Who’s that knocking at my cell door? What’s wrong with yer? Leave an old Welshman to get his sleep. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Moondyne Joe, I am, Transported Convict no 1790, thank you very much. You come to see me in me special cell? I’ve escaped from Fremantle Prison more times than I can count, mate, so don’t you go thinking I’m going to be in here for long.
What are you, a priest? You have the look of one, right enough. Like that starchy little weasel of a clergyman talking to us in Millbank Prison. When was it now, ‘49? 1850?
“Your role as transported convicts is to find reformation through honest labor,” he said. Told us we were going to the Swan River Colony down in Australia. Said that after we got our Ticket of Leave and Conditional Pardon, we’d be, what was it now? “Welcomed back into society as reformed and useful men.”
What absolute blather. Later I’d learnt that practically every other damn colony in the Commonwealth had rejected transported convicts; they didn’t want to “stain themselves.” However the Swan River Colony, aye, they were a different lot. They were starving, y’see? All them fancy Governors had run the place into the ground. So they finally decided cheap prison labor and the colonial funding that came with it were worth risking a bit o’ the convict taint.
But they never let us forget it. The prison was always waiting to drag us back into the dark. We were sinners, through and through. S’pose that’s why you’re here then, Padre?
Forgive me Father, for I have sinned….
It’s this place. Fremantle Prison drives you mad, it does. Your memories get all knotted up. Even now, if I close my eyes, I’m watching myself in the middle of all the things I want to forget: the mad shadows of the Pyrenees’ hold, men packed like rats into the breathless cells below deck. I remember – I do, I’m sure of it, the smell of Eucalyptus as my fellow bondmen and I cleared roadways out in the bush; the endless bloody list of rules read every morning at Fremantle Prison; the happy crinkle of my Conditional Pardon as I was given a bag o’ spare clothes and sent to work in the farmlands of the Avon Valley. That would’ve been, when was it? Few years ago now, mid-50s.
Oh, you’re not a priest – you’re a doctor, then? You come to have a bit of a poke at old Moondyne Joe, see that his marbles are all still there?
You want to know what year it is? Stupid damn question. It’s 1867, innit?
What d’you mean it’s 1900?
Of course I know who I am, you bloody fool. I’m Joseph Johns, I am. Transported Convict no 5889. I been in this cell for years.
Must have been, right?
Two days? Don’t be daft, son. I may not have your fancy education but I know what’s what, I do.
Anyway, what was I saying? I worked in the Moondyne, a patch of forest out in the Avon. Ah, that was a fine time, it was. No one in a uniform telling what to do, where to be, what to eat. I couldn’t go back home to Wales, see, but it was freedom of a sort.
And then they took it all away again!
It were that bastard who owned the pub in town. God, he was a piece of work. Claimed my patch o’ the Moondyne, and when I refused to move they accused me of stealing a horse – after all, everyone knows ex-bondsmen are still criminals. Put me in the Old Lockup in town and thought they were done with me. But I showed ‘em. Picked the lock to my cell with a broken chopbone, didn’t I? Walked right out, then stole the Resident Magistrate’s horse and all.
What was that? Oh, you want to know where they caught me? I was hiding in a mate’s hut. Used those Native trackers, didn’t they?
So, back in the Convict Establishment again, in and out I went. Didn’t matter where they put me, old Moondyne Joe would always find a way to break free. How many times was it know? Can’t quite remember, it’s all a bit hazy. I did slip that road gang out in Greenmount. All those convicts, out in the forest. They could have scarpered in a heartbeat ‘cept they were scared of living alone in the bush. Not me though.
Broke out of this here prison a few times: during one stretch I sawed through the bars on the window and scaled the walls with a rope made out of old leather scraps. Ha! Good times.
By this point colonists were starting to chat about Moodyne Joe, the man who no prison could hold. Almost made it to South Australia before the trackers found me again.
Yes, I remember now; that’s how it happened. That’s why he was waiting.
That’s why the Governor of the Colony had this special cell built for me.
I haven’t told you about Governor Hampton, have I? The thing you need to know about Hampton is that he’s one of the Old Guard. And I mean that literally, mind. Hampton had been Comptroller of Convicts over in Van Diemen’s Land before taking over as Governor of the Swan River Colony. The old wrinkler didn’t care for “reformation through honest labor” or any such nonsense. Criminals were criminals. They were to be crushed without mercy until all trace of rebellion was gone, then displayed as a public warning to any who might cross him. God, he was a bastard, he was. The colonists loved his stern speeches about discipline and the rule of law, but if any did see what he was doing to us they said naught. The colony was making money for the first time in decades, and no one wanted to go back to eating parrot and bartering using bottles o’ gin.
So when they dragged me back from the desert last year they built this cell. One from which even I couldn’t escape. The walls are all heavy timber and dog spikes. No light. Almost no air. Here they keep me, naked and chained to the floor, with only just enough food to keep me breathing.
What d’you mean that were decades ago? It weren’t.
No, it weren’t.
You don’t know what it’s like, Father. God help me. Every night he comes. Hampton’s fat, jowly face looms over me in the darkness and speaks. To make it clear I’m nothing more than a broken tool, that I live and die on his whim.
My body has wasted away. The cold goes right through me, and I can’t stop trembling. Hampton’s ordered a final humiliation, d’you know that? They’ve set me breaking rocks in the corner of the prison yard – so that everyone could see what happens when you don’t follow the rules, see?
There’s this large limestone quarry down the hill, just outside the prison. They’ve got their eye on me, right proper, can’t risk letting me outside the walls. So every day they cart in a pile of stone for me to break up. Out in the corner of the Parade Ground lies a stack of limestone blocks up against the prison wall, and next to that a pile of broken rubble – and sitting between ’em is the great Moondyne Joe, slowly breaking rocks.
Penance for my sins, Father. I’ve paid enough, haven’t I? I can’t even remember what I did back in Wales. Something to do with lifting a bit o’ food?
What was that, Padre? I escaped? Did I?
I did.
You’re right, I did. Heh.
You want to ask me, don’tcha? Go on with yer, I know you do. You want to know how I escaped?
Well, when the pile of white rubble was up to me shoulders, I knew those lazy Warders couldn’t see where I was swinging. They don’t like going out into the hot yard any more that the rest of us, see? So I kept swinging. Slammed that damn sledgehammer into the base of the prison wall till there was a hole big enough for a man to squeeze through. They were going to check on me eventually, so I put my clothes round a pile of rocks and I squeezed through the hole. Didn’t half scrape up my back. Oh, my poor heart was pounding, it were. But after a few seconds of struggling I was up and running as fast as my shaking body could carry me, out through a back garden, over the fence and down into the backblocks of Fremantle.
Ha! That were my greatest escape, I’ve never been able to top it. Had the whole colony buzzing. Made Hampton look like a right fool. I was on the run for almost two years, true. Had many an adventure, but they finally caught me in the wine cellar. Where was it now? Houghton’s vineyard, that’s right. Thought I’d have a quiet drink on my anniversary of the great Fremantle Prison breakout, but wouldn’t you know it? Old Houghton had a bunch o’ coppers over that night for dinner! Two years free, then ran right into their arms.
God, you gotta laugh, don’t you?
O course, I weren’t laughing when they brought me back to Fremantle Prison. Back to this cell. Oh God, this cell. I wept like a little girl when they chained me up. It’s so dark in here. So dark. Father, you ain’t got the right to preach about Hell till you’ve experienced it. Someone tole me Hampton was removed. Word on how he abused bondmen in this prison finally reached England.
They’re wrong. He’s here, every night, standing over me. Whispering all my sins.
Did I escape again? I can’t quite… it’s all so hard now. I think they put me somewhere down south. What was it now, a timber mill? Yelverton’s, aye, that’s right. Tidy enough work, but but I’d had my fill of start times and shifts and foremen whistling at me. Couldn’t do it anymore. People were always coming up to me, see, asking me about this escape or that adventure. It were a bit of a laugh at first, but after a while you get to understanding that you can never move on.
They were all waiting, weren’t they? Waiting for old Moondyne Joe to steal a horse and go bushranging. And those prigs in uniforms, they thought they had my measure, right enough. They wouldn’t trust me to pick up a pin without saying I’d stole it. Every time those coppers pulled me up, every time I caught someone staring, all I could see was the approaching darkness. That and him, waiting for me to return.
So I ran. I went back to the bush, where I belonged. I just- I couldn’t stand the walls. Tried being a shepherd. Didn’t work. I think there was this one time, when was it? They caught me with a bottle of snake oil. Got it off a mate who bought it in Perth, had this Spanish Fly in it and all. Thought I could sell it off to some of the shepherd’s wives, give their marriage a bit o’ the old way-hey-hey, right? You probably wouldn’t know about that, being a priest an’ all.
What d’you mean you’re not a priest? What are you then? A doctor? Get off with yer, I’m fine. Don’t you know who I am? I’m- I’m Moondyne Joe, I am, Transported Convict no 6310. Put me in this cell for trying to escape, but they ain’t gonna break me.
Time and time again. I come back here. No matter where I go, they always found a way. That’s been my life, true enough. I was damned from the start.
There was one moment, when I thought I had a chance. I don’t – Father, I don’t want to remember her.
What was that? You really think it will help? God help me, it hurts.
Her name was Louisa. She had, just, this hair like sunlight itself. Married me when I was down south. I called her Lou – my lovely Lou. Half my age, she were, but tougher than leather when she needed to be. Stuck with me through thick and thin, place after place where we tried to fit in.
I tried, Father. I tried to be law-abiding for her, honestly I did, walk the straight and narrow, maybe even have a family. But no matter where we went my reputation always caught up with me. I can’t recall how long we were married, or whether I courted her. I hope I did. All I remember is that some part of me were scared. Scared that she’d only wanted to marry the famous bushranger Moondyne Joe – and more scared that she’d want to marry the man Joseph Johns. In the end I couldn’t do naught for her, I just dragged her from one mistake to the next. It were out on the Goldfields when she finally passed. A sickness, or somesuch. Laid her out on a stretcher in a tent, and all I could bloody do was wipe off her sweat and wave away the flies while we waited for a doctor.
I can’t remember her face. I remember how still her chest was, I remember how empty her hands were when I held them, but I can’t see her face anymore. Christ have mercy, it’s all so dark. As for everything after that – I don’t know. This cell was waiting to take me back. I deserve nothing less. He told me so.
I used to be so sure of myself; even with everything this damn world threw at me, I always survived. I knew who I was. But my memories, I can’t – I’m not here anymore. I don’t even know what I’ve forgotten. I can feel the gaps, sometimes, like a wall inside my head. No, like a cell. And I keep pushing against the door but I can’t remember. People come up to me and ask about my adventures, want to know if I’ve hidden a pile of gold in a cave somewhere, or saved some young woman from prison. I don’t know what they’re on about half the time.
The legend of Moondyne Joe is still told, round pubs and campfires. But old Joseph Johns has almost disappeared. All my memories of home, of the people I loved, it’s all a haze, an’ every time I try an’ focus on anything it all starts to slip away. I can’t remember! All the good times have gone where I can’t reach them, and all that’s left is the dark.
I’m still trapped in this cell. For as long as I can remember, whenever I close my eyes, I’m here, naked and starvin’ with that bastard Hampton whispering in the shadows. But it don’t matter how much he takes from me, he ain’t gonna break me.
Don’t you know who I am? I’m Moondyne bloody Joe I am, Transported Convict number, something, what was it…
These walls are the only thing I can rightly recall.
You’ve got to help me, Father. You’ve got to get me out of this cell.
Moondyne Joe escaped from Fremantle Prison, but I’m still here.
In January 1900, Joseph Johns, formerly a Transported Convict at Fremantle Prison and a notorious escape artist, was found wandering the streets of Perth. Despite being in his 70s, he escaped from the Mt Eliza Invalid Depot several times, and was transferred back to Fremantle Prison in March that year. After a few nights in a cell Johns was transferred to the prison hospital to be treated for mental disorders. He was eventually taken to the Fremantle Lunatic Asylum. He died alone in a cell in August 1900.
The story of Moondyne Joe can be discovered at Fremantle Prison, including his purpose-built cell, which has remained unchanged since the 1860s.
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