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The Land

by Iain MacLeod 

Posted: 25 January 2007
Word Count: 1463
Summary: This came from some work I was doing last year, originating in a memoir by a convict shipped to Van Diemen's Land (Tasmania) in the 1840s. One passage struck me and this was the result. I'm not entirely sure if it will ever go anywhere, but here it is. Hope you all find something to like.
Related Works: Battle • Find Me • Highland • Home No More (Part 1) - final version • No More Sad Refrains • Remnant • Stillness Becomes Me • The Agoraphobe`s Fear of the Hallway • 

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Hobart, 1848

He wished they wouldn’t come and gawp. It was bad enough as it was without the slack-jawed locals gathering round for their final pound of flesh. Wasn’t the damn trial enough? In his mind’s eye, he walked up the gangway, stared them eyeball to eyeball and told them all to piss off like the miserable shits they were. He longed to do it, haul his sorry carcass and gammy leg back up the gangplank, but knew that if he did the Governor, the Comptroller-General, his commanding officers, the newspapers and the Anti-Transportation League would be queuing up to skin him alive. The press were testy enough recently without another member of the establishment snarling at the citizens.

The cry went up, and Captain Alexander knew what was coming. The sound was familiar, the rattle and clank of the convict troupe. The crowd started to jeer and he cursed them darkly under his breath, while the armed troopers nearby bristled, bayonets twitching. The men being drummed from the gaol-house looked more thoroughly miserable, more downcast than anything he’d seen. More upset, in fact, than his men when he told them where they were going next and with what; that took a lot of explaining, not to mention a few promises of pay rises.

The prisoner at the head of the limping human caterpillar, dressed in canary yellow and looking like he hadn’t shaved in a decade, was caught full in the face by what seemed to be a rancid cabbage. The man hardly flinched and merely turned, rattling irons and all, in a strangely fluid motion, with such a look of silent sorrow that his assailant in the throng fell back, cowed. Alexander smiled, pleased that at least one of those bastards would think twice about coming the next time prisoners were being shipped out. His second, Lieutenant James, glanced up at him fearfully. Alexander shook his head to reassure him that this journey would be no trouble at all.

In reality, he had no idea. Oh, he had transported convicts before, mainly the odd shipment down to Port Arthur when the colonial courts had been busy, and he’d sailed aboard one transport from Portsmouth a few years back, before he’d been promoted and discovered that not everyone in the Australian colonies lived life in a violent, alcohol-filled fug … but this was something else. He watched the men with fascination as they shuffles forward, manacled at their hands and feet and threaded together by one long chain. Despite the distress on their faces, Alexander found something clownish in them, the way they staggered from side to side under the weight of their irons, always threatening to fall but never quite tipping over. He was used to seeing a bit of a struggle, plenty of swearing, curses aimed at the ship’s surgeon or the fat parson, maybe even a tattered boot in the face for the man who removed their ankle irons when they climbed aboard. He found their silence disturbing. It was resignation, as if something within these men – who had known chain gangs, penal settlements and the wrong end of the cat – had snapped. The whole procession could have been mistaken for a death march.

He had them assembled on deck and now their only restraints were the shackles around their hands and the detachment of marines stationed around the circumference of the deck. Alexander had had a blazing row with their officer, Major Lennox. Didn’t he know what these men were? What they’d done? Didn’t he read the newspapers? Think of the officers’ women and the danger they would be in! Do you really want these … fiends, argued Lennox, given that much freedom? It had taken a while to convince the wind-ridden old major, but he agreed in the end, though only if the entirety of his men were at hand and armed to the teeth and ready to fall on anyone brave enough to even sneeze out of turn.

Alexander did indeed read the newspapers, though he tried not to if he could really help it. But the law must be satisfied, or at least that’s what the leader writers had screamed apoplectically each day for the past three weeks. They wanted blood, mass executions, men strung up fish down at the harbour, apocalyptic punishments beginning with solitary confinement for life at the very least. The judge had ordered that only three men would hang, and hang they did, dressed in white linen and weeping with their priest at their side, the poor bastards. They got a bigger crowd than this bunch ... The rest, the twenty or so men all craning up to see him, had escaped the gallows. Alexander couldn’t help but think that they might come to rue that near miss, for he knew just as well as they where the journey would take them. He knew the official line, that this was the deterrent second only to death, something to scare the ill-behaved with at bed-time. He knew the official line, these men were the lowest of the low, permitted only to live by the grace of His Majesty at His Excellency’s recommendation, and who would serve out the rest of their miserable existences as an example to the depraved in the colonies and the Mother Country. He also knew the tales told among the prisoners, the camp-fire horror-stories about what they did to men out there, the implements they used, of mass graves and torture out of sight of anyone who cared. He had also picked up a tale or two down at the pub from a whaler who had passed by the island and dined with the island’s commandant. Perhaps the prisoners weren’t far wrong.

He gazed out over their upturned heads, most of them squinting against the harsh Vandemonian light. ‘Beasts in human form’ was one of the favourite phrases of the papers. They didn’t look much like animals to him; all Alexander could see was a phalanx of pale and trembling prisoners who looked as though would all break into one tumultuous plea for mercy at any moment. He began to speak to them, the usual rules the Comptroller ordered to be read out before every journey – they would be treated sternly but fairly, if they behaved the passage would be as painless as possible, etc. etc., the usual crap. No reply greeted him other than a few imperceptible nods, and their passivity set him slightly on edge. He glanced at Lennox, who was sweating and compulsively fingering his sword’s scabbard. Alexander couldn’t tell whether the big Major was twitchy or just feeling the starch of a uniform which was obviously a size too small for him, under this pounding sun. Alexander nodded to him, and Lennox bellowed something incomprehensible to his men who began to prod the prisoners towards the hold. There was no resistance, save a few surly glances, and the men whom the entire colony had come to detest were thrust down into the darkness below.

Arrival

Alexander scraped the sleep from his eyes, shielding them against the fierce Pacific sunrise, pluming yellows and oranges over the horizon. A joyful cry came from high in the ether and initially made little sense to his fogged ears. He glanced up at one of the crew in the rigging, bellowing away like a joyful child. The long journey from Hobart to Norfolk Island was coming to an end and joyful glances were exchanged between the crew, the soldiers lounging on the deck and the few officers’ ladies who were taking in the morning sun after breakfast, under a call of “the land! the land!”

Alexander smiled to himself and eased himself onto the poop deck gingerly, using his stick to balance himself. He hoisted his telescope to his good eye for a glimpse of the Island. They had been spotted and a flag from the hill was raised, signalling that they could approach. He lowered the telescope to turn and bark some orders when from beneath his feet, down in the hold, came a sound Alexander never forgot for the rest of his life. It began as a growled groan, guttural and rich with fear. It quickly changed into a moan, a requiem of terror, and was joined by the low scraping of chains which reverberated around the ship, causing all around to stare down fearfully at the din from below. The prisoners had heard the call too, finally aware to the reality that all they knew was far gone; all ahead was cruel and uncertain, shrouded in the gloom. A chill settled over the deck. All was still, but for the continuing wail as Norfolk Island hoved into view.

“The land … the land…”






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Comments by other Members



MF at 08:26 on 26 January 2007  Report this post
Iain, this is beautifully written and intriguing stuff. I loved

twitching bayonets


limping human caterpillar


and thought the description of the prisoner being pelted with the cabbage was poignant and really well observed.

I think that the style is clear enough (ie. you've got quite a modern tone, no flowery "period" excess) that you could sustain the narration in this way for a little longer...although there may come a time in the next few chapters when you'll want to introduce some dialogue and give Alexander someone/thing else to react with or against, as it were - only a gut instinct, and only my humble opinion, of course! At the moment you're doing a great job of avoiding "He went...he thought...he did...then he went..." and as a reader I felt very much inside Alexander's head. Did you ever consider writing it in the first person?

Only little glitch:

the usual crap


This sounded out of place to me here...nerd that I am, I did a cursory web search (wondering, initially when Thomas Crapper founded his toilet company) and found this on Wikipedia (I know, I know...)

The word fell out of use in Britain by the 1600s, but remained prevalent in the North American colonies which would eventually become the United States. The meaning "to defecate" was recorded in the U.S. since 1846 (according to Oxford and Merriam-Webster), but the word did not hold this meaning at all in Victorian England.


Hope that you've continued with this, and I look forward to reading more!

Trilby




Cornelia at 08:49 on 26 January 2007  Report this post
I really enjoyed reading this and was intrigued by the subject matter, having visited 'Van Diemens Land' two or three times myself - it's a place with a very distinctive atmosphere, which this piece suggest very well, at the same time making a connection with an outside world and a public either ignorant of the realities of transportation or convinced of its justice/effectiveness.

I'm researching at the moment for a historical novel,and it seems to me that making a POV character believable must be the hardest part. I thought this was very well written, and convincing. It was a good idea to use the particular point of view, that of what seemed a rather liberal-minded Captain. I like the way you have established his dilemma - his need to balance his humanity with his professional obligations as well as keeping control in a challenging environment. I like the mention of his relevant but not very extensive experience.


One of my strongest impressions of visiting Port Arthur was the fact that men- and women- were often transported to Australia for very petty crimes, not for the atrocities these men may have committed - also they were often no more than boys. I remember there was a visitors' centre where Australians could look up their ancestors whose crimes might be listed, and it was something they didn't mind finding out because their crimes might be petty theft or political protest. Violent criminals usually suffered the death penalty and transportation was the answer to overcrowding in English prisons as well as cheap labour for the new colony.

I also had the impression that segregation was very strict, even down to separate booths so the prisoners couldn't see one another in church.

Was your story based on a particular incident, or outbreak?

As I've said, I thought the voice convincing, but one or two modern-sounding phrases crept in:


them all to piss off like the miserable shits they were.


struck me as a bit 'modern', and even more so:

the usual crap.



One or two typos I spotted:

shuffles forward
- shuffled?

strung up fish
'like' fish?


harsh Vandemonian light


I think this needs rephrasing as it seems odd.

Good luck with this. Looking forward to developments.

Sheila



Davy Skyflyer at 12:32 on 26 January 2007  Report this post
Hi Iain

I also enjoyed this alot, but thought I'd add some new thoughts, from my distinctly warped point of view ;)

“pound of flesh” – dunno if Shakespeare can be a cliché, but I think you should think outside the box, coz it immediately makes me think of Merchant of Venice when I see that expression!

Doesn’t sit right that crowd cabbage thrower was cowed. Should make him spit on the convict I reckon, or something like that. Laugh? I dunno. Just don’t see why he’d be cowed by a sad, pathetic look, from someone in such a vulnerable position. Do you know what I mean?

typo – “Shuffles” should be shuffled?

I do think there is a slight tendency to “tell” and sometimes this makes the prose more wordy than necessary. For instance this bit:

In reality, he had no idea. Oh, he had transported convicts before, mainly the odd shipment down to Port Arthur when the colonial courts had been busy, and he’d sailed aboard one transport from Portsmouth a few years back, before he’d been promoted and discovered that not everyone in the Australian colonies lived life in a violent, alcohol-filled fug … but this was something else


It’s a bit of telling that could be interspersed elsewhere. To me there are several pieces of info you could use in conversation, or that are unnecessary, so it reads a like a bit of an exposition dump. I’ll try and explain what my scatter-gun mind is trying to get at!!!

If he has no idea in reality, the nod to his Second before that would probably not be enough to convince him (his Second) things were okay, if you see what I mean. We have no idea of his Second’s motivations, and I can’t see why that would reassure him so much. This to me is telling, because you as the author are telling me this fact, not your MC. You could convey people’s doubts about the trip easily in conversation, and if you left the nod in, without the explination in the “author’s” voice, it still shows us the two men are not entirely comfortable with this trip, which is essentially all you are trying to convey, I believe.

Of course, Ian, I could be tragically off the mark, but just trying to help!!!

Another example I’d pick on would be

Alexander had had a blazing row with their officer, Major Lennox. Didn’t he know what these men were? What they’d done? Didn’t he read the newspapers?


This is telling, for me, and you could have this in there if you wanted as a real convo. I don’t like that kind of retrospective rhetorical questions to the reader, especially in 3rd person, I think it is another form of telling/passive narrative and again crowbars the author’s voice in above the MC. Because then you go on to answer them for us, and this is all telling, none of it is shown (or rather the entire feeling of hatred toward the convicts IS shown, throughout the whole piece, so you don't really need this).

You could let us know a hell of a lot about Alexander, and the attitude of his Navy superiors and Imperial masters if you showed us this stuff, I think.

I mean this is an example of what I mean:

Alexander smiled to himself and eased himself onto the poop deck gingerly, using his stick to balance himself. He hoisted his telescope to his good eye for a glimpse of the Island


To me that is perfect. You show us the scene, and we learn about Alexander just from his actions. Do you see what I’m blithering on about?

Hey, it’s probably completely off track anyway, but thought I’d give you something to think about!!!

It’s a great set up tho. Love the docks when they leave, and the troop of broken down convicts, and the arrival is great too. Sets the story up superbly.

I love what you are doing here tho, this has such a lot of potential. Iain I’m a bitch for things like showing not telling and the such, but please understand I shoot from the hip and am no expert. I don’t see the point of holding back or mincing words, we’re here to try and help each other out, so that’s why I’ve gone off on one! I think you have (obviously) a great knowledge of the subject, a fantastic idea, but the actual writing style for me could be a bit less wordy and tell-y, and the narrative less passive, i.e. show us more; show us the story, show us the characters.

I reckon if you get those things down, you’ll be onto an absolute winner, coz it’s a fascinating story gagging to be told!!!

Anyway, feel free to come back and tell me I'm talking bollocks!!! And that goes for the rest of the group, coz I'm always interested to see what people think about these writing techjniqes, especially in the context of histfick, as we now call it ;)

Anyway, take care and keep up the good work,

Regards


Davy



Sappholit at 12:40 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Hi, Iain,

I echo what everyone else has said. I also enjoyed this but, like MF and Conelia, found a couple of phrases too 'modern'. (The ones they have highlighted.)

My only query with this is that you mix semi-lyrical writing with the more authentic voice of your main character, and this affects the tone of the piece. For example, you are often very colloquial in your use of language:

the slack-jawed locals


the damn trial


. . . .told them all to piss off like the miserable shits they were


. . . . . queuing up to skin him alive


And then there are times when you are more formal, even veering towards lyrical:

the human caterpillar


The man hardly fliched and merely turned . . . . in a strangely fluid motion


a look of such silent sorrow


These shifts in style made me question who is telling the story. Is it Alexander himself, or some other narrator who is absent from the story?

I get the impression strongly that you are writing from Alexander's pov, so perhaps the use of langauge is something you might want to consider. Is he a rough old convict like Magwitch in Great Expectations? Or more articulate?

Iain MacLeod at 14:23 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Hello folks,

Thanks to every one who has had a read so far, I'll reply to your points properly when I get a free moment later on. Not sure if this will be of interest but this is the passage which sparked this piece, combining with my own work on the stupidly brutal penal station at Norfolk Island. It comes from the narrative of Linus Miller, a young law clerk from New York state who was transported to VDL in 1840 (and was there until 1844) after getting involved in cross-border raids into Upper Canada in 1838. This is how he, movingly, described his arrival at Hobart:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“But the poor prisoner, the convict, where is he? Does he strain his eyes to descry the cursed shores of Tasmania? Does his heart leap for joy as the iron-bound coast become visible? Great God! See the hopeless glance of his eye toward his future home! Home! Is it the happy home of his Innocence and childhood? Does his near approach awaken those holy feelings which friends, and kindred, and happinness, and love, kindle in the virtuous breast? Oh, no! All that the heart could love and cherish is left behind – far away; and lost forever; and memory, cruel memory, still clings to those dear objects, and hope lingers on the visions of the past. But the future, its dark and cruel uncertainty, the years of hopeless misery and woe, shame, degradation and death, haunt his gloomy spirit, and he bitterly curses “the land!” – “the land!
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope it's of some interest.

all the best,

Iain


MF at 15:22 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Powerful stuff, Iain. And not so easy for us to understand today, living as we do in an age of cheap flights and globalisation. The thought of being banished to the other end of the world must have been utterly terrifying - defo a fascinating starting point for contemporary fiction, and well worth exploring further.

Iain MacLeod at 15:53 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
That's exactly it, Trilby, the tyranny of distance, as they say. I can't begin to imagine being shipped out to Australia, cut off from everything you know and cherish. Even worse, imagine you're already undergoing that sentence and get caught for, say, burglary in the colonies and are sentenced again to transportation - off you go to Norfolk Island, a tiny rock 1000 miles east of Sydney, the 'Botany Bay of Botany Bay'. The stuff of nightmares.

on that cheery note....

<Added>

*damn, pressed submit without responding to your comments*

Thanks for the kind words - I was hoping to stick with that kind of style rather than in the style of the times for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I doubt whether I could sustain it (even after another marathon session of reading 19th century Parliamentary Papers); and secondly, I think if I took it any further that sort of period style could be left if any of the more powerful officials made an appearance.

As to taking it further, I'm not sure at the moment, largely because my favourite novel, Marcus Clarke's His Natural Life did the convict period so well already (and that was in the 1890s).

Thanks for pointing out what seemed out of place. I'll get that sorted when I have another go at it.

all the best,

Iain

Iain MacLeod at 16:13 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Hi Sheila,

Thanks for reading and your comments - glad you enjoyed it! I have to admit to looking forward to visiting Tasmania at some point (research purposes, of course), but from everything I've read from the period it always seemed as though it was distincly 'Olde English' in nature, even with gangs of convicts wandering around. I've read a few accounts of visits to Port Arthur in which the visitors are often more uncomfortable than anything, though that may have had a lot to do with what happened in 1996.

The crimes people were transported has always been controversial - some think the convicts were from some nebulous 'criminal class' living on theft, while others argue they were ordinary members of the British working class, bringing out skills which the colony would never have been able to attract otherwise. I remember coming across the records of several female convicts and one stuck with me - a 13 year old Irish girl, Protestant, could read and write, freckled complexion, transported for stealing a pair of glasses.

Captain Alexander is vaguely based on a personal hero of mine, Alexander Maconochie, though this version is a bit more hard-bitten and sweary. I wonder how many officials of the convict system found its operation and effects repugnant, but went on with following orders anyway. It wasn't really based on a specific incident, but the passage above, fused with my own work.

Thanks for the suggestions, they'll help when I get round to fiddling with it again. I quite like 'Vandemonian' - at once telling you where you are and expressing that peculiar contemprary prejudice about the thief-colony.

thanks again and all the best,

Iain


Iain MacLeod at 16:28 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Hello Sarah,

Thanks too for taking the time to go through this and commenting. There seems to be a bit of a consensus about phrases people are tripping over, so they'll be altered in the next redraft.

I think the idea with the changes in tone was to make the distinction between Alexander's voice and the other descriptive prose more marked. For example, Alexander's agricultural language in watching the crowd's behaviour compared to a more detached description of the convict gang being marched along. I'm not entirely sure who is telling the story at this point, though it might end being by various folk if I take it any further. I hope that makes sense....

As to Alexander, he's definitely liberal (as the times go, anyway) but at the moment confined by his job/duty, though quite rough and ready.

thanks again and all the best,

Iain

Cornelia at 18:44 on 27 January 2007  Report this post
Yes, there was none of that unease around the time of my visits. I taught in Singapore 1990-93 and made trips in the holidays to Australia and Tasmania - I liked the East Coast, opposite Maria Island and drove twice down to Port Arthur. Yes, I would definitely recommend a visit - you can drive from one end of Tasmania to the other in a day, and the landscape is amazing -some flat, some mountainous, these deserted mining towns in the North and forests of skeletal trees. I think there were convict artists who were inspired by it, and probably you've seen reproductions in books. There was an exhibition of a couple of years back in the Maritime Museum, too, of artists who sailed there with Van Diemen. I believe when convicts had served their sentences they sought employment as labourers and house servants and settled. There used to be a company called 'Rent a Bug which hired out these old VW Beetles - quite scary when they broke down on deserted roads. My son just moved there, so I'm looking forward to revisiting. I'll be thinking of your story. Thanks for reminding me.

Sheila

Dreamer at 19:37 on 14 February 2007  Report this post
Hi Ian,

Interesting story line. Sounds like it has a lot of potential. Have you ever read any of Patrick O’Brien’s books? They have a lot of naval detail of this time period.

A few pickies:
I think this is a little cliché: slack-jawed locals

This sentence seems a bit clunky: More upset, in fact, than his men when he told them where they were going next and with what; that took a lot of explaining, not to mention a few promises of pay rises.

Shuffles(d) forward

I think this could be stronger as dialogue. A little more show instead of tell? He had them assembled on deck and now their only restraints were the shackles around their hands and the detachment of marines stationed around the circumference of the deck. Alexander had had a blazing row with their officer, Major Lennox. Didn’t he know what these men were? What they’d done? Didn’t he read the newspapers? Think of the officers’ women and the danger they would be in! Do you really want these … fiends, argued Lennox, given that much freedom? It had taken a while to convince the wind-ridden old major, but he agreed in the end, though only if the entirety of his men were at hand and armed to the teeth and ready to fall on anyone brave enough to even sneeze out of turn.

Is this an H.M.S.? or a privately owned ship? I wasn’t clear with the marines. I thought marines were only on the King’s ships. If this is a King’s ship I am surprised a little by the Captain’s attitude, after all they had severe discipline onboard ships and it surprises me that this guy would have such a degree of sympathy for the convicts. I think you should mention the name of the ship right at the start as well and a little bit of what type it is, so we have an accurate idea of the setting. Right now the reader’s image of all this is still pretty fuzzy.

I can see the convicts clearly, they are in sharp focus, so is the Captain. I is as if the camera is focused on a small area of the deck and crowd gathered on shore and the rest is out of focus. I am not advocating a whole bunch of detail here but I think you need to add a few broad brush strokes.

Best,

Brian.



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