This fictitious journal was inspired by Malen Rumbelow, passenger on the former convict ship. His diary was partially reproduced in the 1977 “Chronicle Cameos” publication
The houses and people were smaller each time I turned my head to look, until all that remained was a curlicue twixt sea and sky. The shore receded, but our families would still be watching, weeping. I was reluctant to see them disappear but didn’t want to not see them for the last time, so I turned back and forth until the sky was empty, and all land departed. Martin was silent, and unmoving. He remained standing long after the sight of everyone we knew, apart from each other, had melted into waves pushing us on. All those landmarks and faces held dear would be treasured in memory, but never seen again. Not by us in this world.
The Pestonjee Bomanjee was a sturdy barque, and Martin and I only two of the three hundred and forty-four souls on board. Few had been on the sea previously. Captain Montgomery set sail with his shipload of human cargo, including thirty-eight crew, on the morning of 18th June,1854. Initially, fine weather and a strong breeze made everyone hopeful for a good journey, but within hours many were ill with sea sickness and before nightfall one poor woman was delivered of a child.
By 13th July the weather was so oppressive that many lay on the deck at night to keep cool. During that long, hot night, the first baby born at sea perished, while a woman in an adjoining cabin suffered greatly until her accouchement was completed. They were only a small number of many births and deaths that happened, and I was grateful to not yet have children to worry or grieve over.
Occasionally, flying fish landed on board and made a welcome treat for breakfast, and at other times we were entertained, watching dolphins playing alongside. But by August the weather turned cold, and the salt waves appeared mountain high. The ship pitched and rolled fearfully.
The weather had improved by 10th September, and dancing was organised in the evenings. Then, just days later we suffered snow at intervals and hailstones resembling marbles were bouncing on the deck. The wind progressively increased and at 2 am one day, what appeared to be tons of water poured down hatchways, drenching families, and bedding. It was daylight before the chaos was sorted, leaving everyone exhausted.
Finally, on 9th October, Martin and I stood on the Port Adelaide dockside feeling shaky after 112 days of being rocked by the sea. Baggage at our feet contained all we possessed in the world, along with my little bit of England, a grapevine from mother’s garden. I’d guarded it carefully throughout our long journey. Wrapped in wet sacking and now held firmly in my hand, it signified our hopes for the future.
We felt strangers in a strange world. But we’d committed to find land, and plant ourselves along with my vine. We both lived, and through our endeavours, and with God’s grace, we’d eventually have offspring who’d acknowledge this place as home. We were determined to survive – and to thrive.
Burnside Writers Group 