In what was probably the start of her publicising her more radical views, Caroline upset many of her erstwhile supporters in the landed establishment when she made a proposal to the committee for a new scheme for settling immigrants on private acreage outside Sydney. Most of the members of the Legislative Council disliked the idea. Landowners were reluctant to offer their unimproved property on non-financial leases; more significantly, they were concerned that turning poor immigrants into landowners would adversely affect the supply of labour.
Caroline, however, was not dependent on them, for she had already persuaded an extremely wealthy landowner to donate four thousand acres of unimproved land on the Shellharbour hinterland, eighty-five kilometres south of Sydney, as well as rations for the new settlers for the first five months — something of a coup. Captain Robert Towns could afford it. He either owned outright or had a share in more than nine thousand square kilometres of real estate in Queensland alone. Townsville was later named after him; however, he was considered by contemporaries a far from charitable person. He was a prime instigator in bringing Islanders to work in the north, and although he was described as “bluff and peppery, with simple habits . . . respected by all for his honesty, reliability and never ending speculative spirit”, to his “employees he was known as a cheese-parer, full of furious criticism for failure but few words of praise for success”.29 An unlikely philanthropist indeed.
The land was made available for six years rent-free in exchange for the settlers clearing and improving it. The idea was that each family would establish a small farm and at the end of the rent-free period they could either start to pay rent or purchase the land. Caroline initially gathered some fifty interested families, though in the end, only twenty-three families took up the opportunity and boarded the Wollongong steamer to Shellharbour to start the trial settlement. Caroline engaged a schoolmaster and employed three bushmen to show the new arrivals how to clear and crop the land. The work was slow and physically demanding, the area being heavily timbered, with cabbage-palms dotting the thick scrub.30 Caroline expected a type of barter system to prevail amongst the settlers; for example, the schoolmaster would not be paid with coinage, but with labour and produce from the parents of his students.
Caroline proved that, for the most part, immigrant families could work together to subsist in the Australian bush whilst establishing moneymaking farms. Later, though, she admitted to some failures and she did not seek to replicate the scheme. Few people, least of all Caroline, seemed concerned that she was, in fact, experimenting with people’s lives. In this case it appears that it was beneficial. Later, in December 1849, The Sydney Morning Herald ran a story from a correspondent in Jamberoo which stated that the settlers were all doing well, and went on: “As one said to me — ‘They can all get a living. Mrs Chisholm, I am told, brought down many of these persons, and she thus did good.’”31
In 1844, Caroline was again called to give evidence before another committee, on jobless labourers.32 This time she was given top billing, having been asked to compile numbers and details of the unemployed and their dependents in Sydney. Her efforts proved that, whilst still not strong, the economy was certainly showing signs of recovery, with almost two thousand fewer people in distress compared with the previous year — quite a significant proportion of Sydneysiders, given that the whole population of the town was only about thirty thousand. Another noteworthy statistic from Caroline’s data revealed that the number of children under eight years of age was almost equal to the number of adults — evidence, if it was needed, that the white population of Australia was increasing rapidly.33
Loathe to let the jobless and distressed become just mere statistics, and obviously feeling that her work was not complete, Caroline took to the road again with a group of immigrants in October that year, to find jobs for them in the bush. This time she had some financial support from the government and also from private donors, such as William Bradley, the Australian-born son of a sergeant in the New South Wales Corps, and one of the wealthiest men in the colony, who owned vast tracts of land on the Goulburn Plains and further south on the Monaro. It must have seemed an unwieldy convoy: some one hundred people, mostly in family groups, walking and riding in drays. They had, however, a very adept marshal in charge. The cavalcade took about a week to reach Goulburn from Sydney, by which time Caroline had placed most of the immigrants in work at farms and townships along the way. In less than two weeks she was back at her office in Sydney.34 Just a few weeks later, in early December, she was off again, with twice as many people. This time she took them as far as Yass and Gundagai, eventually placing everyone in a job — another sure sign that the economy was improving.
Caroline returned to Sydney to be with her sons just before or possibly just after Christmas 1844. At thirty-six years of age, she was at the height of her powers, one of the most recognised and influential people in the colony — and she had only resided there for five and a half years. The next year, 1845, would bring new endeavours, fresh challenges — and significant change.
CHAPTER 10
On the Move
1845–46
Sydney, 11 March 1845
“Poor bugger,” muttered the servant under his breath, a rheumy eye taking in the swell standing before him. “This one must ’a been bush’d, otherwise he’d not be here asking for Mrs Chisholm.”
In a rare moment of compassion he opened the door a little wider; speaking out loud, though, he offered little sympathy. “She ain’t ’ere. Closed registry afore Christmas.” As he smirked he revealed a few yellowed teeth in a foul, cavernous mouth.
“Do you have any idea where she may be?” asked the man at the door.
“Could be ’ome, could be away or could be ’bout town. Always on the move, that’s our Mrs Chisholm.” The servant shrugged and shut the door.
The man was left staring at the roughly hewn wood, wondering where to go next.
It was a strange homecoming. If home it was, and that wasn’t settled either. Somewhere within this colony, this shifting conglomerate of humanity, lived his family: his wife and his children. After so many years away, would it be the same, or just different quarters in another part of the Empire?
He’d landed only that morning. Leaving his bags on the boat, he had stretched his legs walking up from the dock to the old Immigration Barracks. It had been good to feel dry land beneath his feet again. Three months at sea was a long time. He’d noticed changes too. The town was growing. The first surprise had been that massive Gothic castle up on the headland as the boat had drawn in towards Circular Quay. The new Government House, he’d been told. His austere Scottish soul disapproved of the folly as much for its excess as for its incongruity, a palace lording it over a population of felons and charlatans like Gulliver in the Country of the Lilliput. The recently built Customs House down in front of the quay had pleased him, though, a respectable building that one. Then he’d spied a pair of camels wandering about the grounds of the old Government House. He’d laughed out loud — as though this country didn’t have enough of its own strange creatures without importing them.
Outside the Immigration Barracks now, he turned on a whim, down towards George Street. Finding himself outside the Bull’s Head Inn, which he had frequented some years previously, he decided that he could do with something to eat. It was early in the day, so the inn was not too busy. Ordering a pint and a dish of mutton stew, he settled into a small cubicle by the door where hints of sunshine filtered through the window. He took up an old copy of The Australian newspaper left lying on the table, and squinting in the gloom, began to read about the happenings of the colony.
An item on page two seized his attention. Under the heading “Mrs Chisholm’s Expedition”, he read: “This eminently benevolent and enterprising lady has returned, from her expedition into the interior to find service for the unemployed and distressed operatives who accompanied her and who . . .”1
“’Scuse me, sir. You be wantin’ anythin’ else?
” asked the barmaid. She was looking over his shoulder as she picked up his empty tankard and plate. “That Mrs Chisholm, she be a wondrous lady. It’s she what got me this job. Saved me life.” She nodded across the room to a couple of men talking near the bar. “See Bert there? ’E’s the one with the ginger ’air. She found ’im work too.”
“But this must be unusual, such a long article about Mrs Chisholm?” he asked.
“You must ’a just arrived. It almost seems as though there’s always somethin’ ’bout Mrs Chisholm in the papers, sir. She’s found work for so many people an’ she’s been talkin’ at those committee things an’ all. Then if she sees somethin’ not right she’s a’writin’ letters in the paper too. An’ people take note of ’er. Why, sir, I would say she’s as well known as the governor ’iself. An’ for me, well, I reckon she’s a damn sight better ’an him. If you’ll be ’scusin’ me language.”
Later he decided to try Ann and Roger Therry’s home. They could well know whether she was in Sydney, at home or elsewhere. By now it was mid-afternoon. On the way he stopped at Mr Jones’s George Street shop to buy a necktie; it still felt strange to be out of uniform. It was there that he overheard the name of Mrs Chisholm being mentioned again, this time by a couple of gentlemen discussing her plan for settling immigrants on small blocks of land. It caused an odd sensation in his breast to hear her spoken about by complete strangers, men too, so casually and in such a public place. He had not been prepared for such notoriety.
The maid opening the front door explained that Mrs Therry was entertaining guests for afternoon tea, but, when she heard his name, insisted that Mrs Therry would gladly welcome him. He followed the girl across the hall to the drawing room, where she announced him. The babble of confused, mostly feminine chatter froze on the instant as though suspended in air. From somewhere to the left of the room came a single word: “Archie.”
Caroline stood, a little unsteadily, shock robbing her momentarily of her usual sang-froid. He watched her advance towards him with her hands held out, the colour rising in her soft round face, her large green eyes sparkling, her lips parted. Had he forgotten how lovely she was or how desirable?
The silence shattered. “Captain Chisholm, what a surprise. How wonderful!” Ann Therry was bubbling. What a coup this afternoon tea party would be for her; it would be discussed for weeks.
Relinquishing Caroline’s hands, Archie turned to Ann Therry, bowed, shook her hand and apologised for arriving uninvited at her party. The next thirty minutes passed in a daze as by habit he responded to the necessary social requirements before he could suggest that he and his wife leave.
When they were finally alone, strolling back down to Circular Quay, there was an uncomfortable silence. Looking down at her, he wondered what she was thinking. Did she resent his presence, had she managed better without him, was she shocked at the sight of him?
Slowly he began to talk. He told her how much he had missed her, how happy he was to be with her again. She held his arm tightly, smiled up at him, said that she had missed him also. “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why didn’t you take the coach home, to Albert Park?”
“I didn’t want to frighten the bairns. It’s been so long since they saw me I thought they might not know me. I needed to see you first. You have done so much: everyone knows you, talks about you. I wasn’t sure if you would be pleased to see me.”
They had reached the shady side of the new Customs House building. She stopped, turning towards him, standing close. He bent his head to kiss her.
From somewhere behind them came a gasp: “Mrs Chisholm! Well, I never!”2
When Archibald returned to Sydney on the Coringa Packet after his final five years’ service in India, it was the early autumn of 1845.3 It’s not known whether Caroline was waiting for him or he did indeed need to search her out, but undoubtedly he would have been bemused to discover the extent of Caroline’s celebrity. She was certainly starring in a lesser firmament than India or Britain but, still, as a member of the middle class and a woman she was inhabiting an extraordinary position in colonial society — and thriving on the exposure it gave her.
Having retired from the East India Company, Archibald did not seek to replicate his command in civilian life, nor to dominate domestically. Instead, he seems to have been satisfied to be the helpmate, the follower rather than the dynamic innovator — he left that to his wife. It was not a role reversal; he was no house husband. Instead, their relationship displayed the sort of equality accepted as normal in the twenty-first century, but which was almost inconceivable in the nineteenth century.
There are various possible explanations for Archibald’s decision to retire whilst still in the prime of life. The most likely reason was his desire to support Caroline in her work. Very possibly also, after more than two decades with the company, mostly on the Indian subcontinent, he may well have just wanted a change. At forty-seven — ten years older than his wife — Archibald was not an old man by mid-nineteenth-century standards, and as Caroline’s consort he could still expect to have a fulfilling and busy life, although very different to the one that he had left behind. Other biographers have intimated that after so many years in the Indian climate his health was broken; but this seems an unlikely reason for his retirement, given that within a short time of arriving in Sydney he set off to rove for months with Caroline along the rough bush roads of New South Wales. Moreover he would spend the next thirty years travelling backwards and forwards between Britain and Australia engaging in numerous activities, none of which were sedentary, and die only just short of eighty years of age, considerably older than the average life expectancy of the time.
What is clear, though, judging from his commitment to Caroline and her various undertakings on behalf of Australian immigrants and settlers, is that Archibald never once shied away from the promise he gave her, all those years ago, when he asked her to marry him. He continued to support her unconditionally, both privately and publicly, and, as far as possible, financially. Theirs was not just a marriage built on love and admiration, but a true partnership.
At the end of his twenty-three years of combined service, Archibald, although a captain, qualified to retire on a major’s pay of £292 per annum. That was about £100 more than a captain’s pay and no doubt justified Archibald spending the last five years in India, albeit as a member of the Invalid Establishment with the 2nd Native Veteran Battalion. When he reached retirement age in late 1854, Archibald would receive a major’s pension along with the honorary title of major, despite never commanding at that level.4
There was another and considerable cash-in-hand monetary inducement for Archibald to quit soldiering too. Promotion in the East India Company was based on seniority alone; it was accepted therefore, that junior officers would band together to offer pecuniary encouragement for an older man to stand down. “The average for a majority was about £2500 to £3000”, a staggering sum for someone on Archibald’s yearly pension.5 Although the Chisholms were seldom well-off and money concerns would be an ongoing anxiety for them both — one colonial newspaper, almost ten years later, would describe their circumstances as “with an income barely equal to English notions of a decent competence”6 — this windfall would have allowed them to enjoy some financial stability for a short time at least. They had nowhere near the means of the colony’s affluent squattocracy, but they would have easily fitted financially as well as socially into the middle strata, high above the working class. As a comparison, a married shepherd or a farm labourer with four children would have received wages, rations and rent totalling just over £57 per annum — substantially less than the Chisholms’ income.7
A lack of money was the reason that Caroline had deferred travelling through the bush seeking information from ordinary settlers and emancipists about their circumstances and progress. It was evidence she was keen to collect to substantiate her proposals to the home government that Britain’s excess population of working poor could successfully relocate to
Australia, so long as more women were sent out and divided families reunited. When appearing before the New South Wales Legislative Committee in 1843, she had asked for funds to defray her costs whilst collecting statements, but despite backing from both William Charles Wentworth and, perhaps more surprisingly, John Dunmore Lang, a motion supporting her request was defeated by seven votes to six.8 In later years Caroline would maintain that she did not accept government funding because it would compromise her independence. The fact that in this instance she asked for funding is something that she seems to have conveniently forgotten.
Needing to find the money herself, Caroline was obviously wary, at this stage at least, of spending a considerable amount without discussing it first with Archibald, saying, “I could not incur the responsibility of its expense, without the sanction and approval of my husband.”9 As soon as he arrived in Sydney, Archibald of course gave his consent and engaged fully to accompany her. Together they traversed New South Wales, north to Armidale, south to Gundagai and Yass and west over the Blue Mountains to Bathurst, meeting and talking with as many people as possible and recording hundreds of statements.
Apart from documenting the sort of details found in government surveys such as names, dates, holdings, incomes and relationships, Caroline also focused on the minutiae that are often the true measure of human happiness. More than half a century later Caroline’s daughter described her as “having some knowledge of many sciences” and, certainly, her manner of investigation had a scientific rigour about it.10 She had no use for hearsay, supposition or fantasy; she dealt only in facts. As she had done before the establishment of the Sydney Immigrants’ Home only a few years before, she compiled a set of standard questions, so that she could easily compare the answers. Her methods would bear scrutiny today, and were akin to modern market research. She was scrupulous, for example, in making certain that she had a wide representation of respondents and took their answers down verbatim. “They were written down in all manner of dwellings, but chiefly among the humbler; in cottages and bark huts; on the roadside; . . . in the field, on a plough; in the forest, on the first log of a frugal bush servant’s first freehold. There were nearly eight hundred of these statements from natives of almost every county of the United Kingdom, from emigrants, from ‘old hands’, and from ticket-of-leave men.”11 The statements proved that men and women who had arrived either as convicts or very poor free settlers were, within a relatively short period of time, able to make a good living and become financially secure on their own land, with many of them subsequently becoming employers themselves.
Caroline Chisholm Page 13