Chapter 8 - The Escape

The children sat at the dining table inside Mr Tuner's home; it was filled with food they had, in recent times, only observed, and had the pleasure of imagining the taste of, from the wrong side of a shop window.

In great haste, and transmitting sounds Mr Turner last heard when once he had observed pigs at home in a sty before being readied for slaughter, the children devoured every last scrap of chop, potato and cabbage placed upon their plates. Never in his life had he seen the bones of chops so thoroughly cleaned of meat.

Afterwards there was pudding too: a wonderful apple pie, baked by the housekeeper herself. The smell of the thing, when it was taken from the oven, and filled the entire room, made the children feel like they were in heaven.

"I shall leave you now, Sir," the departing housekeeper, Mrs Harrison, announced. "After washing these two reprobates, I shall need a good wash myself. In all my years, I've never seen such -"

"Splendid, Mrs Harrison. Thank you. That shall be all for tonight. Also, thank you so much for staying on for the extra hours. Your kindness and generosity of spirit is limitless. I shall see you in the morning at breakfast."

"Of course, Mr Turner. And will that be breakfast for three?"

"Indeed of course."

"Well goodnight and God bless Mr Turner, Sir."

"Goodnight to you too, Mrs Harrison," he replied.

"Thank you so much for your assistance," said Maggie. "And thank you for this wonderful feast."

She nudged Thomas, who took a moment to realise her prompting.

"Thank you, Mrs Harrison. Good night. And God bless!" he said.

"And God bless to you children too. I'm sorry if I was a bit sharp and severe with you earlier. But you can never be sure..."

Mr Turner shushed her and once more thanked her, told her not to worry about what occurred earlier. "That is in the dim and distant past now, Mrs Harrison. We all part this evening as friends. Good night."

After they finished eating their pudding, Turner took the children to his desk and seated himself behind it. After removing some papers, and moving books, which were blocking his view of the children, he began to speak.

"Your father is a rather remarkable man," he began. "There is a fire which burns in such men's hearts. And it is a fire that cannot be extinguished through imprisonment either. For it is a fire fed by the very notion of imprisonment. And thus imprisonment merely feeds their relentless energy and passion. The fire that fed your father's passion was, of course, injustice. Injustice of any kind. He felt it whenever he looked at a child beggar on the streets, a working man turned out of his factory for lack of work, or even an impoverished thief trying to feed himself and his family."

He coughed, and then sipped at a glass of port. "Now, however, he is himself a victim of an injustice. And I know you must miss him terribly."

"Oh we do," the children cried in unison.

"We know we would not have fallen so low, if Father had been here, Sir," added Maggie.

"Before his transportation, we corresponded for many, many years and I met him a number of times in person. I was supposed to be beside him the very night he was arrested. But other, pressing business did not allow me to be present. Anyhow, he is a man sent here to be a leader of other men, of that I am sure. However, your father's ruin - and I apologise for being so forthright and critical - your father's ruin was his impatience. I must say, you yourself young man," he continued and gestured to Thomas, "you share those self-same traits."

"He wanted change now, your father. Not tomorrow - or even a year later. Or, God forbid - to your father's mind at least - a decade from now. He forgot it is the act of struggle, the act of being involved in a political fight, which changes a man, and indeed all the men who surround him too. Although I admire him and, as I have already told you, my friendship with him goes back many years, he never realised that violent language and equally provocative acts are meat to those who wish to see us crushed. I'm afraid he walked into their trap. They had their eye on your father for many years. They thought him dangerous."

Maggie thought over Turner's words. It had been over two years since she last saw her father. They were allowed to visit him briefly before he was transported to Van Diemen's Land. The final meeting was a muddle of tears and heartfelt promises; and, Maggie thought, it was on that particular day her mother's path to an early grave was firmly set.

"I have here a letter that I received from your father many weeks ago," continued Turner. "I have tried to keep in touch with him during his absence, and I even tried to find you and your recently departed mother at his request. Unfortunately, at the lodging house address he gave me, they said you had left some months earlier."

"We kept moving from place to place - we were always behind with the rent and had to do a moonlight flit - as mother would say," answered Maggie. "It was a very uncomfortable way to live, always looking over your shoulder, waiting for mother's signal to pack up and leave, usually in the early hours of the morning."

Maggie also told Turner of the letters they had initially received from her father and how she kept them hidden and safe. But she had witnessed her mother burning one while they were living in the original lodging house. She had never told the children the contents of the letter. Her mother was, explained Maggie, in such an agitated state at that point. "She feared for us all. Feared we would end up in the workhouse. Feared we would be taken down by the cough too."

Turner closed his eyes and shook his head, as if trying to imagine the children's suffering but failing in the process.

"Well this last letter I received contains something which may be of some interest to you. Indeed, it took me a while to decipher its meaning and I'm still not sure I understand all of your father's words. But let us see what you think."

Turner took his glasses from his pocket and began to read from a letter he had removed from his desk drawer.

"He writes herein, 'In the morning when I walk from my cabin, I look and see yonder the wicket gate. In my mind's eye I sometimes glimpse the shining light beyond the gate. It is, I believe, the light which leads one to the Celestial City.'"

"The Celestial City is from The Pilgrim's Progress," said Tom. "Maggie always reads it to me. It's our favourite book."

"And our only book, as you continually remind me," said Maggie.

"Yes, indeed. Well done, young man. But do you understand this business of the wicket gate?" asked Turner.

"Is it a stage or an obstacle?" asked Maggie. "A thing you must overcome before you can set out on your journey, like the pilgrim of the story."

"Maybe. It seems to be some sort of threshold to be crossed. And do you know of the Celestial City?"

The children looked confused.

Turner had the manner of a kindly schoolmaster. "What say if such a place actually exists? Here in England, I mean. Not merely the heaven of the imagination, but a heaven on earth? A Sanctuary in fact: a place in which the hardships of work are eased, where people are free to sell their labour for a fair price?

"What do you mean?" Asked Tom

"Listen carefully. He asks me to inform you to do the following, 'Tell them of the light, and the road to the Celestial City. Tell them to follow the road out and beyond the City of Destruction. Tell them to head for the Celestial City. For there, as you rightly know, they shall find a Sanctuary.'"

"Does he mean we should leave London, the City of Destruction?" asked Maggie.

"Possibly," replied Turner, a smile spreading across his face.

"And find the Celestial City!" cried Tom.

"Or this Sanctuary?" continued Maggie.

"My thoughts exactly, my dears. Well done. You are your father's children, I can see that clearly. You have all his admirable qualities. Bright as buttons."

"But the Celestial City is not real...is it?" enquired Tom.

"No, not literally true. But there is a place, not far from the great town of Manchester. It is a place that interests your father greatly. He christened it, 'The Celestial City'. It is a place that shames the great town in whose shadow it lies. It is owned and run by a good friend of his, a fellow Chartist and benevolent industrialist, Samuel Givens. It is a model factory and village. It is run for the benefits of the workers and their children. There is free schooling, fewer hours of work, a sharing of the profits. There is also, of course, exercise and gymnastics for youngsters such as yourselves. There is no charity, no poor laws, no want, no drunkenness, no police - nor any need for the magistrate. And the whole of Sunday is free of labour. Like the Sabbath should be! It is a model for a future society. Indeed, the first step toward this future for all is our Charter, when it is put into action of course. And this new town is known by all who live there as Sanctuary."

"Does he want us to find this place?" asked Tom.

"Perhaps."

"To go all the way to this place on our own?" Tom asked again. "What would be the point?"

"Don't you see? Didn't you hear? The wicket gate is the clue. Your father also talks of crossing the wicket gate!"

Both stared back, still confused.

"Imagine a man. Imagine him hounded, harassed, imprisoned, transported. Imagine he is taken thousands of miles away from his home and family, away from all he regards as precious. Imagine a man whose every breath is for the cause of liberty, yet he is caged and bound. Imagine this self-same man - broken and despondent, not knowing if his family is still alive and well."

"Fa -" blurted out Tom.

"Shuusssh," cautioned Turner. "Imagine," Turner paused, thought for a brief moment, before continuing. "Remember my dears we are talking here in quite hypothetical terms. Even so, imagine this man. Imagine he awakes one day and he has had enough of suffering, enough of captivity.

Imagine, he shakes off his shackles and makes a bid for freedom," explained Turner.

"What? Where is he, this - imaginary - man?" asked Maggie.

"That I cannot answer."

"Are you saying he has -" began Tom.

"Be careful what you say, my dear. And, more importantly, to whom you say it. Be very careful. All that I will say is that a certain, imaginary man appears to no longer inhabit Van Diemen's Land."

The children looked at each other, puzzled and uncertain.

"Do not tell a soul of what I'm about to tell you. It is a criminal offence to withhold information about a returnee from a prison colony. Maybe we have interpreted his words wrongly. The misguided, and those suffering with an overly optimistic nature, always misread the written word.

However, I know of a certain government official - in a specialist department of law enforcement. A spy, I suppose you could call him - a nasty character by the way - but a useful contact nevertheless. He spoke to me not two days ago and informed me that a certain man - our imaginary friend indeed - had 'gone missing' from a certain penal colony."

Delight filled the hearts of the children and tears now filled their faces.

"However," he continued, "and I say this to you with great caution. This man may no longer be an inmate upon that prison island. But just as likely as he has escaped, he may, sadly, no longer be alive."

***

Metropolitan Police Evidence: The Power Papers - Document 5

Memorandum from Charles Patterson to Lieutenant-Governor, Port Arthur, Van Diemien's Land, November 1841; also sent to Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, London.

It was in a thicket of wood, two miles or so outside the town of New Norfolk, my men came across their grim find. We pursued the three escaped convicts ever since they absconded from a work party, and fled Port Arthur two weeks earlier. We knew they were somewhere out in the wilds of this rugged country, where exactly we did not know - until yesterday.

Our presumption was they would head for Hobart Town; however, it also became clear as we tracked their movements, that they possessed very little understanding of the Island's geography, or indeed, of how best to reach their destination.

Our native trackers took us on an arduous journey up along the river and then upon a steep incline across the Derwent Valley. What they then found, and what I myself subsequently witnessed, will stay with us all until we reach our graves.

The body of the first escapee, Convict 41256 (John Gilchrist), was found dead with a single wound to his chest, most likely the result of a stabbing directly to the heart. The other, Convict 41352 (James Thomas Crowe), was found close by in the bush, in a state that can best be described as mutilated. Further inspection of the corpse appeared to show evidence of cannibalism. Many of his internal organs had been removed and a campfire nearby contained parts of his charred remains.

No blade, nor any other weapon, was found at the scene. In all likelihood, the third fugitive, Convict 41355 (Thomas Francis Power), was the likely perpetrator of these gruesome murders. Indeed, I have just completed my report to the Lieutenant-Governor and warned him of the importance of recapturing the Convict 41355, Thomas Francis Power, without delay. On the evidence of what we have found, I merely repeat what I have told others: Thomas Power is a highly intelligent, yet highly dangerous criminal. No one is safe until he is back behind bars and facing the prospect of the noose.

***