CHAPTER XXVII. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

It was not until they had scrambled up the beach to safety that

the absconders became fully aware of the loss of another of their

companions. As they stood on the break of the beach, wringing the water

from their clothes, Gabbett's small eye, counting their number, missed

the stroke oar.

“Where's Cox?”

“The fool fell overboard,” said Jemmy Vetch shortly. “He never had

as much sense in that skull of his as would keep it sound on his

shoulders.”

Gabbett scowled. “That's three of us gone,” he said, in the tones of a

man suffering some personal injury.

They summed up their means of defence against attack. Sanders and

Greenhill had knives. Gabbett still retained the axe in his belt. Vetch

had dropped his musket at the Neck, and Bodenham and Cornelius were

unarmed.

“Let's have a look at the tucker,” said Vetch.

There was but one bag of provisions. It contained a piece of salt pork,

two loaves, and some uncooked potatoes. Signal Hill station was not rich

in edibles.

“That ain't much,” said the Crow, with rueful face. “Is it, Gabbett?”

“It must do, any way,” returned the giant carelessly.

The inspection over, the six proceeded up the shore, and encamped under

the lee of a rock. Bodenham was for lighting a fire, but Vetch, who,

by tacit consent, had been chosen leader of the expedition, forbade it,

saying that the light might betray them. “They'll think we're drowned,

and won't pursue us,” he said. So all that night the miserable wretches

crouched fireless together.

Morning breaks clear and bright, and--free for the first time in ten

years--they comprehend that their terrible journey has begun. “Where are

we to go? How are we to live?” asked Bodenham, scanning the barren

bush that stretches to the barren sea. “Gabbett, you've been out

before--how's it done?”

“We'll make the shepherds' huts, and live on their tucker till we get

a change o' clothes,” said Gabbett evading the main question. “We can

follow the coast-line.”

“Steady, lads,” said prudent Vetch; “we must sneak round yon sandhills,

and so creep into the scrub. If they've a good glass at the Neck, they

can see us.”

“It does seem close,” said Bodenham; “I could pitch a stone on to the

guard-house. Good-bye, you Bloody Spot!” he adds, with sudden rage,

shaking his fist vindictively at the Penitentiary; “I don't want to see

you no more till the Day o' Judgment.”

Vetch divides the provisions, and they travel all that day until dark

night. The scrub is prickly and dense. Their clothes are torn, their

hands and feet bleeding. Already they feel out-wearied. No one pursuing,

they light a fire, and sleep. The second day they come to a sandy spit

that runs out into the sea, and find that they have got too far to the

eastward, and must follow the shore line to East Bay Neck. Back through

the scrub they drag their heavy feet. That night they eat the last

crumb of the loaf. The third day at high noon--after some toilsome

walking--they reach a big hill, now called Collins' Mount, and see the

upper link of the earring, the isthmus of East Bay Neck, at their feet.

A few rocks are on their right hand, and blue in the lovely distance

lies hated Maria Island. “We must keep well to the eastward,” said

Greenhill, “or we shall fall in with the settlers and get taken.” So,

passing the isthmus, they strike into the bush along the shore, and

tightening their belts over their gnawing bellies, camp under some

low-lying hills.

The fourth day is notable for the indisposition of Bodenham, who is a

bad walker, and, falling behind, delays the party by frequent cooees.

Gabbett threatens him with a worse fate than sore feet if he lingers.

Luckily, that evening Greenhill espies a hut, but, not trusting to the

friendship of the occupant, they wait until he quits it in the morning,

and then send Vetch to forage. Vetch, secretly congratulating himself on

having by his counsel prevented violence, returns bending under half a

bag of flour. “You'd better carry the flour,” said he to Gabbett, “and

give me the axe.” Gabbett eyes him for a while, as if struck by his puny

form, but finally gives the axe to his mate Sanders. That day they creep

along cautiously between the sea and the hills, camping at a creek.

Vetch, after much search, finds a handful of berries, and adds them to

the main stock. Half of this handful is eaten at once, the other half

reserved for “to-morrow”. The next day they come to an arm of the sea,

and as they struggle northward, Maria Island disappears, and with it all

danger from telescopes. That evening they reach the camping ground by

twos and threes; and each wonders between the paroxysms of hunger if

his face is as haggard, and his eyes as bloodshot, as those of his

neighbour.

On the seventh day, Bodenham says his feet are so bad he can't walk,

and Greenhill, with a greedy look at the berries, bids him stay behind.

Being in a very weak condition, he takes his companion at his word, and

drops off about noon the next day. Gabbett, discovering this defection,

however, goes back, and in an hour or so appears, driving the wretched

creature before him with blows, as a sheep is driven to the shambles.

Greenhill remonstrates at another mouth being thus forced upon the

party, but the giant silences him with a hideous glance. Jemmy Vetch

remembers that Greenhill accompanied Gabbett once before, and feels

uncomfortable. He gives hint of his suspicions to Sanders, but Sanders

only laughs. It is horribly evident that there is an understanding among

the three.

The ninth sun of their freedom, rising upon sandy and barren hillocks,

bristling thick with cruel scrub, sees the six famine-stricken wretches

cursing their God, and yet afraid to die. All around is the fruitless,

shadeless, shelterless bush. Above, the pitiless heaven. In the

distance, the remorseless sea. Something terrible must happen. That grey

wilderness, arched by grey heaven stooping to grey sea, is a fitting

keeper of hideous secrets. Vetch suggests that Oyster Bay cannot be far

to the eastward--the line of ocean is deceitfully close--and though such

a proceeding will take them out of their course, they resolve to make

for it. After hobbling five miles, they seem no nearer than before,

and, nigh dead with fatigue and starvation, sink despairingly upon the

ground. Vetch thinks Gabbett's eyes have a wolfish glare in them, and

instinctively draws off from him. Said Greenhill, in the course of a

dismal conversation, “I am so weak that I could eat a piece of a man.”

On the tenth day Bodenham refuses to stir, and the others, being scarce

able to drag along their limbs, sit on the ground about him. Greenhill,

eyeing the prostrate man, said slowly, “I have seen the same done

before, boys, and it tasted like pork.”

Vetch, hearing his savage comrade give utterance to a thought all had

secretly cherished, speaks out, crying, “It would be murder to do it,

and then, perhaps we couldn't eat it.”

“Oh,” said Gabbett, with a grin, “I'll warrant you that, but you must

all have a hand in it.”

Gabbett, Sanders and Greenhill then go aside, and presently Sanders,

coming to the Crow, said, “He consented to act as flogger. He deserves

it.”

“So did Gabbett, for that matter,” shudders Vetch.

“Ay, but Bodenham's feet are sore,” said Sanders, “and 'tis a pity to

leave him.”

Having no fire, they make a little breakwind; and Vetch, half-dozing

behind this at about three in the morning, hears someone cry out

“Christ!” and awakes, sweating ice.

No one but Gabbett and Greenhill would eat that night. That savage pair,

however, make a fire, fling ghastly fragments on the embers, and eat the

broil before it is right warm. In the morning the frightful carcase is

divided. That day's march takes place in silence, and at midday halt

Cornelius volunteers to carry the billy, affecting great restoration

from the food. Vetch gives it to him, and in half an hour afterwards

Cornelius is missing. Gabbett and Greenhill pursue him in vain, and

return with curses. “He'll die like a dog,” said Greenhill, “alone in

the bush.” Jemmy Vetch, with his intellect acute as ever, thinks that

Cornelius may prefer such a death, but says nothing.

The twelfth morning dawns wet and misty, but Vetch, seeing the provision

running short, strives to be cheerful, telling stories of men who have

escaped greater peril. Vetch feels with dismay that he is the weakest

of the party, but has some sort of ludicro-horrible consolation in

remembering that he is also the leanest. They come to a creek that

afternoon, and look, until nightfall, in vain for a crossing-place. The

next day Gabbett and Vetch swim across, and Vetch directs Gabbett to cut

a long sapling, which, being stretched across the water, is seized by

Greenhill and the Moocher, who are dragged over.

“What would you do without me?” said the Crow with a ghastly grin.

They cannot kindle a fire, for Greenhill, who carries the tinder, has

allowed it to get wet. The giant swings his axe in savage anger at

enforced cold, and Vetch takes an opportunity to remark privately to him

what a big man Greenhill is.

On the fourteenth day they can scarcely crawl, and their limbs pain

them. Greenhill, who is the weakest, sees Gabbett and the Moocher go

aside to consult, and crawling to the Crow, whimpers: “For God's sake,

Jemmy, don't let 'em murder me!”

“I can't help you,” says Vetch, looking about in terror. “Think of poor

Tom Bodenham.”

“But he was no murderer. If they kill me, I shall go to hell with Tom's

blood on my soul.” He writhes on the ground in sickening terror, and

Gabbett arriving, bids Vetch bring wood for the fire. Vetch, going, sees

Greenhill clinging to wolfish Gabbett's knees, and Sanders calls after

him, “You will hear it presently, Jem.”

The nervous Crow puts his hand to his ears, but is conscious of a dull

crash and a groan. When he comes back, Gabbett is putting on the dead

man's shoes, which are better than his own.

“We'll stop here a day or so and rest,” said he, “now we've got

provisions.”

Two more days pass, and the three, eyeing each other suspiciously,

resume their march. The third day--the sixteenth of their awful

journey--such portions of the carcase as they have with them prove unfit

to eat. They look into each other's famine-sharpened faces, and wonder

“who's next?”

“We must all die together,” said Sanders quickly, “before anything else

must happen.”

Vetch marks the terror concealed in the words, and when the dreaded

giant is out of earshot, says, “For God's sake, let's go on alone,

Alick. You see what sort of a cove that Gabbett is--he'd kill his father

before he'd fast one day.”

They made for the bush, but the giant turned and strode towards them.

Vetch skipped nimbly on one side, but Gabbett struck the Moocher on the

forehead with the axe. “Help! Jem, help!” cried the victim, cut, but not

fatally, and in the strength of his desperation tore the axe from the

monster who bore it, and flung it to Vetch. “Keep it, Jemmy,” he cried;

“let's have no more murder done!”

They fare again through the horrible bush until nightfall, when Vetch,

in a strange voice, called the giant to him.

“He must die.”

“Either you or he,” laughs Gabbett. “Give me the axe.”

“No, no,” said the Crow, his thin, malignant face distorted by a

horrible resolution. “I'll keep the axe. Stand back! You shall hold him,

and I'll do the job.”

Sanders, seeing them approach, knew his end was come, and submitted,

crying, “Give me half an hour to pray for myself.” They consent, and the

bewildered wretch knelt down and folded his hands like a child. His

big, stupid face worked with emotion. His great cracked lips moved

in desperate agony. He wagged his head from side to side, in pitiful

confusion of his brutalized senses. “I can't think o' the words, Jem!”

“Pah,” snarled the cripple, swinging the axe, “we can't starve here all

night.”

Four days had passed, and the two survivors of this awful journey sat

watching each other. The gaunt giant, his eyes gleaming with hate

and hunger, sat sentinel over the dwarf. The dwarf, chuckling at his

superior sagacity, clutched the fatal axe. For two days they had not

spoken to each other. For two days each had promised himself that on the

next his companion must sleep--and die. Vetch comprehended the devilish

scheme of the monster who had entrapped five of his fellow-beings to aid

him by their deaths to his own safety, and held aloof. Gabbett watched

to snatch the weapon from his companion, and make the odds even once and

for ever. In the day-time they travelled on, seeking each a pretext to

creep behind the other. In the night-time when they feigned slumber,

each stealthily raising a head caught the wakeful glance of his

companion. Vetch felt his strength deserting him, and his brain

overpowered by fatigue. Surely the giant, muttering, gesticulating, and

slavering at the mouth, was on the road to madness. Would the monster

find opportunity to rush at him, and, braving the blood-stained axe,

kill him by main force? or would he sleep, and be himself a victim?

Unhappy Vetch! It is the terrible privilege of insanity to be sleepless.

On the fifth day, Vetch, creeping behind a tree, takes off his belt, and

makes a noose. He will hang himself. He gets one end of the belt over

a bough, and then his cowardice bids him pause. Gabbett approaches;

he tries to evade him, and steal away into the bush. In vain. The

insatiable giant, ravenous with famine, and sustained by madness, is not

to be shaken off. Vetch tries to run, but his legs bend under him. The

axe that has tried to drink so much blood feels heavy as lead. He will

fling it away. No--he dares not. Night falls again. He must rest, or go

mad. His limbs are powerless. His eyelids are glued together. He sleeps

as he stands. This horrible thing must be a dream. He is at Port Arthur,

or will wake on his pallet in the penny lodging-house he slept at when a

boy. Is that the Deputy come to wake him to the torment of living? It is

not time--surely not time yet. He sleeps--and the giant, grinning with

ferocious joy, approaches on clumsy tiptoe and seizes the coveted axe.

On the north coast of Van Diemen's Land is a place called St Helen's

Point, and a certain skipper, being in want of fresh water; landing

there with a boat's crew, found on the banks of the creek a gaunt and

blood-stained man, clad in tattered yellow, who carried on his back an

axe and a bundle. When the sailors came within sight of him, he made

signs to them to approach, and, opening his bundle with much ceremony,

offered them some of its contents. Filled with horror at what the maniac

displayed, they seized and bound him. At Hobart Town he was recognized

as the only survivor of the nine desperadoes who had escaped from

Colonel Arthur's “Natural Penitentiary”.

END OF BOOK THE THIRD

BOOK IV.--NORFOLK ISLAND. 1846.

CHAPTER I. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

Bathurst, February 11th, 1846.

In turning over the pages of my journal, to note the good fortune that

has just happened to me, I am struck by the utter desolation of my life

for the last seven years.

Can it be possible that I, James North, the college-hero, the poet, the

prizeman, the Heaven knows what else, have been content to live on at

this dreary spot--an animal, eating and drinking, for tomorrow I die?

Yet it has been so. My world, that world of which I once dreamt so much,

has been--here. My fame--which was to reach the ends of the earth--has

penetrated to the neighbouring stations. I am considered a “good

preacher” by my sheep-feeding friends. It is kind of them.

Yet, on the eve of leaving it, I confess that this solitary life has not

been without its charms. I have had my books and my thoughts--though

at times the latter were but grim companions. I have striven with my

familiar sin, and have not always been worsted. Melancholy reflection.

“Not always!” “But yet” is as a gaoler to bring forth some monstrous

malefactor. I vowed, however, that I would not cheat myself in this

diary of mine, and I will not. No evasions, no glossings over of my own

sins. This journal is my confessor, and I bare my heart to it.

It is curious the pleasure I feel in setting down here in black and

white these agonies and secret cravings of which I dare not speak. It is

for the same reason, I suppose, that murderers make confession to

dogs and cats, that people with something “on their mind” are given to

thinking aloud, that the queen of Midas must needs whisper to the sedges

the secret of her husband's infirmity. Outwardly I am a man of God,

pious and grave and softly spoken. Inwardly--what? The mean, cowardly,

weak sinner that this book knows me...Imp! I could tear you in

pieces!...One of these days I will. In the meantime, I will keep you

under lock and key, and you shall hug my secrets close. No, old friend,

with whom I have communed so long, forgive me, forgive me. You are to me

instead of wife or priest.

I tell to your cold blue pages--how much was it I bought you for in

Parramatta, rascal?--these stories, longings, remorses, which I would

fain tell to human ear could I find a human being as discreet as thou.

It has been said that a man dare not write all his thoughts and deeds;

the words would blister the paper. Yet your sheets are smooth enough,

you fat rogue! Our neighbours of Rome know human nature. A man must

confess. One reads of wretches who have carried secrets in their bosoms

for years, and blurted them forth at last. I, shut up here without

companionship, without sympathy, without letters, cannot lock up my

soul, and feed on my own thoughts. They will out, and so I whisper them

to thee.

What art thou, thou tremendous power Who dost inhabit us without our

leave, And art, within ourselves, another self, A master self that loves

to domineer?

What? Conscience? That is a word to frighten children. The conscience of

each man is of his own making. My friend the shark-toothed cannibal whom

Staples brought in his whaler to Sydney would have found his conscience

reproach him sorely did he refuse to partake of the feasts made sacred

by the customs of his ancestors. A spark of divinity? The divinity that,

according to received doctrine; sits apart, enthroned amid sweet music,

and leaves poor humanity to earn its condemnation as it may? I'll have

none of that--though I preach it. One must soothe the vulgar senses

of the people. Priesthood has its “pious frauds”. The Master spoke in

parables. Wit? The wit that sees how ill-balanced are our actions and

our aspirations? The devilish wit born of our own brain, that sneers at

us for our own failings? Perhaps madness? More likely, for there are few

men who are not mad one hour of the waking twelve. If differing from

the judgment of the majority of mankind in regard to familiar things be

madness, I suppose I am mad--or too wise. The speculation draws near to

hair-splitting. James North, recall your early recklessness, your ruin,

and your redemption; bring your mind back to earth. Circumstances have

made you what you are, and will shape your destiny for you without your

interference. That's comfortably settled!

Now supposing--to take another canter on my night-mare--that man is

the slave of circumstances (a doctrine which I am inclined to believe,

though unwilling to confess); what circumstance can have brought about

the sudden awakening of the powers that be to James North's fitness for

duty?

HOBART TOWN, Jan. 12th.

“DEAR NORTH,--I have much pleasure in informing you that you can be

appointed Protestant chaplain at Norfolk Island, if you like. It seems

that they did not get on well with the last man, and when my advice was

asked, I at once recommended you for the office. The pay is small, but

you have a house and so on. It is certainly better than Bathurst, and

indeed is considered rather a prize in the clerical lottery.

“There is to be an investigation into affairs down there. Poor old

Pratt--who went down, as you know, at the earnest solicitation of the

Government--seems to have become absurdly lenient with the prisoners,

and it is reported that the island is in a frightful state. Sir Eardley

is looking out for some disciplinarian to take the place in hand.

“In the meantime, the chaplaincy is vacant, and I thought of you.”

I must consider this seeming good fortune further.

February 19th.--I accept. There is work to be done among those unhappy

men that may be my purgation. The authorities shall hear me yet--though

inquiry was stifled at Port Arthur. By the way, a Pharaoh had arisen

who knows not Joseph. It is evident that the meddlesome parson, who

complained of men being flogged to death, is forgotten, as the men are!

How many ghosts must haunt the dismal loneliness of that prison shore!

Poor Burgess is gone the way of all flesh. I wonder if his spirit

revisits the scenes of its violences? I have written “poor” Burgess.

It is strange how we pity a man gone out of this life. Enmity is

extinguished when one can but remember injuries. If a man had injured

me, the fact of his living at all would be sufficient grounds for me to

hate him; if I had injured him, I should hate him still more. Is that

the reason I hate myself at times--my greatest enemy, and one whom I

have injured beyond forgiveness? There are offences against one's own

nature that are not to be forgiven. Isn't it Tacitus who says “the

hatred of those most nearly related is most inveterate”? But--I am

taking flight again.

February 27th, 11.30 p.m.--Nine Creeks Station. I do like to be accurate

in names, dates, etc. Accuracy is a virtue. To exercise it, then.

Station ninety miles from Bathurst. I should say about 4,000 head of

cattle. Luxury without refinement. Plenty to eat, drink, and read.

Hostess's name--Carr. She is a well-preserved creature, about

thirty-four years of age, and a clever woman--not in a poetical sense,

but in the widest worldly acceptation of the term. At the same time, I

should be sorry to be her husband. Women have no business with a brain

like hers--that is, if they wish to be women and not sexual monsters.

Mrs. Carr is not a lady, though she might have been one. I don't think

she is a good woman either. It is possible, indeed, that she has known

the factory before now. There is a mystery about her, for I was informed

that she was a Mrs. Purfoy, the widow of a whaling captain, and had

married one of her assigned servants, who had deserted her five years

ago, as soon as he obtained his freedom. A word or two at dinner set me

thinking. She had received some English papers, and, accounting for her

pre-occupied manner, grimly said, “I think I have news of my husband.”

I should not like to be in Carr's shoes if she has news of him! I don't

think she would suffer indignity calmly. After all, what business is it

of mine? I was beguiled into taking more wine at dinner than I needed.

Confessor, do you hear me? But I will not allow myself to be carried

away. You grin, you fat Familiar! So may I, but I shall be eaten with

remorse tomorrow.

March 3rd.--A place called Jerrilang, where I have a head and heartache.

“One that hath let go himself from the hold and stay of reason, and lies

open to the mercy of all temptations.”

March 20th.--Sydney. At Captain Frere's.--Seventeen days since I have

opened you, beloved and detested companion of mine. I have more than

half a mind to never open you again! To read you is to recall to myself

all I would most willingly forget; yet not to read you would be to

forget all that which I should for my sins remember.

The last week has made a new man of me. I am no longer morose,

despairing, and bitter, but genial, and on good terms with fortune. It

is strange that accident should have induced me to stay a week under the

same roof with that vision of brightness which has haunted me so long.

A meeting in the street, an introduction, an invitation--the thing is

done.

The circumstances which form our fortunes are certainly curious things.

I had thought never again to meet the bright young face to which I

felt so strange an attraction--and lo! here it is smiling on me daily.

Captain Frere should be a happy man. Yet there is a skeleton in this

house also. That young wife, by nature so lovable and so mirthful, ought

not to have the sadness on her face that twice to-day has clouded it.

He seems a passionate and boorish creature, this wonderful convict

disciplinarian. His convicts--poor devils--are doubtless disciplined

enough. Charming little Sylvia, with your quaint wit and weird beauty,

he is not good enough for you--and yet it was a love match.

March 21st.--I have read family prayers every night since I have been

here--my black coat and white tie gave me the natural pre-eminence in

such matters--and I feel guilty every time I read. I wonder what the

little lady of the devotional eyes would say if she knew that I am a

miserable hypocrite, preaching that which I do not practise, exhorting

others to believe those marvels which I do not believe? I am a coward

not to throw off the saintly mask, and appear as a Freethinker. Yet, am

I a coward? I urge upon myself that it is for the glory of God I hold

my peace. The scandal of a priest turned infidel would do more harm

than the reign of reason would do good. Imagine this trustful woman for

instance--she would suffer anguish at the thoughts of such a sin, though

another were the sinner. “If anyone offend one of these little ones it

were better for him that a millstone be hanged about his neck and

that he be cast into the sea.” Yet truth is truth, and should be

spoken--should it not, malignant monitor, who remindest me how often I

fail to speak it? Surely among all his army of black-coats our worthy

Bishop must have some men like me, who cannot bring their reason to

believe in things contrary to the experience of mankind and the laws of

nature.

March 22nd.--This unromantic Captain Frere had had some romantic

incidents in his life, and he is fond of dilating upon them. It seems

that in early life he expected to have been left a large fortune by an

uncle who had quarrelled with his heir. But the uncle dies on the day

fixed for the altering of the will, the son disappears, and is thought

to be drowned. The widow, however, steadfastly refuses to believe in

any report of the young man's death, and having a life-interest in the

property, holds it against all comers. My poor host in consequence comes

out here on his pay, and, three years ago, just as he is hoping that the

death of his aunt may give him opportunity to enforce a claim as next

of kin to some portion of the property, the long-lost son returns,

is recognized by his mother and the trustees, and installed in due

heirship! The other romantic story is connected with Frere's marriage.

He told me after dinner to-night how his wife had been wrecked when a

child, and how he had saved her life, and defended her from the rude

hands of an escaped convict--one of the monsters our monstrous system

breeds. “That was how we fell in love,” said he, tossing off his wine

complacently.

“An auspicious opportunity,” said I. To which he nodded. He is not

overburdened with brains, I fancy. Let me see if I can set down some

account of this lovely place and its people.

A long low white house, surrounded by a blooming garden. Wide windows

opening on a lawn. The ever glorious, ever changing sea beneath. It is

evening. I am talking with Mrs. Frere, of theories of social reform,

of picture galleries, of sunsets, and new books. There comes a sound

of wheels on the gravel. It is the magistrate returned from his

convict-discipline. We hear him come briskly up the steps, but we go on

talking. (I fancy there was a time when the lady would have run to

meet him.) He enters, coldly kisses his wife, and disturbs at once the

current of our thoughts. “It has been hot to-day. What, still no letter

from head-quarters, Mr. North! I saw Mrs. Golightly in town, Sylvia, and

she asked for you. There is to be a ball at Government House. We must

go.” Then he departs, and is heard in the distance indistinctly cursing

because the water is not hot enough, or because Dawkins, his convict

servant, has not brushed his trousers sufficiently. We resume our chat,

but he returns all hungry, and bluff, and whisker-brushed. “Dinner.

Ha-ha! I'm ready for it. North, take Mrs. Frere.” By and by it is,

“North, some sherry? Sylvia, the soup is spoilt again. Did you go out

to-day? No?” His eyebrows contract here, and I know he says inwardly,

“Reading some trashy novel, I suppose.” However, he grins, and

obligingly relates how the police have captured Cockatoo Bill, the noted

bushranger.

After dinner the disciplinarian and I converse--of dogs and horses,

gamecocks, convicts, and moving accidents by flood and field. I remember

old college feats, and strive to keep pace with him in the relation of

athletics. What hypocrites we are!--for all the time I am longing to

get to the drawing-room, and finish my criticism of the new poet, Mr.

Tennyson, to Mrs. Frere. Frere does not read Tennyson--nor anybody else.

Adjourned to the drawing-room, we chat--Mrs. Frere and I--until supper.

(He eats supper.) She is a charming companion, and when I talk my

best--I can talk, you must admit, O Familiar--her face lightens up

with an interest I rarely see upon it at other times. I feel cooled and

soothed by this companionship. The quiet refinement of this house, after

bullocks and Bathurst, is like the shadow of a great rock in a weary

land.

Mrs. Frere is about five-and-twenty. She is rather beneath the middle

height, with a slight, girlish figure. This girlish appearance is

enhanced by the fact that she has bright fair hair and blue eyes. Upon

conversation with her, however, one sees that her face has lost much of

the delicate plumpness which it probably owned in youth. She has had one

child, born only to die. Her cheeks are thin, and her eyes have a tinge

of sadness, which speak of physical pain or mental grief. This thinness

of face makes the eyes appear larger and the brow broader than they

really are. Her hands are white and painfully thin. They must have been

plump and pretty once. Her lips are red with perpetual fever.

Captain Frere seems to have absorbed all his wife's vitality. (Who

quotes the story of Lucius Claudius Hermippus, who lived to a great age

by being constantly breathed on by young girls? I suppose Burton--who

quotes everything.) In proportion as she has lost her vigour and youth,

he has gained strength and heartiness. Though he is at least forty years

of age, he does not look more than thirty. His face is ruddy, his eyes

bright, his voice firm and ringing. He must be a man of considerable

strength and--I should say--of more than ordinary animal courage and

animal appetite. There is not a nerve in his body which does not twang

like a piano wire. In appearance, he is tall, broad, and bluff, with

red whiskers and reddish hair slightly touched with grey. His manner

is loud, coarse, and imperious; his talk of dogs, horses, and convicts.

What a strangely-mated pair!

March 30th.--A letter from Van Diemen's Land. “There is a row in the

pantry,” said Frere, with his accustomed slang. It seems that the

Comptroller-General of Convicts has appointed a Mr. Pounce to go down

and make a report on the state of Norfolk Island. I am to go down

with him, and shall receive instructions to that effect from the

Comptroller-General. I have informed Frere of this, and he has written

to Pounce to come and stay on his way down. There has been nothing but

convict discipline talked since. Frere is great upon this point, and

wearies me with his explanations of convict tricks and wickedness. He

is celebrated for his knowledge of such matters. Detestable wisdom! His

servants hate him, but they obey him without a murmur. I have observed

that habitual criminals--like all savage beasts--cower before the

man who has once mastered them. I should not be surprised if the Van

Diemen's Land Government selected Frere as their “disciplinarian”. I

hope they won't and yet I hope they will.

April 4th.--Nothing worth recording until to-day. Eating, drinking, and

sleeping. Despite my forty-seven years, I begin to feel almost like the

James North who fought the bargee and took the gold medal. What a drink

water is! The fons Bandusiae splendidior vitreo was better than all the

Massic, Master Horace! I doubt if your celebrated liquor, bottled when

Manlius was consul, could compare with it.

But to my notable facts. I have found out to-night two things which

surprise me. One is that the convict who attempted the life of Mrs.

Frere is none other than the unhappy man whom my fatal weakness caused

to be flogged at Port Arthur, and whose face comes before me to reproach

me even now. The other that Mrs. Carr is an old acquaintance of Frere's.

The latter piece of information I obtained in a curious way. One night,

while Mrs. Frere was not there, we were talking of clever women. I

broached my theory, that strong intellect in women went far to destroy

their womanly nature.

“Desire in man,” said I, “should be Volition in women: Reason,

Intuition; Reverence, Devotion; Passion, Love. The woman should strike

a lower key-note, but a sharper sound. Man has vigour of reason,

woman quickness of feeling. The woman who possesses masculine force of

intellect is abnormal.” He did not half comprehend me, I could see, but

he agreed with the broad view of the case. “I only knew one woman who

was really 'strong-minded', as they call it,” he said, “and she was a

regular bad one.”

“It does not follow that she should be bad,” said I. “This one was,

though--stock, lock, and barrel. But as sharp as a needle, sir, and as

immovable as a rock. A fine woman, too.” I saw by the expression of the

man's face that he owned ugly memories, and pressed him further. “She's

up country somewhere,” he said. “Married her assigned servant, I was

told, a fellow named Carr. I haven't seen her for years, and don't know

what she may be like now, but in the days when I knew her she was just

what you describe.” (Let it be noted that I had described nothing.) “She

came out in the ship with me as maid to my wife's mother.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I had met her, but I don't

know what induced me to be silent. There are passages in the lives of

men of Captain Frere's complexion, which don't bear descanting on.

I expect there have been in this case, for he changed the subject

abruptly, as his wife came in. Is it possible that these two

creatures--the notable disciplinarian and the wife of the assigned

servant--could have been more than friends in youth? Quite possible.

He is the sort of man for gross amours. (A pretty way I am abusing my

host!) And the supple woman with the dark eyes would have been just the

creature to enthral him. Perhaps some such story as this may account in

part for Mrs. Frere's sad looks. Why do I speculate on such things?

I seem to do violence to myself and to insult her by writing such

suspicions. If I was a Flagellant now, I would don hairshirt and up

flail. “For this sort cometh not out but by prayer and fasting.”

April 7th.--Mr. Pounce has arrived--full of the importance of his

mission. He walks with the air of a minister of state on the eve of a

vacant garter, hoping, wondering, fearing, and dignified even in his

dubitancy. I am as flippant as a school-girl concerning this fatuous

official, and yet--Heaven knows--I feel deeply enough the importance of

the task he has before him. One relieves one's brain by these whirlings

of one's mental limbs. I remember that a prisoner at Hobart Town,

twice condemned and twice reprieved, jumped and shouted with frenzied

vehemence when he heard his sentence of death was finally pronounced. He

told me, if he had not so shouted, he believed he would have gone mad.

April 10th.--We had a state dinner last night. The conversation was

about nothing in the world but convicts. I never saw Mrs. Frere to less

advantage. Silent, distraite, and sad. She told me after dinner that

she disliked the very name of “convict” from early associations. “I have

lived among them all my life,” she said, “but that does not make it the

better for me. I have terrible fancies at times, Mr. North, that seem

half-memories. I dread to be brought in contact with prisoners again. I

am sure that some evil awaits me at their hands.”

I laughed, of course, but it would not do. She holds to her own opinion,

and looks at me with horror in her eyes. This terror in her face is

perplexing.

“You are nervous,” I said. “You want rest.”

“I am nervous,” she replied, with that candour of voice and manner I

have before remarked in her, “and I have presentiments of evil.”

We sat silent for a while, and then she suddenly turned her large

eyes on me, and said calmly, “Mr. North, what death shall I die?” The

question was an echo of my own thoughts--I have some foolish (?) fancies

as to physiognomy--and it made me start. What death, indeed? What sort

of death would one meet with widely-opened eyes, parted lips, and

brows bent as though to rally fast-flying courage? Not a peaceful death

surely. I brought my black coat to my aid. “My dear lady, you must not

think of such things. Death is but a sleep, you know. Why anticipate a

nightmare?”

She sighed, slowly awaking as though from some momentary trance.

Checking herself on the verge of tears, she rallied, turned the

conversation, and finding an excuse for going to the piano, dashed into

a waltz. This unnatural gaiety ended, I fancy, in an hysterical fit. I

heard her husband afterwards recommending sal volatile. He is the

sort of man who would recommend sal volatile to the Pythoness if she

consulted him.

April 26th.--All has been arranged, and we start to-morrow. Mr. Pounce

is in a condition of painful dignity. He seems afraid to move lest

motion should thaw his official ice. Having found out that I am the

“chaplain”, he has refrained from familiarity. My self-love is wounded,

but my patience relieved. Query: Would not the majority of mankind

rather be bored by people in authority than not noticed by them? James

North declines to answer for his part. I have made my farewells to my

friends, and on looking back on the pleasant hours I have spent, felt

saddened. It is not likely that I shall have many such pleasant hours.

I feel like a vagabond who, having been allowed to sit by a cheerful

fireside for a while, is turned out into the wet and windy streets, and

finds them colder than ever. What were the lines I wrote in her album?

“As some poor tavern-haunter drenched in wine With staggering footsteps

through the streets returning, Seeing through blinding rain a beacon

shine From household lamp in happy window burning,--

“Pauses an instant at the reddened pane To gaze on that sweet scene of

love and duty, Then turns into the wild wet night again, Lest his sad

presence mar its homely beauty.”

Yes, those were the lines. With more of truth in them than she expected;

and yet what business have I sentimentalizing. My socius thinks “what a

puling fool this North is!”

So, that's over! Now for Norfolk Island and my purgation.

CHAPTER II. THE LOST HEIR.

The lost son of Sir Richard Devine had returned to England, and made

claim to his name and fortune. In other words, John Rex had successfully

carried out the scheme by which he had usurped the rights of his old

convict-comrade.

Smoking his cigar in his bachelor lodgings, or pausing in a calculation

concerning a race, John Rex often wondered at the strange ease with

which he had carried out so monstrous and seemingly difficult an

imposture. After he was landed in Sydney, by the vessel which Sarah

Purfoy had sent to save him, he found himself a slave to a bondage

scarcely less galling than that from which he had escaped--the bondage

of enforced companionship with an unloved woman. The opportune death of

one of her assigned servants enabled Sarah Purfoy to instal the escaped

convict in his room. In the strange state of society which prevailed

of necessity in New South Wales at that period, it was not unusual for

assigned servants to marry among the free settlers, and when it was

heard that Mrs. Purfoy, the widow of a whaling captain, had married John

Carr, her storekeeper, transported for embezzlement, and with two years

of his sentence yet to run, no one expressed surprise. Indeed, when the

year after, John Carr blossomed into an “expiree”, master of a fine wife

and a fine fortune, there were many about him who would have made his

existence in Australia pleasant enough. But John Rex had no notion of

remaining longer than he could help, and ceaselessly sought means of

escape from this second prison-house. For a long time his search was

unsuccessful. Much as she loved the scoundrel, Sarah Purfoy did not

scruple to tell him that she had bought him and regarded him as her

property. He knew that if he made any attempt to escape from his

marriage-bonds, the woman who had risked so much to save him would

not hesitate to deliver him over to the authorities, and state how the

opportune death of John Carr had enabled her to give name and employment

to John Rex, the absconder. He had thought once that the fact of her

being his wife would prevent her from giving evidence against him, and

that he could thus defy her. But she reminded him that a word to Blunt

would be all sufficient.

“I know you don't care for me now, John,” she said, with grim

complacency; “but your life is in my hands, and if you desert me I will

bring you to the gallows.”

In vain, in his secret eagerness to be rid of her, he raged and chafed.

He was tied hand and foot. She held his money, and her shrewd wit had

more than doubled it. She was all-powerful, and he could but wait until

her death or some lucky accident should rid him of her, and leave him

free to follow out the scheme he had matured. “Once rid of her,” he

thought, in his solitary rides over the station of which he was the

nominal owner, “the rest is easy. I shall return to England with a

plausible story of shipwreck, and shall doubtless be received with open

arms by the dear mother from whom I have been so long parted. Richard

Devine shall have his own again.”

To be rid of her was not so easy. Twice he tried to escape from his

thraldom, and was twice brought back. “I have bought you, John,” his

partner had laughed, “and you don't get away from me. Surely you can be

content with these comforts. You were content with less once. I am not

so ugly and repulsive, am I?”

“I am home-sick,” John Carr retorted. “Let us go to England, Sarah.”

She tapped her strong white fingers sharply on the table. “Go to

England? No, no. That is what you would like to do. You would be master

there. You would take my money, and leave me to starve. I know you,

Jack. We stop here, dear. Here, where I can hand you over to the first

trooper as an escaped convict if you are not kind to me.”

“She-devil!”

“Oh, I don't mind your abuse. Abuse me if you like, Jack. Beat me if you

will, but don't leave me, or it will be worse for you.”

“You are a strange woman!” he cried, in sudden petulant admiration.

“To love such a villain? I don't know that. I love you because you are a

villain. A better man would be wearisome to such as I am.”

“I wish to Heaven I'd never left Port Arthur. Better there than this

dog's life.”

“Go back, then. You have only to say the word!” And so they would

wrangle, she glorying in her power over the man who had so long

triumphed over her, and he consoling himself with the hope that the day

was not far distant which should bring him at once freedom and fortune.

One day the chance came to him. His wife was ill, and the ungrateful

scoundrel stole five hundred pounds, and taking two horses reached

Sydney, and obtained passage in a vessel bound for Rio.

Having escaped thraldom, John Rex proceeded to play for the great stake

of his life with the utmost caution. He went to the Continent, and lived

for weeks together in the towns where Richard Devine might possibly have

resided, familiarizing himself with streets, making the acquaintance

of old inhabitants, drawing into his own hands all loose ends of

information which could help to knit the meshes of his net the closer.

Such loose ends were not numerous; the prodigal had been too poor, too

insignificant, to leave strong memories behind him. Yet Rex knew well

by what strange accidents the deceit of an assumed identity is often

penetrated. Some old comrade or companion of the lost heir might

suddenly appear with keen questions as to trifles which could cut his

flimsy web to shreds, as easily as the sword of Saladin divided the

floating silk. He could not afford to ignore the most insignificant

circumstances. With consummate skill, piece by piece he built up the

story which was to deceive the poor mother, and to make him possessor of

one of the largest private fortunes in England.

This was the tale he hit upon. He had been saved from the burning

Hydaspes by a vessel bound for Rio. Ignorant of the death of Sir

Richard, and prompted by the pride which was known to be a leading

feature of his character, he had determined not to return until fortune

should have bestowed upon him wealth at least equal to the inheritance

from which he had been ousted. In Spanish America he had striven to

accumulate that wealth in vain. As vequero, traveller, speculator,

sailor, he had toiled for fourteen years, and had failed. Worn out and

penitent, he had returned home to find a corner of English earth in

which to lay his weary bones. The tale was plausible enough, and in the

telling of it he was armed at all points. There was little fear that

the navigator of the captured Osprey, the man who had lived in Chile and

“cut out” cattle on the Carrum Plains, would prove lacking in knowledge

of riding, seamanship, or Spanish customs. Moreover, he had determined

upon a course of action which showed his knowledge of human nature.

The will under which Richard Devine inherited was dated in 1807, and had

been made when the testator was in the first hopeful glow of paternity.

By its terms Lady Devine was to receive a life interest of three

thousand a year in her husband's property--which was placed in the

hands of two trustees--until her eldest son died or attained the age

of twenty-five years. When either of these events should occur, the

property was to be realized, Lady Devine receiving a sum of a hundred

thousand pounds, which, invested in Consols for her benefit, would,

according to Sir Richard's prudent calculation exactly compensate for

her loss of interest, the remainder going absolutely to the son, if

living, to his children or next of kin if dead. The trustees appointed

were Lady Devine's father, Colonel Wotton Wade, and Mr. Silas Quaid,

of the firm of Purkiss and Quaid Thavies Inn, Sir Richard's solicitors.

Colonel Wade, before his death had appointed his son, Mr. Francis Wade,

to act in his stead. When Mr. Quaid died, the firm of Purkiss and Quaid

(represented in the Quaid branch of it by a smart London-bred nephew)

declined further responsibility; and, with the consent of Lady Devine,

Francis Wade continued alone in his trust. Sir Richard's sister and her

husband, Anthony Frere, of Bristol, were long ago dead, and, as we know,

their representative, Maurice Frere, content at last in the lot that

fortune had sent him, had given up all thought of meddling with his

uncle's business. John Rex, therefore, in the person of the returned

Richard, had but two persons to satisfy, his putative uncle, Mr. Francis

Wade, and his putative mother, Lady Devine.

This he found to be the easiest task possible. Francis Wade was an

invalid virtuoso, who detested business, and whose ambition was to be

known as man of taste. The possessor of a small independent income, he

had resided at North End ever since his father's death, and had made the

place a miniature Strawberry Hill. When, at his sister's urgent wish, he

assumed the sole responsibility of the estate, he put all the floating

capital into 3 per cents., and was content to see the interest

accumulate. Lady Devine had never recovered the shock of the

circumstances attending Sir Richard's death and, clinging to the belief

in her son's existence, regarded herself as the mere guardian of his

interests, to be displaced at any moment by his sudden return. The

retired pair lived thus together, and spent in charity and bric-a-brac

about a fourth of their mutual income. By both of them the return of

the wanderer was hailed with delight. To Lady Devine it meant the

realization of a lifelong hope, become part of her nature. To Francis

Wade it meant relief from a responsibility which his simplicity always

secretly loathed, the responsibility of looking after another person's

money.

“I shall not think of interfering with the arrangements which you have

made, my dear uncle,” said Mr. John Rex, on the first night of his

reception. “It would be most ungrateful of me to do so. My wants are

very few, and can easily be supplied. I will see your lawyers some day,

and settle it.”

“See them at once, Richard; see them at once. I am no man of business,

you know, but I think you will find all right.”

Richard, however, put off the visit from day to day. He desired to

have as little to do with lawyers as possible. He had resolved upon

his course of action. He would get money from his mother for immediate

needs, and when that mother died he would assert his rights. “My rough

life has unfitted me for drawing-rooms, dear mother,” he said. “Do not

let there be a display about my return. Give me a corner to smoke my

pipe, and I am happy.” Lady Devine, with a loving tender pity, for which

John Rex could not altogether account, consented, and “Mr. Richard” soon

came to be regarded as a martyr to circumstances, a man conscious of his

own imperfections, and one whose imperfections were therefore lightly

dwelt upon. So the returned prodigal had his own suite of rooms, his own

servants, his own bank account, drank, smoked, and was merry. For five

or six months he thought himself in Paradise. Then he began to find his

life insufferably weary. The burden of hypocrisy is very heavy to bear,

and Rex was compelled perpetually to bear it. His mother demanded all

his time. She hung upon his lips; she made him repeat fifty times the

story of his wanderings. She was never tired of kissing him, of weeping

over him, and of thanking him for the “sacrifice” he had made for her.

“We promised never to speak of it more, Richard,” the poor lady said one

day, “but if my lifelong love can make atonement for the wrong I have

done you--”

“Hush, dearest mother,” said John Rex, who did not in the least

comprehend what it was all about. “Let us say no more.”

Lady Devine wept quietly for a while, and then went away, leaving the

man who pretended to be her son much bewildered and a little frightened.

There was a secret which he had not fathomed between Lady Devine and her

son. The mother did not again refer to it, and, gaining courage as the

days went on, Rex grew bold enough to forget his fears. In the first

stages of his deception he had been timid and cautious. Then the

soothing influence of comfort, respect, and security came upon him,

and almost refined him. He began to feel as he had felt when Mr. Lionel

Crofton was alive. The sensation of being ministered to by a loving

woman, who kissed him night and morning, calling him “son”--of being

regarded with admiration by rustics, with envy by respectable folk--of

being deferred to in all things--was novel and pleasing. They were so

good to him that he felt at times inclined to confess all, and leave his

case in the hands of the folk he had injured. Yet--he thought--such a

course would be absurd. It would result in no benefit to anyone, simply

in misery to himself. The true Richard Devine was buried fathoms deep

in the greedy ocean of convict-discipline, and the waves of innumerable

punishments washed over him. John Rex flattered himself that he had

usurped the name of one who was in fact no living man, and that, unless

one should rise from the dead, Richard Devine could never return to

accuse him. So flattering himself, he gradually became bolder, and by

slow degrees suffered his true nature to appear. He was violent to the

servants, cruel to dogs and horses, often wantonly coarse in speech,

and brutally regardless of the feelings of others. Governed, like most

women, solely by her feelings, Lady Devine had at first been prodigal

of her affection to the man she believed to be her injured son. But his

rash acts of selfishness, his habits of grossness and self-indulgence,

gradually disgusted her. For some time she--poor woman--fought against

this feeling, endeavouring to overcome her instincts of distaste, and

arguing with herself that to permit a detestation of her unfortunate son

to arise in her heart was almost criminal; but she was at length forced

to succumb.

For the first year Mr. Richard conducted himself with great propriety,

but as his circle of acquaintance and his confidence in himself

increased, he now and then forgot the part he was playing. One day Mr.

Richard went to pass the day with a sporting friend, only too proud to

see at his table so wealthy and wonderful a man. Mr. Richard drank a

good deal more than was good for him, and returned home in a condition

of disgusting drunkenness. I say disgusting, because some folks have the

art of getting drunk after a humorous fashion, that robs intoxication of

half its grossness. For John Rex to be drunk was to be himself--coarse

and cruel. Francis Wade was away, and Lady Devine had retired for

the night, when the dog-cart brought home “Mr. Richard”. The virtuous

butler-porter, who opened the door, received a blow in the chest and

a demand for “Brandy!” The groom was cursed, and ordered to instant

oblivion. Mr. Richard stumbled into the dining-room--veiled in dim light

as a dining-room which was “sitting up” for its master ought to be--and

ordered “more candles!” The candles were brought, after some delay, and

Mr. Richard amused himself by spilling their meltings upon the carpet.

“Let's have 'luminashon!” he cried; and climbing with muddy boots upon

the costly chairs, scraping with his feet the polished table, attempted

to fix the wax in the silver sconces, with which the antiquarian tastes

of Mr. Francis Wade had adorned the room.

“You'll break the table, sir,” said the servant.

“Damn the table!” said Rex. “Buy 'nother table. What's table t'you?”

“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied the man.

“Oh, c'ert'nly! Why c'ert'nly? What do you know about it?”

“Oh, certainly not, sir,” replied the man.

“If I had--stockwhip here--I'd make you--hic--skip! Whar's brandy?”

“Here, Mr. Richard.”

“Have some! Good brandy! Send for servantsh and have dance. D'you dance,

Tomkins?”

“No, Mr. Richard.”

“Then you shall dance now, Tomkins. You'll dance upon nothing one day,

Tomkins! Here! Halloo! Mary! Susan! Janet! William! Hey! Halloo!” And he

began to shout and blaspheme.

“Don't you think it's time for bed, Mr. Richard?” one of the men

ventured to suggest.

“No!” roared the ex-convict, emphatically, “I don't! I've gone to bed at

daylight far too long. We'll have 'luminashon! I'm master here. Master

everything. Richard 'Vine's my name. Isn't it, Tomkins, you villain?”

“Oh-h-h! Yes, Mr. Richard.”

“Course it is, and make you know it too! I'm no painter-picture,

crockery chap. I'm genelman! Genelman seen the world! Knows what's

what. There ain't much I ain't fly to. Wait till the old woman's dead,

Tomkins, and you shall see!” More swearing, and awful threats of

what the inebriate would do when he was in possession. “Bring up

some brandy!” Crash goes the bottle in the fire-place. “Light up the

droring-rooms; we'll have dance! I'm drunk! What's that? If you'd gone

through what I have, you'd be glad to be drunk. I look a fool”--this

to his image in another glass. “I ain't though, or I wouldn't be

here. Curse you, you grinning idiot”--crash goes his fist through the

mirror--“don't grin at me. Play up there! Where's old woman? Fetch her

out and let's dance!”

“Lady Devine has gone to bed, Mr. Richard,” cried Tomkins, aghast,

attempting to bar the passage to the upper regions.

“Then let's have her out o' bed,” cried John Rex, plunging to the door.

Tomkins, attempting to restrain him, is instantly hurled into a cabinet

of rare china, and the drunken brute essays the stairs. The other

servants seize him. He curses and fights like a demon. Doors bang open,

lights gleam, maids hover, horrified, asking if it's “fire?” and begging

for it to be “put out”. The whole house is in an uproar, in the midst

of which Lady Devine appears, and looks down upon the scene. Rex catches

sight of her; and bursts into blasphemy. She withdraws, strangely

terrified; and the animal, torn, bloody, and blasphemous, is at last

got into his own apartments, the groom, whose face had been seriously

damaged in the encounter, bestowing a hearty kick on the prostrate

carcase at parting.

The next morning Lady Devine declined to see her son, though he sent a

special apology to her.

“I am afraid I was a little overcome by wine last night,” said he to

Tomkins. “Well, you was, sir,” said Tomkins.

“A very little wine makes me quite ill, Tomkins. Did I do anything very

violent?”

“You was rather obstropolous, Mr. Richard.”

“Here's a sovereign for you, Tomkins. Did I say anything?”

“You cussed a good deal, Mr. Richard. Most gents do when they've

bin--hum--dining out, Mr. Richard.”

“What a fool I am,” thought John Rex, as he dressed. “I shall spoil

everything if I don't take care.” He was right. He was going the right

way to spoil everything. However, for this bout he made amends--money

soothed the servants' hall, and apologies and time won Lady Devine's

forgiveness.

“I cannot yet conform to English habits, my dear mother,” said Rex, “and

feel at times out of place in your quiet home. I think that--if you can

spare me a little money--I should like to travel.”

Lady Devine--with a sense of relief for which she blamed

herself--assented, and supplied with letters of credit, John Rex went to

Paris.

Fairly started in the world of dissipation and excess, he began to grow

reckless. When a young man, he had been singularly free from the vice of

drunkenness; turning his sobriety--as he did all his virtues--to vicious

account; but he had learnt to drink deep in the loneliness of the bush.

Master of a large sum of money, he had intended to spend it as he would

have spent it in his younger days. He had forgotten that since his death

and burial the world had not grown younger. It was possible that Mr.

Lionel Crofton might have discovered some of the old set of fools

and knaves with whom he had once mixed. Many of them were alive and

flourishing. Mr. Lemoine, for instance, was respectably married in his

native island of Jersey, and had already threatened to disinherit a

nephew who showed a tendency to dissipation.

But Mr. Lemoine would not care to recognize Mr. Lionel Crofton, the

gambler and rake, in his proper person, and it was not expedient that

his acquaintance should be made in the person of Richard Devine, lest

by some unlucky chance he should recognize the cheat. Thus poor Lionel

Crofton was compelled to lie still in his grave, and Mr. Richard Devine,

trusting to a big beard and more burly figure to keep his secret, was

compelled to begin his friendship with Mr. Lionel's whilom friends all

over again. In Paris and London there were plenty of people ready to

become hail-fellow-well-met with any gentleman possessing money. Mr.

Richard Devine's history was whispered in many a boudoir and club-room.

The history, however, was not always told in the same way. It was

generally known that Lady Devine had a son, who, being supposed to be

dead, had suddenly returned, to the confusion of his family. But the

manner of his return was told in many ways.

In the first place, Mr. Francis Wade, well-known though he was, did

not move in that brilliant circle which had lately received his nephew.

There are in England many men of fortune, as large as that left by the

old ship-builder, who are positively unknown in that little world which

is supposed to contain all the men worth knowing. Francis Wade was a

man of mark in his own coterie. Among artists, bric-a-brac sellers,

antiquarians, and men of letters he was known as a patron and man

of taste. His bankers and his lawyers knew him to be of independent

fortune, but as he neither mixed in politics, “went into society”,

betted, or speculated in merchandise, there were several large sections

of the community who had never heard his name. Many respectable

money-lenders would have required “further information” before they

would discount his bills; and “clubmen” in general--save, perhaps,

those ancient quidnuncs who know everybody, from Adam downwards--had but

little acquaintance with him. The advent of Mr. Richard Devine--a coarse

person of unlimited means--had therefore chief influence upon that

sinister circle of male and female rogues who form the “half-world”.

They began to inquire concerning his antecedents, and, failing

satisfactory information, to invent lies concerning him. It was

generally believed that he was a black sheep, a man whose family kept

him out of the way, but who was, in a pecuniary sense, “good” for a

considerable sum.

Thus taken upon trust, Mr. Richard Devine mixed in the very best of

bad society, and had no lack of agreeable friends to help him to spend

money. So admirably did he spend it, that Francis Wade became at last

alarmed at the frequent drafts, and urged his nephew to bring his

affairs to a final settlement. Richard Devine--in Paris, Hamburg, or

London, or elsewhere--could never be got to attack business, and Mr.

Francis Wade grew more and more anxious. The poor gentleman

positively became ill through the anxiety consequent upon his nephew's

dissipations. “I wish, my dear Richard, that you would let me know what

to do,” he wrote. “I wish, my dear uncle, that you would do what you

think best,” was his nephew's reply.

“Will you let Purkiss and Quaid look into the business?” said the

badgered Francis.

“I hate lawyers,” said Richard. “Do what you think right.”

Mr. Wade began to repent of his too easy taking of matters in the

beginning. Not that he had a suspicion of Rex, but that he had

remembered that Dick was always a loose fish. The even current of the

dilettante's life became disturbed. He grew pale and hollow-eyed. His

digestion was impaired. He ceased to take the interest in china which

the importance of that article demanded. In a word, he grew despondent

as to his fitness for his mission in life. Lady Ellinor saw a change in

her brother. He became morose, peevish, excitable. She went privately

to the family doctor, who shrugged his shoulders. “There is no danger,”

said he, “if he is kept quiet; keep him quiet, and he will live for

years; but his father died of heart disease, you know.” Lady Ellinor,

upon this, wrote a long letter to Mr. Richard, who was at Paris,

repeated the doctor's opinions, and begged him to come over at once.

Mr. Richard replied that some horse-racing matter of great importance

occupied his attention, but that he would be at his rooms in Clarges

Street (he had long ago established a town house) on the 14th, and would

“go into matters”. “I have lost a good deal of money lately, my dear

mother,” said Mr. Richard, “and the present will be a good opportunity

to make a final settlement.” The fact was that John Rex, now three years

in undisturbed possession, considered that the moment had arrived for

the execution of his grand coup--the carrying off at one swoop of the

whole of the fortune he had gambled for.

CHAPTER III. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

May 12th--landed to-day at Norfolk Island, and have been introduced to

my new abode, situated some eleven hundred miles from Sydney. A solitary

rock in the tropical ocean, the island seems, indeed, a fit place

of banishment. It is about seven miles long and four broad. The most

remarkable natural object is, of course, the Norfolk Island pine, which

rears its stately head a hundred feet above the surrounding forest. The

appearance of the place is very wild and beautiful, bringing to my

mind the description of the romantic islands of the Pacific, which old

geographers dwell upon so fondly. Lemon, lime, and guava trees abound,

also oranges, grapes, figs, bananas, peaches, pomegranates, and

pine-apples. The climate just now is hot and muggy. The approach to

Kingstown--as the barracks and huts are called--is properly difficult.

A long low reef--probably originally a portion of the barren rocks

of Nepean and Philip Islands, which rise east and west of the

settlement--fronts the bay and obstructs the entrance of vessels. We

were landed in boats through an opening in this reef, and our vessel

stands on and off within signalling distance. The surf washes almost

against the walls of the military roadway that leads to the barracks.

The social aspect of the place fills me with horror. There seems neither

discipline nor order. On our way to the Commandant's house we passed a

low dilapidated building where men were grinding maize, and at the sight

of us they commenced whistling, hooting, and shouting, using the most

disgusting language. Three warders were near, but no attempt was made to

check this unseemly exhibition.

May 14th.--I sit down to write with as much reluctance as though I were

about to relate my experience of a journey through a sewer.

First to the prisoners' barracks, which stand on an area of about three

acres, surrounded by a lofty wall. A road runs between this wall and

the sea. The barracks are three storeys high, and hold seven hundred and

ninety men (let me remark here that there are more than two thousand men

on the island). There are twenty-two wards in this place. Each ward runs

the depth of the building, viz., eighteen feet, and in consequence is

simply a funnel for hot or cold air to blow through. When the ward is

filled, the men's heads lie under the windows. The largest ward contains

a hundred men, the smallest fifteen. They sleep in hammocks, slung close

to each other as on board ship, in two lines, with a passage down

the centre. There is a wardsman to each ward. He is selected by the

prisoners, and is generally a man of the worst character. He is supposed

to keep order, but of course he never attempts to do so; indeed, as he

is locked up in the ward every night from six o'clock in the evening

until sunrise, without light, it is possible that he might get

maltreated did he make himself obnoxious.

The barracks look upon the Barrack Square, which is filled with lounging

prisoners. The windows of the hospital-ward also look upon Barrack

Square, and the prisoners are in constant communication with the

patients. The hospital is a low stone building, capable of containing

about twenty men, and faces the beach. I placed my hands on the wall,

and found it damp. An ulcerous prisoner said the dampness was owing to

the heavy surf constantly rolling so close beneath the building. There

are two gaols, the old and the new. The old gaol stands near the sea,

close to the landing-place. Outside it, at the door, is the Gallows. I

touched it as I passed in. This engine is the first thing which greets

the eyes of a newly-arrived prisoner. The new gaol is barely completed,

is of pentagonal shape, and has eighteen radiating cells of a pattern

approved by some wiseacre in England, who thinks that to prevent a man

from seeing his fellowmen is not the way to drive him mad. In the old

gaol are twenty-four prisoners, all heavily ironed, awaiting trial by

the visiting Commission, from Hobart Town. Some of these poor ruffians,

having committed their offences just after the last sitting of the

Commission, have already been in gaol upwards of eleven months!

At six o'clock we saw the men mustered. I read prayers before the

muster, and was surprised to find that some of the prisoners attended,

while some strolled about the yard, whistling, singing, and joking.

The muster is a farce. The prisoners are not mustered outside and

then marched to their wards, but they rush into the barracks

indiscriminately, and place themselves dressed or undressed in their

hammocks. A convict sub-overseer then calls out the names, and somebody

replies. If an answer is returned to each name, all is considered right.

The lights are taken away, and save for a few minutes at eight o'clock,

when the good-conduct men are let in, the ruffians are left to their

own devices until morning. Knowing what I know of the customs of the

convicts, my heart sickens when I in imagination put myself in the place

of a newly-transported man, plunged from six at night until daybreak

into that foetid den of worse than wild beasts.

May 15th.--There is a place enclosed between high walls adjoining the

convict barracks, called the Lumber Yard. This is where the prisoners

mess. It is roofed on two sides, and contains tables and benches. Six

hundred men can mess here perhaps, but as seven hundred are always

driven into it, it follows that the weakest men are compelled to sit on

the ground. A more disorderly sight than this yard at meal times I

never beheld. The cook-houses are adjoining it, and the men bake their

meal-bread there. Outside the cook-house door the firewood is piled,

and fires are made in all directions on the ground, round which sit

the prisoners, frying their rations of fresh pork, baking their hominy

cakes, chatting, and even smoking.

The Lumber Yard is a sort of Alsatia, to which the hunted prisoner

retires. I don't think the boldest constable on the island would venture

into that place to pick out a man from the seven hundred. If he did go

in I don't think he would come out again alive.

May 16th.--A sub-overseer, a man named Hankey, has been talking to me.

He says that there are some forty of the oldest and worst prisoners who

form what he calls the “Ring”, and that the members of this “Ring” are

bound by oath to support each other, and to avenge the punishment of any

of their number. In proof of his assertions he instanced two cases

of English prisoners who had refused to join in some crime, and had

informed the Commandant of the proceedings of the Ring. They were found

in the morning strangled in their hammocks. An inquiry was held, but not

a man out of the ninety in the ward would speak a word. I dread the task

that is before me. How can I attempt to preach piety and morality to

these men? How can I attempt even to save the less villainous?

May 17th.--Visited the wards to-day, and returned in despair. The

condition of things is worse than I expected. It is not to be written.

The newly-arrived English prisoners--and some of their histories

are most touching--are insulted by the language and demeanour of the

hardened miscreants who are the refuse of Port Arthur and Cockatoo

Island. The vilest crimes are perpetrated as jests. These are creatures

who openly defy authority, whose language and conduct is such as was

never before seen or heard out of Bedlam. There are men who are known

to have murdered their companions, and who boast of it. With these the

English farm labourer, the riotous and ignorant mechanic, the victim

of perjury or mistake, are indiscriminately herded. With them are mixed

Chinamen from Hong Kong, the Aborigines of New Holland, West Indian

blacks, Greeks, Caffres, and Malays, soldiers for desertion, idiots,

madmen, pig-stealers, and pick-pockets. The dreadful place seems set

apart for all that is hideous and vile in our common nature. In its

recklessness, its insubordination, its filth, and its despair, it

realizes to my mind the popular notion of Hell.

May 21st.--Entered to-day officially upon my duties as Religious

Instructor at the Settlement.

An occurrence took place this morning which shows the dangerous

condition of the Ring. I accompanied Mr. Pounce to the Lumber Yard,

and, on our entry, we observed a man in the crowd round the cook-house

deliberately smoking. The Chief Constable of the Island--my old friend

Troke, of Port Arthur--seeing that this exhibition attracted Pounce's

notice, pointed out the man to an assistant. The assistant, Jacob

Gimblett, advanced and desired the prisoner to surrender the pipe. The

man plunged his hands into his pockets, and, with a gesture of the most

profound contempt, walked away to that part of the mess-shed where the

“Ring” congregate.

“Take the scoundrel to gaol!” cried Troke.

No one moved, but the man at the gate that leads through the carpenter's

shop into the barracks, called to us to come out, saying that the

prisoners would never suffer the man to be taken. Pounce, however, with

more determination than I gave him credit for, kept his ground, and

insisted that so flagrant a breach of discipline should not be suffered

to pass unnoticed. Thus urged, Mr. Troke pushed through the crowd, and

made for the spot whither the man had withdrawn himself.

The yard was buzzing like a disturbed hive, and I momentarily expected

that a rush would be made upon us. In a few moments the prisoner

appeared, attended by, rather than in the custody of, the Chief

Constable of the island. He advanced to the unlucky assistant constable,

who was standing close to me, and asked, “What have you ordered me to

gaol for?” The man made some reply, advising him to go quietly, when the

convict raised his fist and deliberately felled the man to the ground.

“You had better retire, gentlemen,” said Troke. “I see them getting out

their knives.”

We made for the gate, and the crowd closed in like a sea upon the two

constables. I fully expected murder, but in a few moments Troke and

Gimblett appeared, borne along by a mass of men, dusty, but unharmed,

and having the convict between them. He sulkily raised a hand as he

passed me, either to rectify the position of his straw hat, or to offer

a tardy apology. A more wanton, unprovoked, and flagrant outrage than

that of which this man was guilty I never witnessed. It is customary for

“the old dogs”, as the experienced convicts are called, to use the

most opprobrious language to their officers, and to this a deaf ear

is usually turned, but I never before saw a man wantonly strike a

constable. I fancy that the act was done out of bravado. Troke informed

me that the man's name is Rufus Dawes, and that he is the leader of the

Ring, and considered the worst man on the island; that to secure him he

(Troke) was obliged to use the language of expostulation; and that, but

for the presence of an officer accredited by his Excellency, he dared

not have acted as he had done.

This is the same man, then, whom I injured at Port Arthur. Seven years

of “discipline” don't seem to have done him much good. His sentence is

“life”--a lifetime in this place! Troke says that he was the terror

of Port Arthur, and that they sent him here when a “weeding” of the

prisoners was made. He has been here four years. Poor wretch!

May 24th.--After prayers, I saw Dawes. He was confined in the Old Gaol,

and seven others were in the cell with him. He came out at my request,

and stood leaning against the door-post. He was much changed from the

man I remember. Seven years ago he was a stalwart, upright, handsome

man. He has become a beetle-browed, sullen, slouching ruffian. His hair

is grey, though he cannot be more than forty years of age, and his

frame has lost that just proportion of parts which once made him

almost graceful. His face has also grown like other convict faces--how

hideously alike they all are!--and, save for his black eyes and a

peculiar trick he had of compressing his lips, I should not have

recognized him. How habitual sin and misery suffice to brutalize “the

human face divine”! I said but little, for the other prisoners were

listening, eager, as it appeared to me, to witness my discomfiture.

It is evident that Rufus Dawes had been accustomed to meet the

ministrations of my predecessors with insolence. I spoke to him for

a few minutes, only saying how foolish it was to rebel against an

authority superior in strength to himself. He did not answer, and the

only emotion he evinced during the interview was when I reminded him

that we had met before. He shrugged one shoulder, as if in pain or

anger, and seemed about to speak, but, casting his eyes upon the group

in the cell, relapsed into silence again. I must get speech with him

alone. One can do nothing with a man if seven other devils worse than

himself are locked up with him.

I sent for Hankey, and asked him about cells. He says that the gaol is

crowded to suffocation. “Solitary confinement” is a mere name. There are

six men, each sentenced to solitary confinement, in a cell together. The

cell is called the “nunnery”. It is small, and the six men were naked to

the waist when I entered, the perspiration pouring in streams off their

naked bodies! It is disgusting to write of such things.

June 26th.--Pounce has departed in the Lady Franklin for Hobart Town,

and it is rumoured that we are to have a new Commandant. The Lady

Franklin is commanded by an old man named Blunt, a protegé of Frere's,

and a fellow to whom I have taken one of my inexplicable and unreasoning

dislikes.

Saw Rufus Dawes this morning. He continues sullen and morose. His papers

are very bad. He is perpetually up for punishment. I am informed that

he and a man named Eastwood, nicknamed “Jacky Jacky”, glory in being the

leaders of the Ring, and that they openly avow themselves weary of life.

Can it be that the unmerited flogging which the poor creature got at

Port Arthur has aided, with other sufferings, to bring him to this

horrible state of mind? It is quite possible. Oh, James North, remember

your own crime, and pray Heaven to let you redeem one soul at least, to

plead for your own at the Judgment Seat.

June 30th.--I took a holiday this afternoon, and walked in the direction

of Mount Pitt. The island lay at my feet like--as sings Mrs. Frere's

favourite poet--“a summer isle of Eden lying in dark purple sphere of

sea”. Sophocles has the same idea in the Philoctetes, but I can't

quote it. Note: I measured a pine twenty-three feet in circumference.

I followed a little brook that runs from the hills, and winds through

thick undergrowths of creeper and blossom, until it reaches a lovely

valley surrounded by lofty trees, whose branches, linked together by the

luxurious grape-vine, form an arching bower of verdure. Here stands the

ruin of an old hut, formerly inhabited by the early settlers; lemons,

figs, and guavas are thick; while amid the shrub and cane a large

convolvulus is entwined, and stars the green with its purple and crimson

flowers. I sat down here, and had a smoke. It seems that the former

occupant of my rooms at the settlement read French; for in searching

for a book to bring with me--I never walk without a book--I found and

pocketed a volume of Balzac. It proved to be a portion of the Vie Priveé

series, and I stumbled upon a story called La Fausse Maitresse.

With calm belief in the Paris of his imagination--where Marcas was a

politician, Nucingen a banker, Gobseck a money-lender, and Vautrin a

candidate for some such place as this--Balzac introduces me to a Pole by

name Paz, who, loving the wife of his friend, devotes himself to watch

over her happiness and her husband's interest. The husband gambles and

is profligate. Paz informs the wife that the leanness which hazard

and debauchery have caused to the domestic exchequer is due to his

extravagance, the husband having lent him money. She does not believe,

and Paz feigns an intrigue with a circus-rider in order to lull all

suspicions. She says to her adored spouse, “Get rid of this extravagant

friend! Away with him! He is a profligate, a gambler! A drunkard!”

Paz finally departs, and when he has gone, the lady finds out the poor

Pole's worth. The story does not end satisfactorily. Balzac was too

great a master of his art for that. In real life the curtain never falls

on a comfortably-finished drama. The play goes on eternally.

I have been thinking of the story all evening. A man who loves his

friend's wife, and devotes his energies to increase her happiness by

concealing from her her husband's follies! Surely none but Balzac

would have hit upon such a notion. “A man who loves his friend's

wife.”--Asmodeus, I write no more! I have ceased to converse with thee

for so long that I blush to confess all that I have in my heart.--I will

not confess it, so that shall suffice.

CHAPTER IV. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.

August 24th.--There has been but one entry in my journal since the 30th

June, that which records the advent of our new Commandant, who, as I

expected, is Captain Maurice Frere.

So great have been the changes which have taken place that I

scarcely know how to record them. Captain Frere has realized my worst

anticipations. He is brutal, vindictive, and domineering. His knowledge

of prisons and prisoners gives him an advantage over Burgess, otherwise

he much resembles that murderous animal. He has but one thought--to keep

the prisoners in subjection. So long as the island is quiet, he cares

not whether the men live or die. “I was sent down here to keep order,”

said he to me, a few days after his arrival, “and by God, sir, I'll do

it!”

He has done it, I must admit; but at a cost of a legacy of hatred to

himself that he may some day regret to have earned. He has organized

three parties of police. One patrols the fields, one is on guard at

stores and public buildings, and the third is employed as a detective

force. There are two hundred soldiers on the island. And the officer

in charge, Captain McNab, has been induced by Frere to increase their

duties in many ways. The cords of discipline are suddenly drawn tight.

For the disorder which prevailed when I landed, Frere has substituted a

sudden and excessive rigour. Any officer found giving the smallest

piece of tobacco to a prisoner is liable to removal from the island..The

tobacco which grows wild has been rooted up and destroyed lest the men

should obtain a leaf of it. The privilege of having a pannikin of hot

water when the gangs came in from field labour in the evening has been

withdrawn. The shepherds, hut-keepers, and all other prisoners, whether

at the stations of Longridge or the Cascades (where the English convicts

are stationed) are forbidden to keep a parrot or any other bird. The

plaiting of straw hats during the prisoners' leisure hours is also

prohibited. At the settlement where the “old hands” are located railed

boundaries have been erected, beyond which no prisoner must pass unless

to work. Two days ago Job Dodd, a negro, let his jacket fall over the

boundary rails, crossed them to recover it, and was severely flogged.

The floggings are hideously frequent. On flogging mornings I have seen

the ground where the men stood at the triangles saturated with blood, as

if a bucket of blood had been spilled on it, covering a space three feet

in diameter, and running out in various directions, in little streams

two or three feet long. At the same time, let me say, with that strict

justice I force myself to mete out to those whom I dislike, that the

island is in a condition of abject submission. There is not much chance

of mutiny. The men go to their work without a murmur, and slink to their

dormitories like whipped hounds to kennel. The gaols and solitary (!)

cells are crowded with prisoners, and each day sees fresh sentences for

fresh crimes. It is crime here to do anything but live.

The method by which Captain Frere has brought about this repose of

desolation is characteristic of him. He sets every man as a spy upon

his neighbour, awes the more daring into obedience by the display of

a ruffianism more outrageous than their own, and, raising the worst

scoundrels in the place to office, compels them to find “cases”

for punishment. Perfidy is rewarded. It has been made part of a

convict-policeman's duty to search a fellow-prisoner anywhere and at

any time. This searching is often conducted in a wantonly rough and

disgusting manner; and if resistance be offered, the man resisting can

be knocked down by a blow from the searcher's bludgeon. Inquisitorial

vigilance and indiscriminating harshness prevail everywhere, and the

lives of hundreds of prisoners are reduced to a continual agony of

terror and self-loathing.

“It is impossible, Captain Frere,” said I one day, during the initiation

of this system, “to think that these villains whom you have made

constables will do their duty.”

He replied, “They must do their duty. If they are indulgent to the

prisoners, they know I shall flog 'em. If they do what I tell 'em,

they'll make themselves so hated that they'd have their own father up to

the triangles to save themselves being sent back to the ranks.”

“You treat them then like slave-keepers of a wild beast den. They must

flog the animals to avoid being flogged themselves.”

“Ay,” said he, with his coarse laugh, “and having once flogged 'em,

they'd do anything rather than be put in the cage, don't you see!”

It is horrible to think of this sort of logic being used by a man who

has a wife, and friends and enemies. It is the logic that the Keeper

of the Tormented would use, I should think. I am sick unto death of the

place. It makes me an unbeliever in the social charities. It takes out

of penal science anything it may possess of nobility or worth. It is

cruel, debasing, inhuman.

August 26th.--Saw Rufus Dawes again to-day. His usual bearing

is ostentatiously rough and brutal. He has sunk to a depth of

self-abasement in which he takes a delight in his degradation. This

condition is one familiar to me.

He is working in the chain-gang to which Hankey was made sub-overseer.

Blind Mooney, an ophthalmic prisoner, who was removed from the gang

to hospital, told me that there was a plot to murder Hankey, but that

Dawes, to whom he had shown some kindness, had prevented it. I saw

Hankey and told him of this, asking him if he had been aware of the

plot. He said “No,” falling into a great tremble. “Major Pratt promised

me a removal,” said he. “I expected it would come to this.” I asked him

why Dawes defended him; and after some trouble he told me, exacting from

me a promise that I would not acquaint the Commandant. It seems that one

morning last week, Hankey had gone up to Captain Frere's house with

a return from Troke, and coming back through the garden had plucked a

flower. Dawes had asked him for this flower, offering two days' rations

for it. Hankey, who is not a bad-hearted man, gave him the sprig. “There

were tears in his eyes as he took it,” said he.

There must be some way to get at this man's heart, bad as he seems to

be.

August 28th.--Hankey was murdered yesterday. He applied to be removed

from the gaol-gang, but Frere refused. “I never let my men 'funk',” he

said. “If they've threatened to murder you, I'll keep you there another

month in spite of 'em.”

Someone who overheard this reported it to the gang, and they set upon

the unfortunate gaoler yesterday, and beat his brains out with their

shovels. Troke says that the wretch who was foremost cried, “There's for

you; and if your master don't take care, he'll get served the same one

of these days!” The gang were employed at building a reef in the sea,

and were working up to their armpits in water. Hankey fell into the

surf, and never moved after the first blow. I saw the gang, and Dawes

said--

“It was Frere's fault; he should have let the man go!”

“I am surprised you did not interfere,” said I. “I did all I could,” was

the man's answer. “What's a life more or less, here?”

This occurrence has spread consternation among the overseers, and they

have addressed a “round robin” to the Commandant, praying to be relieved

from their positions.

The way Frere has dealt with this petition is characteristic of him, and

fills me at once with admiration and disgust. He came down with it in

his hand to the gaol-gang, walked into the yard, shut the gate, and

said, “I've just got this from my overseers. They say they're afraid

you'll murder them as you murdered Hankey. Now, if you want to murder,

murder me. Here I am. Step out, one of you.” All this, said in a tone

of the most galling contempt, did not move them. I saw a dozen pairs

of eyes flash hatred, but the bull-dog courage of the man overawed them

here, as, I am told, it had done in Sydney. It would have been easy to

kill him then and there, and his death, I am told, is sworn among them;

but no one raised a finger. The only man who moved was Rufus Dawes, and

he checked himself instantly. Frere, with a recklessness of which I did

not think him capable, stepped up to this terror of the prison, and ran

his hands lightly down his sides, as is the custom with constables when

“searching” a man. Dawes--who is of a fierce temper--turned crimson

at this and, I thought, would have struck him, but he did not. Frere

then--still unarmed and alone--proceeded to the man, saying, “Do you

think of bolting again, Dawes? Have you made any more boats?”

“You Devil!” said the chained man, in a voice pregnant with such weight

of unborn murder, that the gang winced. “You'll find me one,” said

Frere, with a laugh; and, turning to me, continued, in the same jesting

tone, “There's a penitent for you, Mr. North--try your hand on him.”

I was speechless at his audacity, and must have shown my disgust in

my face, for he coloured slightly, and as we were leaving the yard, he

endeavoured to excuse himself, by saying that it was no use preaching to

stones, and such doubly-dyed villains as this Dawes were past hope. “I

know the ruffian of old,” said he. “He came out in the ship from England

with me, and tried to raise a mutiny on board. He was the man who nearly

murdered my wife. He has never been out of irons--except then and

when he escaped--for the last eighteen years; and as he's three life

sentences, he's like to die in 'em.”

A monstrous wretch and criminal, evidently, and yet I feel a strange

sympathy with this outcast.

CHAPTER V. MR. RICHARD DEVINE SURPRISED.