Another excerpt from doctor/rugby international/author Herbert Moran’s surprisingly Tour-To-Hellish 1940s memoir Beyond The Hill Lies China (see previous post):

Here Moran, in London during the Blitz, tells how he found a metaphor for his life journey in the difficult flight into unknown territory undergone by convict runaways as they struggled towards an imagined freedom.

He is inspired and encouraged by how they staked everything on their belief, which he elevates to a vision of transcendence. Challis, his protagonist, is his barely fictionalised self.

Over to Moran:

‘He had come to identify himself with those convicts who, out of the enclosure of their settlement, had pushed forward, their pockets full of grain. Was he not kindred to them in a felony of the senses? The West Road was the symbol of their travail and their release. Did it not carry still the meager relics of their passing: crumbling stones with an arrow and a number, the dust over all? Yet those convicts had pushed on, exhilarated. They had seen summits and ranges with red dawns spilling over a distant peak. Beyond the Hill and across the Bay they had found a goal. God in His Mercy had given distance to their dream. What did it matter if, on the way, they shed the trivial remnant of their flesh?

Originally a gift in 1946

Challis thought on the years when he had blindly groped his way, years of precarious foothold, when the mountain peak was veiled in mists, when Faith had slumped through nights, when he had known the shame of self-pity and the yielding to it. He had been giddy on sudden heights and vain on little pinnacles. But now he, too, was pushing forward with those old shadows for company.’

Beyond The Hill Lies China (Dymocks, 1945) by Herbert M Moran is a thinly fictionalised memoir of Moran’s life and career as a doctor in Sydney about a century ago. It’s an obscure little gem, an interesting blend of everyday scenes with the odd quasi-mystical musing thrown in.

The title refers to one of the convict myths of place I write about in Tour To Hell, the idea that China (and freedom) could be reached by crossing the unmappped Blue Mountains near Sydney.

Herbert Moran: doctor, writer, poet, rugby international

I’d never heard of Moran, but click goes the computer and I meet the fascinating ‘Paddy’ Moran (1885-1945), a leading early Australian rugby player who captained the first Wallabies tour to England, back in 1908. He served in both world wars, and his interest in cancer treatment research led to him becoming the first doctor in Australia to use radium tube therapy. 

Moran wrote three books, all autobiographical. He was fascinated by Classical Greece and Rome, and alive to the poetic dimensions of the convict myths, divining how they tell one of the first stories of landscape evoked in the imaginations of Australia’s early settlers.

Here’s a quote from page 71 of Moran’s book:

‘But not all the convicts had submitted. He remembered the story of those who, moved by fierce nostalgia, had burst their bounds. Beyond the hill, across the Bay, lay China! Men whispered the news, their hearts excited. China! The freedom and romance of Cathay!

And so, some more daring or more desperate, had saved from their meager ration or pilfered from public stores, and then set out, with high hearts, to walk. Beyond the hill lay China! And on they went, and on, till failure of supplies or a black’s spear halted their dream. Halted their dream? No. They had but passed from physical suffering to transcendental joy. Had they not horizons beyond the fickleness of seasons or the illusion of a dawn? What if the casual drover still finds their pitted bones – resistent vertebrae and ribs that once hooped a great breath? These are but the lesser things of the flesh they shed en route.’

I thought I’d share some extra information I’ve recently chanced upon concerning one of the convict escapes featured in Tour To Hell – an ill-starred quest in 1828 by runaways in northern New South Wales to walk to their imagined Timor.

The most detailed source is an 1828 Sydney Gazette article containing the confession of William Sergison, one of the survivors. A second version emerged several years later when another survivor, John Budge, re-entered the news after he captured a bushranger. The evidence surrounding Budge’s story differs markedly from Sergison’s, claiming the runaways had resorted to cannibalism.

Until now I couldn’t trace the original source for Budge’s evidence, relying instead on a secondhand account in George Boxall’s The Story Of The Australian Bushrangers (1899). But Serendipity has struck and here it is, from the Sydney Herald, October 11th, 1841.

The upper gang of bushrangers have again been heard of; a letter received from the Peel yesterday, states they attacked Mr. M’Intyre’s dray (at Weary Creek, outside the boundaries), which they plundered of tea, clothing, &c , and destroyed a great deal; that during the robbery, the bullock driver watched his opportunity, and seized one of them, whom he managed to secure and disarm, but that while he did so the other mounted his horse and fired at the bullock driver, but missed him; that  the men belonging to the dray kept the captured robber and his horse in custody some time; but fearing that he who had escaped would bring others to the rescue of his fellow, thought it best to give up the horse again and let the fellow go, retaining his firearms in case they should be attacked. Be this as it may, they brought arms with them to the Peel, which they declared to have taken from the bushrangers.

A gentleman has this moment arrived who saw the bullock-driver (Budge) shortly after his affray with the bushrangers; he states that Budge was accompanied only by a little boy, that one bushranger stood sentry over him whilst the other ransacked the dray. Budge, watching his opportunity, knocked down the fellow who acted as sentry, and, seizing his pistol, presented it at the fellow in the dray, whom he made come down and stand beside the other; after keeping them thus for some time, without any one arriving to assist him in securing them, he was necessitated to let them go, but retained possession of their arms, consisting of two guns and four pistols, and one saddle, the property of Mr. Jolliffe, which he delivered up to the Commissioner.

It is perhaps worthy of remark that this man, Budge, has before figured as one in an adventure of a very different nature to the foregoing. Some of your readers may recollect some years since a party of men running away from Sedgenhoe, the estate of Potter Macqueen, Esq., with the avowed purpose of searching for Timour – one, it may be recollected, was eaten by his fellows, so reduced were they by want of food ; one was found starved to death; some were never heard of; and this man, Budge, who had left the others and turned back, was found some miles from where they had set out, but unable to move, and all but dead. “


In history’s pages, the efforts that runaway convicts in colonial Australia made to reach mythical bush sanctuaries is a topic almost as obscure as the phantom colonies themselves.   

When I came to write Tour To Hell I soon found that, for well over a century, commentary on the topic had barely gone further than an incredulous escape anecdote or two, along with brief mention of the ignorance and desperation that clearly drove such attempts.  While no-one seems to have attempted the full story, over the years several writers have considered aspects of escape mythology that fall within the orbit of their primary concerns. 

The pattern was set in the 19th century. Ernest Favenc’s History of Australian Exploration From 1788 To 1888 briefly presented the journeys of the earliest myth-inspired escapees – mostly Irish and ‘panting for liberty’ – as a weird prelude to more conventional exploration of Australia. Favenc, who was an explorer himself, was sufficiently fascinated by the idea of mystery outback civilisations to write a Rider Haggard-type novel, The Secret of the Australian Desert (1895).

A decade later, George Boxall (Story Of The Australian Bushrangers) acknowledged escape myths in another context, noting that some of the earliest bushrangers were runaways with ‘incredible’ notions of nearby settlements. He reminded his late-Victorian readers that ‘the majority of the working classes at the beginning of the century could not read and had no knowledge of geography’.  

Fast forward to The Fatal Shore (1988) by Robert Hughes, perhaps the most famous general convict history. Hughes confines most of his brief escape myth commentary to one lengthy footnote, stating that ‘the fantasy of escape to China was one of the obsessive images of early transportation’, and that Irish runaways had created a ‘Paradise myth to alleviate their antipodean Purgatory’. Patrick O’Farrell (The Irish In Australia, 1986) regrets the convicts’ error offered such rich fodder for Irish stereotyping, which he finds echoing through our national story ever since.  

In 1987, Paul Carter’s Road To Botany Bay offered a new approach. Carter used the earliest examples of these escapes to illustrate a wider point that the colony’s ‘law and order were not self-fulfilling, but the offspring of the convicts’ collusion in the dream’. In other words, to go bush was to subvert the convict-driven empire-building which England’s plans for Australia required.  

Carter adopts a revisionist perspective that the convict myth was merely a story to hoodwink colonial officials. To me this is a false trail, untenable given the full weight of evidence, as Tour To Hell details. But to his credit Carter seems to have been the first writer to deeply consider the nature of the convict myth. As a poet preoccupied with his own idiosyncratic notion of ‘spatial history’, Carter prefers to see ‘Chinas and inland kingdoms’ as ‘metaphors which concealed, rather than revealed a plot to travel’. 

Martin Thomas, within the context of his Blue Mountains historiography The Artificial Horizon (2004) sees the convict myths of place as, ‘despite their indeterminacy, among the most important fragments that survive from the colonial period’. In them, he argues, we see how the colony was not just developed by ‘rational enterprise’, but by ‘the fictional, the fantastic, the imagined’. 

Thomas includes a rare acknowledgement that the myth outlasted the first Blue Mountains crossing, and also thoughtful consideration of the Aboriginal use of phantom settlements. He spends 18 pages on mythical settlements, delving more deeply than most other accounts.

In Tour To Hell my intention was complete immersion in the story of what was, above all else, itself a story, a convict story, probably the first piece of lasting folklore to arise in the Australian colonies.

While researching for Tour To Hell, I came across an obscure but interesting convict, Colin Hunter, who was charged with ‘bush ranging’ on 6 February 1802. This is the earliest reference to the term bushranging I’ve located, three years older than the most commonly cited first-known mention (‘bush-rangers’ in the Sydney Gazette, 17.2.1805). There is an earlier one claimed (an 1801 manuscript by James Elder which calls a gang of convict runaways ‘Bushrangers’), but I’ve yet to see the original and the source citing it didn’t check out.

Even so, Hunter’s court appearance may be the earliest usage of ‘bushranging’ as a criminal offence, although the sense was no more than being illegally at large. His punishment was 100 lashes.

The term ‘bushranger’ obviously originated in the colony’s early years to define white people who left the settlements to wander the bush. As most doing this were runaway convicts, the term had criminal associations from the outset, even though early on it was also sometimes used for anyone skilled in bushcraft.

Over time the definition narrowed to denote outback banditry, as runaways tended to support themselves by theft. The title ‘bushranger’ has since been retrospectively applied to outlaws such as the First Fleet runaway John ‘Black’ Caesar, whose career predates the word. Caesar is usually called our first bushranger, probably because he was the first runaway to carry a gun, but Colin Hunter may have a pedantic technical claim to the title thanks to the wording of his charge in 1802.

Sydney in 1802. By W.S. Blake. Courtesy National Library of Australia (nla.pic-an6016088-v)

So who was Colin Hunter? Unusually, he came to Australia from Africa, as a soldier stationed at the Cape of Good Hope. The convict transport Royal Admiral, which arrived (via Cape Town) in November 1800, lists him in an addition to its indent as one of nine Cape soldiers ‘to be sent to New South Wales as convicts’.  His crime was noted simply as ‘felony’, his sentence unrecorded.

However, a later amendment to this list reveals that three of these soldiers (John Smith, Thomas Rice and William Conway) ‘did duty on board HM Ship Porpoise’, which reached Sydney a couple of weeks before the Royal Admiral. In other words, instead of joining the Royal Admiral at Cape Town as convicts they were put to work as soldiers on the HMS Porpoise. Hunter was probably recalled to this military duty too – the 1806 Colonial Muster has him as ‘Coll Hunter, Cape soldier’ who ‘came free’ on the Porpoise, employed by John Bishop.

Hunter’s status in the colony – flogged as a bushranging runaway in 1802 yet listed as a free arrival in 1806 – is rather enigmatic. Then, in July 1808, the Sydney Gazette describes him as a ‘servant of the Crown’ (that is, a convict) who has absconded from the Hawkesbury farm of Thomas Rickerby. The notice cautions against ‘harbouring or employing him on pain of prosecution’.

Curiouser and curiouser: just over a year later he’s back in the Gazette, now one of 14 men due to depart the colony in the vessel Endeavour. However, it appears he didn’t go. While we can’t rule out journalistic error (i.e. the listing was wrong) or identity theft (more than one man used the name), it seems Hunter was either denied permission to leave, or changed his mind. Had his Cape sentence expired by 1809? Did his unconventional secondment to the Porpoise give him an opportunity to pass himself off as a free man?

However, there’s no doubt that Hunter got into serious trouble over the next three years. By 1812-13 he was up at Newcastle, a penal outpost for colonial re-offenders. Paperwork for this transfer also notes him as a Porpoise arrival. He had escaped Newcastle by March 1813, and three years later was known to be bushranging with a man named George Fuller.

Newcastle penal outpost in 1812, when Colin Hunter was sent there

In September 1816 this pair recruited two convict farm servants to raid the property of John Miller at Canterbury (now a suburb in Sydney’s inner-west). On the evening of September 30th, Miller was relaxing by his fireside with his wife and four children. Four strangers – two armed – suddenly burst through the farmhouse door. Miller rose to his feet in alarm and was immediately shot dead by one of the intruders. Ignoring the terrified screams of Mrs Miller, the bushrangers threatened her life and proceeded to pillage the house.

At first Hunter blamed his accomplice Thomas Dooley for the shooting, but the others soon found that Hunter’s fowling piece had been fired. Later in court Hunter claimed his gun went off by accident. This may have been true, but it didn’t stop the plundering – even the children’s clothes were stolen.

With a free pardon and fifty pounds offered for the bushrangers, it wasn’t long before they were rounded up. Colin Hunter, Thomas Dooley and Michael Ryan were hanged in Sydney for murder and robbery on November 4th, 1816. Fuller saved himself by turning informer. The hanged men were suspended for an hour before their bodies went to the surgeon for dissection, standard legal procedure if the judge did not order gibbeting after execution.

So ended a colourful, unusual and distinctly inglorious colonial career. First bushranger or not, he was possibly the only one ever named Colin, a very rare name in colonial times.

This article was originally published in Fortean Times magazine in 2001.

Ross Bridge, Tasmania


Nowhere in Australia is the convict legacy more evident than in Tasmania, where the tiny midlands village of Ross has one of its strangest manifestations – a colonial bridge that kept a bizarre secret for 135 years.  

The unexpectedly intricate keystone carvings impress any riverside observer. The longer you look the more you see, until wild patterns come alive with goblin faces, silent sentinels above the Macquarie River’s restless current.  

Unique as such artistry is amongst convict-built public works, they received little or no scholarly attention until 1971, when an architectural study by Leslie Greener and Norman Laird boldly interpreted the bridge carvings as an array of pagan symbolism and political satire.  

Less controversially, Greener and Laird also identified the long-forgotten convict sculptor, Daniel Herbert – a cultured ex-highwayman who, if their theory is correct, exorcised the demons of his transportation with an outburst of religious and political subversion that was in equal measures both daring and subtle.  

Herbert’s education and family background are unknown. Born in Taunton Dean in 1797, he was clearly a talented mason but his only confirmed occupation in England was a signwriter in Leeds. On 24th March 1827 he was sentenced to death at the York Assizes for highway robbery. This was commuted to life transportation, and the following year saw him arrive in Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania), then the British Empire’s most remote penal colony.  

Herbert endured the usual punishments over the next few years for such infractions as ‘being absent from muster’ and ‘not working’. He was flogged once (25 lashes) and did several three-to-seven day stints on the dreaded treadwheel. His luck turned, however, when the authorities decided to finish the much-delayed new bridge at Ross, then an important military outpost between Hobart and Launceston. In May 1835 he had arrived in Ross with another convict stonemason, James Colbeck, and the promise of an official pardon upon the bridge’s successful completion.  

Working swiftly, the convicts carved 186 keystones by 14th July 1836, the day of completion. At least 87 carvings are by Herbert; the rest by others under his direction. The subject matter is astonishing.  

Lion & Lamb


The six centre keystones depict devouring imperial monsters, including a crowned rat-creature clawing a human head, and a distorted (British?) lion crushing a lamb under its paw. Elsewhere, a lion-headed plant-bodied monster has, according to Laird and Greener, a double-sexed motif – a Jungian symbol of sickness and cure. 

Queen & King


The face generally called The Queen has been identified as Norah Cobbett, the alcoholic wife of convict superintendent Jorgen Jorgenson. Herbert apparently surrounded her with androgynous healing symbols, as if to counteract the violence and misery of her short life. Jorgenson is also there, an imperious caricature resembling a playing-card king, befitting this former ‘King of Iceland’ – where in 1809 he led a coup and briefly held sole power.  

Sir George Arthur (Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen’s Land 1823-37) appears as a grim, hatted caricature atop a skull, redolent of the suffering he presided over. No less remarkable is a foreboding John Calvin, the Puritan inspiration for Arthur’s stern rule. A lone Aboriginal face is accompanied by a flower, a soul archetype – rare compassion for a people already threatened by genocide.  

Dense, seemingly abstract designs swirl about and sometimes engulf the figures. Laird and Greener see the symbolism as typically Celtic: circles (unity), double-roped spirals (rebirth), eight-petalled rose (regeneration) and horned deities (fertility and purification). Maternal wombs and vulvas reflect the creative aspect of the unconscious; snakes herald transformation. The theme, according to the 1971 study, is consistently oppression and death opposed by rebirth and renewal.  

Ross Bridge from river bank


A stag with a hominid mask between its antlers may show the Celtic god Cernunnos in regenerative aspect. Dogs, linked with death and resurrection, appear four times, one with a Celtic horn. Herbert even included himself and his wife – he married convict maidservant Mary Witherington during construction – surrounded by unity and healing motifs.  

If there is paganism and satire in Herbert’s work, it seems to have eluded his contemporaries. At least it passed without recorded comment. No-one else in the far-flung penal colony may have shared his grasp of mythic iconography or realised the implications of the stylised portraiture. The detail isn’t always clear from the river banks and the faces possibly went unrecognised as belonging to particular people amidst all that distracting pattern-work. An extant letter suggests the construction overseer, Major William Turner, admired Herbert’s craftsmanship without taking special interest in the nature of his creativity.    

After his pardon, Herbert settled at Ross where he was buried in 1868. He was remembered locally as a mason, painter, violinist and the ‘artist of the bridge’. The intensity of the artist’s vision remained unexplored for a century.  

The extent to which Herbert’s symbolism was conscious is debatable. Was he being merely decorative, seeking personal solace in beautifying the bridge with iconography that held no particular significance for him? Did the stresses of penal servitude release subconscious archetypes when his artistry was offered rare license? Obviously many of the symbols are unlikely to have been conscious articulations back in Herbert’s pre-Jung world.  

While it stretches credulity to suggest his work reveals a pagan belief system, Herbert could be said at the very least to have expressed displeasure with Calvinist Christianity. It is a curious fact that the two apparently Celtic deities on St Luke’s Church at Bothwell (91 km from Ross) are unmistakably Herbert’s.  

The darkness of Tasmania’s penal history touches Ross in many ways – there’s a ruined ‘female factory’ and several convict-built military structures nearby – but that shadow is cast most deeply by the mysterious legacy of Daniel Herbert.  


NOTE: Known locally for superb bakeries, Ross (pop. 250) is 79kms south from Launceston or 120kms north from Hobart along the Midland Highway, set amidst picturesque wool-growing valleys and wooded hills. Accommodation includes the Man O’ Ross, an 1835 coachhouse. The touristy Wool Centre has a small bridge display including some casts of figures. The bridge is best enjoyed through binoculars, as much detail is difficult to fully appreciate from the riverside.

NOTE: My sources for Herbert’s birth and background (principally Greener and Laird’s Ross Bridge & The Sculpture of Daniel Herbert (Hobart, 1971) in this article are at odds with his entry in the online Australian Dictionary of Biography


You prisoners of New South Wales,
Who frequent watchhouses and gaols
A story to you I will tell
`Tis of a convict’s tour to hell.

Several people have asked me how I chose the title of Tour To Hell.

It’s my tribute to Frank ‘The Poet’ MacNamara, an Irish convict who was shipped out to New South Wales in 1832. His most famous composition is probably the ballad Moreton Bay, which celebrates the death of a tyrannical commandant, but he wrote many others. He even put some of his petitions to the authorities in verse.

One of his greatest works is A Convict’s Tour To Hell, written in October 1839. Pretty much in the style of Jonathan Swift, it satirises the penal colony by having a nameless convict dream of visiting hell and heaven. Hell is inhabited by overseers and colonial officials, suffering all kinds of torment. He doesn’t shirk from naming names, either.

Then I beheld that well known Trapman
The Police Runner called Izzy Chapman
Here he was standing on his head
In a river of melted boiling lead.

Heaven, meanwhile, is filled with convicts – even Bold Jack Donahue (the famous bushranger was then nine years dead). The verse is in effect an imaginative escape, straight from the mind of a transportee still under sentence. And so too, in a sense, were the myths of place in Tour To Hell.

The title seemed doubly appropriate as many convicts who fled to the bush unwittingly embarked on their own tour to Hell. Expecting Arcadia, they soon found themselves lost and facing the prospect of death from starvation and exposure.

Although the Poet’s original sentence was transportation for seven years, he couldn’t keep out of trouble and 15 years passed before he got his ticket-of-leave. He was flogged 14 times, did time in road gangs, on a treadmill and ended up being sent to Port Arthur. But he dreamed of a happy place for himself and 

.. many others whom floggers mangled
And lastly were by Jack Ketch strangled.
Peter, says Jesus, let Frank in
For he is thoroughly purged from sin

Frank The Poet wrote this a few years after the escape myths had subsided. Even so, his words preserve the sort of imaginative longings in the penal colony that helped such tales flourish in earlier years when Australia was barely known to Europeans.

The full text of A Convict’s Tour To Hell is at this State Library of NSW  link. It’s a fascinating time capsule as well as a masterpiece of colonial black humour. Enjoy!

I’m tremendously honoured and pleased to say that last night Tour To Hell was one of six books to receive this year’s Alex Buzo Prize, awarded to the shortlisted finalists of the 2009 CAL Waverley Library Award For Literature (The Nib).

Here is a link to the Judges’ Comments

Hello and welcome to my new website.

For this first post I wanted to say a little bit about my book Tour To Hell, and how I came to write it.

Tour To Hell is a true account from Australia’s penal colony days, about convicts who were inspired to abscond by beliefs in nearby societies that might offer them sanctuary. It began with an article I wrote for a British magazine which regularly investigates historical anomalies and oddities. Seeking an Australian angle, I settled on peculiarities of the convict era, recalling the old story about convicts attempting to escape by walking to China.

After researching and writing the 2000-word article I felt the topic was far bigger and more interesting than I had anticipated. I was astonished that no-one had ever written a book about it. I realised I was in a position to do so. So I did! (after seven years’ hard labour)

Toongabbie penal settlement near Sydney. Irish convicts sent here planned a mass walkout to the mythical inland 'white colony' in the 1790s. Image courtesy National Library of Australia.

Toongabbie penal farm near Sydney. In 1798 Irish convicts here planned a mass walkout to the mythical inland ‘white colony’. Courtesy National Library of Australia.

Many fascinating stories from the early days had never been retold. But I wanted to do more than compile interesting events and adventures. Describing and examining the ideas behind the myth-driven escapes, I believe, throws new light on our early colonial days. I resolved to pursue the topic as thoroughly as possible and perhaps make a useful and original contribution to convict studies.

For this reason I wanted to ensure my investigations withstood academic scrutiny, especially by professional historians who might dispute some of my conclusions. And so I took care to present a fully footnoted and referenced work. But I had no intention of producing a textbook; I wrote Tour To Hell principally for the general reader with an interest in Australian history. I imagined it as appealing to the same reader who enjoyed Robert Hughes The Fatal Shore or Inga Clendinnen’s Dancing With Strangers.

The basic topic of Tour To Hell is neither new nor controversial. The existence of convict escape myths is well known, even if not much else is generally remembered about them. However, the full story of these myths has never before been gathered together or had an entire book devoted to it.

The usual approach until now has been to dismiss the beliefs, after a cursory glance, as an irrational product of ignorance and desperation. While these were certainly factors, I also hope my critical evaluation of primary source evidence shows that convicts had perfectly rational reasons to jump to mistaken conclusions about bush-Chinas and inland white colonies.

Few historians, for example, have commented on the irony that colonial officials, while sneering at convicts who believed in white bush societies, were simultaneously feeding the myth by hypothesising about equally non-existent inland seas and straits – and even drawing on similar Aboriginal evidence to support such ideas.

I believe the old escape myths give us a rare insight into an almost-lost convict mindset, the earliest folklore to arise in the colony. I welcome any discussion or correspondence on the topic.

I also hope to use this site to blog about pretty much anything that crosses my mind.