Moondyne/Mr. Wyville Faces a Storm

In the peaceful water of Fremantle harbour, Mr. Wyville's yacht had lain at anchor for several months. On her return from Adelaide with Mr. Sheridan, she had taken on board a cargo, contained in large cases and swathings, which had arrived from Europe some time before. She also took on board many persons of both sexes, mostly mechanics and labourers, with their families; and among the crowd, but with airs of trust and supervision, as caretakers or stewards, were Mr. Haggett and Officer Lodge. Their friend Ngarra-jil had come on board to bid them good-by, and as he strode about the deck, naked, except his fur boka hanging from the shoulder, and carrying two long spears in his hand, he seemed a strange acquaintance for two persons so prosaic as Mr. Haggett and Ben Lodge.

This thought, indeed, occurred to both of them with renewed strength that day; and it was emphasized by the remark of one of the mechanics—

"That black fellow seems to know you pretty well;" addressed to Ben Lodge.

"Yes," said Ben, with hesitation, and a glance of doubt at Ngarra-jil, "we knew him in England. He was dressed fine there."

"Well," said the good-natured mechanic, "he's the same man still as he war theer. 'Tisn't clothes as we ought to vally in our friends."

This remark brightened Officer Lodge's face, and his hesitating manner towards his wild friend vanished. When the anchor was weighed, and the last visitor had jumped on the barges to go ashore, there were no warmer farewells spoken than those of Mr. Haggett and Ben Lodge to Ngarra-jil.

That evening, at Mr. Little's pleasant dinner-table, Mrs. Little spoke to Mr. Wyville about the destination of the passengers.

"They are going to settle in the Vasse district," he said; "they have purchased homesteads there."

"You have built extensively on your own land there, I believe," said Mr. Little.

A shadow, scarcely perceptible, flitted over Mr. Wyville's face; but his voice had its accustomed tone as he answered—

"Yes; I have worked out an old fancy as to the site and plan of a dwelling-house. But the building was not for myself. Mr. Sheridan has bought the place from me."

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Little, in a disappointed tone; "after sending scores of workmen and gardeners from Europe, and spending four years and heaps of money to make a lovely place, to go and sell it all, just when it was finished! I'm sure Mr. Sheridan might go and make some other place beautiful. It really is too provoking."

"Mrs. Little," said Hamerton, adroitly taking the good lady's attention from a subject which she was in danger of pursuing, "will you not direct me to some rare spot that is capable of beauty and hungry for improvement? I, too, am hunting for a home."

The lure was quite successful. Mrs. Little ran over in her mind all the pretty places she knew in the colony, and instructed Mr. Hamerton with much particularity and patience.

The further conversation of the evening touched no matter of importance to the persons present.

After some weeks the steamer returned to Fremantle, and lay at anchor for several months, except some pleasure-trips round the adjacent coast, arranged by Mrs. Little, and taking in many of the ladies of the colony.

Mr. Wyville was engaged every day in directing the operation of the new and humane law he had brought to the colony. At first, it seemed as if it must end in failure. Its worst enemies were those it proposed to serve. The convicts, as soon as they found the old rigour relaxed, and a word take the place of a blow; when they saw offences that used to earn five years in chains, punished by five minutes of reproach from a superintendent, or at worst, by a red stripe on the sleeve—when first they saw this, they took advantage of it, and shamefully abused their new privileges.

Among the officials of the convict service were many who watched this result with satisfied eyes—croakers, who always predict defeat, and a few envious and disappointed ones, who had lost some selfish chance by the change.

At last, it came to such a condition—the reports from the outlying districts were so alarming, and the croakers and mischief-makers became so bold in their criticism—that even the warmest friends of the new system held their breath in fear of something disastrous.

But through the gloom, there was one steadfast and reliant heart and hand. He who had planned the system had faith in it. He knew what its foundations were. When even the brave quailed, he still smiled; and though his face grew thin with anxious application, there was never a quiver of weakness, or hesitation in it.

His near friends watched him with tender, sometimes with terrified interest. But, as the storm thickened, they spoke to him less and less of the danger, until at last they ceased to speak at all. They only looked on him with respect and love, and, did his few behests without a word.

Mr. Wyville knew that he was trying no experiment, though he was doing what had never been done before. It was not experimental, because it was demonstrable. He had not based his system on theory or whim, but on the radical principles of humanity; and he was sure of the result. All he wanted was time, to let the seething settle. Those who doubted, were doubting something as inexorably true as a mathematical axiom. His ship was in the midst of a cyclone; but the hand on the tiller was as true as the very compass itself, for it obeyed as rigidly a natural law.

One flash of passion only did the tempest strike from him. On the great parade-ground of the prison at Fremantle, one day, a thousand convicts stood in line, charged with grossly breaking the new law. On their flank was unlimbered a battery of artillery; and in their rear was a line of soldiers with fixed bayonets and loaded rifles. Scattered in front were the convict officers, and in the centre of the line, within hearing of the convicts, the malcontents had gathered, and were openly denouncing the law as a failure, and declaring that the colony was in danger. Among them, loud in his dissent, stood an officer with a broad gold band on his cap—the deputy superintendent of the prison.

Mr. Wyville had ridden hard from Perth, whence he had been summoned by a courier with a highly-coloured report. His face was deeply-lined and careworn, for he had scarcely slept an hour a day for weeks. But he knew that the turning-point had come. Six months of the new system had passed. During that time there had only been a moral restraint on the convicts—henceforth, there would be a personal and selfish one.

From this day the convicts would begin to receive reward for good conduct, as well as reproach for bad.

A hundred yards behind Mr. Wyville, rode silently the two men who loved him best—Hamerton and Sheridan. They had seen him start, had questioned the courier, and discovered the cause. Thrusting, their revolvers into their holsters, they had followed him in silence.

Mr. Wyville checked his steaming horse as he drew near the prison. He rode up to the gate, and entered the yard calmly, but with such a bearing, even imparted to the horse, as made every man feel that he was full of power.

As he approached, there was deep silence for half a minute. Then his ear caught the sound of a murmur in the central group of officers. He reined his horse stiffly, and regarded them with flaming eyes.

There was no sound for a moment; then there was a whisper; and then the deputy with the gold band walked to the front, and, without salute or preface, spoke:—

"The warders cannot control the men by your new rules. The colony is in a state of mutiny."

There ran a sound, like a terrible growl, along the line of a thousand convicts.

Mr. Wyville dismounted. His horse stood unattended. Sheridan and Hamerton closed up, their hands quietly on their holster-pipes.

It was a moment of awful responsibility; the lives of thousands were in the balance. One weak or false step, and the yell of blind revolt would split the air, to be followed by the crash of artillery, and the shrieks of a wild tumult.

Two revolts stood in Mr. Wyville's presence—the warders', and the convicts'. Towards which side lay the dangerous step?

There was no indecision—not a moment of delay in his action. With a few rapid strides he was close to the mutinous deputy, had plucked the conspicuous cap from his head, rent off its broad gold band, flung it on the earth, and put his foot on it. The next instant his hand had torn the insignia of rank from his collar, unbuckled his belt, and thrown his sword on the ground. Then, with a voice that rang like a trumpet through the prison yard, he called to the military officer for a file of men, with irons.

The leader of the warders had never moved—but he had grown pale. He had expected a parley, at least, perhaps, a surrender of the Comptroller's plan. But he was dealing with one who was more than a man, who was at that moment an embodied principle.

In a few moments the degraded and dumbfounded deputy was in irons, with a soldier at each shoulder.

"Take him to the cells!" said Mr. Wyville. His stern order reached every ear in the yard. Then he addressed the military commander.

"Limber up those guns, and march your riflemen to their quarters!"

In two minutes there was not a soldier nor a gun in sight.

"The warders will bring their prisoners into square, to listen to the first half-yearly report of the Penal Law."

Rapidly and silently, with faces of uncertainty, the movement was performed, and the thousand convicts stood in solid mass before the austere Comptroller-General, who bad mounted his horse, and looked down on them, holding in his hand the report. There was a profound silence.

Mr. Wyville read from the paper, in a rapid but clear voice, the names of twelve men, and ordered them to step to the front, if present. Seven men walked from the convict square, and stood before him; the other five were on the road-parties throughout the colony. Mr. Wyville addressed the seven.

"Men, by your good conduct as recorded under the old law and your attention to the rules of the present penal code, you have become entitled to a remission of the unexpired term of your sentences. To-day's misconduct shall not stop your reward. You are free. Guard, allow those men to pass through the gate!"

The seven men, wide-eyed, unable to realize the news, almost tottered towards the barrier. The eyes of their fellows in the square followed them in a daze till they disappeared through the outer gate.

There was a sound from the square, like a deep breath, followed by a slight shuffling of feet. Then again there was absolute stillness, every eye intently fixed on the face of the Comptroller-General.

Again he read a list of names, and a number of men came quickly to the front, and stood in line. The new law had awarded to these a certain considerable remission, which sounded to their ears like the very promise of freedom.

Still the lists were read, and still the remissions were conferred. When the report was ended, seven men had been released, and sixty-seven out of the thousand present, all of whom had that morning threatened mutiny, had received rewards striking away years of their punishment.

"Men! we have heard the last sound of mutiny in the colony."

Mr. Wyville's voice thrilled the convicts like deep-sounded music: they looked at him with awe-struck faces. Every heart was filled with the conviction that he was their friend that it was well to listen to him and obey him.

"From this day every man is earning his freedom, and an interest in this colony. Your rights are written down, and you shall know them. You must regard the rights of others as yours shall be regarded. This law trusts to your manhood, and offers you a reward for your labour; let every man be heedful that is not disgraced nor weakened by unmanly conduct. See to it, each for himself, that you return as speedily as you may to the freedom and independence which this colony offers you."

Turning to the warders, he gave a brief order to march the men to their work; and, turning his horse, rode slowly from the prison.

From that hour, as sometimes a tempest dies after one tremendous blast, the uproar against the new law was silent. As swiftly as couriers could carry the news, the scene in the prison yard was described to every road party in the colony.

Among the warders opposition disappeared the moment the gold band of the deputy's cap was seen under the Comptroller's foot. Among the convicts, disorder hid its wild head as soon as they realized that the blind system of work without reward had been replaced by one that made every day count for a hope not only of liberty, but independence.

In a word, from that day the colony ceased to be stagnant, and began to progress.