought me my food as regularly as possible; and at the end of a week,
the storm had blown over enough to enable me to leave my hiding-place. I
hastened to join the Resurrection Man in the Mint, where I stayed two or
three days. Then the miscreant sold me, in order to save himself; and we
were both committed to Newgate. Tidkins turned King's Evidence; and I
was sentenced to transportation for life. The Resurrection Man was
discharged at the termination of the business of the sessions.
"Myself and several other convicts, who were sentenced at the same
session, were removed from Newgate to the Penitentiary at Millbank.
Amongst the number were two persons whose names you may have heard
before, because their case made a great noise at the time. These were
Robert Stephens and Hugh Mac Chizzle, who were the principal parties
concerned in a conspiracy to pass a certain Eliza Sydney off as a young
man, and defraud the Earl of Warrington out of a considerable property.
We remained about a fortnight in the Penitentiary, and were then
transferred to the convict-ship at Woolwich. But before we left
Millbank, we were clothed in new suits of grey, or pepper-and-salt, as
we called the colour; and we were also ironed. The convict-ship was well
arranged for its miserable purpose. On each side of the between-decks
were two rows of sleeping-berths, one above the other: each berth was
about six feet square, and was calculated to hold four convicts,
eighteen inches' space to sleep in being considered ample room enough
for each individual. The hospital was in the fore-part of the vessel,
and was separated from the prison by means of a bulk-head, in which
partition there were two strong doors, forming a means of communication
between the two compartments. The fore and main hatchways, between
decks, were fitted up with strong wooden stanchions round them; and in
each of those stanchions there was a door with three padlocks, to let
the convicts in and out, and secure them effectually at night. In each
hatchway a ladder was placed, for us to go up and down by; and these
ladders were always pulled on deck after dusk. Scuttle-holes, or small
ports to open and shut for the admission of air, were cut along the
vessel's sides; and in the partition between the prison and the hospital
was fixed a large stove, with a funnel, which warmed and ventilated both
compartments at the same time. When we were placed on board the
convict-ship, we had each a pair of shoes, two pairs of trousers, four
shirts, and other warm clothing, besides a bed, bolster, and blanket. Of
Bibles, Testaments, and Prayer-Books, there was also plenty.
"The moment the surgeon came on board, he arranged the mess-berths and
mess-tables. All the clothing, linen, bedding, and other articles were
marked with consecutive numerals in black paint, from No. 1. up to the
highest number of convicts embarked. Thus, we messed and slept along the
prison-deck in regular numerical progression. In food we were not
stinted: each man had three-quarters of a pound of biscuit daily; and
every day, too, we sate down to beef, pork, or pease-soup. Gruel and
cocoa were served out for breakfast and supper. Every week we received a
certain quantity of vinegar, lime-juice, and sugar, which were taken as
preventatives for scurvy. Each mess selected a head, or chairman, who
saw the provisions weighed out, and that justice was done in this
particular to each individual at his table.
"The surgeon selected six of the most fitting amongst the convicts to
act the part of petty officers, whose duty it was to see his orders
punctually executed, and to report instances of misconduct. Four of
these remained in the prison; and the other two were stationed on deck,
to watch those convicts who came up in their turns for airing. The
_Captains of the Deck_, as the officers were called, had some little
extra allowance for their trouble, and were moreover allowed a certain
quantity of tobacco.
"It was in January, 1836, that we sailed for Sydney. Although I had no
wife,—no children,—and, I may almost say, no friend that I cared
about,—still my heart sank within me, when, from the deck of the
convict-ship, I caught a last glimpse of the white cliffs of Old
England. Tears came into my eyes; and I, who had not wept since
childhood, wept then. But there were several of my companions who had
left wives and children, or parents, behind them; and I could read on
their countenances the anguish which filled their inmost souls!
"The surgeon was a kind and humane man. The moment we were out of sight
of land, he ordered our chains to be taken off; and he allowed us to
enjoy as much air upon deck as we could possibly require. The guard,
under the command of a commissioned officer, consisted of thirty-one
men, and did duty on the quarter-deck in three alternate watches. A
sentry, with a drawn cutlass, stood at each hatchway; and the soldiers
on watch always had their fire-arms loaded.
"When we had been to sea a little time, most of the convicts relapsed
into their old habits of swearing, lying, and obscene conversation. They
also gambled at pitch and toss, the stakes being their rations. Thieving
prevailed to a very great extent; for the convict who lost his dinner by
gambling, was sure to get one by stealing. They would often make wagers
amongst themselves as to who was the most expert thief; and when the
point was put to a practical test, dreadful quarrels would arise, the
loser of the wager, perhaps, discovering that he himself was the victim
of the trial of skill, and that his hoard of lime-juice, sugar, tobacco,
or biscuit had disappeared. Stephens, who was at the same mess with
myself, did all he could to discourage these practices; but the others
pronounced him '_a false magician_,' and even his friend, Mac Chizzle,
turned against him. So at last he gave up the idea of introducing a
reformation amongst his brethren in bondage. The fact is, that any
convict who attempts to humbug the others by pretensions to honesty, or
who expresses some superior delicacy of sentiment, which, of course, in
many instances is actually experienced, had better hang himself at once.
The equality of the convict-ship is a frightful equality,—the equality
of crime,—the levelling influence of villany,—the abolition of all
social distinctions by the hideous freemasonry of turpitude and its
consequent penalties! And yet there is an aristocracy, even in the
prison of the convict-ship,—an aristocracy consisting of the oldest
thieves, in contra-distinction to the youngest; and of _townies_,[20] in
opposition to _yokels_.[21] The deference paid by the younger thieves to
the elder ones is astonishing; and that man who, in relating his own
history, can enumerate the greatest number of atrocities, is a king
amongst convicts. Some of the best informed of the convicts wrote slang
journals during the passage, and read them once a-week to the rest. They
generally referred to the sprees of the night, and contained some such
entries as this:—'_A peter cracked and frisked, while the cobbles
dorsed; Sawbones came and found the glim doused; fadded the dobbins in a
yokel's crib, while he blew the conkey-horn; Sawbones lipped a snitch;
togs leered in yokel's downy; yokel screwed with the darbies_.' The
exact meaning of this is:—'A chest broken open and robbed while the
convicts slept: surgeon came in and found the lamp put out; the thief
thrust the clothes which he had stolen into a countryman's berth, while
he was snoring fast asleep; the surgeon ordered a general search; the
clothes were found in the countryman's bed; and the countryman was put
into irons.'
"I must observe, that while the ship was still in the Thames, none of
the convicts would admit that they deserved their fate. They all
proclaimed themselves much-injured individuals, and declared that the
Home Secretary was certain to order a commutation of their sentence. The
usual declarations were these:—'I am sure never to see New South Wales.
The prejudice of the judge against me at the trial were evident to all
present in the court. The jury were totally misled by his summing-up. My
friends are doing every thing they can for me; and I am sure to get
off.'—Out of a hundred and ten convicts, at least a hundred spoke in
this manner. But the ship sailed,—England was far behind,—and _not one
single convict_ had his hopes of a commuted sentence gratified. Then,
when those hopes had disappeared, they all opened their budget of gossip
most freely, and related their exploits in so frank a manner, that it
was very easy to perceive the justice of the verdicts which had
condemned them.
"The voyage out was, on the whole, a tolerably fine one. It lasted four
months and a half; and it was, consequently, in the middle of May that
we arrived in sight of Sydney. But, when thus at the point of
destination, the sea became so rough, and the wind blew such 'great
guns,' that the captain declared there was mischief at hand. The
convicts were all ordered into the prison, the ports of which were
closed; and the heat was stifling. The tempest came with appalling
violence. Crash went every loose thing on board,—the timbers creaked as
if they would start from their settings,—the ropes rattled,—and the wind
whistled horribly through the rigging. The ship was lifted to an immense
height, and then by the fall of the mountain wave, was plunged into the
depths of the trough of the sea;—at one moment dipping the studding-sail
boom into the water,—and the next lying nearly on its beam-ends on the
opposite side. I afterwards learnt from a sailor, that the waves were
forty feet high, twenty below the ordinary level of the sea, and twenty
above it. Thus, when we were in the trough, they were forty feet above
our heads! Towards evening the storm subsided; and early next morning
Sydney broke more clearly upon our view.
"Sydney is beautifully situated. It possesses a fine ascent from a noble
harbour; and its bays, its coves, its gardens, its gentlemen's seats,
form a pleasing spectacle. Then its forests of masts—the
Government-house, with its beautiful domain—the numerous wharfs—the
thousands of boats upon the glassy water—and Wooloomooloo, with its
charming villas and its windmills,—all these combine to enhance the
interest of the scene. The town itself is far more handsome than I had
expected to find it. The shops are very fine—particularly the
silversmiths', the haberdashers', and confectioners', which would not
disgrace the West End of London. They are mostly lighted with gas, and
in the evening have a brilliant appearance. There is an astonishing
number of grog-shops—nearly two hundred and fifty, for a population of
30,000 souls. George Street and Pitt Street are the principal
thoroughfares: and the rents are so high that they average from three to
five hundred pounds a-year. There are no common sewers in Sydney; and,
although the greater portion of the town stands upon a height, yet many
of the principal streets are perfectly level, and the want of a vent for
the foul water and other impurities is sadly felt. I may add, that the
first appearance of Sydney and its inhabitants does not impress a
stranger with the idea of being in a country so far away from Europe;
the language, the manners, and the dress of the people being so closely
similar to those of England. But wait a little while, and a closer
observation produces a different effect. Presently you will see the
government gangs of convicts, marching backwards and forwards from their
work in single military file,—solitary ones straggling here and there,
with their white woollen Paramatta frocks and trousers, or grey or
yellow jackets with duck overalls, all daubed over with broad arrows and
initial letters to denote the establishment to which they belong,—and
then the gaol-gang, moving sulkily along with their jingling
leg-chains,—all these sad spectacles telling a tale of crime and its
effects, and proclaiming trumpet-tongued the narrative of human
degradation!
"The ship entered the harbour; our irons had already been put on again
some days previously; and we were all landed under the care of the
guard. We were marched to the gaol-yard; and there our clothes were all
daubed over with broad arrows and the initials P. S.—meaning
'_Prisoners' Barracks_,' to which establishment we were conducted as
soon as the ceremony of painting our garments was completed. This
barrack had several large day-rooms and numerous sleeping wards, the
bedsteads being arranged in two tiers, or large platforms, but without
separation. In every room there was a man in charge who was answerable
for the conduct of the rest; but no one ever thought of complaining of
the misbehaviour of his companions. A tread-mill was attached to the
building: there were moreover several solitary cells—a species of
punishment the horrors of which no tongue can describe.
"In the course of a few days we were all divided into sections,
according to the degrees of punishment which we were to undergo.
Stephens and Mac Chizzle were kept at Sydney: I was sent with some
thirty others to Port Macquarie—a place about two hundred and sixty
miles, as the crow flies, to the north of Sydney.
"The scenery is magnificent in the neighbourhood of Macquarie Harbour:
but the life of the convict—oh! that is fearful in the extreme! I know
that I was a great criminal—I know that my deeds demanded a severe
punishment; but death had been preferable to a doom like that! Compelled
to endure every kind of privation,—shut out from the rest of the
world,—restricted to a very limited quantity of food, which _never_
included fresh meat,—kept in chains and under a military guard with
fixed bayonets and loaded fire-arms,—with no indulgence for good
conduct, but severe penalties, even flogging or solitary confinement,
for the smallest offences,—constantly toiling in the wet, at felling
timber and rolling it to the water,—forced to support without murmuring
the most terrible hardships,—how did I curse the day when I rendered
myself liable to the discipline of this hell upon earth! I will give you
an idea of the horrors of that place:—during the six months that I
remained there, nineteen deaths occurred amongst two hundred and twenty
convicts; and of those _nineteen_, only five were from natural causes.
Two were drowned, four were killed by the falling of trees, three were
shot by the military, and five were murdered by their comrades! And why
were those murders perpetrated? Because the assassins were tired of
life, but had not the courage to commit suicide; and therefore they
accomplished crimes which were sure to be visited by death upon the
scaffold!
"The chain-gang to which I belonged was stationed at Philip's Creek; and
our business was to supply timber for the ship-builders on Sarah's
Island. We were lodged in huts of the most miserable description; and
though our toils were so long and arduous, our rations were scarcely
sufficient to keep body and soul together. The timber we cut was
principally Huon pine; no beasts of burden were allowed; and we had to
roll the trunks of trees to an immense distance. What with the humid
climate, the want of fresh meat, and the severity of the labour, no man
who fell ill ever entertained a hope of recovery. Talk of the civilised
notions of the English—talk of the humane principles of her penal
laws,—why, the Inquisition itself could not have been more horrible than
the doom of the convict at Macquarie Harbour! Again I say, it was true
that we were great criminals; but surely some adequate mode of
punishment—some mode involving the means of _reformation_—might have
been devised, without the application of so much real physical torture!
I have heard or read that when the Inquisition put its victims to the
rack, it afterwards remanded them to their dungeons, and allowed them
leisure to recover and be cured;—but in the penal settlement of Port
Macquarie those tortures were renewed daily—and they killed the
miserable sufferers by inches!
"Our rations consisted daily of one pound and a half of flour, from
which twelve per cent. of bran had been subtracted, one pound and a half
of salt meat, and half an ounce of soap. No tea—no vegetables. The flour
was made into cakes called _damper_, cooked in a frying-pan; and this
wasteful mode of preparing it greatly diminished its quantity. Besides,
divide those rations into three parts, and you will find that the three
meals are little enough for men toiling hard from sunrise to sunset. The
convict who did not keep a good look-out on his provisions was certain
to be robbed by his comrades; and some men have been plundered to such
an extent as actually to have been on the very verge of starvation.
"I had not been at Macquarie Harbour more than five months, when
Stephens and Mac Chizzle arrived, and were added to our chain-gang. This
punishment they had incurred for having endeavoured to escape from
Sydney, where they had been treated with some indulgence, in consequence
of their station in life previous to their sentence in England. So
miserable was I, with hard work and scanty food, that I resolved to
leave the place, or perish in the attempt. I communicated my design to
Stephens and Mac Chizzle; and they agreed to accompany me. Escape from
Macquarie was known to be a most difficult undertaking; and few convicts
who essayed it were ever able to reach the settlements in other parts of
the Colony. They were either murdered by their comrades for a supply of
food, or perished in the bush. Formidable forests had to be traversed;
and the chance of catching kangaroos was the only prospect of obtaining
the means of existence. Nevertheless, I resolved to dare all those
horrors and fearful risks, rather than remain at Philip's Creek. Five or
six others, in addition to Stephens and Mac Chizzle, agreed to adopt
this desperate venture with me; and one night we stole away—to the
number of ten—from the huts.
"Yes—we thus set out on this tremendous undertaking, each individual
possessing no more food than was sufficient for a single meal. And ere
the sun rose all our store was consumed; and we found ourselves in the
middle of a vast forest—without a guide—without victuals—almost without
a hope! Convicts are not the men to cheer each other: misfortunes have
made them selfish, brutal, and sulky. We toiled on in comparative
silence. One of my companions, who had been ten years at Macquarie
Harbour, was well acquainted with the mode in which the natives search
for traces of the opossum; and, when hunger began to press upon us, he
examined every tree with a hollow limb, and also the adjacent trees for
marks of the opossum's claws. For, I must tell you, that this animal is
so sagacious, that it usually runs up a neighbouring tree and thence
jumps to the one wherein its retreat is, in order to avoid being traced.
The convict to whom I have alluded, and whose name was Blackley, at
length discovered the trail of an opossum, and clambered up the tree in
which its hole was found, by means of successive notches in the bark, to
place the great toe in. Having reached the hole, he probed it with a
long stick, and found that there actually was an opossum within.
Thrusting in his hand, he seized the animal by the tail, pulled it out,
and killed it by a swinging dash against the trunk of a tree. But this
was little enough among so many. We, however, made a fire, cooked it,
and thus contrived just to mitigate the terrible cravings of hunger. The
flesh of the opossum is like that of a rabbit, and is therefore too
delicate to enable a hearty appetite to make a good meal on a tenth
portion of so small an animal.
"On the following day Blackley managed to kill a kangaroo, weighing
about sixty pounds; and thus we were supplied with food for three or
four days, acting economically. The flesh of the kangaroo is much like
venison, and is very fine eating. We continued our way amidst the
forest, which appeared endless; and in due time the kangaroo's flesh was
consumed. Blackley was unwearied in his exertions to provide more food;
and, so much time was wasted in these endeavours, that we made but
little progress in our journey. And now, to our terror, Blackley could
find no more opossums—could kill no more kangaroos. We grew desperate:
starvation was before us. Moody—sulky—glaring on each other with a
horribly significant ferocity, we dragged ourselves along. Four days
elapsed—and not a mouthful of food had we touched. On the fifth night we
made a fire, and sate round it at considerable distances from each
other. We all endeavoured to remain awake: we trembled at the approach
of drowsiness—_for we knew the consequences of sleep in our desperate
condition_. There we sate—none uttering a word,—with cracked and bloody
lips—parched throats—eyes glowing with cannibal fires,—our minds a prey
to the most appalling thoughts. At length Mac Chizzle, the lawyer, fell
back in a sound slumber, having no doubt found it impossible to bear up
against the weariness which was creeping over him. Then Blackley rose,
and went farther into the wood. It required no ghost to tell us that he
had gone to cut a club for a horrible purpose. The most breathless
silence prevailed. At length there was a strange rustling amongst the
trees at a little distance; and then cries of indescribable agony fell
upon our ears. These tokens of distress were in the voice of Blackley,
who called us by name, one after another. A vague idea of the real truth
rivetted us to the spot; and in a short time the cries ceased
altogether. Oh! what a night of horror was that! An hour had elapsed
since Blackley's disappearance; and we had ceased to trouble ourselves
concerning his fate:—our own intolerable cravings for food were the sole
objects of our thoughts. Nor was Mac Chizzle doomed to escape death. A
convict named Felton determined to execute the purpose which Blackley
had entertained—though in a different manner. Afraid to venture away
from the party to cut a bludgeon, he drew a large clasp-knife from his
pocket, and plunged the long sharp blade into the breast of the sleeper.
A cry of horror burst from Stephens and myself; and we rushed
forward—now that it was unfortunately too late—to save the victim. We
were well aware of the man's intentions when he approached his victim;
but it was not until the blow was struck that we had the courage to
interfere. It was, however, as I have said—too late! Mac Chizzle expired
without a groan.
"I cannot dwell upon this scene: depraved—wicked—criminal as I was in
many respects, my soul revolted from the idea of cannibalism, now that
the opportunity of appeasing my hunger by such horrible means was within
my reach. Stephens and I retired a little from the rest, and turned our
backs upon the frightful work that was in progress. Again I say—oh! the
horrors of that night! I was starving—and food was near. But what food?
The flesh of a fellow-creature! In imagination I followed the entire
process that was in operation so close behind me; and presently the
hissing of the flesh upon the embers, and the odour of the awful
cookery, convinced me that the meal would soon be served up. Then how
did I wrestle with my own inclinations! And Stephens, I could well
perceive, was also engaged in a terrific warfare with the promptings of
hunger. But we resisted the temptation: yes—we resisted it;—and our
companions did not trouble themselves to invite us to their repast.
"At length the morning dawned upon that awful and never-to-be-forgotten
night. The fire was now extinguished; but near the ashes lay the
entrails and the head of the murdered man. The cannibals had completely
anatomised the corpse, and had wrapped up in their shirts (which they
took off for the purpose) all that they chose to carry away with them.
Not a word was spoken amongst us. The last frail links of sympathy—if
any really had existed—seemed to have been broken by the incidents of
the preceding night. Six men had partaken of the horrible repast; and
they evidently looked on each other with loathing, and on Stephens and
myself with suspicion. We all with one accord cut thick sticks, and
advanced in the direction whence Blackley's cries had proceeded a few
hours previously. His fate was that which we had suspected: an enormous
snake was coiled around the wretch's corpse—licking it with its long
tongue, to cover it with saliva for the purpose of deglutition. We
attacked the monstrous reptile, and killed it. Its huge coils had
actually squeezed our unfortunate comrade to death! Then—for the first
time for many, many years—did a religious sentiment steal into my soul;
and I murmured to myself: '_Surely this was the judgment of God upon a
man who had meditated murder_.'
"That same day Stephens and myself gave our companions the slip, and
struck into another direction together. We were fortunate enough to kill
a kangaroo; and we made a hearty meal upon a portion of its flesh. Then
how did we rejoice that we had withstood the temptation of the cannibal
banquet! Stephens fell upon his knees and prayed aloud: I imitated his
example—I joined in his thanksgiving. We husbanded our resources as much
as possible; and God was merciful to us. We succeeded in killing another
kangaroo, even before the first was entirely consumed; and this new
supply enabled us to reach a settlement without further experiencing the
pangs of hunger. Prudence now compelled us to separate; for though we
had rid ourselves of our chains, we were still in our convict garb; and
it was evident that two persons so clad were more likely to attract
unpleasant notice, than one individual skulking about by himself. We
accordingly parted; and from that moment I have never heard of Stephens.
Whether he succeeded in escaping from the colony altogether, or whether
he took to the bush again and perished, I know not:—that he was not
retaken I am sure, because, were he captured, he would have been sent to
Norfolk Island; and that he did _not_ visit that most horrible of all
the penal settlements—at least during a period of eighteen months after
our escape from Macquarie—I am well aware, for reasons which I shall
soon explain.
"In fact, I was not long at large after I separated with Stephens. My
convict-dress betrayed me to a party of soldiers: I was arrested, taken
to Sydney, tried, and sentenced to transportation to Norfolk Island.
Before I left England in 1836, and since my return towards the end of
1839, I have heard a great many persons talk about Norfolk Island; but
no one seemed to know much about it. I will therefore tell you something
concerning it now.
"A thousand miles to the eastward of Sydney there are three islands
close together. As you advance towards them in a ship from Sydney,
Philip Island, which is very high land, and has a bold peak to the
south, comes in view: close beyond it the lower hills of Norfolk Island,
crowned with lofty pines, appear in sight; and between those two islands
is a small and sterile speck called Nepean Island. Norfolk Island is six
miles and a half long, and four broad—a miserable dot in the ocean
compared to the vast tract of Australia. The soil is chiefly basaltic,
and rises into hills covered with grass and forest. Mount Pitt—the
loftiest eminence in the island—is twelve hundred feet above the level
of the sea. The Norfolk Island pine shoots to a height of a hundred
feet,—sometimes growing in clumps, elsewhere singly, on the grassy parts
of the island, even to the very verge of the shore, where its roots are
washed by the sea at high water. The apple-fruited guava, the lemon,
grapes, figs, coffee, olives, pomegranates, strawberries, and melons
have been introduced, and are cultivated successfully. The island is
every where inaccessible, save at an opening in a low reef fronting the
little bay; and that is the point where the settlement is situated. The
Prisoners' Barracks are pretty much upon the same plan as those at
Sydney, and which I described to you just now. There is a room, called
the Court-House, where the Protestant prisoners meet on Sunday to hear
prayers; and there is another, called the Lumber-Yard room, for the
Roman Catholics. The prayers in both places are read by prisoners. The
principal buildings in the settlement are the Commandant's Residence,
the Military Barracks, the Penitentiary, the Gaol, and the Hospital. The
convicts are principally employed in quarrying stone; and as no
gunpowder is used in blasting the rocks, and the stone is raised by
means of levers, the labour is even more crushing than that of
wood-felling at Port Macquarie. The prisoners, moreover, have to work in
irons; and the food is not only insufficient, but bad—consisting only of
dry maize bread and hard salt meat. Were it not for the supply of wild
fruits in the island, the scurvy would rage like a pestilence. Between
Macquarie Harbour and Norfolk Island I can only draw this
distinction—that the former is _Purgatory_, and the latter _Hell_!
"There is no attempt to reform the prisoners in Norfolk Island, beyond
prayer-reading—and this is of scarcely any benefit. The convicts are too
depraved to be amended by mere moral lessons: they want _education_;
they require to be _treated like human beings_, instead of brute beasts,
criminal though they are; they need _a sufficiency of wholesome food_,
to enable them to toil with something approaching a good will; they
ought to be _protected against the tyranny of overseers_, who send them
to gaol for the most trivial offences, or on the slightest suspicions;
they should not be _forced to labour in chains which gall their ankles
almost to the bone_, when a guard with loaded muskets is ever near, and
seeing that shackles on the legs would not prevent violence with the
hands were they inclined to have recourse to it; nor should they be
_constantly treated as if they were merely wild beasts whom it is
impossible to tame save by means of privation, heart-breaking toil, and
the constant sense of utter degradation_. How can men be
redeemed—reclaimed—reformed by such treatment as this? Let punishment be
terrible—not horrible. It is monstrous to endeavour to render the
criminal more obstinate—to make the dangerous one more ferocious—to
crush in the soul every inducement to amend—to convert vice into
hardened recklessness. The tortures of semi-starvation and overwhelming
toil, and the system of retaining men's minds in a state of moral
abasement and degradation in their own eyes, will never lead to reform.
When at Macquarie Harbour, or at Norfolk Island, I have often thought
how comparatively easy it would be to reclaim even the very worst among
the convicts. Teach them _practically_ that while there is life there is
hope,—that it is _never too late to repent_,—that man can show mercy to
the greatest sinner, even as God does,—that the most degraded mind may
rise from the depths of its abasement,—that society seeks reformation
and prevention in respect to crime, and not vengeance,—that the
Christian religion, in a word, exists in the heart as well as in a book.
But what sentiments do the convicts entertain? They are taught, by
oppressive treatment, to lose sight of their own turpitude, and
therefore to consider that all mankind is bent on inflicting a demoniac
vengeance upon them;—they look upon the authorities as their
persecutors;—they begin to fancy that they are worms which are justified
in turning on those who tread them under foot;—they swear, and
blaspheme, and talk obscenely, _merely because there is no earthly
solace left them save in hardening their own hearts against all kindly
sympathies and emotions_;—they receive the Word of God with suspicion,
because man does not practically help them to a belief in the divine
assurance relative to the efficacy of repentance;—they are compelled by
terrific and unceasing hardships to look upon the tears of a contrite
heart as the proofs of moral weakness:—and, in a word, they study how to
avoid reflections which can lead, so far as they can see, to no
beneficial end. They therefore welcome hardness of heart, obstinacy, and
recklessness of disposition as an actual means of escape from thoughts
which would, under favourable circumstances, lead to moral amendment and
reformation.
"You may be surprised to hear such ideas from my lips; but I have
pondered much and often upon this subject. And if ever these words which
I am now uttering to you, Henry Holford, should find their way into
print,—if ever my narrative, with its various reflections, should go
forth to the world,—be you well assured that these ideas will set people
thinking on the grand point—_whether society punishes to prevent crime
and to reclaim the offender, or merely to avenge itself upon him_?
"My own prospects were gloomy enough. My life was to be passed in exile,
misery, and torture. I loathed my associates. They took all possible
pains to tease and annoy each other. They converted a beautiful spot—one
of the loveliest islands in the world—into a perfect hell upon
earth;—and seemed determined to supply any deficiency which the
authorities had left in the sum of our unhappiness. They concocted
various schemes of mischief, and then the most hardened would betray
their comrades merely for the pleasure of seeing them flogged! I never
shall forget a convict saying to me one day, 'I doubt the existence of a
God; but I wish, if there is one, that he would take away my life, for I
am so very miserable. I have only six years more to serve; and I am
determined either to escape, or to murder some one and get hanged for
it.'—This man's name was Anson; and from that moment he and I had
frequent conversations together relative to an escape from the island.
But how few were our hopes? Surrounded by the ocean—pent up in so narrow
a space, as it were—so distant from all other lands—fearful to confide
in our companions—and unable to carry our scheme into effect without
assistance, we were frequently induced to give it up in despair.
"Not very far from the Commandant's house was a singular little cave,
hollowed in the rugged limestone that forms two low hills,—the flat and
the reef on the south of the island. This cave was near a lime-kiln, and
was concealed by a stone drawn over its mouth. I had been nearly
eighteen months on the island, (during which time, as I before said,
Stephens was not sent to join the gangs; and therefore I concluded that
he either perished in Australia, or effected his escape to
Europe,)—eighteen months, I say, had elapsed, when Anson and I were one
day at work in the lime-kiln, with a small gang. When the mid-day
meal-time came, he and I strolled apart from the rest; and none of the
sentries took any notice of us, because escape from that point in the
broad day-light was impossible. As we were walking along and conversing,
we discovered the cave. This circumstance gave a new impulse to our
ideas, and to our hopes of an escape; and a few days afterwards, we put
our plan into execution. We enlisted two other convicts in the
scheme,—two men in whom we imagined that more confidence was to be
placed than in any of the rest. By their aid we contrived to purloin at
dusk a sack of biscuits; and this we conveyed to the cave. On the next
night one of our new accomplices contrived to rob a small house of
entertainment for seamen, of three suits of sailors' clothes; and these
were conveyed to the cave. Our plans were now all matured. A small
decked yacht, cutter-rigged, and belonging to the Commandant, lay close
by the shore; and we knew that there were only a man and a boy on board
at that time. Our project was a desperate one; but the risk was worth
running, seeing the result to be gained—namely, our freedom. When our
arrangements were completed, we all four one evening absconded as we
were returning home from the day's toils, and took refuge in the cave.
No time was to be lost. About midnight, Anson and I swam off to the
yacht, contrived to get on board, seized each a windlass-bar, and,
descending to the cabin, mastered the man and the boy. We bound them in
such a way that they could not leave their hammocks; and then we
fastened down the hatchway to drown their cries in case they should
shout for assistance. We next lowered the little skiff, and returned to
land. Our companions joined us, with the bag of biscuit and the clothes,
at a point previously agreed upon; and we all succeeded in reaching the
cutter in safety. Then we set sail; and, favoured by the darkness of the
night, got clear away without having excited on shore a suspicion that
the yacht had moved from its moorings.
"As we had conjectured, there was very little provision on board; for
the Commandant never used the yacht for more than a few hours' trip at a
time. We had therefore done wisely to provide the biscuit; but there was
not two days' supply of meat on board. We accordingly steered for the
back of Philip Island, which we knew to abound in pigs and goats, and to
be uninhabited by man. Anson and another of our companions went on shore
with fire-arms, which we had found in the cutter; and within two hours
after day-light they shot four pigs and thirteen goats. Myself and the
other convict, who remained on board to take care of the vessel and
guard the seaman and the boy, caught several king-fish and rock-cod. We
were thus well provisioned; and another trip to the shore filled our
water-casks. We next proposed to the seaman and boy either to join us,
or to take the skiff and return to Norfolk Island as best they might.
They preferred the latter offer; and we accordingly suffered them to
depart, after compelling the sailor to exchange his clothes for one of
our convict suits; so that we had now a proper garb each. In their
presence we had talked of running for New Caledonia—an Island to the
north of Norfolk Island; but the moment they were gone, we set sail for
New Zealand, which is precisely in a contrary direction—being to the
south of Norfolk Island. Our craft was but little better than a
cockle-boat: it was, however, decked; fine weather prevailed; and
moreover, it was better to die by drowning than perish by the gradual
tortures of a penal settlement.
"We were in sight of New Zealand, when a fearful storm came on suddenly
at an early hour on the thirteenth morning after we had quitted Norfolk
Island. A tremendous sea broke over our little craft, and washed poor
Anson over-board. The other two convicts and myself did all we could to
save the vessel, and run her into a bay which we now descried in the
distance; but our inexperience in nautical matters was put to a severe
test. When our condition was apparently hopeless, and we expected that
the sea would swallow us up, a large bark hove in sight. We made signals
of distress; and the vessel steered towards us. But a mountainous wave
struck the stern of the cutter, and stove in her timbers. She
immediately began to fill. We cut away the boom, and clung to it as to a
last hope. The vessel went down; and, small as it was, it formed a
vortex which for a few moments sucked us under, spar and all. But we
rose again to the surface, clinging desperately to the boom. Suddenly
one of my comrades uttered a fearful cry—a cry of such wild agony that
it rings in my ears every time I think of that horrible incident. I
glanced towards him: the water was for an instant tinged with blood—a
shark had bitten off one of the wretched man's legs! Oh! what an agony
of fear I experienced then. The poor creature continued to shriek in an
appalling manner for a few seconds: then he loosened his hold upon the
spar, and disappeared in the raging element. My only surviving companion
and myself exchanged looks of unutterable horror.
"We were drifting rapidly in the direction of the bark, which on its
side was advancing towards us. When within hail, it lowered a boat. But
I was destined to be the only survivor of the four convicts who had
escaped from Norfolk Island. When only a few yards from the boat, my
companion suddenly relaxed his hold upon the spar, and sank with a loud
cry—to rise no more. The water was not tinged with blood—and therefore I
do not suppose that he was attacked by a shark: most probably a sudden
cramp seized him;—but, whatever the cause, he perished! I was dragged in
an exhausted state into the boat, and was speedily safe on board the
bark.
"The vessel was a trading one, and bound for Hobart Town, whence it was
to sail for England. I gave so plausible an account of the shipwrecked
cutter, that the real truth was not suspected, especially as I was
attired in a sailor's dress; and as the bark was not to remain many days
at Hobart Town, where, moreover, I was not known, I entertained the most
sanguine hopes of being able to ensure my safe return to England. In
three weeks,—after encountering much bad weather—we entered the Derwent;
and, taking in a pilot, were carried safe up to Sullivan's Cove.
"Hobart Town is the capital of Van Diemen's Land, and is beautifully
placed on the banks of an estuary called the Derwent. The streets are
spacious: the houses are built of brick; and the roofs, covered with
shingles, have the appearance of being slated. Mount Wellington rises
behind the town to the height of 4000 feet, and is almost entirely
clothed with forests. There is in Hobart Town a spacious House of
Correction for females: it is called the Factory, and contained at that
time about two hundred and fifty prisoners. They were employed in
picking and spinning wool, and in washing for the Hospital,
Orphan-School, and other institutions. The women were dressed in a
prison garb, and had their hair cut close, which they naturally
considered a grievous infliction of tyranny. When they misbehaved
themselves, they were put into solitary confinement; and I heard that
many of them had gone raving mad while enduring that horrible mental
torture. I saw a chain-gang of a hundred and ten convicts, employed in
raising a causeway across a muddy flat in the Derwent: they looked
miserably unhealthy, pale, and emaciated, being half-starved,
over-worked, and compelled to drink very bad water. The Government-House
is a fine building, on the banks of the Derwent, and about a mile from
the town. The Penitentiary at Hobart Town contains about six hundred
prisoners, and is the principal receptacle for newly-arrived convicts.
They are sent out in gangs, under overseers and guards, to work on the
roads, or as carpenters, builders, sawyers, or masons, in the various
departments.
[Illustration]
"After remaining almost a fortnight at Hobart Town, the bark sailed for
England, by way of Cape Horn; and I was now relieved from all fears of
detection—at least for the present. As I have spoken of the condition of
the female convicts in Hobart Town, I may as well give you some account
of how transportation affects women; for you may be sure that I heard
enough of that subject both at Sydney and at Macquarie Harbour. A
female-convict ship is fitted up on precisely the same plan as that of
the men, with the addition of shelves whereon to stow away the
tea-crockery. The women's rations are the same as the men's, with the
extra comforts of tea and sugar. This they have for breakfast, and
oatmeal for supper. No guard of soldiers is required on board: nor is
there a bulk-head across the upper deck in mid-ships. Instead of
_captains of the vessel_, there are matrons appointed by the surgeon to
take care of the _morals_ of the rest; and these matrons are usually old
brothel-keepers or procuresses, who know how to feign a sanctity which
produces a favourable impression in their behalf. Women convicts are
dreadfully quarrelsome; and their language is said to be more disgusting
and filthy than that of the men. However vigilant the surgeon may be, it
is impossible altogether to prevent intercourse between the females and
the sailors; and it often happens that some of the _fair ones_, on their
arrival in the colony, are in a way to increase the Australian
population. Perhaps the surgeon himself may take a fancy to one or two
of the best-looking; and these are sure to obtain great indulgences—such
as being appointed nurses to the sick, or being permitted to remain on
the sick-list throughout the voyage, which is an excuse for allowing
them wine and other little comforts. The women always speak _to_ and
_of_ each other as _ladies_; and the old procuresses, when chosen as
matrons, are treated with the respectful _Mrs._ Thus it is always,
'_Ladies_, come for'ard for your pork;' or '_Ladies_, come up for your
biscuit;' or '_Ladies_, the puddings are cooked.' Of an evening they
dance or sing,—and as often quarrel and fight. This cannot be wondered
at, when it is remembered that there is no attempt at classification;
and women who may have been chaste in person, though criminal in other
respects, are compelled to herd with prostitutes of all degrees, from
the lowest trull that skulks in the courts leading out of Fleet Street
to the fashionable nymph who displays her charms at the theatre. The
very chastity of a woman who has been sentenced perhaps for robbing
furnished lodgings, or plundering her master in her capacity of servant,
or for committing a forgery, is made a reproach to her by the
prostitutes and old procuresses; and her life is miserable. Moreover, it
is next to impossible that she can escape a contamination which prepares
her for a life of profligacy when she reaches the colony.
"Before the female convict-ship leaves the Thames, numbers of old
procuresses and brothel-keepers go on board to take leave of the girls
with whom they are acquainted. These hags, dressed out in their gayest
garb, and pretending to be overwhelmed with grief (while they really are
with gin), represent themselves to be the mothers or aunts of the '_poor
dear creatures_' who have got into trouble, and assure the surgeon that
their so-called daughters or nieces were most excellent girls and bore
exemplary characters previous to their present '_misfortune_.' The
surgeon—if a novice, or a humane man—believes the tale, and is sure to
treat with kindness the '_poor creatures_' thus recommended to him.
About twenty years ago a Religious Society in London sent out, in an
emigrant ship, twelve '_reclaimed unfortunate girls_,' with the hope
that they might form good matrimonial connexions among the free settlers
in the colony; there always having been—especially at first—a great
dearth of European females in Australia. These girls were called the
_Twelve Apostles_; and all England rang with the good work which had
been accomplished by the Religious Society. But on the arrival of the
Twelve Apostles at Sydney, seven of them were found to be in the family
way by the sailors; and the others immediately entered on a course of
unbounded licentiousness.[22]
"A few days before the female convict-vessel arrives at Sydney, the
women—old and young—busy themselves in getting ready their finery for
landing. The debarkation of female convicts always takes place with
great effect. The prostitutes appear in their most flaunting attire; and
many of them have gold ornaments about them. They are then sent to the
Paramatta Factory. This establishment cannot be looked on as a place of
punishment—nor as a place of reformation. The inmates are well fed, and
are put to no labour. There is an extensive garden, in which they can
walk at pleasure. Some of them are allotted to free settlers requiring
servants; but the grand hope of the female convict is to marry. This
prospect is materially aided by the fact that both free settlers and
ticket-of-leave convicts are allowed to seek for help-mates in the
Factory. When they call for that purpose, the fair penitents are drawn
up in a row; and the wife-seeking individual inspects them as a general
does his army, or a butcher the sheep in Smithfield Market. If he
fancies one of the candidates, he beckons her from the rank, and they
retire to a distance to converse. Should a matrimonial arrangement be
made, the business is soon finished by the aid of a clergyman; but if no
amicable understanding is come to, the nymph returns to the rank, and
the swain chooses another—and so on, until the object of his visit is
accomplished. So anxious are the unmarried free settlers or the
ticket-of-leave convicts to change their single state of blessedness,
and so ready are the fair sex to meet their wishes, that few women whose
husbands die remain widows a couple of days; some not more than
four-and-twenty hours. A few years before I was in the colony, an old
settler saw a convict-girl performing penance on a market-day, with her
gown-tail drawn over her head, for drunkenness and disorderly conduct in
the Factory. He walked straight up to her—regardless of the hootings of
the crowd—and proposed marriage. She was candid enough to confess to him
that she was five months gone in the family way by a master to whom she
had been allotted ere she returned to the Factory; but the amorous
swain, who was nearly sixty, was so much struck by her black eyes and
plump shape, that he expressed his readiness to take her 'for better or
worse;' and she had not left the place of punishment an hour, ere she
was married to one of the richest settlers in the colony.[23]
"I will tell you one more anecdote relative to Australian marriages. A
very handsome woman was transported for shop-lifting—her third offence
of the kind. She left a husband behind her in England. On her arrival at
Sydney she was allotted to an elderly gentleman, a free settler, and
who, being a bachelor, sought to make her his mistress. She, however,
resisted his overtures, hoping that he would make her his wife, as he
was not aware that she had a husband in her native country. Time wore
on, he urgent—she obstinate,—he declining matrimonial bonds. At length
she received a black-edged letter from her mother in England; and upon
being questioned by her master, she stated '_that its contents made a
great alteration in her circumstances_.' More she would not tell him. He
was afraid of losing his handsome servant; and agreed to marry her. They
were united accordingly. When the nuptial knot was indissolubly tied, he
begged his beloved wife to explain the nature of the black-edged letter.
'_There is now no need for any further mystery_,' she said, '_The truth
is, I could not marry you before, because I had a husband living in
England. That black-edged letter conveyed to me the welcome news that he
was hanged five months ago at the Old Bailey; and thus nothing now
stands in the way of our happiness_.'—And that woman made the rich
settler a most exemplary wife.
"I have now given you an insight into the morals of the female, as well
as those of the male convicts; and you may also perceive that while
transportation is actually a means of pleasing variety of scene and
habits to the woman, it is an earthly hell to the man. I know that
transportation is spoken of as something very light—a mere change of
climate—amongst those thieves in England who have never yet crossed the
water; but they are woefully mistaken! Transportation was _once_ a
trivial punishment, when all convicts were allotted to settlers, and
money would purchase tickets-of-leave; or when a convict's wife, if he
had one, might go out in the next ship with all the swag which his
crimes had produced, and on her arrival in the colony apply for her
husband to be allotted to her as her servant, by which step he became a
free man, opened a public-house or some kind of shop, and made a
fortune. Those were glorious times for convicts; but all that system has
been changed. Now you have Road-Gangs, and Hulk-Gangs, and
Quarrying-Gangs,—men who work in chains, and who cannot obtain a
sufficiency of food! There is also Norfolk Island—a Garden of Eden in
natural loveliness, rendered an earthly hell by human occupation. Oh!
let not the opinion prevail that transportation is no punishment; let
not those who are young in the ways of iniquity, pursue their career
under the impression that exile to Australia is nothing more than a
pleasant change of scene! They will too soon discover how miserably they
are mistaken; and when they feel the galling chain upon their
ankles,—when they find themselves toiling amidst the incessant damps of
Macquarie, or on the hard roads of Van Diemen's Land, or in the quarries
of Norfolk Island,—when they are labouring in forests where every step
may arouse a venomous snake whose bite is death, or where a falling tree
may crush them beneath its weight,—when they are exposed to the
brutality of overseers, or the still more intolerable cruelty of their
companions,—when they sleep in constant dread of being murdered by their
fellow-convicts, and awake only to the dull monotony of a life of
intense and heart-breaking labour,—then will they loathe their very
existence, and dare all the perils of starvation, or the horrors of
cannibalism, in order to escape from those scenes of ineffable misery!
"But I need say no more upon this subject. The bark, in which I
worked my passage to Europe, reached England in safety; and I was
once more at large in my native country. Yes—I was free to go
whithersoever I would—and to avenge myself on him who had betrayed
me to justice! The hope of some day consummating that vengeance had
never deserted me from the moment I was sentenced in the Central
Criminal Court. It had animated me throughout all the miseries, the
toils, and the hardships which I have related to you. It inspired me
with courage to dare the dangers of an escape from Macquarie: its
effect was the same when I resolved upon quitting Norfolk Island. I
have once had my mortal foe within my reach; but my hand dealt not
the blow with sufficient force. It will not fail next time. I know
that vengeance is a crime; but I cannot subdue those feelings which
prompt me to punish the man whose perfidy sent me into exile. In all
other respects I am reformed—completely reformed. Not that the
authorities in Australia or Norfolk Island have in any way
contributed to this moral change which has come over me: no—my own
meditations and reflections have induced me to toil in order to earn
an honest livelihood. I will never steal again: I will die sooner. I
would also rather die by my own hand than return to the horrors of
Macquarie or Norfolk Island. But my vengeance—Oh! I must gratify my
vengeance;—and I care not what may become of me afterwards!"
Crankey Jem then related so much of his adventures with the gipsies as
did not involve a betrayal of any of their secrets, and concluded his
recital by a concise account of his sudden meeting with, and attack
upon, the Resurrection Man _at a certain house in St. Giles's_.
-----
Footnote 19:
This episode is founded on fact. The newspapers of 1840, or 1841, will
in this instance furnish the type of Mr. Robert Cuffin in the person
of a certain Reverend who obtained much notoriety at Rickmansworth.
Footnote 20:
Londoners.
Footnote 21:
Countrymen.
Footnote 22:
Fact.
Footnote 23:
Fact.