Buckley's Chance Page 19

The bachelor Wedge made the boy, Wheete, his ‘constant companion’, showing him off at dinner parties as yet another curiosity he had unearthed in his travels. He was heartbroken when the boy died two years later from a chest infection but it was not the end of his experimentation with Aboriginal children under his ‘care’. He would eventually – and unusually – take five of them under his wing. Like Batman, several historians will portray Wedge as a noble humanitarian. The man himself will say he took Wheete into his home ‘for I always dissented from the prevailing opinion that, however kindly treated even if taken in their infancy, they would be treacherous and take the first opportunity to return [to] their tribes again’.

  But there will always be some who will feel uncomfortable about John Helder Wedge and his collection of the living and the dead.

  In early 1836 Charles Darwin visits Hobart Town after a stint in Sydney as his five-year voyage around the world on the Beagle draws to a close. If the journey of the Endeavour half a century earlier had been the trigger for Britain’s foray into New Holland, Darwin’s experiences in Australia and elsewhere are already laying the ground for an idea that will transform humanity’s understanding of how life evolved on earth.

  Still in his mid-20s, balding and with large mutton chop sideburns, Darwin had been fortunate to secure a berth as the Beagle’s resident gentleman naturalist because the ship’s captain, the temperamental Robert FitzRoy, did not like his nose. FitzRoy is an admirer of 18th-century Swiss philosopher Johann Kaspar Lavater, an influential figure in the field of physiognomy, a method of assessing a person’s character and personality traits by their physical appearance. FitzRoy had seen in Darwin’s large and fleshy nose the telltale signs of someone with a weak constitution who would find the perils of a long sea journey too difficult to handle.

  He has not been that wrong. Darwin walked away from medical studies because he disliked the sight of blood and was horrified by the butchery of the era’s surgeons. On the Beagle he has endured extreme seasickness and constant stomach complaints. But on land Darwin has overcome these ailments – and FitzRoy’s doubts – through sheer perseverance and an insatiable curiosity. By the time he arrives in Hobart Town he is already something of a celebrity back in London. A selection of his geological letters has been published and circulated by his old botany professor, and the scientific establishment is already beginning to take notice of the young naturalist.

  In Van Diemen’s Land Darwin climbs Mt Wellington – ‘a severe day’s work’ – and is paraded in front of the Bunyip aristocracy, all of them dressed in their finest. He remains on the island for 10 days and as the Beagle begins her voyage home, the naturalist has plenty of time to reflect on his experiences in the new colonies.

  ‘The Aborigines have been removed to an island in Bass’s Straits, so that Van Diemen’s Land enjoys the great advantage of being free from a native population,’ he will write in his book The Voyage of the Beagle. ‘This most cruel step seems to have been quite unavoidable, as the only means of stopping a fearful succession of robberies, burnings, and murders, committed by the blacks; and which sooner or later would have ended in their utter destruction. I fear there is no doubt that this train of evil and its consequences originated in the infamous conduct of some of our countrymen.’

  Darwin had already seen the impact of white culture on Australia’s Aboriginals during his couple of weeks in New South Wales. There, he reported, ‘The number of Aborigines is rapidly decreasing. In my whole ride, with the exception of some boys brought up by Englishmen, I saw only one other party. This decrease, no doubt, must be partly owing to the introduction of spirits, to European diseases (even the milder ones of which, such as the measles, prove very destructive), and to the gradual extinction of the wild animals … Besides these several evident causes of destruction, there appears to be some more mysterious agency generally at work. Wherever the European has trod, death seems to pursue the Aboriginal.’

  But the man whose theory of natural selection will trigger a scientific and cultural revolution – and horrify FitzRoy who will see it as a slap to the face of God – is largely unimpressed with his experiences in Australia. ‘Farewell, Australia!’ he writes, ‘you are a rising child, and doubtless some day will reign a great princess in the South; but you are too great and ambitious for affection, yet not great enough for respect. I leave your shores without sorrow or regret.’

  What has stuck in Darwin’s craw is the culture of the place. Forget about his still embryonic theory about the survival of the fittest; what he has seen in this young colony is the survival of the fattest; he who accumulates the most land and places the greatest number of sheep on it will emerge triumphant.

  ‘The whole population, poor and rich, are bent on acquiring wealth,’ writes Darwin. ‘The subject of wool & sheep grazing amongst the higher orders is of preponderant interest.’

  It’s a safe bet you have no idea just what sort of stir you have created. The world is now being notified of your existence. Ink wells are running dry and quills worn out with the amount of letters being sent containing your name. John Montagu, the secretary to George Arthur, writes to Wedge on 25 August confirming that Arthur will support the request for a pardon, and that it is ‘founded upon a desire to prevent bloodshed, and with a view to remove any inducement on Buckley’s part to make common cause with the natives in the commission of any outrages upon the white immigrants, which might lay the foundation of a war of extermination … if this man’s energies and influences be well directed, the Aborigines may be so thoroughly conciliated as to ensure a lasting amity between them and the present or any future immigrants …’

  Another, dated 28 August, is sent by Arthur to Lord Glenelg in London, who has been Secretary of State for war and the colonies only since April. Arthur, bowing and scraping and ever mindful of managing up, says he is in no doubt that he has no lawful authority to grant a pardon as a mere Lieutenant-Governor, and while Batman and Wedge and the rest of the Port Phillip Association are nothing but intruders on Crown land, ‘I have nevertheless felt it to be my duty at once to grant the prayer of Buckley’s petition; from very dear bought experience I know that such a man at the head of a tribe of savages may prove a dangerous foe …’

  This can only be a reference to the man who became known as Musquito, a man of the Eora people in Port Jackson who, after being sent to Van Diemen’s Land, waged a guerilla war against settlers on the east coast before being hanged on flimsy evidence in early 1825. The execution of Musquito is often seen as the trigger for the island’s Black War. But Musquito was just one of many Aboriginal resistance leaders.

  The most famous had been Pemulwuy, another Eora man of the Bidjigal clan who spent 12 years fighting the British, burning crops and destroying cattle.

  Known among his people as a healer who could talk with the spirits of the land, Pemulwuy had been born with a turned left eye. But the deformity hardly held him back; he was regarded as the strongest and the fastest of his clan and more adept with the spear than anyone else. In 1790 he had launched his weapon with great accuracy into the side of Governor Phillip’s gamekeeper, John McIntyre. Outraged, the Governor ordered a company of marines to pursue Pemulwuy’s group and return with 10 of their heads to be displayed in the settlement. Like all subsequent missions it failed and Pemulwuy’s reputation continued to grow, particularly after John ‘Black’ Caesar, the first Australian bushranger, cracked Pemulwuy’s skull during an encounter at Botany Bay.

  A few years later he was shot in the head and body but continued to survive, his people now believing he was impregnable to the buckshot fired from the white men’s muskets. Various search parties were sent out regularly but all returned empty-handed, their loud and blundering forays into the bush easily avoided by Pemulwuy’s people. It was not until 1802 that his decade-long insurgency came to an end. Shot dead, his head was preserved in a jar of spirits and sent to Sir Joseph Banks in London, accompanied by a note from the Governor advising that ‘Although a terri
ble pest to the colony, he was a brave and independent character.’

  So it is no surprise that strong fears are held among the members of Batman’s Association of an organised resistance by the Port Phillip Aboriginals. They have seen how much damage Aboriginals can create with their tactical use of fire and their ability to stealthily track prey, attack and then vanish back into the landscape. But imagine, suddenly, a general leading these warriors, a white man no less with a history of fighting white men’s wars, but one who can also command and turn hundreds of small clans and family units into an organised army …

  One of the most influential members of the Port Phillip Association is Charles Swanston, a man who knows more than most about native insurgencies. He is one of Hobart Town’s most prominent citizens. A member of the Legislative Council, he has just established the Derwent Savings Bank and is well on his way to making a fortune, dabbling in the importation of rum and tea, the exporting of wool. But don’t mistake Swanston for a banker with soft hands. Made lieutenant in the private army of the British East India Company at just 16, he fought in several legendary battles and later captured an elusive Marathi leader so despised the British had placed a 10,000 pound bounty on his head. But perhaps his most impressive feat was his arrival in Istanbul after a quick trip back to England. Travelling by horse via Baghdad, Swanston made the 3000-kilometre journey back to India in just 48 days. Two portraits of Swanston seem to capture him best. In one he is a handsome and dapper captain, sideburns trimmed exquisitely and stretching almost to the corners of his mouth. In another, said to have been painted in 1819 as he became captain of the Poona Auxiliary Horse brigade, he holds the reins of a rearing white horse, the dry red plains of India stretching endlessly behind him.

  Swanston is a hardened Scot and has kept in close contact with several friends from his time in India, including George Mercer, a fellow Scot who has become one of the Association’s investors and a critical advocate for it in London. In July, Swanston writes to Mercer to update him on the Association’s progress in Port Phillip and has some concerning news regarding Batman.

  Lieutenant-Governor George Arthur has told a confidant of Swanston’s that Batman ‘had destroyed more natives than any other man, and that he was, consequently, an unfit person to place in charge and in communication with the natives of Port Phillip. On what grounds Col. Arthur has made this statement we are unable to discover. All I can say is this, that Col. Arthur up to this hour treats Mr Batman with confidence.’

  A month later, Swanston updates Mercer on the news that has everyone talking: ‘The account of Buckley is most curious. To him, Col. Arthur has sent a free pardon so that now, with his aid, we shall have most complete control over all the natives and will, through his information, be enabled to take possession of the finest tracts. He is chief of a tribe and possesses the most complete control over his people …’

  Now, William, if John Batman never quite gets around to telling you about his prowess hunting Aboriginals, or the fact that he is dying, then it’s a safe bet he never tells you what the Association has in store for you, either. You’re going to be their blunt instrument. Charles Darwin is right about these people. They are bent on acquiring wealth and do little but talk about sheep and land and the need to control the natives of Port Phillip.

  ‘No means will be left untried to conciliate and keep them on good terms,’ writes Swanston about the Kulin people.

  ‘Buckley will be our mainspring.’

  24

  AN ENEMY LURKS

  John Pascoe Fawkner peers into the grave and shudders. Only six feet deep but the way some folks fear it, damn thing might as well be an endless black staircase descending all the way to hell. Well, let them flinch whenever they step too close to it, let them show the usual reverence and respect.

  But not little Johnny.

  The grave might send a shiver down his spine like anyone else but for someone whose first instinct is defiance, death’s doorstep is just the final obstacle in the endless hurdle race of life. It deserves to be sneered at, stood up to, shown contempt, mocked and … well, treated like every other enemy of John Fawkner. And there are plenty of those because Johnny is – always has been – capable of finding enemies everywhere. Even here, by the side of this grave. And certainly down there, deep in that black, yawning pit.

  Near Fawkner stand two men he has already decided shall be his lifelong adversaries. John Batman is a full foot taller than Fawkner, but even he is dwarfed by the giant he is using to calm the natives, that buffoon Buckley. These two men will need to be dealt with – along with John’s constantly drunk brother, Henry. But gnawing away at Fawkner even more is an enemy he can’t quite see at the base of the grave; a mass of worms, writhing and squirming their way through the sodden earth, just waiting to do their work.

  This infant colony of what will become Melbourne, not yet a year old, has just suffered its first death. A small crowd has gathered to watch the cedar coffin containing the body of a young boy be lowered into the grave, a pit as dark and infinite as Fawkner’s imagination.

  Fawkner will take to his diary later this wintery day and recall how the grave’s ‘wet and cold appearance caused my flesh to revolt at the thoughts of the cold, damp dark doleful depository of the body when the mortal spark has fled. Here is only one grave in a burial ground of ten acres – the first natural death in this new settlement commenced by me on the 31 August, which day my people and horses landed, having been 10 days exploring the river and getting vessel up. One death in just 10 months. Our present population is 179 … one consigned to the tomb, how many more would there be committed to the dark house within the next five years, how many will strong drink hurry there prematurely?

  ‘I fear a great many. Well, I hate the grave. Let my mortal remains be placed on a pile of timber and reduced to ashes. This will prevent the loathsome worms from preying upon me.’

  Here, distilled in less than 150 words, is the essence of John Fawkner: one watchful eye following the funeral, the other gazing into the future just to make sure history spells his name correctly. To hell with the worms. He will find a way to deprive them of the satisfaction of consuming his remains. To hell with those who want to drink their life away – as the settlement’s first publican he might as well profit from their mistakes. And to hell with Batman and that lumbering oaf by his side. Batman might claim to be the founder of this settlement – the arrogant fool has even been referring to it as Batmania. But Fawkner is already plotting to make certain ‘this new settlement commenced by me’ is remembered as his idea.

  Every utterance, every diary entry, will be made to ensure that when the history of Port Phillip is finally decided, the true Father of a modern democratic metropolis will be revealed as that pioneering genius John Pascoe Fawkner. Many years later, a stooped old man with a persistent cough, he will frequently take the stage before any audience willing to listen to him – from bored students and polite church congregations to private gentlemen’s clubs thick with cigar smoke. They will have to strain to hear the man with the wispy white hairs dangling from beneath his hat. But the message will always be the same. ‘… the country is (cough, cough) something indebted to me,’ he will tell them.

  What drives this incessant combativeness? No-one knows for sure but if the Devil suddenly climbed out of the grave at this moment, laughing maniacally and taunting the solemn crowd, little Johnny would be the first to take a swing. His life has been one long fight, a rugged, drawn-out, bare-knuckle battle with the world around him.

  Take Christmas Day, 1806. The Fawkners are living in a wooden slab hut on a small farm in Glenorchy. It’s just two years after little Johnny was hit hard by scurvy during the early famine years in Hobart Town. Back then his right leg was so swollen for weeks he couldn’t walk. The best he could do was press his toes gingerly on the floor, the flesh bruised purple and yellow.

  Now 14-year-old Johnny and his younger sister, Betsy, have been left home alone. Their mother has returned t
o England to claim an inheritance. The old man, a free man now but never too far from the wrong side of the law, has told the kids he has to go to Hobart Town ‘on business’ – probably code for a days-long drinking binge. It might be Christmas but the kids will just have to look after themselves.

  It’s a White Christmas typical of this land; ash flakes and embers falling from the sky, whipped by a scalding northerly wind fanning a raging bushfire. The two Fawkner children spend the day watching the nearby flames and breathing in the scorched air heavy with burnt eucalyptus.

  They eventually fall asleep on Christmas night when two men – one a former convict from the Calcutta – burst in and begin rampaging through the hut demanding valuables. Who can blame them for thinking this will be an easy hold-up? No-one home except a small girl and her pallid, sickly-looking older brother. Who could possibly believe the boy is an outstanding specimen of the species pertinax bastardis?

  Stubborn little Johnny stands against the wall with Betsy, refusing to give the men anything. The Fawkners don’t have much, anyway. But Johnny, ever watchful, notices the bushrangers have left their pistol on the table. As the two men continue searching the hut, Johnny leaps forward and grabs his father’s musket, takes aim and … it misfires. Say what you like about John Pascoe Fawkner, but don’t say he’s not quick on his feet. By the time the hapless bandits can grab their pistol, Johnny and Betsy are sprinting into the smouldering bush where they will spend the rest of the night hiding. When they return the next morning most of the food and clothes are gone and the place has been ransacked.

  The episode is just another example of how life is always unfair. It’s as though Johnny Fawkner decides the only way to balance the ledger is to fight back. By the time he reaches his early 20s he finds himself in deep trouble. He plays a pivotal role in an attempt by several convicts to escape and receives 500 lashes and three years hard labour at Coal River in Newcastle. And who will be one of the magistrates who sentences him? Why, none other than the good Reverend Knopwood.