George Worgan Writes Home
1. An early encounter with the native inhabitants of New South Wales
An apocryphal tale is it not? Well suited to
relaying in a publick house at least. That one of
our first meetings nay first Intercourse obtained with these
Children of Nature should revolve around such a cheer-
ful parley and joke whose punchline would be crude if timed
well enough to result in an uproar of laughter
particularly when under advisement that the
Governor had not much earlier shewed the natives
his musket! They did not believe we were men you see
because we did not wear facial hair long in beards as
they did and our assurances did not satisfy
their curiosity even though most generous-
ly we tolerated them to presently open
our Shirt-Bosoms (which they do very roughly and with-
out any Ceremony). And not perceiving the
distinguishing Characteristics of Women there-
in they lurched back with amazement somewhat bewildered
gave a Hum! with a significant look implying
What kind of creatures are these?! We could not satisfy
them in any other way so were forced to recourse
to the Evidence of Ocular Demonstration
which made them laugh jump & Skip in an extravagant
way. And as for the man of ours called on to prove his
maleness to represent us all he possesses the
honour now of being the first white Colonist to
expose himself south of the equator (so to speak)
in the infant settlement of New South Wales. If it
had been the Governor so disposed to enlighten
them with the example of his own person perhaps
there might be a plaque erected to commemorate
the affair though the wording for this memorial
no matter how tactful does presently elude me.
2. On the Pleasures of Exploration
The Governor’s officers come out to play. Leaving
their supper and leaving their sleep they come zealously
into (as we do not yet have a street) these brand new
woods in the colony darkish and deep. They come with
a whoop and they come with a call. They come with good will
or else no will at all. A bit of salt Beef and a
bite of salt Pork. Some Bisket. Plum pudding from home and
I trust a bottle or two of O be Joyful thrust
into our snapsacks and onto our backs. Then it’s up
to our map-making necks in Occasion. The greed of
the Crown for land exploration Odyssean yet
it will not get us down. We will scour the woods North South
East and West. That indefatigable badge stuck firm
to our Empirish chests. Brace of pistols a hatchet
co-ordinates not yet confirmed. Rest assured that our
keenness will leave not a single stone-visaged native
unturned. Our sailors teach them to swear by way of a
lark and they offer us food. But as is often a
mark and a lack in rude children of nature they are
apt to spear our fellows when they turn their backs. But we
won’t get bogged deep in the challenges here. Let’s instead
raise our mugs in some brave British cheer. If night over-
takes us we’ll collect a few brambles and then light a
fire. We’ll build one of their Wig-Wams. And sleepy retire.
While I relish these rambles and think you might not mind
them perhaps it is not worth your while to come all this
way south of the refined world’ s equator to find them.
3. John Martin’s Twenty Five Lashes
The Governor said before we left England there will
be no Slavery in New South Wales. No terror through
violence. No forced labour. Stripped to the waist on this cold
August day. Tied to the tree at ankles and wrists. With
the blood of others who have come before me soaked in-
to the bark pushed against my cheek I think of this. The
Governor said before we left England there’ll be no
Slavery in New South Wales. The drum beats. I bite my
lip hard. The first lash tears open thin skin. The flogger
clears the gore with his fingertips to make sure the next
lash will let those knots dig in. The drum beats again and
the cat chews in deep. I slump at the pain and can’t help
but moan low. The Governor said before we left Eng-
land that there will not be Slavery in New South Wales.
The flogger clears the gore with his fingertips to make
sure the next lash will let those knots dig in. I’m a free
man by their law but the papers have not come so I’m
still enslaved. But the Governor swore before we left
England There will be no Slavery in New South Wales.
The drum beats. The lash bites. I feel the long-hot bitter
flow. The flogger clears the gore with his fingertips to
ensure the full hell of those knots can dig all the way
in. The Governor lied before we left England there
is no thing but Slavery in New South Wales. The drum
beats. The lash bites into muscle. This time I cry out.
The flogger seems pleased clearing the gore with his bloody
fingertips to make sure the next lash will let those knots
make chopped meat of my back. The drum beats. My bowels loosen.
The cat flays. I cry out. And the flogger seems pleased clear-
ing the gore with his fingertips to ensure the lash
follows the score in his much-pleasured head. Like a fond
sweetheart he whispers: ‘Cheer up you black bastard ... I’ve brought
your back five red roses with thorns and you’ve still got some
twenty more pricks to go. Pain’s how you know you’re not dead.’