Morgan’s Run (101 page)

“What I write of on these pages is different from the letter I sent after your box came. That one went by any official hand it encountered, at the mercy of prying eyes and prurient minds. The miracle is that our letters ever do reach their destination, but the trickle of replies which arrived during 1792 (and on Bellona and Kitty so far this year) tells us that those who bear our letters to England pity us enough to make good their promises. Some of us, however, never do receive word from the place most of us still call ‘home.’ I am unsure whether that is accidental or on purpose. This one will never leave Stephen’s care. I can say anything, and, knowing Stephen, he will sit in silence to let ye read this before he speaks, and that frees me too.

“This year, 1793, I will turn five-and-forty. How I look and how I have physically weathered this span Stephen will relate better than I, for we lack mirrors in Norfolk Island. Save that I have kept my health and can probably work harder for longer now than ever I could when a young man in England.

“As I sit here in the night the only sounds which reach my ears are of mighty trees moving in a rising wind, and the only smells which assail my nostrils are sweetly resinous or indefinable relics of the rain which fell a few hours ago and wetted the soil.

“I will never return to England, which is a place I no longer think of as, or call, ‘home.’ Home is here in Norfolk Island and always will be here. The truth is, Jem, that I want no truck with the country sent me to Botany Bay jammed aboard a slaver for just over twelve months amid misery and suffering still haunt my dreams.

“There were good times and good moments, none of them given us by those who shipped us off—greedy contractors, indifferent shufflers of paper, port-swilling barons and admirals. And we on the first fleet which sailed for Botany Bay enjoyed luxury compared to the horrors those who follow us must endure—ask Stephen to tell you what they found aboard Neptune when she anchored in Port Jackson.

“To be the first for Botany Bay was at once the best and the worst of it.
No one
knew what to do, Jem, not even the sad and desperate little governor, Phillip. It was neither planned nor decently equipped. Not one person in Whitehall worked out the logistics, and the contractors cheated on both the quality and the quantity of the clothing, tools and other essentials that were sent with us. I keep imagining the look on Julius Caesar’s face did he know of our shambles.

“Yet somehow we have survived the first five years of this ill-conceived, misshapen experiment in men’s and women’s lives. I am not sure how this has happened, except that it is perhaps evidence of the persistence and perseverance of men and women. It would be wrong to say that England offered us a second chance here. We were not offered
any
chance, first or last. Rather, we behaved according to our natures. Some of us simply vowed to survive and, having survived, then hurried ‘home’ or still skulk about. And some of us, having survived, were determined to begin again as best we can with what we have. I put myself in the second group, and say of it that while we were convicts we worked hard, we incurred no official displeasure, we were not lashed or ironed, we effaced ourselves in some situations and made ourselves useful in others. After being freed by pardon or emancipation, we have taken up land and begun the alien business of farming.

“How much of England has England wasted! The intelligence, the ingenuity, the resourcefulness, the hardiness. A list of assets I could make pages long. And all of the owners had sat in English gaols and hulks utterly wasted. What is wrong with England, that England is blind enough to throw such assets away as worthless rubbish?

“It is fair to say that very few of us had any idea what sort of stuff we were made of. I know that I did not. The old tranquil, patient Richard Morgan who could not even bring himself to care about the loss of £3,000 has died, Jem. He was passive, content, unambitious and
small.
His griefs were the griefs of all men—loss of what he loved. His vices were the vices of all men—self-absorption and self-indulgence. His joys were the joys of all men—taking his pleasure in what he loved. His virtues were the virtues of all men—belief in God and country.

“Richard Morgan was resurrected in the midst of a sea of pain, and finds the pain of others more unbearable than his own. He takes nothing for granted, he speaks out when necessary, he guards his loved ones and his fortune with his very life, he trusts hardly anybody, and he relies on one person only—himself.

“The tragedy of it, Jem, is that despite these new beginnings we have dragged the worst of England with us—coldhearted arrogance from those who govern us or hold sway over us, the unwritten laws which make some men better than others by virtue of rank or wealth, the stigmata of poverty and despicable origins, the mistaken creed that Crown and Church can do no wrong, the ignominy of bastardy.

“So I fear for my children, who must carry the burden of my sins as well as their own. Yet I hope for them in a way I could never have hoped for my Bristol children. There is room here for them to fly, Jem. There is room here for them to matter. And when all is said and done, what more could I ask of God than that?

“I had thought to write at much greater length, but I find that I have said my piece. Look after yourself—have a care for Stephen, who brings my love with him—and write soon. Ships from England now make the voyage in under six months, and Norfolk Island is a watering place for vessels sailing to Cathay, Nootka Sound or Otaheite. With any luck, I will be able to reply to your answer before too many more children have been born. I cannot get Kitty out of the habit of conceiving, and I am too weak to say no when she throws her leg over.

“By the grace of God and the kindness of others, I have had a fine run.”

He signed it, folded the pages so that their corners met in the middle, melted wax and applied his seal. RM in chains. Then, leaving the letter to lie on his table, he leaned to blow out the lamp and went to Kitty.

Finis

The saga of Richard Morgan is not ended; he was to live for many years to come and experience yet more adventures, disasters and upheavals. I hope to continue with his family’s story.

The American
War of Independence upset the European applecart profoundly, and in ways the people of the time could not have envisioned. Until then, a nation’s constitution was generally accepted as embodied in its laws; until then, the concept of a people’s existing without a monarch at the top of the social pyramid had become virtually unimaginable; until then, the rights of individuals of moderate or low status had not been considered as equal to the rights of those with rank, property and/or wealth.

One of the less well-known results of American independence was the establishment of the British colony of New South Wales and its almost immediately synchronous offshoot at Norfolk Island. There are strong differences of opinion between modern historians as to the British Crown’s reasons for colonizing a quadrant of the globe scarcely known, even including its geophysical dimensions. Some experts in the field think New South Wales was conceived and carried out purely to have somewhere to dump the hapless victims of a penal legal system by far the harshest in western Europe. Whereas others insist that higher ideals and philosophies were also involved.

I do not pretend to sufficient erudition to clarify this debate. I say only that with the closure of the thirteen American colonies to the shipment of convicts there as indentured servants, the British Crown understood that it had to find
somewhere
to send its convicted felons, and that that somewhere had to be at least an ocean’s breadth away from home. The occurrence of the French Revolution and growing unrest not only in Ireland but also in Scotland and Wales provided additional impetus to ensure that this penal experiment at the far ends of the earth should succeed. The story of the early decades of New South Wales and Norfolk Island contains few evidences of ultimate wealth or even the beginnings of a positive gross national product; it does, however, contain many evidences that, whatever the higher ideals and philosophies of the British Crown might have been, the place was eminently suited to the quarantine of convicts, rebels, political demagogues and free ne’er-do-wells. They could scratch a living there without representing a danger to “home.”

To me, the two most fascinating aspects of the great transportation experiment are, first, the blithe assumption on the part of the British Crown that all one had to do was
do it,
and, secondly, the character of its guinea pigs, the convicts. That it succeeded rests far more with the character of its guinea pigs, the convicts, than with anything else. Which is why I chose to write this novel about the genesis of the much later Commonwealth of Australia (1901) from the convict point of view.

Why were these people convicted in the first place? What in fact were the circumstances of their crimes? How did English justice work? What rights did the accused felon have at law? What were their backgrounds? How did they rub along together? Why, having been landed in an utterly alien place of no milk or honey, did they persevere? Why, having served out their sentences and in a lot of instances made enough money to buy passage home, did so relatively few choose to return home? What did they cling to to sustain their spirits? How did they cope with the brutal, soulless punitive regimes of the time? How did they view freedom when it came, and what did they think of England?

More of
the latter part of this book takes place at Norfolk Island than at New South Wales. This unique speck in the midst of the Pacific Ocean has a rich and varied history all of its own.

There have been three separate attempts by the British Crown to colonize it, the first two of which were terminated and the island depopulated: the so-called First and Second Settlements. It is the hideous Second Settlement (1825–1855) which most people think of when it comes to unconscionable cruelty; the First Settlement (1788–1813), despite its horrors, was much kinder.

The third attempt was yet another experiment in transportation. The descendants of the Bounty mutineers and their Tahitian women were uplifted in totality from Pitcairn Island in 1856 and given the larger and more fertile Norfolk Island as a new homeland. Some of the Pitcairners, disillusioned by broken promises, returned from Norfolk to Pitcairn after 1856, and it is their descendants who today form the minute Second Settlement on Pitcairn Island.

The so-called Third Settlement was a success, I think because the Pitcairners were already an island people in the true sense. Island peoples can cope with extremely limited landmasses, which require a very different attitude to life—and governmental style—than vast landmasses. Though since 1979 Norfolk Island has had a limited form of self-government incorporating federal powers (an odd arrangement reflecting the Australian uncertainty), it remains at the mercy of a colonial overlord from across the seas. In 1914 it passed from being a dependent territory of the British Crown to a dependent territory of the Commonwealth of Australia; successive Australian governments and their unelected public “servants” have displayed exactly the same arrogance and insensitivity to the special nature of Norfolk Island and its Pitcairn people as did the British Crown. So one wonders what Australia, long a victim of colonialism itself, has actually learned about the phenomenon of colonialism, as the peoples of its equally remote Indian Ocean dependencies suffer even more than does vocal, mutineerridden Norfolk Island.

The sources
for research are very rich, but often (as in the case of the Public Records Office at Kew in London) dauntingly haphazard and confused due to inexcusable lack of funding. As in my Roman research, I tend to lean far more on original sources than on modern treatises and works of scholarship. It is necessary for any student of any period of history to go back to the sources in order to formulate opinions, deductions and ideas of one’s own.

I have not included a bibliography for the simple reason that it would run to many pages and contain as many documents as books. However, if anyone is interested in obtaining a bibliography of the published material, please write to me care of my publishers.

I must
thank many people for help and information.

Chief among them is my beloved stepdaughter, Melinda, who went off to brave Kew, Bristol, Gloucester, Portsmouth and other English places, and also invaded repositories of history in Sydney, Hobart and Canberra. The materials she brought back have proven invaluable.

I must also specially thank Helen Reddy, another many-times-great-grandchild of Richard Morgan. When not singing and acting, she pursued the career of Richard Morgan to the top of her formidable bent, and furnished me with some terrific documentation.

My heartfelt thanks go to Mr. Les Brown, whose grasp of the history of Norfolk Island far exceeds anyone else’s, no matter which of the three separate settlements one is interested in. Les has been an unsung historian hero, but I now sing his praises loud and long for all to hear. What a library, what documents!

How can I forget my perennially loyal and devoted staff? Pam Crisp, my personal assistant, Kaye Pendleton and Karen Quintal in the office, the ubiquitous master-of-all-trades, Joe Nobbs, Ria Howell and Fran Johnston in the house, Dallas Crisp, Phil Billman and Louise Donald outside. It is only due to their strenuous exertions that I find the time to write at such a pace. I love you all, and thank you. Thanks also to my mother-in-law, May, who kitty-sits Poindexter the cat whenever we are away. To Jan Nobbs. To Brother John and Greg Quintal for firsthand descriptions of sawing Norfolk pine the old way, in a pit with a rip saw.

My husband, Ric, is a tower of strength as well as my best friend. He is the four-times-great-grandson of both Richard Morgan the convict, and Fletcher Christian the Bounty mutineer. How strange are the workings of fate, that the one bloodline should meet the other in 1860 on a three-by-five-mile dot in the midst of an ocean and find that on Richard Morgan’s side, that link with Norfolk Island goes back to a three-times-great-grandmother (Kate) born there in 1792. This is also true of Joe Nobbs.

In conclusion,
I have not forgotten that there are still two volumes left to write in the Masters of Rome series. They will come, God willing, but it is necessary that I take a holiday from Rome, rather than yet another Roman holiday.