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LOLÓMA:

OR, TWO YEARS IN CANNIBAL-LAND.

CHAPTER I.
OLD SYDNEY.

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I was a boy in Sydney, the son of a Commissariat officer of the Imperial establishment, when New South Wales was a penal colony, during the time of the despotic rule of the military governors. We had as an assigned servant a young man, Joe Whitley, who, at 18 years of age, was transported from his native English village for poaching. He was but two years my senior, and we were great friends. On Saturday afternoons we often set forth on pleasant bush excursions of our own arranging, and we even contemplated exploring the Blue Mountains, beyond which the ignorant people said China lay, and in whose picturesque ravines there were whitening in the sun the bones of many an unhappy bondsman who had escaped his chains to perish of hunger and thirst while vainly hoping to be able to tramp to the Flowery Land.

Sometimes we went boating in the romantic coves of Port Jackson, which, with the same attractive natural scenery they now possess, had then the additional charm of solitude. It was a pleasure to get away from the rum-shanties of the infant city of Sydney, and the foul language of a large part of its brutalised convict population, to the calm waters of the harbour with its numerous prospects of wood-crowned heights, and the soft airs perfumed by the wild bush flowers of the virgin forest or untilled plain. One could not see the procession of stately ships which are now for ever passing under the windows of one half of Sydney, calling to the mind’s eye of him who has learned to read in their appearance the varied businesses of these white-winged messengers of commerce, something like a panorama of the world. Nor was there a fleet of yachts to glide past with graceful sweep. But there were the same charming points and eminences on which villa residences have since been built, commanding views which on bright sunny mornings were of rare beauty. And we had the romance of the sea to ourselves. We listened to its many voices alone. There were none to interrupt our contemplation of its sublime mystery, and we never tired of its fascinating companionship.

These pleasant trips had an abrupt termination. My companion had the misfortune to gain the ill-will of a fellow servant, who made interest with the police, and had him unjustly sent back to prison for an alleged breach of one of the regulations controlling the bond servants.

In those days even free persons were subject to the lash for very trivial offences. What chance had a man, opposed to the false swearing of convict constables, with an offended officer of the law for his judge? Flogging was administered to the extent of 1,000 lashes, and sometimes a magistrate would order a witness to be taken out of court and subjected to the shameful indignity of a public flagellation, in the hope of getting more satisfactory information out of him.

Whitley, in addition to a term of imprisonment, was sentenced to undergo the lash for an offence of which he was not guilty. I was incensed. It was the period of my hot youth, in which I had more enterprise than discretion. I determined to procure his escape at all hazards.

The old Sydney prison in which Whitley was confined was situated near Hospital Creek, in which private vessels unloaded their cargoes, and where a barque, whose owner I was well acquainted with, was moored. The gaol was surrounded by a strong high wall, and a numerous guard was mounted day and night. By bribing a turnkey I gained access to my friend’s cell one cloudy night, and forced open the lock with implements I had brought for the purpose, for the turnkey had only bargained to admit me and raise no alarm. A wheelbarrow and a couple of tubs piled on top of each other brought me near enough to the iron chevaux-de-frise of the wall to fasten a stout rope to one of the spikes. We were soon astride of the awkward obstruction, and then, casting the rope on the other side, we slid down to the ground, and congratulated ourselves that we were out of danger. The whizz of a bullet over our heads, followed immediately by the sharp report of a musket, soon undeceived us on that point. A treacherous cloud had for a moment disclosed the previously hidden moon. We were observed by the guard, a shot was fired, and chase was immediately given. We soon outran our pursuers, and all would have been well, but I was unfortunately recognised by the serjeant of the guard, for, immediately after the report of his weapon, he called upon Whitley and myself by name to stand.

The boom of a cannon from the signal battery at the north point of Sydney Cove announced to the sleeping town that a prisoner had escaped. The tramp of feet and the flickering of lights from point to point told us that we must be away. As I had previously arranged, we made straight for my friend’s barque in Hospital Creek. He had promised a place of concealment in the hold; but, thinking the pursuit would be too hot for that, he put us in a dingy, and we rowed over to Pinchgut, a small islet a mile and a half from Sydney. This place was a mere rock, whose clefts Joe and I had often searched for oysters (which grew abundantly there) during our holiday rambles. It was occasionally used by the Government for drying powder, but the place was avoided by the townspeople, because upon the summit there stood a gibbet, on which a miscreant who had murdered a colonist in return for half a pint of rum had paid the penalty of his crime. The island was named Pinchgut by some irreclaimable convicts who had been put there on short commons as a punishment. Yet this place of sinister renown was sheeted with the fragrant gold of the feathery mimosa, and was garlanded with bright red creepers, as though nature mutely protested against the vileness of man.

Aided by our friends, it was easy for us to remain in concealment until a good opportunity for getting away from the officers of the law presented itself. I had succeeded in securing my companion’s liberty, but I had not only broken the law and made myself liable to the same cruel punishment from which I had saved him—I had compromised my father, whose name I had used in the transaction with the turnkey. I determined that, if possible, I would leave the colony. Whitely preferred making his way to a relation in the country.

As luck would have it, while I was in concealment a sandalwood trafficker from the South Seas put into Port Jackson to refit and provision. I met her captain one night at a well-known locality of dubious reputation called The Rocks, and had no difficulty in shipping under the name of Thomas Whimpey as a common seaman before the mast. Great was my grief that I could not take with me the sharer of my youthful frolics. He was in hiding 20 miles inland from Sydney, and was in a fair way to become a bushranger.

As I shall not have occasion to refer to my friend again, I may as well state here what befell him. There came a time when so many prisoners were at large, and the means of getting them in were so utterly inadequate, that the Governor issued a proclamation inviting them to return before a certain date, with the assurance that all who had not been guilty of murder or highway robbery should receive free pardons. My escapee accepted a free pardon, and going into business not long afterwards, became a highly-prosperous man.