The Ghost of Waterloo

by Robin Adair

  But she was Beauty. He saw that the gay provocation of her brief theatre costume was replaced by a more discreet walking-out dress: she was now a picture in an ankle-length gown frilled in layers from the knees down. A high pleated collar extended from a ruff around her neck to her shoulders, whence sprang leg-of-mutton sleeves that tapered to tight bands around her wrists. She carried a wide-brimmed straw confection of a hat, made even more festive with bows and trailing ribbons.

  What do you say to a vision? ‘I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your performances at the theatre,’ the Patterer began.

  ‘That’s uncommonly kind of you, Mr —?’

  ‘Dunne, Miss Hathaway, Nicodemus Dunne.’ He recognised with interest that her street voice differed from the one she used on stage – she was an American, though not the first he had come across. There were many such visitors to Sydney – mainly, of course, sailors and whalers. And for years there had been a small, stable community of such ‘cousins’ (as they were commonly called) working the limekilns at Jack-the-Miller’s Point and across the Cove on the sea fringe of the Government Domain.

  ‘But of course!’ exclaimed Miss Hathaway. ‘I saw you with Mr Levey during that sad business with Signor Bello. I asked him who you were and he obliged. Very forward of me, I’m sure, most bold. But I guess you’ve gotten to expect that of Americans.’

  ‘All I would expect of this American,’ said Dunne – rather smoothly, he thought – ‘is that she may agree to be shown points of interest in this town.’

  ‘Are you free, Mr Dunne?’ Miss Hathaway looked keenly at her new companion.

  The Patterer considered the ambiguity of the question. Well, he thought, legally my body has about a year of my gaol sentence to run, though I am a ticket-of-leave man, on parole. At heart, a girl I thought I was beginning to love is recently gone. Oh, and lately I have slept with my landlady…‘I’m free, Miss Hathaway,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘Then, yes,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could show me some of the sights. I really only know the theatre environs at all well, even though I arrived here at the end of last fall.’

  ‘What have you seen today?’ asked Dunne.

  ‘Oh, I saw a strange sight outside a quite grand house near the theatre. A man was laying down straw thickly on the street outside. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Well,’ explained the Patterer, ‘it’s useless, but thoughtful. I imagine someone inside that house is ill and the straw is intended to decrease the rattle and grind of carriage wheels and the hammering of horses’ hooves. It’s practical back in England, on cobbled or otherwise paved thoroughfares. But here it’s all dirt, or mud. So far.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Hathaway, ‘how silly of me. We do that at home. When a woman is enceinte, too. That’s why one in a certain condition is delicately referred to as being “in the straw” – although I’m sure many a farm girl has gotten that far by having been in the straw earlier! Forgive me, I should only ask if you have the first meaning here.’

  ‘I believe so,’ he said, marvelling at her forthright manner. ‘But I didn’t know if I should say so, to you.’

  ‘Oh, Nick – you don’t mind that form of address, do you? – you can say most things to me!’

  ‘If I’m permitted to ask you anything,’ ventured the Patterer, ‘may I say that you don’t sound very American? I mean, apart from saying “fall” for autumn and “gotten”, you sound unlike other “cousins” I have come across. Why is that?’

  Miss Hathaway laughed delightedly. ‘I try not to sound too Yankee with, shall we say, foreigners. But I could sound very American if I chose to. For instance, I could say that you are barking up the wrong tree. It’s not a chore to have a yen to be in cahoots with you. That’s the whole caboodle, so let’s bury the hatchet and mosey along. Okay?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll translate. Our hunters for racoons often lose their prey at night when their dogs become disoriented in the dark. “Chore” is our use of the English word “chare”, both simply mean boring, repetitive work. You also have, I believe, charwomen doing dull domestic drudgery, though I am attracted to the other name: dolly-mops! We’ve taken “yen” from a Chinese word for opium smoke: it equates with the desire in the world of “chasers of the dragon”, as I believe addicts are known. “Cahoots” means in close proximity, as the original French word cahute, for “little hut”, implies. “Caboodle” is an old New Amsterdam word for “all property”, from the Dutch settlers’ boedel. “Burying the hatchet” is what our Indians do to make peace (not that we are at war now, of course!). “Mosey” is from the Spanish vamose, for “get going”. “Okay” is a word of affirmation stemming from both Indians and African slaves.’

  Dunne gaped. ‘Okay!’ Charmed by her openness, yet overwhelmed by her knowledge, all he could think to add was a rather lame, ‘What else have you seen?’

  Miss Hathaway waved back along the street. ‘Oh, I saw the bridge, of course – not much of one, is it? – and the Tank Stream, which is darned dirty. Yet this was the only water supply once?’

  He nodded. ‘The bridge, stone now, was originally made simply by rolling logs together and filling in the gaps with clay and rubble. It’s called “corduroy”, I believe, like the cloth. Those early builders, by the by, were all female convicts.

  ‘Poor little stream; even the name is mired in disagreement. Some say that “Tank” was the application of a Hindoostani word, used by early settlers with experience in India.’ He pointed across Bridge Street, along Spring Row. ‘Near the end of that street prisoners cut cisterns in the rock beside the stream to store water; perhaps those “tanks” were the origin of the name. Certainly, it means there is also friction about even the name of the other thoroughfare near the stream – Pitt Street: is it named for the politician William Pitt or for the “pits” of water?

  ‘One thing, however, I am sure of,’ he continued, ‘is that the much-maligned waterway recently played a key role in the grand bank robbery that has convulsed the town. Yes, indeed.’ He pointed towards a drain hole on the George Street side of the stream. Miss Hathaway’s gaze followed his hand and he added: ‘That water conduit runs beneath the bank and gave entry for the thieves.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said his companion. ‘To plumb such depths probably deserves a rich reward. I have recently found another area, not quite as dirty but still rather daunting. I walked along George Street to the north, past the main guardhouse and the gaol. The settlement up high to my left seemed especially rough and inaccessible. I imagine it to be of little interest – or comfort, even safety, for that matter.’

  ‘You’re right about the quality of the place.’ Dunne nodded. ‘You are also wrong about there being little of interest there for you.’

  At her frown, he explained. ‘I mean, yes, The Rocks area is very rough and ready, but if you had proceeded a little further and looked again to your left – why, you would have observed a sight to gladden any loyal American’s heart! I’m sure you know of the gallant losing battle near Boston, where your rebels in the earthen fort held out bravely against the best of British redcoats.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Hathaway, rather crossly. ‘June 1775 – Bunker’s Hill. But it was a pyrrhic victory for the King’s men, surely. They felt twice our casualties and were gone within a year to join the Canucks.’

  ‘Canucks?’

  ‘Oh, that. Because so many Irish went to Canada, many from Connaught, we call them all Canucks. But what, pray, could a battle at Boston – which is, by the way, my home – have to do with your Rocks or thereabouts?’

  ‘There,’ Dunne waved airily in that direction, ‘you would have been looking up at our Bunker’s Hill. Yes, Captain Eber Bunker, an American sailor, came and settled only sixteen years after your battle – I don’t know if there was any connection between the two.’

  As they walked they met Billy Blue, a huge West Indian who plied a ferry around the harbour. He bowed and doffed his stovepipe hat and the Patterer explained a
s he departed, ‘His is a typical case of the new society here. Records become blurred. Is Billy an old lag or an old tar, with Wolfe in Canada? Perhaps both. And how old is he? Official records here say he was born in 1767, making him sixty-one. But his family Bible says that he was born in 1734. And he tells me he is eighty. I have to take that figure on trust.’

  ‘Why such interest?’ inquired Miss Hathaway.

  ‘Ah, you see, I have been collecting information for our first census. That’s one reason I pry into people’s lives.’

  The Patterer suggested they promenade along the more salubrious eastern side of the Cove, a route that would take them on a path towards Bennelong’s Point, with the lively water to their left and the sweeping fields of the Domain to their right.

  Life is good, decided Dunne as they started to leave the activity of built-up Macquarie Place. And so is business. For he saw that the women who had been his audience only recently were now crowding around another hawker, eagerly seeking whatever wares he carried on a large tray slung from his neck.

  ‘Now, there,’ said the Patterer, ‘is the direct opposite of Billy Blue. The hawker provided one of my fellow census collectors with his birth date – 15 August 1769 – and even that of his father in England – 7 September 1752. Such accounting; no wonder Bonaparte thought we were a nation of shopkeepers!’

  ‘Surely it is a woman?’ asked Susannah Hathaway, taking in the long coat and outlandishly floppy headgear.

  Dunne laughed. ‘No, no. That hat is simply a muslin cowl – which doubles as a mask – attached to a broad-brimmed hat.’

  ‘Who is he, then?’ she asked.

  ‘He wears that awkward apparel because he is an apiarist, a beekeeper, who chooses to sell his wares in the streets. We all know him for his hawking cry, “Garden honey, buy my garden honey, garden honey…”, so he is known, simply, as Garden Honey.’

  Miss Hathaway clapped delightedly. ‘That’s just, as we would say back in Boston, the bee’s knees!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  And he smelleth the battle afar off,

  The thunder of the captains,

  and the shouting.

  – Job 39:25

  The rather odd couple’s placid perambulations were intruded upon by an excited shouting and swearing of many men, coming from beyond a bend in their pathway. Abruptly their attention was drawn to an unusual burst of human activity on a flat part of the normally peaceful parklands that made up the rolling Government Domain.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are those men up to?’ Miss Hathaway asked her companion.

  Nicodemus Dunne had a sinking feeling as old memories flooded back. This was almost a mirror image of the scene that had blossomed when, not so long ago, another beautiful young woman – now, alas, lost to him – had asked him to explain the workings of a cricket match back in Hyde Park.

  He made his mind move on. ‘Oh, I believe they are playing at football,’ he replied, ‘or, at least, an Antipodean version of the amusement.’

  ‘They appear to be soldiers,’ remarked Miss Hathaway, ‘though not very well turned-out ones, I must say. Clearly this is no normal parade, exercise or drill approved by their manual of arms. In fact, it looks enough like a battle to be dangerous to life and limb.’

  ‘Indeed, that it is,’ said the Patterer. ‘And it has always been so. Some aspects of the game have been in play – and even more violently – for centuries, certainly in Britain. Mobs representing whole towns or villages would contest a game, fiercely following the ball, sometimes over miles.

  ‘We are told that King Henry V, of Agincourt fame, actually banned it, because playing, and notably the grievous injuries received, interfered with participants’ work – and also, in particular, their compulsory archery practice.

  ‘And the ancient Chinese are also supposed to have had a form of football. I have read a translation of a Chinese poem that refers to:

  The ball flying across like the moon,

  While two teams stand opposed…’

  ‘I don’t believe we play such a game,’ said Miss Hathaway. ‘Our men’s most popular pastime is much less rough. It was originally called “rounders”, I believe, but there are later names, such as “baseball” or just “base”. Our George Washington’s troops played “base” at Valley Forge in 1778. And even Miss Jane Austen mentions a similar sport. But I understand there are now two rival sets of rules, in New York and Massachusetts, and that no one can agree. Perhaps the pastime will go nowhere.’

  ‘Such rivalry is true of football, too,’ said Dunne. ‘It had been reduced to a kicking game, but five years ago, back home in Warwickshire, a schoolboy picked up the ball and carried it goalwards to steal a march on his opponents. This idea gained in popularity and the fashion is named after the lad’s school, Rugby. But let us see if we can determine how our soldiers here and now interpret the game.’

  They concentrated on the mayhem before them. There appeared to be two teams of as many as fifty men each competing for possession of a round ball. They attacked or defended two goal areas, each a standing pair of trees marked by ribbons.

  The individual players could have been indistinguishable, one team from the other, for all had shed their scarlet jackets bearing different facings on collars and sleeves that would have instantly identified the garrison regiments, the 57th and the 39th. The parts of their uniforms that remained in sight were their shirts and white trousers. They had already changed from grey or blue breeches on 1 September (the army, not the equinox, dictated the birth of spring, as the military influenced so much else in Sydney’s life). So, to identify themselves, the 39th sported on their arms green fabric bands to indicate that they were the proud ‘Green Linnets’. The no less proud 57th, the ‘Die Hards’, needed no colours.

  ‘It’s an odd game, even from your earlier description,’ confessed Miss Hathaway.

  ‘Well,’ said the Patterer, ‘it has a curious local aspect, which I only now recognise. A few years ago there was a scare that the Froggies – the French – might make an incursion into the southern parts of the colony, along Bass’s Strait, which cuts us off from Van Diemen’s Land.’

  The young lady nodded and Dunne paused briefly, uncomfortably aware that he would have to face the reality of today’s similar French rumours sooner rather than later, then continued. ‘The Governor sent detachments of soldiers, perhaps some of these very men, to investigate and secure the area. Off-duty, the visitors were much taken with a recreation played there by the natives. They leapt and used their feet and hands to project a “ball” – really a sack of compressed small animals’ skins. The “ball” was never just a dead beast. This…’ he gestured towards the soldiers’ ball ‘is a refinement, probably an animal bladder inflated in a skin casing. I believe the native language is now even applied to supporters,’ he continued, indicating the noisy crowd following the seesawing play. ‘We have come to call them “barrackers” – both from the Cockney word barrakin, meaning a discordant mix of words and from a native word for amusement and chaffing, borak.

  ‘The game’s native name appears to be marn grook, whatever that means. Goodness knows what settlers will call its Australian rules.’

  The soldiers’ contest progressed, the opposing ranks sweeping the ball, which had now become rather misshapen by manhandling, from goal to distant goal.

  A new player suddenly joined the scrimmage – a skinny black man with only tattered trousers and no footwear. He soared over the heads of the others, grasped the ball and landed lightly. From perhaps fifty yards’ range he kicked the ball towards a goal. And missed the beribboned area by barely a hair’s-breadth to one side. An irate soldier chased the intruder off the field, aiming a boot at the retreating backside.

  ‘What reward does he get for that kick?’ asked Miss Hathaway innocently.

  ‘I’m unsure,’ replied the Patterer, straight-faced. ‘Perhaps they could call it a “behind”?’

  They both laughed and moved on.

  ‘Y
ou are very knowledgeable,’ said Susannah Hathaway as they left the football brawl behind them.

  ‘Oh, but so are you,’ Dunne countered. ‘You seem to know much of the origins of your American words.’

  ‘La, my father is an amateur etymologist and I used to love helping him,’ she said. ‘But apart from that I know very little but the world of the theatre – which, of course, pleases Mr Levey greatly – and I know my Bible, which pleases my family.’

  The Patterer raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said serenely. ‘I am a daughter of the manse. My father and three uncles are men of the cloth.’

  ‘Why, then, may I ask,’ he said, ‘have you been performing on the stage – and here, of all places?’

  The young woman shrugged and sighed. ‘As to that, it is a long story, to be told at another time, perhaps.’ Dunne nodded. He, too, had stories to bury: the worst being that the Governor and Captain Rossi had declared him to be a bastard nephew of the King.

  Luckily, Miss Hathaway took a tangent that brought their conversation to safer ground. ‘Why did you refer to the French as “Froggies”?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, there are several answers. One is that Paris was built on a swamp, another that the mystic Nostradamus was the first to label them crapauds – “toads”. I favour the explanation that the fleur-de-lis, that emblem of French royalty, resembles a frog. Picture it.

  ‘It’s just an old eke-name – nickname – in the same way that you New Worlders call Englishmen “limeys”.’

  The singer shook her head. ‘Why do we call you that?’

  The Patterer pointed to a bottle floating near the shoreline of the Cove. ‘That’s why!’ he grinned mischievously.

  ‘Don’t tease me,’ she warned.

  He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘On my honour, no. All I meant is that the bottle once contained rum. The British only discovered it, in Barbados, 200 years ago and it has since been of great import, for good and bad.