The result of the trip was a cargo for sale that kept Sydney talking for a month, and buying for much longer; Andrew said he bought the new Thistle in London ‒ and no further talk of his voyage would loosen any information about the Bristol merchantman, or of salvage money. But it was noted he applied immediately for a grant of land, and began building himself a house on Woolloomooloo Bay ‒ a private residence far grander than anything Sydney had yet seen. Within another month the Thistle sailed again for the East, still under the command of the Yankee captain; this time Andrew remained behind. Sydney already knew that Sara was expecting her third child.
The child, another son, Sebastian, was born above the store a few weeks before the house was completed. By then, from the evidence of the improvements to the Hawkesbury property, a smaller farm at Toongabbie which Andrew had just bought, and from the furnishings and silk hangings he had brought out from England for the new house, most people were convinced that the story of the salvage deal was true. Andrew Maclay was spending far more money than any small shipowner and trader could be expected to lay his hands on readily. Sara moved her belongings and the three children from the store to the new house ‒ finally given its name of Glenbarr by Andrew ‒ on one of the last summer days of 1800, when the street into which she had looked for more than four years was choked with dust. The townspeople watched, smiling broadly at the future prospect of a convict attempting to set up house in the manner of a lady of fashion.
The late summer of 1800 also brought the first ship into the harbour with the news that Napoleon was back in France, having slipped out of Egypt, leaving his army where Nelson’s victory at the Nile had bottled it up. He was back in Paris to overthrow the Directorate, and assume the position First Consul. Paris had welcomed him in a frenzy of joy.
Sydney discussed the news, digesting it warily, remembering that five years earlier they had not even heard of Napoleon’s name. They could recall too that those five years had also seen the rise of Nelson, and the triumph of the Navy at Cape St. Vincent and Camperdown. There had, along with this, been the blow to British security and pride dealt by the naval mutiny at the Nore; and in 1798 Ireland had broken again into open rebellion.
On the colony itself the war in Europe had three direct effects ‒ the Colonial Secretary had neither time nor supplies to meet its growing demands, the backwash of the Irish Rebellion had already hit it in a wave of political prisoners, whose Jacobite views and murderous humour made them singularly unwelcome; and almost the worst effect, from the Governor’s point of view, was that, with a war to fight in Europe, there was no chance of fresh Army officers, uncontaminated by rum and power, being attracted by the idea of service with the New South Wales Corps.
The Governor cursed Napoleon for more than the obvious reasons.
II
Jeremy’s brows were drawn together thoughtfully. He held his wine-glass loosely as he surveyed the room. After a few days it would take shape as the drawing-room of the Maclays’ new house ‒ at the moment it wore the ugliness of bare boards, uncurtained windows, and the litter of half-emptied packing-cases. In the centre, at a table covered with oddments of china, Sara and Andrew stood together, close to the single lamp, concentrating on carving a cold roast duck. There was an eager, restless look about their faces, and neither betrayed fatigue, although the household had been stirring at dawn that morning. The lamplight, seeking out the lines in Andrew’s weather-toughened skin, and the warm colour of Sara’s hair, also caught the glitter in their eyes, and the swift half-smile which kept appearing on each face. Sara wore a limp common gown, faded by the sun of three summers, and Andrew’s coat was the one in which he had worked with the carpenters on the old Thistle. Their movements were confident, and full of a sense of youth and excitement.
Jeremy listened to their odd snatches of talk.
‘… and the garden must be laid out properly this time, Sara.’
‘Yes ‒’ Sara paused to lay some of the meat on a plate.
‘But not too much. Formal gardens don’t suit the landscape here. In any case,’ she added, ‘it could never be half as lovely as the garden at Kintyre.’
Andrew glanced quickly over his shoulder. ‘Do you hear that, Jeremy? I’ve built my wife the finest house in the colony, and on her first night in it she can think of nothing else but that miserable hut on the Hawkesbury.’
Sara came towards Jeremy with the plate. ‘If this house is as happy as Kintyre, then I’ll be happy, too.’
Jeremy smiled at her. ‘A woman’s first love is like no other, is it, Sara?’
Her lips pursed a little. ‘No, like no other.’
They sat down on packing-cases drawn into a rough circle to eat their food. The lamp stood on the floor between them. One long window looking out on the bay was open to the soft wind of this night at the end of summer. Outside the trees stirred gently; in the house there was no sound to disturb the silence. The working-party had left at dusk, and the three children already slept, with Annie snoring beside them, in makeshift beds in a room above the wide entrance hall. There was a full orange moon above the harbour, and beyond the rays of the lamp, Jeremy could see the pale, white light on the floorboards in front of each of the long windows.
Suddenly raising her head and looking about, Sara caught Jeremy’s gaze.
‘It’s so quiet here,’ she said. ‘And no lights anywhere. We might almost be back at Kintyre.’
Andrew laid down his knife with a clatter. ‘Must you talk of Kintyre that way? One would think it was ours no longer. You know it’s waiting there whenever you want it.’
His voice was touched with impatience, but the sharp-edged tone disappeared when Sara turned towards him and smiled. The look that passed between them was meant for themselves alone, and Jeremy cursed silently and wished they would remember that they were not alone. They were too prone, he thought, to count him as being part of their own happiness, and not to remember that he was a man, someone to be driven half-crazy with an unnamed longing whenever Sara smiled in that fashion. In the years since the convict raid on Kintyre, the relationship between the three of them had deepened into a trust and comradeship that was not definable in words. As far as the rest of the colony was concerned he was merely Andrew Maclay’s overseer, and when anyone else was present that was the role he assumed; but alone with them he was close-knit in a unity of three people who had worked and struggled for the same end. Nevertheless, it was still torture for him to witness the intimacies of their married life, like the expressions written clearly on their faces now. Looking at them, it would have been easy to forget the years since their marriage, and the three children sleeping in the room above the hall.
Impatiently, he bent and caught up his glass from the floor. He spoke before he could check himself, and the words he uttered were the very last he wished to recall to the Maclays ‒ they betrayed his frustration, and the years of being without women of his own kind.
‘Do you remember …?’ he burst out. And then he halted.
They turned to look at him enquiringly. He pressed his lips together, and swallowed hard.
‘Yes?’ Andrew said.
‘Do you remember,’ Jeremy went on slowly, ‘we drank a toast at the camp on your wedding night … to the mistress of Kintyre?’
Andrew caught his mood at once. His face warmed with an expression of recollection, of tenderness. Watching him, Jeremy suffered an agony of envy. For a minute they sat there, remembering, all three of them, the cold wind which blew that night, and the stars, too bright and close.
‘Do I remember …?’ Andrew murmured. ‘It’s almost seven years ago.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Full years, Sara, for both of us. Who could have known …?’ Then he shrugged. ‘But these seven years are only the beginning. There’s still so much yet to do.’
Sara said gently, almost as an aside, ‘Will you never be satisfied, Andrew?’
‘Satisfied?’ He laughed. ‘Why should I be? Only fools are satisfied. Why should I sit in a ch
air and let the world spin about me?’
He stood up. All around his eyes Jeremy could see the lines, too deep and too many for his years. The eyes themselves were a strained, faded blue, as if the sun of the long voyages had taken the colour out of them.
‘I shall be a rich man yet,’ Andrew declared. ‘But not in the way this narrow corner calls wealth. I want wealth as the rest of the world knows it ‒ wealth that even London would acknowledge!’
Andrew rose and took a couple of paces across the room, hands behind his back. The lamplight revealed the stained coat, the frill of torn linen at the wrist, the unpowdered hair. But how much more impressive now, Jeremy thought, than when he appeared in the magnificence of lace, silver-buckled shoes, and the brocaded coats he had brought back with him from London. He stood with his legs wide apart, as if he were on the deck of a ship.
He turned round and looked down at his wife.
‘Some day I’ll take you back to London, Sara. You’ll have everything you ever wanted then. Some day …’
His lips parted in a smile. ‘In the meantime, we’ll live here ‒ removed from the noise and muck.’ He gestured to indicate the township built above the adjoining bay. ‘I’ll have land ‒ more land and more ships. And I’ll make the house here beautiful before I’m finished. Like this … I’ll show you!’
His enthusiasm flamed suddenly and he stooped to pick up a fisherman’s knife they had used to cut the rope around the packing-cases. Then he squatted before the case he had been sitting on, reaching out at the same time to draw the lamp nearer. With unhesitant strokes he began sketching lines in the rough wood with the point of the knife. The hard surface resisted him, and he swore softly with annoyance. The other two watched while the plan of the house, as it now was, became recognizable.
‘Now …’ Andrew said, stabbing with the knife, and turning towards them.
He broke off, and raised his head. The door-knob rattled softly; then silence followed. Sara and Jeremy twisted their heads to look behind. Andrew straightened slowly, the knife still in his hand. He moved quietly towards the door.
He opened it with a jerk, and stopped. His eldest son stood there, startled, barefooted, with his nightshirt almost reaching the floor, and his hand outstretched, as if he were still grasping the knob.
‘Papa …’
‘David!’ Andrew stared at the child. ‘Laddie, what is it?’
David took a step into the room. He looked at his mother. ‘I woke up ‒ and I heard you.’
Sara was beside him in an instant, and had swept him up into her arms. He settled contentedly there, his head against her shoulder, his enquiring eyes roaming round the unfamiliar room. He glanced from his father to Jeremy, and then gave an excited wriggle.
‘May I stay, Mama?’
Sara smiled over the top of his head at Andrew. ‘Let him stay a little. After a few nights they’ll be used to this house ‒ and the quiet ‒ and then they’ll settle down.’
Andrew nodded, reaching out to tousle the boy’s flaxen, curling hair. ‘Why not? You’ve never been up as late as this, have you, my son?’
He walked back to the packing-case, and Sara sat down again, with David in her arms. She stretched the nightshirt Annie had made for him to cover his feet; he promptly thrust one foot from underneath, and wriggled his toes expressively. Sara’s left arm was round him, pressing him close to her. Her free hand rested in his lap. He clutched it tightly, staring in wonder at the knife his father held.
Andrew squatted once more before the rough carving. He added a few lines. ‘I want another wing here …’ The plan cut into the wood was now L-shaped. ‘It will face north-west, to get the afternoon sun.’
‘A new wing?’ Sara said. ‘What for?’
‘That’s going to be the new drawing-room ‒ and whatever other rooms we want above it. And we’ll have a conservatory along this side.’
‘A conservatory?’ Sara echoed faintly, glancing at Jeremy.
‘Yes ‒ why not? The native plants are certainly worth more attention than the people here give them. Think of the orchids we could grow! We’ll have a gardener out from England. And, later on, we’ll terrace the lawns down to the water’s edge.’
Sara laid her cheek against David’s hair. ‘This all sounds very grand ‒ for a little place like Sydney.’
Andrew winked at her, grinning. ‘Sydney won’t always be a little place. When I build my new wing, I’ll bring the carpets from Persia, and the chandeliers from Venice.’
Sara’s eyes sparkled suddenly. ‘When will this be?’
He shrugged. ‘When trade opens up enough to allow me to carry my plans through ‒ when the population has expanded, and can support more trade. I will want two ships ‒ even three ships.’
Then he shrugged again. ‘All that is for the future ‒ for the present we’ll manage well enough.’
His hands opened expressively, taking in the spacious proportions of the room. He said, ‘The new wing would be merely a showplace ‒ something that represents land on the Hawkesbury, ships in the harbour, and a store to sell their cargoes. Give me ten ‒ fifteen ‒ years like the last seven, and there’s nothing I won’t be able to do.’
As he spoke he looked directly at his wife and son.
Jeremy sipped his wine thoughtfully. He felt the conviction in Andrew’s words, he felt that these dreams would materialize; he had now come to believe that, so long as Andrew lived, this fabulous luck would hold, and his preposterous fantasy of conservatories and laid-out gardens in a country still unable to feed itself would, in time, be realized. He would have his new wing, and the display of magnificence his heart craved. But he was an adventurer, a trader, and a gambler; he understood the hard facts of his business too well to become immersed in the mere trappings of wealth. It would, as he said, merely represent the solid assets of land, ships, store, and warehouse. It would be no more than his reaction, while he gave his life to attending to the things which made it possible.
Jeremy spoke suddenly, the trace of a smile on his lips.
‘Another toast,’ he said. ‘This time to the house of Maclay!’
He raised his glass to the three of them.
Chapter Two
Under the low beams of the main room in the Maclay store there was always the mingled odour of sandalwood, spices, new candles, and coffee-beans. Andrew claimed he would supply every need of the settlers; the store’s wide rooms, crammed to the ceilings with the cargoes the Thistle brought back, almost justified his claim. Ranged about the walls were the deep, fat kegs of molasses, the bins of flour, sugar and rice; huge cheeses stood swathed in white cloth. The shelves were piled high with calico and muslin, and an occasional odd roll of silk; there were carefully stacked boxes for shoes and beaver hats. Beside the door was a long rack holding a selection of walking-canes and riding-crops. At the end of a row of bacon sides hanging from the ceiling, the light from the open door caught the satiny gleam of the wood of a guitar. Sara had secured it to a hook by a bunch of coloured ribbons. It swung there gaily ‒ an incongruous support to Andrew’s claim.
On a morning in the middle of April, two months after the family had moved to Glenbarr, Sara sat working over the accounts at the desk in one of the store’s curved, front windows. The autumn sun fell across her shoulder on to the open books, above her head a green parrot clutched the bars of his cage, and muttered vaguely in French. A year ago he had made his first appearance in the store on the arm of a dark-skinned sailor; David, beside his mother’s desk, had seen him at once, and played with him delightedly; Sara gave the sailor an unreasonably large amount of tobacco in exchange for him, and, since that day, he had looked down on the life of the store from his cage, obviously revelling in its atmosphere of orderly bustle. He was given a name at the time, but the children had so persistently called him ‘Old Boney’ that no one could now remember the original name.
Sara was deaf to his muttering attempts to distract her. She finished re-checking a column of figures, the
n she looked up, motioning to one of the three young men who ran the store under her supervision.
‘Mr. Clapmore!’
‘Ma’am?’
‘If the native, Charlie, comes here this afternoon with fish, send him up to the house with them immediately. And mind you only give him half the tobacco he asks for. He’s been getting far too much lately in exchange for his fish.’
‘Very well, Mrs. Maclay.’
Sara returned to her figures, basking in the gentle warmth of the sun on her back. This was one of the long succession of perfect autumn days which, every year, the country seemed to throw back as a compensation for the fierce heat of the summer. The air had a softness more mellow than spring; when a wind stirred it brought a smell of the bush and salt water with it. Her lips moved soundlessly as she worked, but her thoughts kept turning to the memory of how Kintyre looked in the autumn ‒ the noon hush of the bush, and the flow of the great river.
The quill halted above the paper, then she sighed, and, with an effort, began the column again. At the moment there was only one customer in the store ‒ she knew by sight this farmer from Castle Hill who was making a careful selection of printed calico for his wife. A midday quiet was beginning to fall on the streets outside. In a far, dark corner a clock ticked loudly; Boney picked at his seed in a bored fashion.
She glanced up as a shadow darkened the doorway. She smiled, rising at once to greet Major Foveaux, of the New South Wales Corps.
‘Good morning, Major!’
He bowed. ‘Good morning, Mrs. Maclay!’ He waited until Boney’s scream of welcome had died down. ‘I hoped I’d find you here as usual at this time …’
‘Can I be of any help to you, Major?’
‘Indeed you can, dear lady. I’m looking for a gift …’
He shifted his weight uneasily. ‘I thoughts perhaps a shawl … Yes, a shawl would do nicely, I think.’
Sara Dane Page 21