The Wreck

by Meg Keneally

  ‘Would you like to change things for others like Nell Flaherty?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Let me explain, then,’ said Mrs Thistle, leaning forward and patting Sarah’s knee. ‘When I was your age, suppose I had decided to involve myself in a group pushing for revolution. Suppose I’d been arrested, as you were, and put into a solitary cell. Never met William, never married him. Never made the business I have made, or accumulated the influence that comes with it. I would be in my grave, and you would soon be joining me.’

  ‘I am grateful for your intervention—’

  ‘One day, someone might be grateful for yours – unless you squander this opportunity. I need your word, Sarah, that you will lay this aside.’

  ‘And instead concentrate on helping you accumulate more wealth?’

  ‘Why not?’ Mrs Thistle smiled. ‘Because you, my dear girl, will be accumulating it too. Enough, perhaps, to make changes in the lives of those around you, rather than wasting your breath in hushed conversations in dingy rooms.’

  Sarah turned to the window. The scrub they were passing looked so different from the hedges she and Sam had passed on their way from Manchester to London. She realised that it must now have been a year or more since he was hanged, and she swallowed, trying not to release the gathering tears. Sam was beyond her help; Henry was not.

  ‘One condition,’ Sarah said. ‘Two, actually.’

  ‘I don’t really think you’re in a position to negotiate.’

  ‘Am I in a position to request?’

  Molly Thistle sighed. ‘Very well.’

  ‘It concerns two people,’ said Sarah. ‘One dead, and one very much alive.’

  *

  The superintendent’s whitewashed house crouched amid broad lawns. They were dotted with willow trees transplanted from the place of his birth, and trellises that trained flowers to grow according to their master’s wishes.

  ‘Perhaps I should wait in the carriage,’ said Sarah, indicating her filthy state. The skin on her hands had a yellowish tinge, and her arms sagged where what little fat there was had melted away. When she pushed her tongue against her teeth, they felt not quite as securely moored as they had been. Her lips were as rough as a sun-dried mud path.

  But Mrs Thistle said, ‘Nonsense. Do the man no harm to see what damage more than a month in a solitary cell can wreak.’

  The superintendent’s maid clearly agreed with Sarah and did not believe such a creature deserved admittance. ‘Your . . . your servant will wait outside,’ she said after Molly Thistle had stated her business and demanded an audience.

  ‘My associate will not. She is a party to the matter to be discussed.’

  The maid paused, but Mrs Thistle looked at her with such intensity that she clearly decided it was preferable to announce this strange visit to her master than stand and endure the woman’s gaze. After a few minutes she returned to show Mrs Thistle and Sarah into the superintendent’s study. They walked through a drawing room that was far less welcoming than Mrs Thistle’s. Its utilitarian chairs were clustered around a small polished table beside a fireplace that did not seem to have been called upon for warmth in quite some time, its cold metal grate looking out onto a room unadorned by pictures, ornaments or anything else to indicate the nature of its owner.

  Superintendent Greenwich’s study was even more sparse. His plain desk was neatly stacked with papers next to a wooden ink pot that would have been at home on the desk of the humblest clerk. There were two chairs, one in front of the desk and one behind, both of plain, upholstered wood. The only item in the room approaching the decorative was a magnifying glass on the desk with a mother-of-pearl handle.

  ‘He will be with you shortly,’ said the maid, offering the chair in front of the desk to Mrs Thistle, who sat regally without responding.

  Moments later, Greenwich opened the door and walked in. He glanced at Sarah with a frown, bowed to Mrs Thistle, who nodded serenely, and took his own seat behind the desk. ‘How did you secure the release of this prisoner, madam?’ he asked.

  ‘Dear Charlie. Remember him? You and he shared a game of whist at one of my parties. Anyway, he is rather an admirer of some of the wines I import, and his taste for them has only sharpened since he ascended to the bench. He’s told me that Miss McCaffrey can have a day out with me. Which, of course, can be extended if the police decide that they do not wish to pursue charges. If, for example, there is insufficient proof of the allegations against her. If, come to that, there are any official allegations at all.’

  ‘As charming as you are, madam, I have already written to England of her capture. I cannot simply release a woman who has been involved in treason.’

  ‘Nor would I expect you to. But there is no such woman in this room. Miss McCaffrey has kept regrettable company over the past year, it is true. The young, they are so easily led astray, but with my influence she has seen the danger of her actions and wishes to take no further part in such meetings.’

  ‘She was directly involved in a conspiracy to murder Cabinet members!’

  ‘So that Frenchman says,’ said Mrs Thistle. ‘Can you believe him, though? If somebody is duplicitous enough to betray their comrades, are they also wily enough to present themselves to the police as something other than they are?’

  ‘I will not be discussing this matter with you, madam. And Miss McCaffrey must be returned to the Female Factory. I will be happy to accompany you there to make sure that nothing goes amiss.’

  Sarah felt a sudden thump in her chest. She would not survive a return; her mind’s moorings would snap.

  But Mrs Thistle shrugged. ‘As you wish, superintendent. I know, of course, that you’re a gentleman of the highest integrity. One who clings to the last letter of the law.’

  Superintendent Greenwich didn’t answer but drew his shoulders back, clearly believing the compliment was justified.

  ‘So you’ll have no objection, I’m sure, to me alerting Charlie to the still on your premises in Sydney.’

  ‘What on earth are you talking about, woman?’ Greenwich said, all politeness disappearing. ‘If you attempt to spread false rumours about me—’

  ‘Nothing false about them. Your nephew – Michael, is it? He seemed a dissolute lad when I called to collect the rent that he – or rather you – haven’t paid. Well, when someone like that answers the door, reeking of drink, I have to inspect the premises. He may well be making a nice little allowance out of supplying the shebeens. His business will have to be shut down, of course, when it becomes public. He will likely go to prison. If you could kindly attend to the matter of the overdue rent – four months, now, I believe, it would be most appreciated. Expeditiously, if you will, as I believe your employment circumstances may change when this business becomes public.’

  Sarah thought back to the odd contraption she had seen that day. Mrs Thistle had not called it a still; she had called it leverage, and now she was using it on Sarah’s behalf.

  Sarah tried to quash her sudden joy – nothing was certain. She could not, though, and she would pay for this hope when she was back in her cell. But perhaps it would be worth the price, as she would never again feel hope if Mrs Thistle’s plan did not work.

  ‘I had no idea!’ Greenwich insisted.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure. But the thing is, you see, this still is at your residence, officially anyway. Now, as pleasant as it is to be away from that town, you really must take more of an interest. Things grow when you’re not looking, and they are not always pleasant.’ Mrs Thistle stood. ‘Well, if you’re to escort us back to the prison, you had best be quick about it. I’ll be happy to take you into Sydney in my coach. And then we shall go on to Charlie – I think he’ll find this conversation quite enlightening.’ She motioned Sarah towards the door. ‘I regret that your freedom was so brief, dear girl. And that the superintendent’s nephew’s freedom is also coming to an end.’ Mrs Thistle put her hand on the doorknob.

  ‘You are the most in
furiating woman I have ever met,’ said Greenwich.

  She smiled. ‘Thank you, superintendent.’

  ‘Miss McCaffrey will warrant that she shall have no further conversation with those of revolutionary sensibility.’

  ‘She’s given me her word,’ said Mrs Thistle.

  ‘And you will be responsible for her behaviour henceforth. I assure you, if I have reason to arrest her again, I will find a way to extend her wrongdoing to include you as well.’

  ‘Quite understandable, but I am certain that such a situation won’t eventuate. Now, may I offer you a seat in my carriage?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Greenwich said firmly, his nose wrinkling as he looked at Sarah. ‘I have important matters to attend to here.’

  ‘Of course, we mustn’t detain you,’ said Molly Thistle, still smiling. ‘Sarah and I must return to the English Rose in haste – it has rather fallen down without her. And of course you must now write a letter to your colleagues in England. Perhaps about mistaken identity, or with the news of Prisoner McCaffrey’s untimely death.’

  Mrs Thistle opened the door and gestured to Sarah, who shook her head. ‘I believe, madam, you had one more request of the superintendent,’ she said, her voice quavering a little at the thought that this man could still change his mind, that she might be throwing away her freedom.

  ‘Ah, yes. Might I ask for an assigned convict servant for one of my properties. I need a young man with a bit of strength to him, and I’m given to understand that such a one might currently be labouring on a road gang near the English Rose.’

  EPILOGUE

  Sydney Cove, August 1823

  Sarah knew they whispered when they saw her coming. At first, the whispers had been amused, patronising, sometimes profane. What would this small woman do if things were not to her liking, after all? Use the weapon of womanly tears? Stamp off in a funk to Mrs Thistle? Some of them, resting their elbows on the gunwales of their ships and staring, speculated that such a creature could be put to better use behind a dockside tavern than she was examining wares about which she was surely ignorant.

  Since then, the tone of the whispers had changed. Now, when captains and sailors saw the slight figure in her well-made day gown with a lace collar and her expensive silk bonnet, they whispered to those around them to make ready and to ensure that the highest quality goods were brought out for her examination.

  Silence was the best response they could hope for; a quirked eyebrow or a grimace was concerning. But the dread of those whose livelihoods depended on being paid for their cargo was that this woman would find nothing redeeming in the crates and barrels that had been brought forward.

  Mrs Thistle had handed the docks to Sarah a year earlier. All matters of import were discussed in the old woman’s comfortable drawing room, on the pale-yellow upholstery of her chairs and couch, and over tea presented by Lilith.

  That day, Mrs Thistle had said, ‘In all honesty, I’ll miss it. But I need everyone to see you as an extension of me. Otherwise you will be of no more use than a messenger.’ She fell silent, sipping at her tea and peering through her half-moon spectacles at Sarah over the rim of her cup.

  ‘You do not want me to seek permission, then, should I wish to send something back where it came from?’

  Mrs Thistle shook her head. ‘I trust your judgement. And, just as importantly, they must know that. If you hesitate, if you seek permission from me or anyone else, you are done for. They’d take it from a man, of course, but from you? Not unless it is the way with you from the beginning.’

  So now, with Mr Ash trailing her, Sarah reached into the sawdust of a crate and pulled out a saucer nestled there as part of a tea set. She held it up to the light, moved it backwards and forwards, and scratched a fingernail on one of its floral decorations. She nodded at Ash and moved on to the next item while he was organising for the crate of porcelain to be taken to the warehouse.

  Next were bolts of finely woven woollen cloth. She rubbed one between her fingers and looked at the captain. ‘Ireland?’

  ‘Exeter, madam.’

  She lifted one of the bolts to check the ones beneath. The black gave way to grey, and then to blue. She reached down and pulled out one of the lighter shades; the smear of an unidentifiable substance marred the pale-blue fabric.

  The captain frowned. ‘It must have been like that already. Surely you can’t think I would allow harm to come to the cargo once it is in my care.’

  ‘I would have thought, captain, that you would thoroughly check everything before departing. By the time it gets back to Exeter, this fabric will have travelled further than most do in a lifetime.’ She shook her head at Ash and moved on to the next crate, with the captain scurrying after her.

  When she was finished, with one shipment of tea, another of skins and the bolts of cloth to be sent back to their destination, Ash said with a broad smile, ‘I imagine you want to inspect the warehouse now, miss.’

  She smiled back. ‘No harm in it, I suppose.’

  *

  The tall brick warehouse sat on the harbour’s edge, its small windows under a peaked roof, THISTLE painted in large black letters between the first and second storeys. Inside, crates were neatly stacked on top of one another, and shelves held tea, cloth and cutlery.

  The light was dim, and there was no fire – Mrs Thistle would never countenance it. She had once told Sarah she had nightmares about flames licking upwards along the shelves, curling the edges of papers, spreading the fragrance of burning tea.

  It was not so dim, though, that Sarah could not see the man towards the back, supervising the unpacking of a crate while he marked items off with a pencil stub on a piece of paper. He looked up and gave her a smile every bit as broad as Ash’s had been.

  It had taken a long time for Henry to smile as he did now. He was self-conscious about the front tooth that was missing, a gap visible whenever he stretched his lips. And for a while, too, he had not trusted his circumstances and felt that showing any faith in his good fortune would tempt fate to snatch it from him.

  It would be another four years before he received his ticket of leave, and even then his sentence meant that he would never be able to leave the colony. Now, though, he did not look like a man who wanted to. Nor did he look like the young man she had seen on the chain gang. His back had straightened, and his skin no longer had a greyish cast.

  Some in England might have been shocked to see a man still serving his sentence in such a position of mercantile authority. They would never have allowed a convict to work at a warehouse. But here, where a tiny fraction had arrived free, such arrangements were common, and the colony would have been unable to function without convict clerks and magistrates, along with convict labour.

  Henry set his papers on a shelf, then strode towards her. He looked as though he was about to open his arms. Then he glanced at Ash, and took her hands instead.

  ‘You realise the wedding’s tomorrow,’ Ash said to him. ‘A visit to the barber might be in order. You do want to look pretty, after all.’

  ‘I’ll never be as pretty as you, Mr Ash,’ Henry said, and the larger man chuckled.

  He had taken a liking to Henry when the lad had first been assigned to Molly Thistle as a dockworker. Ash had taught Henry to box, and how to dangle a line into the harbour during quiet times on the docks in the hopes of pulling out a fish, and probably a great many other things that Sarah did not wish to know about in the taverns dotted around the foreshore.

  Now, Ash turned away with a theatrical wink. ‘Just be waiting outside . . . for those crates from the dock.’

  After he had gone, Henry kissed Sarah’s forehead. She found herself wishing, more frequently, that he was not so self-consciously chaste. But he had decided he could not afford to give anyone in the colony reason to doubt his propriety – least of all Mrs Thistle.

  ‘Are you sure,’ he whispered, ‘that you want to marry a convict? You could meet ten better than me in an afternoon at one of Mrs Thistle�
�s garden parties.’

  It was a question he had asked many times before.

  ‘I’m marrying a man of principle,’ said Sarah. ‘And joyful to be doing so.’

  ‘And this man of principle is fortunate to be alive.’

  Keenan had lost his life in the same manner as Sam. The swift trial and well-attended public hanging had happened while she was in the Female Factory.

  ‘I had always thought Sam would be at my wedding,’ she said.

  ‘I thought, you know, about marrying you when I had become a member of the provisional government.’

  ‘Do you still feel it?’ she asked. ‘The tug towards rebellion?’

  He shook his head. ‘I feel that Briardown found a young man into whose ear he could pour the ideas that would shape him. But no, I don’t.’

  ‘I do,’ she said, and he frowned.

  ‘You mustn’t talk like that! Superintendent Greenwich hasn’t forgotten.’

  ‘I don’t mean storming government house and holding up the governor’s head in front of a screaming crowd. You know as well as I do that there is more than one way to start a revolution.’

  He shook his head, and she grinned and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  ‘I beg you to find a way that preserves your life and liberty,’ he said. ‘I think we have both had quite enough of prisons.’

  *

  Every Wednesday, Mrs Thistle insisted on a visit from Sarah after she had done her rounds of the docks. That day, the chair she always sat in was pulled up to the window to catch the last of the afternoon sun. Lilith had told Sarah that Mrs Thistle forbade anyone else to sit in it.

  The spectacles on the woman’s nose had grown a little thicker in the past months, and it took a few seconds longer for her to lower herself into her chair. Her eyes, though, were still sharp and darting blue, and she had lost none of her ability to cajole, intimidate and negotiate her way through a settlement that had never been kind to those of her gender and class. ‘So,’ she asked, ‘what got sent back today?’