# Moondyne/The Convict's Pass

On Mr. Wyville's return from the Vasse, he set himself with tireless will to the complete organization of the Penal Law. Not content with writing copious rules for the guidance of warders, he proposed to visit all the districts in the colony, and personally instruct the chief officers of depots, from whom the system would pass directly to their subordinates.
For many days Mr. Hamerton saw little of him, and the time was heavy on his hands. He intended to purchase land in the colony, and bring some of his old farmers from England to settle on it.
One day, he went to the prison at Fremantle, and waited for Mr. Wyville in his office. As he sat there, by a window that looked over a wide stretch of sandy scrub, he noticed that though the sky was clear and the heat intense, a heavy cloud like dense vapour hung over all the lowland. He remembered that for a few days past he had observed the smoky sultriness of the atmosphere, but had concluded that it was the natural oppression of the season.
"That vapour looks like smoke," he said to the convict clerk in the office; "what is it?"
"It is smoke, sir," said the man. "This is the year for the bush fires."
Just then Mr. Wyville entered, and their meeting was cordial. Mr. Wyville, who looked tired, said he had only an hour's writing to do, after which he would ride to Perth. He asked Hamerton to wait, and handed him some late English papers to pass the time.
Hamerton soon tired of his reading, and having laid aside the paper, his eyes rested on Mr. Wyville, who was intently occupied, bending over his desk. Hamerton almost started with surprise at the change he observed in his appearance—a change that was not easily apparent when the face was animated in conversation. When they sailed from England, Mr. Wyville's hair was as black as a raven; but now, even across the room, Hamerton could see that it was streaked with white. The features, too, had grown thin, like those of a person who had suffered in sickness.
But, when the hour had passed, and he raised his head and looked smilingly at Hamerton, it was the same striking face, and the same grand presence as of old. Still, Hamerton could not forget the change he had observed.
"Come," he said, unable to conceal an unusual affectionate earnestness, "let us ride to Perth, and rest there—you need rest."
"Why, I never felt better," answered Mr. Wyville, lightly; "and rest is rust to me. I never rest unless I am ill."
"You will soon be ill if this continue."
"Do you think so?" and as he asked the question, Hamerton saw a strange light in his eye.
"Yes, I think you have overtaxed yourself lately. You are in danger of breaking down—so you ought to rest."
Hamerton was puzzled to see him shake his head sadly.
"No, no, I am too strong to break down. Death passes some people, you know; and I am one of the—fortunate."
Hamerton did not like the tone nor the mood. He had never seen him so before. He determined to hurry their departure. He walked out of the office and waited in the prison yard. Mr. Wyville joined him in a few moments.
"I thought this smoke was only a sultry air," Hamerton said; "where does it come from?"
"I think it comes from Bunbury district; a native runner from there says the bush is burning for a hundred miles in that direction."
"Are lives lost in these fires? A hundred miles of flame is hard to picture in the mind."
"Yes, some unlucky travellers and wood-cutters are surrounded at times; and the destruction of lower life, birds, animals, and reptiles, is beyond computation."
"Does not the fire leave a desert behind?"
"For a season only; but it also leaves the earth clear for a new growth. The roots are not destroyed; and when the rain comes they burst forth with increased beauty for the fertilizing passage of the flame."
By this time they were riding slowly towards Perth. The road was shaded with tall mahoganies, and the coolness was refreshing. Hamerton seized the opportunity of bringing up a subject that lay upon his mind.
"You gave me, sir," he said, "some documents in London which you wished me to keep until our arrival here. Shall I not return them to-morrow?"
Mr. Wyville rode on without answering. He had heard; but the question had come unexpectedly. Hamerton remained silent until he spoke.
"Do not return them yet," he said at length; "when we get back from our ride to the Vasse, then give them to me."
"When shall we start?"
"In ten days. By that time ray work will be fairly done; and the rest you spoke of may not come amiss."
"Shall we ride to Sheridan's settlement?"
"O no; we go inland, to the head of the mountain range. Those papers, by the way, in case anything should happen to me—the sickness you fear, for instance—belong to one whom we may see before our return. In such a case, on breaking the outer envelope, you will find his name. But I may say now, else you might be surprised hereafter, that he is a native bushman."
"A native! Would he understand?"
"Yes; he would understand perfectly. He is my heir—heirs generally understand."
He was smiling as he spoke, evidently enjoying Hamerton's astonishment.
"Seriously, the package you hold contains my will. It is registered in London, and it bequeaths a certain section of land in the Vasse Mountains to the native chief Te-mana-roa, and his heirs for ever, as the lawyers say. We may see the chief on our ride."
"Then why not give him the package?"
"Because he is a bushman, and might be wronged. With two influential persons, like you and Sheridan, to support his title, there would be no question raised. You see I compel you to be my executor."
"Is he not the grandfather of Koro, of whom she often spoke to me?"
"Yes, said Mr. Wyville, smiling, "and also of Tapairu. This property will descend to them."
"Are they with the chief now?"
"No; by this time they have reached Mr. Sheridan's happy valley, where it is probable they will remain. You see, it is possible to step from the bush into civilization; but it is not quite so pleasant to step back into the bush—especially for girls. Ngarra-jil, you observed, had no second thought on the subject; he was a spearman again the moment he landed."
The ride to Perth was pleasantly passed in conversation; and, on their arrival, they ordered dinner to be served on the cool verandah.
While waiting there, a rough-looking man approached and touched his hat to Mr. Wyville.
"Be you the Comptroller-General?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Well, sir, here, you see my ticket, and here's my full discharge. I want to leave the colony; and I want a pass to King George's Sound, where I can find a ship going to Melbourne."
Mr. Wyville examined the papers; they were all right. The man had a right to the pass. He rose to enter the hotel to write it, holding the documents in his hand.
"You're not going to keep them papers, sir, be you?" asked the man, in evident alarm.
"No," said Mr. Wyville, looking closely at him; "but if I give you a pass, you do not need them."
"Well, I'd rather keep them, sir; I'd rather keep them, even if I don't get the pass."
"Well, you shall have them," said Mr. Wyville, rather surprised at the fellow's manner. He entered the hotel and wrote the pass.
But, as the hand wrote, the mind turned over the man's words, dwelling on his last expression, that he would rather have his ticket-of-leave than take a pass from the colony yet, in any other country, it was a proof of shame, not a safeguard. The man did not look stupid, though his words were so. As Mr. Wyville finished writing, he raised his head and saw Ngarra-jil watching him as usual. He raised his finger slightly—Ngarra-jil was beside him.
A few words in the native tongue, spoken in a low tone, sent Ngarra-jil back to his bench, where he sat like an ebony figure till he saw Mr. Wyville return to the verandah. He then rose and went out by another door.
Mr. Wyville called the ex-convict towards him till he stood in the strong lamplight. He spoke a few words to him, and gave him his papers and the pass. The man clumsily thanked him and went off.
"That's an ugly custom," said Hamerton. "I suppose you know it from his papers. He was strangely restless while you were writing his pass."
Mr. Wyville did not answer, but he took hold of Hamerton's arm, and pointed to a corner of the street where at the moment the man was passing under a lamp, walking hurriedly. Following him closely and silently strode a tall native with a spear.
"Ngarra-jil?" said Hamerton.
Mr. Wyville smiled and nodded.
"I thought it just as well to know where the man passed the night," he said.
A few minutes later, Ngarra-jil came to the verandah, and spoke in his own language to Mr. Wyville, who was much disturbed by the message. He wrote a letter, and sent it instantly to the post-office.
"The callous wretch!" he said, unusually moved. He had gone straight to Draper, by whom he had been hired to get the pass. Draper's purpose was plain. He intended to leave the colony, and desert again his most unfortunate wife, with whose money he could return comfortably to England.
"What will you do with the miscreant?" asked Hamerton.
"Nothing, but take the pass from him."
"But he is a free man. Can you interfere with his movements?"
"No man is allowed to desert his wife, stealing her property. He can have a pass by asking; but he dare not come here for it. And yet, I fear to keep him; he may do worse yet. If no change for the better appear, I shall hasten his departure, and alone, on our return from the Vasse."