Mrs. M

by Luke Slattery

  I had not allowed my parents to bridle me. Why should I permit my husband? I dash out the door.

  The young Irish ensign with whom I spoke yesterday accompanies me along a straight path towards the shoreline. Leaving me there, he retreats to his post. The kingfisher has flown further towards the shore to perch on the chimney pot of a whitewashed cottage at the water’s edge.

  So entranced am I by the bird that I fail to hear the approach of an unkempt man with a piebald beard and a deficiency of teeth. Moving as stealthily as a shadow cast by a passing cloud, he gives me a start. ‘Good morning,’ I say. I look over my shoulder in the direction of the residence. The ensign stands stock still in his guard box. Evidently there is no cause for concern. I return my gaze to the bird. The queer old man watches, too.

  ‘Koo-ka-burra,’ he says, measuring out the harsh syllables like spoons of sugar. ‘Native word. You’ll get used to them soon enough. The birds, I mean. The natives will take longer.’ I cut him a look. His eyes, hooded by age, blink rapidly. Leaning with a slight tremor on a heavy tree limb fashioned into a knotted cane, he turns to spit. The saliva does not entirely clear his whiskers. He wipes his mouth with the back of a hand as if he had drunk deeply from a tankard. ‘Beggin’ yer pardon ma’am,’ he says, looking away.

  I notice he is dressed in grey trousers with a patch on one knee and a faded dun-coloured coat. Not poor, but very poorly cared for.

  ‘Mrs Macquarie, eh. The Governor’s wife?’ he goes on in those distinctive West Country undulations that will not leave vowels alone. ‘Arrived on the Dromedary? More than thirty souls lost — from what we hear. If you’d been fed convict rations in chains on the prison deck then perhaps you too …’ He breaks off with a dispirited shake of the head. ‘Of course I would not wish it.’

  The eccentric tucks a wrinkled tobacco pouch into his pocket and draws on a clay pipe with a bowl modelled after the head of a moustachioed man. He turns to meet my gaze but quickly averts his eyes. He has the waxy skin of the unwashed — the odour, too.

  ‘Your name, sir? You seem to know mine. You are out very early — the town, it seems, sleeps on beyond the call of dawn.’

  ‘The iron gangs will begin to move shortly,’ he says, scratching at his whiskers as if they harbour a flea. ‘The muster has begun. But there is never any great haste — it is ugly work and only for the worst …’

  ‘But your name?’ I press.

  ‘You’ve seen Bungaree,’ he goes on obtusely, ignoring my request for his name as if I had been addressing him all this time in Pekingese. ‘All newcomers do … before the muster ashore. Appointed himself King of the Natives. Hails from Broken Bay further north. Wait till you meet his —’ he breaks off with a hacking smoker’s laugh that begins in mirth and ends in near asphyxiation. He brings a kerchief to his mouth. I make to move off but he manages to rasp out the one word: ‘Please.’ And then, after a heaving of the chest, another: ‘Stay.’

  ‘Very well.’ If it were not for my curiosity about Bungaree I would have turned and walked away. But the old man, he unnerves me. Spinning once more towards the guard I observe, to my discomfort, that he has disappeared.

  ‘You will meet,’ he starts up again, ‘his consort Gooseberry. Queen he calls her. She has the magic, or so it’s said. But there are many things said in this place.’ His jaw flexes strangely. He paws at the whiskers on his neck. ‘As a rule — and this I say to all new chums no matter what rank — it’s best to disbelieve most of what a man says about his past, because it was never true, and all he says about his future, because it never will be.’

  As he turns and shambles off, whistling a winding tune, a hand clasps my arm lightly at the elbow.

  ‘Mrs Macquarie,’ says the guard.

  I cannot conceal my relief.

  ‘We were introduced yesterday,’ I say, ‘and afterwards I heard you talk learnedly about the kangaroo and the natives. Ensign Brody, if my memory serves me.’

  ‘It does indeed, ma’am.’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me how a young man with a scholarly cast of mind finds himself so far from the library at Trinity.’

  His dark eyes blink and widen, blink again and narrow. I have confused him.

  ‘A lucky guess,’ I say.

  ‘I was there only for a year,’ he says, his tan deepened by a blush.

  ‘Why so short a time, without graduation? Do you mind my asking?’

  ‘Not at all, ma’am. ’Twas a family matter.’ He looks away. ‘A difficulty. I was forced into work. The Army — my parents are Protestant — took me on. My regiment — the 102nd — was sent to Port Jackson. After Governor Bligh some, myself included, remained. Most of my earnings, you see, are destined for home.’

  ‘Well, Ensign Brody. You are from the 102nd Regiment of Foot. And so I would greatly appreciate a walk to the town. Not too far — it is my first morning. Just to get my bearings. After the long journey, you understand. And that queer man … I am curious.’

  Brody cuts a glance over his shoulder towards the residence. And then, seemingly resigned to his fate, he leads the way. His stride is long. His arms swing at his sides. Now and then he slows for me to keep pace.

  We stroll from Government House to the cove sweeping below us. Warehouses fringe the shoreline. Cottages mount the rise. I point to the promontory. The soldier anticipates my question.

  ‘Dawes Point, ma’am. Named after William Dawes, a lieutenant in the marines. First Fleeter. You will often hear tales of his knowledge of the southern skies and his friendship with the natives. The harbour’s narrowest point bears his name. At Dawes Point five cannon protect us. If an intruder were to enter the harbour we would make merry. Since the war with Bonaparte we mostly fear the French.’

  The soldier swings around to Government House behind us on the eastern rise, as if to check it still stands, returning to face the harbour with a sigh of relief. ‘Is all in order?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes ma’am. You see, I’ve abandoned my post momentarily but another sentry has replaced me now. Someone, it seems, is watching us and saw that I had come out to help you.’

  Raising his hand towards the crest of the western ridge, he points with a proud air to the observatory and flagstaff. ‘Below it The Rocks,’ he says, with a dismissive swat, as if he means to clear the sight away. ‘Convict quarters. Taverns. Cramped, poor and rather, er, wild ma’am. Not for you, I think.’

  ‘Well, perhaps not this morning.’ We stroll towards the shore. A rowboat with four oarsmen and a hulking, indistinct load pulls away to a ship lying at anchor. A horse-drawn cart rolls past, rattling and creaking dejectedly. Behind it follows a line of bedraggled convicts in leg irons. A sullen silence falls around them. From somewhere within the town the regular pulse of a hammer rises over the slow sweet rhythm of a saw.

  ‘It seems an industrious little town,’ I remark.

  ‘It springs up quickly,’ returns the soldier. ‘Perhaps you hear the lumber yard ahead? Blacksmiths, tailors, shoemakers, carpenters, wheelwrights — all work there. And yet the town grows largely between Dawes Point to the west and Bennelong Point on the eastern side of the Cove.

  ‘Bennelong,’ I say. ‘A favourite of Arthur Phillip’s. His fame has spread far and wide.’

  ‘The place is named after a hut the native had there.’

  ‘I remember hearing of his audience with King George. They met, as I recall, at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden. I must have been fifteen or sixteen when I read the story. Such a curious tale: the native from Port Jackson in his London finery. Bennelong returned to these shores, I think. He still lives?’

  ‘I believe so,’ replies the soldier. ‘Over the north side of the river, a little further west at Kissing Point. He has retired from the life he lived as an ambassador of his people and friend to ours. A great pity. We hear reports. It’s said that he writes to old friends in London requesting some of the pretty things he acquired in Phillip’s service — silk handkerchiefs, fine leather riding boots.’


  We turn towards one another with mirroring smiles.

  I catch something in the ensign’s tone, something I have not heard for a long while: a calm and kindly intelligence. Poise. Macquarie would call it promise.

  ‘Is it true the natives in their pure state want for nothing,’ I inquire.

  ‘Well, they want a good bath, but of course they’d not know it.’ The lad gives a satisfied laugh and his pace slows. ‘Is the town,’ he asks, ‘all you expected, ma’am?’

  ‘More picturesque, certainly. And less — how to put it? Not the sensation I expected.’

  ‘From the early days the convicts have sought their own lodgings, ma’am. And they have been permitted to sell their skills — or merely their labour — outside the hours of assigned work. A man can earn enough to salt away — or drink away — by building a free man’s fence or repairing his watch.’

  ‘Tell me then, that ageing eccentric whom I encountered by the shore. Is he … typical of the townsfolk?’

  ‘A tragic tale, I’m afraid.’ And here, his expression pained, he pauses. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks.

  I nod. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘His name is Octavio Jewkes. He has been at work before dawn. It is the reason you see him at this hour, ma’am, strolling about the Cove at his leisure. He is a baker by trade. And this thriving little business governs him. He met with tragedy in his first years at the Cove and it is said … well, some think him a little mad. Perhaps, after all, you would rather not know.’

  ‘On the contrary, I would very much like to know.’

  Brody relates the tale of Octavio’s transportation for the theft of a loaf; how his wife, bereft, schemed to join him at the Cove by committing the very same crime. ‘She pleaded guilty but the judge, learning of her intentions, dispatched the poor soul to the gallows. It was to be, he said, “A lesson to all.” There was not a dry eye in the court, I’m told. Both women and men held out their hands to her as she was led away. Octavio, when he heard the news, refused to speak. For months he was silent. Even now he is odd. He has lost the gift of civil conversation.’

  I let out a deep sigh. ‘I may have heard something of this story, though only in its generality. I had considered it a cautionary tale put about by a parliamentarian in a speech on the crime problem. “The deterrent value of transportation must be maintained,” they are forever thundering. “For if it is not, the worst villains in the land will seek their tickets to the Antipodes by acts of brazen robbery.” But to think … a woman lost her life for a loaf of bread. The life was taken from her to protect a policy.’

  ‘This was some ten years ago and well before my time,’ Brody continues. ‘Octavio must now be in his mid-forties and he haunts the town like a living ghost. He never remarried. For some reason known only to him he became a baker after he had served his time. Perhaps he could think of nothing else. The business is a success; no man can do without bread. He accumulates money, and never spends it. He has become a wealthy miser.’

  We stroll towards the heart of the town past a row of neat Government offices and stores. Through the double doors of a merchant’s stone warehouse I spy figures weaving around one another in a shifting composition. Most seem respectably dressed — in light summer coats — and solidly shod. A large columnar man in a long coat, tall and dark-skinned, steps to the side of the hefty door, pauses to light a pipe, doffs a broad-brimmed hat as we pass. He studies me from lowered lids as he smokes.

  ‘Campbell, the merchant,’ Brody says under his breath. ‘Paying a visit to Thomas Reibey. They do some business together.’ A horse-drawn cart pulls up at Reibey’s warehouse. Four men in convict motley — yellow jackets and knee-length trousers — ease a heavy table and leather upholstered chairs from the cart through the double door, while a fourth shakes out the blankets used to protect them. ‘Careful,’ warns an overseer wielding a baton.

  Once we are out of earshot Brody again inclines his head. ‘It’s said that Reibey is in debt to him. A soured venture — there are so many.’

  A little further on we come to a palatial three-storey stone house with a two-tier verandah — seven windows wide. It had been hidden from the verandah of Government House, which it rivals, by its position in the merchant quarter. ‘The trader Simeon Lord’s home, counting house and auction room,’ says Brody as if making a formal introduction. ‘Said to have cost fifteen thousand pounds. Across the road are his warehouses.’

  ‘In what items does he trade?’ I inquire.

  ‘In what does he not trade! Exports sealskins. Seal and whale oil. Sandalwood. Timber. Coal. Produces glass, pottery, slop clothing. Imports tea and silk. He also acts as a public auctioneer.’

  ‘And his crime? I presume he’s a former convict.’

  ‘Stealing ten pence worth of cloth — muslin and calico. He has risen so high that he is not ashamed to tell.’

  Leaving the merchant quarter behind, we cross a narrow stone bridge over a stagnant, malodorous stream.

  ‘It was once a brook of fresh water,’ offers the soldier in a melancholy tone. ‘Holding tanks were cut into the sandstone — hence the name: Tank Stream. But now it is not so much silted up as clogged.’

  ‘I would have thought this a perfect Paradise when it was first settled,’ I say, turning to look this fresh-faced young man in his dark eyes. ‘But it seems we cannot avoid fouling it.’

  Brody looks to the skies. ‘It really is time to return,’ he says. ‘The sun gains strength with every word we utter. Even the morning rays will burn a pale complexion.’

  ‘Such as yours,’ he would surely have gone on to say if tact had not silenced him.

  It occurs to me, when I part company with Brody at the guardhouse, that I failed to inquire about his years in the colony. It cannot have been many — he is still very young. He would have seen it rise from a dismal state, pass through the tumult of the Bligh rebellion, and emerge poised for advancement under a steady governor. I thought it a shame that a settlement in such a splendid environment should not — despite its constitution, and perhaps because of it — strive for a more dignified appearance. The dignity of the town might then confer dignity on the unfortunates who inhabited the shacks I could see spreading over The Rocks and westward down the disorderly main street.

  It is mid-morning when I skip up the steps to the house and I head straight to the bedchamber. In the mirror I notice that my cheeks have reddened. The freckles that I have acquired on the journey will doubtless, now, multiply. I take off my bonnet and let down my hair, taking a towel to it so that it might dry. I change into a light summer dress and stride down the hallway, following the scent of freshly brewed tea.

  The door to Macquarie’s office was open when I left. But I see now it is slightly ajar. There are voices within. I knock. Macquarie calls for me to enter. It’s only then that I notice my hair is loose. For a few seconds I retreat to the shadows and delay my entry. I bundle up my copper curls and secure them, before stepping into the room.

  Before me is a man in a burgundy tailcoat, uncovered hair full of waves and kinks falling over his ears. He stands, a little stiffly, before the imposing figure of my husband seated at his bureau. The visitor spins around sharply as I enter. There is a flash of warmth from a set of lively green eyes.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ Macquarie says genially as he rises from his chair.

  ‘You must meet our Architect.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A smaller man than Macquarie, the Architect is broad shouldered, slim flanked and, as the French would have it, bien fait. His wide mouth, though not particularly well defined, is fixed in an expression of mild amusement. He has, I note, a disconcerting habit of tilting his head back, raising his jaw, and looking down his long thin nose in a manner that would seem supercilious in anyone, but in a convict appears unconscionably arrogant. Once or twice he runs his fingers through his thick locks, pushing them back from his brow as if clearing a path to a view. He has obviously been cared for on the voyage: extra rations, a little
exercise, a touch of sun. Still, it cannot have been easy. The gentlemen convicts may enjoy better treatment, but it can hardly be said that they have evaded misfortune; they are simply less unfortunate than their fellows.

  The Architect is tightly wound, restless on his feet. He has doubtless counselled himself before this, his first interview with the Governor, to reveal only what is required of him, to show due deference, and to offer his services with humility — an attitude that any modestly intelligent, certainly prudent, man in his situation would be sure to adopt. And yet his nature seems unwilling to accept the terms laid down by his situation. He is a little — how do I remember him at first glance? — unruly.

  ‘I trust that you are comfortably installed in the cottage beside the Tank Stream,’ Macquarie says from his high-backed chair behind the bureau. ‘I had Foveaux make it available for you. It had been occupied, he tells me, by his aide-de-camp.’

  ‘It is very comfortable, sir.’

  As I step lightly towards Macquarie’s side, he indicates with a reeling motion that the visitor should come further forward. He looks him up and down. ‘You seem to be in surprisingly good health,’ he says. ‘I’m glad to see you suffered no harm on that dreadful voyage.’

  ‘I suffered no real physical harm, Your Excellency,’ the visitor says with darting eyes. ‘On one occasion … perhaps I shouldn’t say … a threat to inflict it. Though never fulfilled.’

  ‘A threat. From what quarter?’ returns the Governor in a voice rising steadily in pitch and volume. ‘The convicts? Soldiers? An officer — surely not?’

  ‘It is no matter. I am, as you see, alive and well.’ He gives his hands a shake, as if to prove his vitality. ‘And ready to begin.’

  Macquarie rubs his cleanly shaven chin ruminatively as he turns to the window. There is a slow shake of the head. It is not in his nature to let such a matter rest. Only when I place my hand on his shoulder does he break from his thoughts.

  ‘Quite so,’ he says, returning to the Architect, who, I observe, has been turning this way and that with wide astonished eyes, taking in the paintings and sketches on the walls. ‘What is an insult when compared with a life.’