The Exiles

“With the fingers of one hand she traced its faint outline, imagining she could feel the thread of Cecil’s initials intertwined with the family crest—a lion, serpent, and crown.”

As she heads off to answer for a crime she did not commit, Evangeline unwittingly caresses Cecil’s handkerchief, which she holds onto for the remainder of her life. However, she does not see the truth even as it is right in front of her. Though she eternally waits for Cecil to save her from her sentence, it is his family name—symbolized by pride, deception, and wealth—that spells out his dismissal of their affair and of his responsibility to her.

“You’re learning the hard way, Miss Stokes, that there’s no man you can count on. No woman neither. The sooner you understand that, the better off you’ll be.”

When the matron of Newgate Prison gives Evangeline this advice, she means well—after all, Evangeline understands how true it is in that moment. However, there are two people whom Evangeline must trust to survive once she is bound for transport to Australia—Doctor Dunne and Hazel. Though the matron’s words continually ring in her ears, Evangeline must put her unborn child to the forefront and trust others who can help her.

“‘Ye think he’ll come for ye.’

‘No.’

‘You’re hoping.’

‘He’s a good man, deep down.’

Olive laughed. ‘He isn’t.’

‘You don’t know him.’

‘Oh, poor girl,’ she said. ‘Poor Leenie. I probably do.’”

This conversation between Olive and Evangeline makes a clear distinction between illusion and reality. Evangeline continues to cling to her desperate hope that Cecil will save her from her circumstances—symbolized by her constant stroking of his handkerchief. However, Olive—who is worldly—knows men far better than Evangeline does. In her experience, men want one thing and leave when they get it, which is what she is suggesting Cecil has done.

“Maybe humans are like that, she thought. Maybe the moments that meant something to you and the people you’ve loved over the years are the rings. Maybe what you thought you’d lost is still there, inside of you, giving you strength.”

Though she reflects on this while at Newgate prison, Evangeline’s own personal tree rings are not built upon her past but rather her future. It is her baby and the women she will meet on the Medea that will continue to define and finalize her story long after she is gone.

“You carry the people and places you cherish with you. Remember that and you will never be lonely, child.”

As Mathinna sits on the boat on her way toward the Franklins, she touches the necklaces given to her by her mother and remembers her words. As the last remaining connection to her people and her culture, these necklaces represent the weight of memories that Mathinna holds within her. When Lady Jane takes the necklaces from Mathinna upon her arrival in Hobart Town, it symbolizes the seizure of all that makes Mathinna who she is—which is Lady Jane’s goal.

“Ascending the rope ladder to the main deck, she thought of those children’s tales in which humans are transformed into frogs and foxes and swans, and only when someone recognizes them for who they truly are is the spell finally broken.”

After being dehumanized at both Newgate Prison and on board the Medea, Doctor Dunne finally shows Evangeline—and the rest of the women—that they are still people, no matter what sentence they carry. Because of his kindness, Evangeline finally feels human again and rises above the objectification towards some semblance of humanity.

“The sailors at the railing were quiet. Evangeline had almost forgotten it was possible for women to be treated with such deference.”

As a governess, Evangeline held a certain rank in Victorian society. Though she was not a member of the upper class, she still rose above the poor and illiterate members of society. However, once she is labeled a convict, the murderous men on board the Medea hold rank and power over her. It is not until she sees their obvious contrast in their treatment of the Quaker women that she realizes how far she has fallen.

“Evangeline felt like a horse resisting a bridle. Resistance, she knew, was pointless; the horse always ends up in the bridle. And so would she.”

In horsemanship, the act of placing a bridle on a horse signifies control over the beast. Evangeline believes that the necklace of the small red tin and the number 171 takes away her humanity and forces her under someone’s control. Though she tries resisting, she knows that her rights and privileges no longer exist; therefore, she must acquiesce to the control.

“This handkerchief was the only remaining shred from the fabric of her previous life. The only tangible reminder that she’d once been somebody else.”

Throughout the first part of the novel, the handkerchief was Evangeline’s sole reminder of the love she once shared with Cecil, the item that gives her comfort as she sets off on this undesired journey. However, through Hazel and Olive’s insistent questioning, she realizes that the handkerchief does not necessarily connect her to Cecil but to the person she was before—a respected member of society. Ironically, it is Cecil’s inaction that leads to her fall from grace.

“The crude catcalls and vulgar groping, the casual brutality, the arrogant assumptions of privilege—she was sick of it. And she was also, she realized, enraged at Cecil. He had merely been toying with her, using her for his own selfish ends. His delight in seeing his grandmother’s ruby on her finger had been nothing more than egotistical self-gratification, an occasion to admire his two shiny ornaments—her and the ring.”

This moment marks a turning point in Evangeline’s character development. For the first time, she sees through the facade of Cecil’s admiration for her. After Buck’s attempted rape of Hazel, Evangeline understands that Buck and Cecil only want to exert control over others, and finally, Evangeline’s strength rises to the point where she will never let any man hold power over her again.

“Olive tucked the blanket around her. ‘Not so long ago this kind of thing was just the way it was, and nobody batted an eye.’

‘Yes, it’s so civilized now,’ Evangeline said.”

The belief in behaving in a civilized manner—which is so prominent in European society—proves false on board the ship. While Olive tends to operate under the old belief that men naturally could command control over women, Evangeline refuses to believe that holds true any longer. Her response here, which is tongue-in-cheek irony, calls into question how civilized a group of people can be if they continue to run over other people’s rights.

“The sheltered, unworldly governess who’d entered the gates of Newgate was gone, and in her place was someone new. She barely recognized herself. She felt as flinty as an arrowhead. As strong as stone.”

Throughout her journey, Evangeline relies on her background as someone from a decent status in society. Initially, she snubs the other women as beneath her—until she learns that they are just as valuable as she is. After Buck’s attempted rape of Hazel, something changes in Evangeline’s mind. Her choice to stand up for the younger girl—which directly leads to her own death—means that she has surrendered the innocence she once held. By comparing herself to an arrowhead or a stone, she says that she will not be broken by outside forces.

“In the dim recesses of her mind she remembered something she’d once read about the act of drowning—that the terror was in resisting, in refusing to accept. Once you let go, it wasn’t so hard; you just sank into the water, cool and obliterating.”

These last moments before Evangeline’s death speak to the powerlessness of resistance. Unlike before, when Evangeline initially refused to wear the numbered necklace to resist anyone else’s control over her, she now realizes that the control has always been hers: hers to keep, and hers to let go. Now, the stakes are higher—she has a newborn child—but her choice to not resist her own death symbolizes her final takeover of her own life.

“On this globe, it was merely a rock in the ocean, too slight and insignificant to have a name. It was as if the place she loved, and the people on it, had been erased. No one even knew they existed.”

From the flashbacks of Palawa history, readers understand the movement of the Aboriginal people further and further back from their homeland until they are forced to live on a small, rocky island. It isn’t until Mathinna sees an English-made globe that she finally understands—to the entire world, her people have been erased, forced into an existence that no one across the world can see. If no one in the world knows where they are, their existence is rendered meaningless.

“‘Why don’t you let it go?’ Mathinna asked.

‘I’m tempted, believe me.’ He sighed. ‘But apparently, creatures like this, raised in captivity, lose the ability to survive in the wild.’”

Though Sir John directly refers to the cockatoo here, his words actually foreshadow Mathinna’s future. After enough time kept in “captivity” by the Franklins, Mathinna cannot remember her past, her homeland, or her own identity. She truly becomes the “pet” that Lady Jane envisions her to be— held captive by her owners, incapable of freedom.

“It wasn’t a name Evangeline would’ve chosen. But to Hazel it was a way to mend a broken heart. To erase a false accusation. To claim a treasure. Ruby. Precious girl.”

Simply by being born, Ruby exonerates her mother’s legacy. Evangeline’s sentence depended upon the accusation that she was lying about Cecil’s affair with her. Through Ruby’s birth, that accusation is proven false.

“It seemed there were different rules for rich and poor, and the poor were always blamed. They were told that only by confessing their sins would they triumph over illnesses, like typhoid, but the streets and water were filthy. And girls and women had it worst, she’d always thought. Mired in the mud, no way to get out.”

While Hazel’s musings here come directly after a fire-and-brimstone church sermon, her commentary on the state of gender equality reveals the vast disparity between men and women in Victorian England. Once trapped—either by reputation, birth status, or unexpected pregnancy—there is little place for a woman to turn.

“Nobody had asked Mathinna these questions. Or any questions, really. Her answers felt strange in her mouth—they made her realize how little she’d told anyone about herself. How little most people wanted to know.”

Hazel can unite both worlds—that of Evangeline and that of Mathinna. Her desire to treat both women as people instead of objects counters how others treat the two. For Mathinna’s entire time in Hobart Town, she is treated as an amusement for other people to enjoy. Hazel’s obvious interest in Mathinna’s past makes Mathinna feel human again.

“‘I must say, I am impressed,’ the dowager said. ‘To have rescued this savage from a life of primeval ignorance—and to have given her an appreciation of art and culture—is a tremendous accomplishment. Almost as great, perhaps, as conquering the Arctic.’”

Like most of the Europeans in the novel, this party guest exhibits the typical air of conceit and superiority. Though Mathinna proves many times that she comes from a rich and varied culture, the British people cannot understand it. The party guest’s comparison of the “civilization” of Mathinna to “conquering the Arctic” turns Mathinna into something to be discovered and controlled.

“Why wasn’t it obvious before? She was just another piece of the Franklins’ eccentric collection, alongside the boiled skulls and taxidermied snakes and wombats. A marionette in a pretty dress. A cockatoo in a gilded cage.”

Though she has suspected it before, Mathinna finally realizes that she is just another piece of Lady Jane’s collection—something to show off to guests as an eccentricity. A marionette is a puppet whose strings are controlled by someone else, and that’s what Mathinna has been this entire time—an object controlled by Lady Jane, a caged bird who is barred from freedom.

“The Franklins meant well, no doubt, but the result is a creature who possesses both the natural belligerence of her race and a rather unnatural precocity. Within the space of a few days here she had become quite ungovernable.”

The warden at the orphanage tells Mathinna’s story, and, like many others who encounter Mathinna, she treats her as less than human, calling her a “creature” instead of a person. As usual, Mathinna is judged by the color of her skin and her race, except now she is faulted for both her heritage and the knowledge gained from the Franklins, further signifying how she does not hold a place in either world. Rather, it is her involvement in both worlds that leaves her without either.

“They were, both of them, exiles, torn from their homes and families. But Hazel had stolen a spoon to earn that status; Mathinna had done nothing to deserve her fate. Hazel was marked with the convict stain and would be for many years, but it erased itself as time went on. Mathinna had no such luxury.”

Unlike Hazel, who, as a white woman, can build a life for herself regardless of her past, Mathinna can never hide the color of her skin, and she can never escape society’s judgment of people who look like her, leaving her with almost no hope of ever advancing or succeeding.

“She turned the ring in her hand, observing how the gem caught and refracted the light. She imagined Evangeline holding it in this room nearly three decades ago. She thought of the lies told and promises broken. How desperate Evangeline must’ve felt—how miserable. Ruby put the ring back in its blue velvet box and snapped it shut.”

Finally, Ruby vindicates her mother’s suffering and pain. This beautiful ring was the catalyst for Evangeline’s conviction and death. Through refusing it, Ruby turns the tables on her biological father and places the blame where it belongs—back on the man who refused, for decades, to take responsibility for his inaction.