In the olden times, when Tasmania was only known by the dread name of Van Diemen’s Land, and was groaning under the weight of imported crime, that made it a by-word and a proverb in every mouth; in the olden times, when Sir John Franklin held the reins of government, before he started on his expedition to discover the North-west Passage, before his ever-strengthening desire to further the cause of science led him to rough it among the Polar bears at Beechy Island, and to abandon the Erebus and Terror in those dreary ice regions, which have never yet told the tale of his fate; in the olden times, when the good old gentleman, stimulated by the same desire of discovery, started on an overland tour from Hobart Town to Hell’s Gates, as the convict settlement at Macquarie Harbour was euphoniously termed, and lost himself for several days in the thick bush scrub, leaving the island without any ostensible head of Government until he was hunted out by a search party that was sent out to skirmish around for him; in the olden times, when Lady Franklin, always kind and hospitable, and beloved by all, in spite of the seeming sternness of her manner, in a well-meant endeavour to emulate the virtues of Saint Patrick, who ‘banished all the snakes and toads and other kinds of varmin’ from Ireland, proclaimed a reward of a penny a head for every snake killed in the island, and a ton of snake’s heads—cheerful article of commerce!— were brought into Hobart Town within a week, the destroyers claiming a good round sum out of the good lady’s private purse by way of royalty on the indiscriminate slaughter; when convicts, breaking out of their prison fastnesses, took to the bush, and plundered and rioted, and robbed and murdered, until they were hunted into some obscure corner, where they were secure from pursuit, and where they were forced to turn cannibals or die of starvation, or to give themselves back to their keepers, only to undergo again the terrors of the slavery they knew so well; when man murdered his fellow-man to escape by the noose from the world he was tired of living in, and to see Hobart Town again before he died, even though that sight was obtained from the scaffold. A rough and troublous time, my masters.
Hobart Town was a very small place then, chiefly comprising the necessary accommodation for the administration of the Government, the remaining population subsisting mostly on the profits of the whaling expeditions to the southern seas. It was too early for farming, or, in fact, for civilisation, and society was kept in check with an iron hand. Half the population were ‘lifers’, and perhaps the fertile district of New Norfolk, with a portion of Sorell, were the only agricultural districts known. The prominent buildings were the gaol and the offices of the Government. Money was scarce, and silver was at a remarkable premium. Dollar pieces—the coin mostly in use—had the centres cut out of them, the latter serving for a half-dollar, and the outer ring for an entire coin; while shillings were represented by a dozen copper tokens neatly wrapped in brown paper, and perhaps never untied or opened for a twelvemonth. Ingenious individuals, ever awake to the main chance, often manufactured these lumbersome shillings by compounding a parcel of clay of the necessary size, wrapping it in brown paper, and placing a copper token at each end; and these articles of barter passed from hand to hand, much as bad coins do now, no one thinking of opening them to see what was inside, but always taking the first opportunity to pass them on to some one else.
I was in the Comptroller-General’s office, with a dozen or so of fellow-clerks. The situation was not a very munificent one, as far as salary went, but I did much what I liked with myself, and being ‘under Government’, a certain amount of deference was paid to me as one of the mainsprings of the rising young constitution. This made things bearable. It was more like an eternal holiday than anything else I can think of; we always had free use of the Department boats, and our absence for a few days was scarcely noticed. If inquiries were made, we were ‘down at Port Arthur on service’, or ‘taking supplies to the Neck’, or something of that kind, and no complaint was ever made when we came back. Circumlocution had reached us even in that remote corner of the globe.
We used to be sent out on expeditions in reality sometimes, and then we went in for enjoying ourselves to the top of our bent. I think we might have been upset by a squall and drowned, or have been driven out to sea and landed at the South Pole, or have been wrecked in Storm Bay and died of cold and starvation, and no one would have troubled to make more than a passing inquiry about us or to wonder why we hadn’t turned up; such was the normal lassitude of our Government. Our actual work might be expressed in one word—despatches. Occasionally some other kind of red tape would creep in, but not often. A certain staff of men looked after the prisoners, and we looked after them. If a man was refractory in gaol he was put in solitary confinement, and we made a note of that; if he escaped from his bondage and was retaken, he was treated to a flogging and a position in the chain gang, and we made a note of that; if he committed murder, he was fetched up to town and hanged, and we made a note of that. It was all a matter of business with us; a few men hanged occasionally comprised an entry as if a few bags of sugar had been sold, and there our duty ended. Use soon became second nature with us.
One day towards the end of a beautiful spring I was told off with some others to make an indefinite expedition ‘down the river’ to Port Esperance—or, as it was lovingly termed by the genial whalers, the Port o’ France,—it being the intention of the Government to establish a penal settlement at Hope Island, and to disseminate the convict element over the length and breadth of the land. I didn’t known then, and I have never found out yet, what I was sent there for; whether they wanted my opinion on the salubrity of the climate, or whether they wished me to take the soundings or to make a coast survey, or to take charge of a band of desperadoes, never troubled me. I was perfectly indifferent to the motive. I saw the chance of taking command of an exploring expedition which might with judicious care be prolonged for several weeks, and I was jubilant over it. I didn’t know where the Port o’ France was, and I didn’t want to know; it would form part of an expedition to find out. They, I mean the Government, wanted to send a boat’s crew with me, but I said I could manage better with two friends, as we could sail all the way down the river, and if we had more than three on board provisions might run short before we had time to explore the unknown country.
My request was complied with, a boat was fitted out for us with rather ‘rough tack’ in the way of provisions, and Cowper and Perkins were told off to accompany me. I received my despatches, took them to my lodgings and read them carefully over once, but failing to make any definite instructions out of the dense conglomeration of adjectives and participles, I put them aside and never looked at them again. Cowper and Perkins were at the wharf—we called the beach the wharf then—before me next morning, and in five minutes our pretty white whaleboat was pushed off from the jetty and we were flying goosewing out of the harbour.
It was a beautiful calm day, with just sufficient of a light, rustling breeze to fill our sails, and we lay in the bottom of the boat and enjoyed it—at least Cowper and Perkins did. I lounged on the gunwale, and rested my arms comfortably on the large oar with which I was making a poor show of steering. It was the supreme intensity of delightful indolence. We did not even speak much; we lay back and watched the white sails and the blue sky, and listened to the plash and ripple of the water against the bows of our boat. We had passed Brown’s River before Cowper brought into action a large plug of compholleis tobacco, and we lit our pipes and scudded on over the bright sea and past the beautiful headlands that mark the entrance to the harbour, in an ecstacy of delight in our freedom. Then we sank to rest again. I prevailed on Perkins to take the steer oar, and I sat in the stern sheets and watched him, while Cowper got up in the bows and paddled his hands about in the little rippling breakers that dashed against the boat as she cut through the water. It was a benign laziness that took us all that day, and let any man who boasts his hard-working propensities put himself in our position and see if he won’t be as lazy as we were.
Turning a point nearly opposite the rock which was afterwards known as the Iron Pot, we lost the fair wind, and had to tack. This gave us a little more work, but the pleasure was by no means diminished. I could have spent a lifetime at this kind of thing; I thought so then. We passed Peppermint Bay and Oyster Cove, and, by the evening, had reached the boundary of the known country—known, at least, to us—a low, jutting promontory, which we called Tree Out Point, from the strange appearance of a solitary sheoak, which seemed to spring from the end of the point and to droop over the water. The name was afterwards corrupted into Three Hut Point, by which name it is known to this day.
We ran in to shore here and camped for the night. The air grew cold as the evening advanced, and we found use for all the blankets we had with us. The sea air had made us all drowsy, and the low, dull roar of the breakers rushing up D’Entrecastreaux Channel into Storm Bay, on the other side of Bruni, lulled us to sleep in spite of their chilly breeze. When we woke in the morning the wind had freshened, and we deemed it advisable to take our own time and go steadily. We had no idea in which direction Port o’ France lay—even we called it Port o’ France from custom—and at this point our search expedition really commenced. We rounded Three Hut Point in face of the stiff sea breeze, and found ourselves in an open estuary, studded with small islands, into which the wild sea wind was lashing the water up to a long, sandy beach on the mainland. It was a magnificent scene, but we had not much time to pay attention to it, as all our efforts were now required in the management of the boat, and the excitement, coupled with the danger, was glorious. We passed close by a small volcanic rock, comprising less than a hundred square yards of surface, standing in seventy feet of water, a mile away from the shore, and pierced by what seemed to be a tunnel through the rock. As we passed we could see imprints of fossilised shells on the rock, over which the spray was flying and beating furiously; but we could not venture near enough to land, and we left the rock for examination on our homeward voyage. A few miles further on was a pretty little thickly-timbered island of about a hundred acres, and we steered our course under the lee of this for shelter.
But the wind seemed to gather strength as we scudded along, and I think Perkins was beginning to get a little frightened. However, we reached the lee end of the island with no further disaster than shipping several heavy seas, and hove to for a time. We did not land, but anchored about fifty yards from the shore, took down the sails, and fell into our old positions at the bottom of the boat.
‘Where’s Port o’ France from here, George?’ asked Cowper, after a very lengthened cogitation. He was doubled up in what appeared to be a most uncomfortable position in the fore sheets, and seemed to be languid and sleepy.
I told him I didn’t know.
‘Let’s go ashore here,’ he said, ‘and do the Robinson Crusoe business for a bit; we could knock out a month very comfortably here, and we could let Port o’ France go to the deuce. You can report on it just as well without going there.’
Perkins examined the locker and said it wouldn’t do—we couldn’t hold out for a month without more provisions, and there didn’t seem to be much game on the island. Cowper grunted in languid indifference, and the gentle rocking and swaying of the boat riding at anchor soon made Perkins and myself feel as languid and sleepy as he was, and we all fell quietly off to sleep.
It was afternoon when Perkins awoke and roused us. The breeze had sunk, and we prepared to get under way again. In our ignorance of the geographical position of Port o’ France, we headed in a wrong direction altogether, but that was of no consequence to us. If we had known where Port o’ France was, I don’t think we should have cared to face the open estuary to get at it—and we should not have known the place if we had seen it. Cowper ingeniously suggested that the landlocked bay we were in was in all probability the real Port o’ France, and that the island under whose lee we had anchored was Hope Island.
But we could not allow this to interfere with our expedition, even if it were true. We were free and untrammelled, and we resolved to make the most of it. We reached Flight’s Bay—it had no name then—that evening, and camped there for the night. This was a change from our Camp at Three Hut Point. We were shut out from the open sea, and could only get a view up the long vista of the river terminating at Bruni, with the islands dotted about it; and above us rose a tall hill like an amphitheatre, covered with dull pines, peppermint and stringybark, seeming to spring from the water’s edge.
We were up betimes next morning and proceeded on our voyage; but we soon discovered that we had entered another river which we rightly guessed to be the Huon, and by two o’clock the wind had failed us, and we had to take to the oars. We didn’t enjoy this half so much as lounging in the stern sheets watching the bellying sails, and Cowper suggested returning to the Port o’ France. Somebody—it must have been Perkins, who was nearly asleep—said he was lazy, and Cowper rejoiced at the opportunity, pretended to be in a rage and unshipped his oar. But a light puffy wind sprang up and we hoisted sail again, Cowper’s temper soon recovering its equanimity.
We seemed to be getting deeper into the dense wilderness every minute, but I had made up my mind to go up the river as far as it was navigable, trusting to luck to get back. Just as we passed a low, flat, swampy island in the middle of the river, from which the wild duck arose in clouds at the unwonted appearance of a boat in full sail, Cowper startled us all with an exclamation from his place in the bows.
‘Hallo! smoke ahead, by jingo!’
We looked up the river, and there, sure enough, was a thin stream of blue smoke curling up from the river bank and bending down gracefully before the light breeze. We sat gazing at it for some minutes when Cowper again disturbed the silence with an ungrammatical ejaculation,
‘That’s savages!’
We looked to our fire arms. We did not fear savages much while we were in the boat—even if they were savages. But another suggestion flashed through Cowper’s fertile brain, and he shouted,
‘It’s not savages, boys; it’s bushrangers, by the Lord!’
This was a more serious matter. If our boat and store of provisions were taken from us, we should be in a sorry plight, and should have to walk back to Hobart Town the best way we could; and the boat would certainly be the first thing the bushrangers would look for. We ran in-shore, stranded the boat among the scrub, and waited till morning.
There was no sign of human presence next morning, and we resolved to get out while we had a chance. We launched the boat and prepared to pull down the river in the teeth of the strong breeze that was coming against us; but in spite of our efforts the boat drifted up while we were preparing, and, turning a small, sharp point, we came on the cause of the smoke almost before we knew it.
Beside the river was a small log hut, with a large clay chimney at one end, and a door looking out on the river. Between the hut and the water was a small patch of ground comprising scarcely two acres, sown with grain. Not a soul seemed to be about—not a sound disturbed the silence of the scene. We were struck dumb with astonishment, and sat long staring at the phenomenon of a bush hut in a spot where it was thought no white man had trod. Perkins was the first to give vent to his feelings.
‘By Jove, here’s a rum go!’
We landed and went to the hut, hoping to find the occupier, but we could see nothing of him. The door of the hut was composed of matted rushes hung from the wall-plate, and there was no window. We entered and surveyed the place. There were a few cooking utensils, one or two rough shelves in a corner, a slab-table—whose legs were driven firmly into the ground, and a bush bunk, made of the same kind of matting which composed the door. The implements of husbandry of the occupier consisted of a couple of worn-out spades and a clumsy rake made of saplings and iron spikenails. The plot of ground was fenced in with saplings, and the small crop looked clean and promising; and down by the river side was a log, on which the occupant of the hut had evidently been lately busy with an axe which lay beside it, in an attempt to shape out a rough canoe.
Perkins suggested that the owner of this ‘desirable river frontage’, as he called it, was probably at work in the bush, and we waited patiently for his return. But no one came. We moored the boat to our mysterious friend’s rough jetty, and waited through the day with the same result. Not a sign of anyone. Cowper began to get annoyed with him for not turning up, and swore he’d stop for a week but he’d find him; and the curiosity of all of us was sufficiently aroused to wait for a solution of the mystery. We got no sign of him that night, and camped down in the boat, Perkins nominally keeping watch, and falling asleep quietly as soon as he found we were fast moored in dreamland. I awoke at daybreak and looked around for any signs of life, but all was still as ever. No one had been about in the night. Presently, something at a distance on the slope of a hill caught my attention. I thought I saw the bush move. I lay down in the boat, seized my gun, and watched that bush for half-an-hour.
After a long watch, it moved again, and presently I saw a face peering out from among the leaves. I made no movement, and a man stepped out into the open, and made his way cautiously towards the hut. He was a man of about fifty years of age, well built and healthy, but with a scared, hunted look in his face which I shall never forget. He watched the boat earnestly for some minutes, to make sure that we were asleep, and kept under cover of the scrub as well as he could. Both Cowper and Perkins were snoring vigorously, and this seemed to reassure our mysterious friend, who crept stealthily towards us. I allowed him to come within twenty yards of the hut, when I jumped up with a shout, and, gun in hand, made after him.
He was off towards the bush the moment he heard my shout and ran swiftly up the gentle incline, but he was weak and evidently tired, and I soon overtook him. He seized a huge stick, and, placing his back against a tree, glared defiance at me, but said nothing. His look was sufficient; that showed his intention of never yielding while he had life.
‘Throw down that stick or I’ll fire at you!’ I cried, levelling the gun.
He said nothing in reply, but lowered the stick to the ground. I approached him, but at the first step the stick was whirling in the air again, and defiance and hatred were flashing from his eyes. Then he spoke his first words, deep and husky,
‘I’ve never committed murder yet. Don’t tempt me!’
I stopped and parleyed with him; told him that we had come here by accident, and only wanted to see who lived in the hut. But he would not allow me to come near him.
‘Who are you? Not one of the Government bloodhounds?’
‘I belong to the comptroller’s office,’ I said.
A frightful passion came into his face, hate and fear combined, and he grasped his stick firmly as I spoke the words.
‘Don’t come near me!’ he cried, huskily. ‘Don’t come within my reach, or, as sure as I stand here now, one of us will go to death! Look to your life! I am reckless of mine, but I warn you. Don’t come near me!’
It struck me then that he was an escaped convict. I hastened to inform him that I was only acting under my despatches, which were instructions to find and report upon Port o’ France, and did not give me authority to arrest him, and that he stood in no danger from any of us. He seemed to doubt me, and I called Cowper and Perkins, who came up in a state of utter bewilderment at the prize I had taken. The man seemed satisfied after a long parley that we were not Government spies, and threw down his stick. As he did so, I held out my hand to him, and he seized it eagerly. We entered the hut, and he sat on his bunk eyeing us curiously for a long time in silence.
He explained that he had seen us the day before, and recognising the Government boat, had taken to the bush at once, neglecting to provide himself with any food, and that he had been since yesterday morning without a mouthful. We fetched him some meat from the boat, which he accepted eagerly, and sat on the bunk munching it ravenously, as he watched us out of the corners of his eyes. His scrutiny seemed to be satisfactory, for after finishing his meal, he said, abruptly,
‘You’re friends, ain’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You want to know who I am?’
‘We can guess what you are,’ I replied, ‘though we can’t guess how you came here, or how you live.’
‘Are you to be trusted?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well, give me your promise as friends, not as Government officers, but as gentlemen, to leave me alone here, and not to say a word to anyone that you found me? Can I rely on you for that?’
We all promised faithfully, if he wished it, but we thought if the matter was laid before Government—
‘Never mention that word to me!’ he cried, fiercely. ‘Government! A lot of cowardly tyrants, who grind down an unfortunate man until he dare not call his soul his own; who keep him on for years in a lingering death, and punish any attempt he may make to relieve himself of life’s burden! Don’t talk to me of Government! You’ll keep your promise!’
We said we would.
‘Then, I’ll tell you who I am,’ he said.
Cowper hit on the idea of lighting his pipe, and we all followed suit. The wild man looked so eagerly at us as we did so that I felt compelled to offer him my pipe, but he put it aside and held out his hand for the plug of tobacco, from which he cut a piece and put it in his mouth. Then, sitting on his rough bunk in the heart of the forest, where he had lived so long, he told us his story.
‘Never mind what I was sent out for,’ he commenced, ‘that’s nothing to do with you. I was sent out; that’s enough. I was a lifer. I came out over ten years ago, and was transferred from Norfolk Island to here. I was put in the chain gang on my arrival, because I had been ill on the voyage. For nothing else, as I am alive. Then I was sent away to Hell’s Gates. You know that place? But you have never been there. If there is one desolate place on this earth, it is that. Nothing but sea in front of you—nothing but thick impenetrable wood and jungle behind. And they formed a station for us there—for us who had been sent out to do penance for crimes which, in many cases, were committed unknowingly. Why, I’ve seen men in hundreds—Irishmen—shipped out for wearing rosettes on their coats; they were told that they were O’Connell rioters, and would have to serve the rest of their lives in places like Hell’s Gates.
‘Think of it, you who have never known what the inside of a prison is like! Think of an innocent man—not that I was innocent—being herded with a crowd of the world’s greatest ruffians, and forced to wear out a life more wretched and more degrading than any dog could lead. They made us cut timber at Hell’s Gates, and carry it in to the settlement. They made us into what they jokingly called ‘centipedes’; gave forty or fifty of us a log to carry by placing bars across it to carry it on. We were worse than slaves; our lives were in their hands. A fierce look was a fortnight in the solitary cell, and a muttered complaint of harshness was a flogging at the triangles. Yes. They flogged us. Lashed us to the triangles, and beat out our lives that way. They flogged us if we grew tired and sank beneath the weight of our burden. If we resisted, we were put in the chain gang for twelve months.
‘They were not afraid that we should escape. They knew the country too well. And they knew that many a man who had tried for his freedom had sunk down and died in the bush, from which there seemed to be no outpath, and that many had returned and delivered themselves up, preferring a life in the chain gang to the horrors of starvation in that terrible forest.
‘They flogged me one day. I was out on the hills with the gang cutting timber, and one of us—a weakly, handsome boy, whose only crime had been the wearing of the O’Connell badge, for which he was transported for life—sank down beside the rest of us in the centipede. He was roughly ordered to get up and work, but he had fainted, and they flogged and kicked him as he lay there. He staggered to his feet, and one of the Government devils struck him down with a piece of timber. He never rose again. His body was thrown on one side for the crows and eagles to feed on; he was denied even a decent burial. I called God to witness that that boy was murdered. I said so; and I was flogged for saying it.
‘I escaped. I fled from the place, and would have faced anything, death, starvation, any suffering under heaven, rather than live in a terrible den like that. I was not followed. They reckoned that I would return or die in the bush; they did not care which. They used to boast that we dared not run away.
‘I need not tell you what I suffered in the bush. By luck rather than knowledge of the country, I made towards Hobart Town. I climbed up a steep mountain, which I did not then know was Mount Wellington, and was going down the other side, when, on a sudden, the scrub and undergrowth in front of me seemed to be cleared away, and I obtained a view of the scene before me. Down below, by the river side, was the township I had thought never to see again; and at my feet was a precipice, falling sheer five hundred feet.
‘I drew back in horror. It never struck me that I could not be seen; I only thought that I was near the dreaded spot again, and that I must keep clear of civilisation. I descended the other side of the mount, and came to this river. Here I stayed for some months, living on fish and what birds I could snare. No human being came near me, and I determined to stop here. I snared wild game and preserved the skins, living a hand to mouth existence for over twelve months. I built this hut. Then I mustered up courage to venture into Hobart Town, and with a bundle of skins I tramped along the river till I reached the town. I was not recognised as an escaped convict. The report had already died out that I had escaped from Hell’s Gates, and had perished in the bush. With the money I got for the skins, I bought a few bushels of wheat and an axe, and returned to my forest home, where I have lived since in seclusion, seeing no one, and at peace, except for the dread of one day meeting those terrible Government bloodhounds.
‘I have been in Hobart Town twice since I came here. I only go for absolute necessaries; and I can live now with the little grain I raise on that patch. That is all my story. I put faith in your promise not to betray me, for I believe you will think that I have gone through enough hardship now. So now leave me. I can get on well enough for the rest of my days, or until I am hunted down. Then, perhaps, you may hear of me again.’
‘Isn’t there anything we can do?’ I asked. ‘We could bring a cargo of rations down some time or other, when we’re out exploring, and no one would be any the wiser.’
‘No! Leave me a bit of tobacco. That’s all I want.’
We gave him half our stock, and the next morning, at his urgent request, we left him alone in the forest. We returned down the river and keeping along the Flight’s Bay shore, tacked down to the Port Esperance whaling station one day, in the face of a strong sea breeze. We stayed there a day or two, and returned to Hobart Town, where I prepared an elaborate report of the appearance and suitableness of Port Esperance and Hope Island, and sent it in to the authorities. None of us breathed a word about the old man we had met on the Huon.
But he was not destined to remain long in his seclusion. The population was spreading daily, and the back settlements of the Huon were not left unnoticed. The old man was unearthed, and was taken to Hobart Town as an escaped convict; but the matter was brought before the Government, and urgent appeals were made on his behalf, resulting in a grant of his freedom and a free gift of the farm he had taken up and lived on so long.
As a curious coincidence, I may mention that some time afterwards I lived for upwards of twelve years on the island under which we had then sought shelter, and I then became well acquainted with the man whom we had discovered on the Huon, at the very spot where now stands the flourishing agricultural settlement of the Franklin. As settlement became more general he throve considerably, and at last became the proprietor of a river barge, and went into the timber and firewood business. No man was better known or better liked on the river, and every old settler now residing there will tell you how he bears in kindly remembrance the hale and hearty veteran, long since dead, who was only known by the name of Old Martin.