When European eyes first gazed on the island jewels of the Pacific, there was no way of predicting the role that such territories might play in the future imperial chess game between the British and the French. Ferdinand Magellan's circumnavigation of the globe may have provided naming rights for the largest of the Earth's oceanic divisions, but the peaceful ocean seemed almost entirely empty to him. Apparently deceived by the unfortunate location and lack of water on the tiny atolls of the Disappointment Islands, it was only the western island of Guam that caught his attention on that historic voyage. Subsequent Spanish forays by Mendana de Neira into the South Seas discovered the Gilbert and Ellice Islands, the Solomon Islands and the Marquesas towards the end of the sixteenth century. Some decades later, in 1643, the Dutchman Abel Tasman sighted the Tongan archipelago and Fiji Islands. The prizes of the Pacific were, however, yet to be claimed.

It was the eighteenth century that brought the British and the French into the Pacific, with the discovery of Tahiti by Samuel Wallis in 1767. A year later, Louis-Antoine de Bougainville's arrival launched a torrent of utopian depictions of the island paradise, which was represented as Thomas More's ideal republic and the New Cythera:

Joseph-Marie Degérando, who penned the ethnographic instructions that were adopted for the Baudin expedition's voyage to the South Seas, advised French naturalists and scientific travellers to investigate the “senses of the Savage”. He urged them to ascertain which senses native peoples most frequently called upon and what circumstances influenced their development. These instructions also requested explorers to compare indigenous people's faculties of sense to those of the Europeans, and to determine to “what class and species of sensation do they attach most pleasure?” Degérando even proposed a methodology, which Baudin and his men were rarely if ever in the position to carry out. He suggested that the ethnographer should judge each particular sense against the following criteria:

1. the art with which two or more sensations are distinguished;

2. the tenuity of sensations that can be noticed; 3. the number of sensations that can be simultaneously grasped; 4. the speed with which the operations are carried out; 5. the capacity to prolong them for a more or less long period without fatigue; 6. finally, the precision of the judgements which sometimes accompany them.

Degérando's naive disregard of the practical circumstances in which explorers would commonly find themselves was patent, for they rarely had the opportunity to follow his carefully constructed methods of observation. However, his instructions reveal the broader significance placed on investigating the human senses in the eighteenth century.

When one thinks of early French voyages in the southern hemisphere in terms of colonial expansion, what come to mind are the opportunities missed and the rivalries in which the French always seem to come off second best. One thinks first of Bougainville's circumnavigation and his Tahitian sojourn in 1768, arriving after Samuel Wallis, who had claimed possession of the islands for George III. Subsequently, two years before James Cook's exploration, Bougainville was prevented by the barrier of coral from exploring the northern coasts of New Holland.

One thinks also of the French eighteenth-century voyagers in search of the mythical Terra australis: Jean-Baptiste Charles Bouvet de Lozier in 1738–1739, Marc-Joseph Marion du Fresne, Yves-Joseph de Kerguelen de Trémarec and Louis François Marie Aleno de Saint Allouarn in the 1770s. Saint Allouarn claimed possession of the west coast of New Holland for France in 1772, 54 years before the first English settlement at King George Sound in 1826, but there was no follow-up on the part of the French Crown.

The above perspective on early French exploration of the southern hemisphere positions it in the context of English conquest and colonisation, the French story appearing as a series of failures, as regards both the obsessive search by the French for Terra australis and their lack of action when circumstances were propitious. It is clear that the French were interested in discovering new lands to conquer in the southern hemisphere but their efforts seem curiously dispersed and inconclusive.

The French connection with the South Seas stretches back at least as far as the voyage of Binot Paulmier de Gonneville (1503–1505), who believed he had discovered the fabled great south land after being blown off course during a storm near the Cape of Good Hope. The story of his voyage remained largely forgotten for over 150 years, but eventually resurfaced in 1664 thanks to the publication by the Abbé Jean Paulmier of a document in which he argued, on the basis of this supposed discovery, for the establishment of a Christian mission in this “third part” of the world. While historians today contest the authenticity of various aspects of the Abbé Paulmier's Mémoires, there is no doubt about the impact it had in France, both on the collective imagination and, more concretely, on French plans for exploration and colonial expansion. It was not until the eighteenth century, however, that France began sending mariners to the southern oceans on a regular basis, and by that time a new maritime power had begun to emerge: Great Britain. Together, these two nations would play a decisive role in determining the configuration of these little known parts of the globe, and particularly of the Pacific, which had for so long been the almost exclusive preserve of Spain.

The early history of European exploration and discovery in the Pacific Ocean had indeed been dominated by the activities of the Spanish.

On 23 April 1821, François Arago reported to the Royal Academy of the Sciences on the results of Louis Freycinet's world voyage. His report, composed in collaboration with fellow savants Alexander von Humboldt and Georges Cuvier, among others, paid particular attention to the material that Freycinet had gathered in Oceania “on the races of men that live there, their state of civilisation, the development of diverse branches of agriculture and commerce, finally, on the causes that arrest or advance the progress of their society”. He explained that, in order to facilitate this research, Freycinet had “provided those men who would share his work with a series of questions that addressed in a methodical manner the physical, moral and political characteristics of man”. Arago commended the “advantages of this classification”, which had provided him and his scientific colleagues with extensive information on the Marianna Islands in particular: “we cannot give enough praise for this tableau”, he declared to the Academy.

It would appear, then, that Freycinet had provided the savants in Paris with a vast amount of empirical data deemed valuable to their research on the natural history of man. Given the purposeful and systematic approach he had taken to gathering this information, Freycinet might also have had something to say regarding that main anthropological question of the day: the cause and meaning of human difference.

Alert students will often tell teachers and university lecturers that there is sometimes a significant discrepancy between the same historical characters, settings or incidents in historical fiction and nonfiction. An illustration of this point arises with hugely successful author Bryce Courtenay's work of historical fiction, The Potato Factory (1995), and a subsequent work of nonfiction, which sought to put the record straight on Isaac (Ikey) Solomon, one of the principal characters in Courtenay's novel. Judith Sackville-O'Donnell, a Melbourne author, challenged Courtenay's depiction of Ikey Solomon, who was also believed to be the model for Charles Dickens's fictional villain Fagin.

Sackville-O'Donnell's The First Fagin: The True Story of Ikey Solomon (2002) sold about 1500 copies. While a commendable publishing feat, this fares very poorly in comparison with Courtenay's The Potato Factory, whose sales exceeded manyfold that of The First Fagin: ‘The Potato Factory was last year [2003] listed by Angus & Robertson as 17th on Australia's 100 favourite books. Gold Logie-winner Lisa McCune was among the stars in a TV miniseries based on the novel’ (Schwartz, 2004).

This is just one example of where a dedicated and motivated professional historian can take issue with the historicity of a piece of historical fiction. Clearly, if the sales of The Potato Factory are an index to the success of the novel then the demonstrated warping of historical fact does little to offend the reading public.

History teachers have available to them a rising tide of popularity in the reading of historical novels. There is no sign of this popularity waning. As this chapter will demonstrate, the historical novel continues to develop as a literary genre as increasing numbers of authors are attracted to it.

The rising tide of popularity for historical fiction

In 2008 Richard Nile wrote an impressionistic article in The Australian: ‘today, historical novels massively outsell even the finest [nonfiction] history, and readers continue to learn from their imaginative journeys into Australia's past’ (Nile, 2008). Thus, for Nile, historical fiction serves to educate readers about our past in a manner that exceeds nonfiction. This nationwide interest in Australian historical fiction perhaps stems from the nationalistic upsurge in a general interest in the Australian past as reflected by the massive increase in attendance at such events as the Gallipoli Anzac Day dawn service on freezing mornings, treks along the steamy Kokoda Trail, or expeditions to the misty Flanders Fields.

Further to the argument that history sells, it is relevant to note that a number of historical nonfiction writers have had or continue to have a strong public appeal, including authorities such as Manning Clark, Geoffrey Blainey and Robert Hughes. Also relevant are writers such as Peter FitzSimmon, who writes popular narratives in historical nonfiction, with fresh works appearing in bookshops at almost an annual rate. History sells. Another commentator has noted this penchant for the past in Australian fiction.

As many teachers and educators seriously question the role of textbooks in the History lesson, teachers and educators are looking increasingly to alternative and more engaging teaching/learning strategies (Villano, 2005). Recognising the significant pedagogical advantages of using historical fiction in their classrooms, some teachers have long used historical fiction as a central teaching/learning strategy in the History classroom. Now, however, student teachers and teachers are advantaged — and consequently, should be reassured — by an emerging amount of research showing how the teaching of historical literacy through historical novels can be achieved. There is, I argue, ample evidence of the many pedagogical advantages of using historical novels in their teaching.

Consider this classroom scenario: there is a Year 9 class researching different aspects of medieval history. One group is researching the design of a typical castle. The teacher reads a short section of Ken Follett's The Pillars of the Earth (1989) to the group. The selection describes the layout and design of a castle as seen through the eyes of William, a potential attacker. The goal is for students to design their own castle based on the description from the novel. This is a challenging lesson, requiring students to envision text. The teacher reads the excerpt, a few sentences at a time. At appropriate points, she pauses and gives the students time to sketch. Follett (1989) describes the moat as a figure 8.

Consider this historical account: the setting is the Cocos Islands in the Indian Ocean; the date is 7 November 1914; the author is Stuart Macintyre, the Ernest Scott Professor of History at the University of Melbourne, and, since 2002 a Laureate Professor of the University of Melbourne. He writes:

Clearly, this must have been the greatest single tragedy in Australian military history.

Many students undertaking teacher-preparation courses in Australian universities, and/or teachers are likely to be avid readers of Australian historical novels. This chapter is written with the object of deepening their appreciation of the rich tapestry of the Australian historical novel. It does so in order that they might increase their understanding of the way that historical novels can fully engage students in an appreciation and understanding of Australian history, particularly the different ways in which generations of Australian historians as compared to writers of historical fiction have perceived the past.

Historical novels versus History textbooks in the classroom

Although textbooks have not always been used in significant numbers for SOSE/HSIE/History in Australian classrooms, their use may increase with the advent of the national History curriculum. But that is unclear at the time of the writing of this book. It is clear, however, that in New South Wales secondary schools, where history continues as a mandatory subject in grades 7-10, that History textbooks are used widely. My own experience is of crates of class sets of three or four different textbooks being available for any class, often dominating all of class time, the lesson being little more than reading comprehension.

What advantages do historical novels have over traditional-style textbooks? Groce and Groce (2005) remind us of the fact textbook publishers are faced with massive challenges in attempting to present a huge amount of knowledge and skills to students at a particular grade level: ‘There will routinely be criticism of how material is presented or of information that has been omitted for various reasons’ (p. 101).

When teachers or academics recommend a particular historical novel as a teaching/learning strategy for an undergraduate unit or classroom activity, they enter into a very problematic and contested domain. But most teachers or academics would agree that the first consideration should be meeting their students at their point of need. It is likely that many students will have been exposed to, or will have read, historical novels generally and/or Australian historical novels. Some may be aware of the changes that have come over the historical novel, and the Australian historical novel specifically, since the onset of the postmodernist and postcolonial paradigms.

At this point, teachers or academics might themselves that their principal concern here is not to teach literary criticism but rather to provide students with a potent teaching/learning strategy in their History curriculum. In short, I argue for the use of historical novels as a pedagogical device in the History classroom. That is not to say that if the opportunity arises, points of understanding of literary criticism cannot be developed from these opportunities. I argue, however, for the use of historical novels with a strong plot — a plot that will capture and sustain the attention of History students.

Rejecting the plot portraying an untidy reality

Recently, some literary commentators have begun to lament the loss of plot in many novels. Lev Grossman goes on to write that ‘a good story is a dirty secret that we all share.

“But when it comes to the river of history, the watershed moments most susceptible to change are assassinations — the ones that succeeded and the ones that failed. Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria gets shot by a mentally unstable pipsqueak named Gavrilo Princip and there's your kickoff to World War 1. On the other hand, after Claus von Stauffenberg failed to kill Hitler in 1944 — close, but no cigar — the war continued and millions of people died.’

I had seen that before, too.

Al said, ‘There's nothing we can do about Archduke Ferdinand or Adolf Hitler. They're out of our reach.’

I thought of accusing him of making pronounal assumptions and kept my mouth shut. I felt a little like a man reading a very grim book. A Thomas Hardy, novel, say. You know how it's going to end, but instead of spoiling things, that somehow increases your fascination. It's like watching a kid run his electric train faster and faster and waiting for it to derail on one of the curves.

‘As for 9.11 if you wanted to fix that one, you'd have to wait around for forty-three years. You'd be pushing eighty, if you made it at all.’

Now the lone-star flag the gnome had been holding made sense. It was a souvenir of Al's last jaunt into the past. ‘You couldn't even make it to ‘63, could you?’

Australian historical fiction tends to fall into some dominant categories, reflecting perennial themes that are forever being reinterpreted: first settlement, European inland exploration, pastoralism, conflict with Indigenous Australians, patriotism and war are common themes of Australian historical fiction. In writing these novels and responding to these themes, among other things, novelists inform readers much about how Australians think of themselves and of how they perceive the Australian nation. Novels often challenge conventional values in these respects. Certainly, they offer engaging insights for students into Australian history.

National character and our convict heritage

For the most part, Australia's history is founded on the convict past. Only South Australia is excluded from this history. But even then, many South Australians continue to research their convict heritage. Not surprisingly, Australian convict history is enormously popular with the general public.

Here I am concerned with examining some of the ways in which historical fiction dealing with our convict past can shed new understanding on this aspect of our history in ways that fail nonfiction. Can fiction offer a dimension of understanding on this subject that nonfiction cannot? I first offer a brief survey and analysis of the nonfiction convict history, before proceeding to examine some examples of the fictional genre.

A casual stroll through any section of any reputable Australian bookseller will reveal the quantity of convict histories in fictional and nonfictional genres.

The genre of historical fiction is continually expanding, adapting to new demands from readers and the creativity of authors. First, let us examine this phenomenon from its international perspectives.

The range of historical fiction

What is historical fiction? The United States-based Historical Novel Society acknowledges the complexity and proposes the following definition:

Perhaps to maximise membership, however, the society offers a much broader definition:

Historical fiction comprises several sub-genres, and their nomenclatures are quite arbitrary. In Chapters 7, 8 and 9 respectively, I will examine counterfactual histories, alternate histories and time-slip histories for their application to the History curriculum in Australian schools.

Historical novels can tell us much about not only our past, but also what we collectively hold to be important about our past. Usually, they provide an insight into the past in many and varied ways, including ways that are, I suggest, simply impossible to present to students of history through textbooks. This chapter will show how the development of an appreciation of historical facts and historical agency can be achieved most fruitfully through the use of historical novels in the classroom.

The historical novelist and facts

Historical figures have become historical characters in this type of novel. But is their characterisation partly imaginary? Often the novelist will explain what he or she has done with their characters. Witness Ken Follett (2010) in the back page of his novel set in the Western Front of the First World War: