Reading James Boyce’s Van Diemen’s Land: Reflections on a Penal Colony

Over the summer, I had the opportunity to visit Tasmania. It quickly became clear just how central convict history is to the island’s identity. From preserved prison sites to historical signage in small towns, reminders of the past are visible everywhere. It also confirmed what I had heard before—Tasmania occupies a unique place in Australian history.

While in Hobart, I visited the Salamanca Market, held every Saturday near the waterfront. There, among the many stalls, I came across a table selling historical books. It was run by none other than James Boyce, the author of Van Diemen’s Land. We had a brief conversation, and I purchased a copy of the book directly from him.

Not long after returning home, I began reading it. Van Diemen’s Land is a carefully researched and clearly written account of Tasmania’s early years as a penal colony. Rather than offering a broad national history, Boyce focuses on the development of the colony itself—how the geography, convict system, and early patterns of land use shaped the society that emerged.

One of the key themes in the book is how Tasmania became a site of secondary punishment. Unlike New South Wales, which over time moved towards a free settler society, Van Diemen’s Land remained heavily controlled by government and military authorities for much longer. Assigned labour was widespread, and ex-convicts often struggled to find independence. Boyce also explains how the bush played a dual role: feared by authorities as a place of escape and disorder, but often seen by convicts as offering some measure of freedom.

What I found quite fascinating was his observation that dogs were not present on the island before the arrival of sealers, venturers, and later the convict population. Their introduction had an immediate and lasting impact on Tasmania’s native wildlife. Boyce uses this detail to illustrate how rapidly and fundamentally the colony disrupted the ecological balance of the island, even in ways that were not always deliberate.

The book also examines the dispossession of the Aboriginal population in Tasmania. Boyce presents this history with care, linking the expansion of the penal colony to the broader consequences of colonisation. He avoids overstatement but makes it clear that the impact was profound and long-lasting.

As I read, I thought again of Hannah Brown, my third great-grandmother, who was transported to New South Wales several decades earlier. While her story belongs to a different location and time, the themes overlap: punishment, isolation, control, and the small forms of resistance or adaptation that marked convict lives.

Boyce’s book is not written to shock or dramatise. Its strength lies in its measured tone and the way it brings together historical evidence to explain how Van Diemen’s Land developed. For anyone interested in Australia’s early penal colonies or in understanding how Tasmania’s history differs from the mainland, it is well worth reading.

Penal colony · Aboriginal history · Hannah Brown · Family history · Book reflections