Elizabeth Macarthur

by Michelle Scott Tucker

  Elizabeth wasn’t inclined to let Bridget wonder for very long. With an astute grasp of the commercial realities of the fledgling New South Wales economy, Elizabeth explained in some detail how it worked. If the lesson had ended there, Bridget might have considered herself well-informed, but Elizabeth, in the same letter, couldn’t help exclaiming about the high prices of livestock, before detailing exactly what those high prices were and enumerating the ridiculously high-priced beasts she and John owned. From the single cow that Grose had given to Elizabeth, their herd now numbered some fifty head. The Macarthurs were also, according to Elizabeth, running almost a thousand sheep.

  At this stage John and Elizabeth were beginning to select rams for fleece rather than for meat and John had purchased from Lieutenant Waterhouse three of the famous ‘Spanish breed’, forbears of the modern merino. In 1796 Waterhouse, sent to the Cape by Governor Hunter to buy food for the colony, had privately procured a small flock of so-called Spanish sheep from a Dutch widow. Waterhouse ran out of fodder on the return trip and only five rams and seven or eight ewes survived. Macarthur took three, with others disbursed to Hunter’s nephew Captain Kent, Reverend Marsden and a Mr Laycock. Waterhouse kept a couple for himself. At up to £16 for each sheep, Waterhouse (the true initiator of Australia’s fine wool industry) made a tidy sum from animals that were most likely half-breeds, at best.19

  In the late 1700s the Macarthurs were not the largest wool-growers in the colony, with sheep just one of their several agricultural and entrepreneurial ventures. Like sensible business people everywhere, the Macarthurs always sought to diversify. Elizabeth wrote to Bridget of their flowering orchard, which now included almond, apricot, pear and apple trees. John was a keen rider, and horses were yet another of the Macarthurs’ pursuits. In 1798 the Macarthurs kept a dozen horses, which they used, according to Elizabeth, ‘both for pleasure and profit—they run alternately in the Chaise or Cart’.20 Horses were extremely valuable and there were fewer than one hundred in the colony in total, with eighteen government-owned and the rest owned by the officers. The shortage pushed up the prices, as Elizabeth explained to Bridget, a ‘good horse is worth £140 to £150. Be it ever so bad it never sells for less than £100’.21 The private importation of horses and other livestock—from the Cape, India and the American colonies—flew in the face of the British East India Company’s monopoly on trade so the practice largely went unrecorded. Even Collins, an administrator who was a stickler for detail and a dogged recorder of incoming goods, could mysteriously fail to notice each half tonne of horseflesh being unloaded at Circular Quay.22

  Elizabeth could ride too. The Reverend Marsden boasted about his own wife’s riding prowess, noting that Betsy ‘rides a good deal for amusement and exercise on horse back, being a good horsewoman—she will ride to Sydney and return the same day’.23 No such comment exists about Elizabeth but, even if she didn’t ride with her friend for pleasure, she could certainly do so as required. Around this time Elizabeth made a journey to the Hawkesbury, on horseback, and stayed for three days. The road from Parramatta stretched about twenty miles in a direct line through wooded country. She enjoyed a day sightseeing on the river and could happily have spent more time there, ‘but we were not without apprehensions of being interrupted by the Natives, as about that time they were very troublesome, & had killed many white people on the banks of the river’.24 Elizabeth’s wariness was warranted—despite the relative tranquillity of Elizabeth Farm, and her family’s benign relationships with the Aboriginal people of that region, battles at the frontier of white occupation continued unabated. Elizabeth also enjoyed trips to Sydney, particularly as the twenty-two kilometre carriage road between Parramatta and Sydney was already a very good one. John was sometimes required to attend to his duties at headquarters, rather than at the Parramatta Barracks, and Elizabeth told Bridget that ‘Myself or one or more of the children occasionally accompany him. As the distance is convenient—our stay is prolonged as business or pleasure require, or we return the same day, but as our family is large we do not choose to be long absent from home together.’25

  Ten years after a pregnant Elizabeth had, in the eyes of her village, married unwisely, she was finally able to imply I told you so. She wrote to Bridget:

  …how bountifully Providence has dealt with us. At this time I can truly say no two people on earth can be happier than we are. In Mr Macarthur’s society I experience the tenderest affection of a Husband who is instructive & cheerful as a companion. He is an indulgent Father—beloved as a Master, & universally respected for the integrity of his Character. Judge then my friend if I ought not to consider myself a happy woman.26

  It’s hard to believe that Elizabeth was so naïve, or so ill-informed, as to truly believe that there was universal respect within the colony for the integrity of John’s character. A more self-confident woman might have left it there. But Elizabeth, right at the end of the letter, couldn’t resist one more dig:

  How is it my dearest friend that you are still single—Are you difficult to please—or has the War left you so few Bachelors from amongst whom to choose. But suffer me to offer you a piece of advice—abate a few of your scruples & marry.27

  Elizabeth’s letter was dated 1 September 1798, and probably written while a ship waited in the harbour to take it straight ‘home’. Bridget Kingdon’s reply, although remarkably restrained, has all the vividness of an immediate response. In a telling illustration of the slowness of the mail to a remote destination like Bridgerule, Bridget’s reply was dated 15 September 1799.28

  Bridget spent a long paragraph pointing out how close she and Elizabeth had once been and sincerely hoping that nothing would ever intervene to lessen their regard for one another. Bridget admitted that she was indeed an old maid—she was thirty-two—and perhaps the subject of ridicule ‘though I think undeservedly, at least the ridiculers should first point out what these unfortunate females are to do who have not an offer from a person they can approve’. She wondered what Elizabeth would have her do? ‘Not surely be so eccentric as to reverse the matter, and make an offer (if you would) I have not the courage, nor vanity enough to pursue the scheme.’ Money was the key, thought Bridget, ‘but having neither youth wealth or beauty to recommend me, I shall endeavour to make myself contented with the state I am in’. Bridget was cross enough to allow a little sarcasm to creep in: ‘You have my grateful thanks however for your kind advice,’ then immediately softened it: ‘Though it is not granted me to follow it.’

  Perhaps at this point Bridget drew breath. Her heart must have been a large and kind one for the very next paragraph is full of congratulations for Elizabeth’s good fortune in finding such an excellent husband. ‘God grant your present happiness may be continued to you.’ 29 Her kindness continues as she finishes the letter with details of young Edward, who Bridget described as a charming boy, enjoying his visit with the Kingdons. Perhaps her letter took a year to reach Parramatta, perhaps it took two. Regardless, soon after it had arrived in Elizabeth’s hands, everything had changed for Bridget.

  On 1 March 1802 she stood before her father, the Reverend Kingdon, inside the church after which she was named and was married to John Braddon. Bridget had finally received an offer from a person she could accept. Sadly, just six months later, on 31 August 1802, the Reverend Kingdon again presided over a ceremony for his daughter—this time it was her funeral. No cause of death is recorded but perhaps it was pregnancy-related.

  After Bridget’s death Elizabeth Macarthur continued to write to and receive letters from Bridgerule, but now she was corresponding with her goddaughter, Bridget’s youngest sibling, Eliza. Is it telling that none of Elizabeth’s surviving letters to Bridgerule mention her husband again, or at least not in anything more than a passing line? Perhaps Elizabeth found it increasingly difficult to demonstrate the colony’s universal respect, as she had earlier put it, for the integrity of John’s character. Certainly, Governor Hunter could not attest to it. He was still waiting to see th
e results of John’s letter.

  10

  Pistols at Twenty Paces

  It is useless, my good friend, to add fuel to the fire that has been blazing too long already.

  ELIZABETH MACARTHUR TO CAPTAIN PIPER, ‘THURSDAY AFTERNOON’ C. 1801

  The duke of Portland’s response to John Macarthur’s letter arrived in 1798, nearly a year after John had sent it, and it was not, as far as Hunter was concerned, the least bit heartening. His Grace was so sure of Hunter’s ‘penetration and judgment’ as to have no doubt that he would surely avail himself ‘of every suggestion contained in Captain Macarthur’s letter.’1

  Later letters chastised Hunter further, and continued to harp on the subject of costs, trading monopolies and rum. Anonymous sources made allegations of gross profiteering and trading in liquor by the officers. This much was old news. Of particular concern to the duke, though, were new allegations that ‘this sort of traffic is not confined to the officers, but is carried on in the Government House’. Hunter was not implicated directly, but his staff was. By April 1800 it was all over for Hunter. Phillip Gidley King, who had sailed on the First Fleet as a lieutenant, subordinate to Hunter, was back in the colony with his wife—Elizabeth’s friend Anna Josepha—and carrying Hunter’s sternly worded recall to England.

  Elizabeth’s coterie was brilliant again. Mrs Paterson and her newly promoted husband had returned with the Kings, and now the Macarthurs often stayed with the Patersons in Sydney. Embarrassingly, King was not only a messenger but also Hunter’s replacement and Hunter treated him with a cold indifference that soon descended into overt hostility. John Macarthur’s sense of his own importance and influence, always strong, was firmly bolstered by this political coup but, always mercurial, he did not spend long basking in the glow of his victory over Hunter. Enough was enough, it seems, and it was time to return to England.

  In a move that shocked the colony John Macarthur put Elizabeth Farm up for sale: lock, stock and barrel. Macarthur offered the farm to the only purchaser who could afford it—the crown. He set the price at £4000, which included all the livestock, buildings and more than 500 hectares of land (of which 160 were cleared). Newly appointed Governor King thought buying it would be a good idea but needed to wait for permission from the colonial office. The duke of Portland, in his eventual reply, vetoed the purchase of Elizabeth Farm and, highly disapprovingly, agreed only that King could buy the cattle and the sheep. Ignoring every positive thing that had been written about Captain Macarthur’s farming efforts since 1793, Portland could ‘by no means account for his being a farmer to the extent he appears to be,’ because he already had a job, as a serving regimental officer.2 It seems not to have occurred to the duke that the extent of the Macarthurs’ farming activities may have been just as much the result of Elizabeth’s efforts as of John’s.

  It is entirely possible that Elizabeth was unaware, at least initially, of John’s offer to sell the farm. She certainly had enough on her plate at home. Young Edward had left for school in England but Elizabeth was, in 1800, caring for four children—Elizabeth (aged eight), John (six), Mary (five) and James (two)—and she was pregnant with another (William, who would be born on 15 December, the same birthdate as his living brother James). Or perhaps Elizabeth was aware, and had had enough of New South Wales, too, and fully supported the sale. Ideally she and John could sell up, with enough profit to move back to a comfortable life in England, and raise their children in proximity to family and friends. Either way the reasons for deciding to sell remain obscure. But by 1801, before Governor King had received the duke of Portland’s reply, the Macarthurs had decided not to sell after all. There are no records explaining the change of heart, but it is hard to believe that Elizabeth’s views weren’t being expressed, perhaps vehemently so, when she learned of the intended sale.

  As if Elizabeth didn’t already have enough to worry about, in June 1801, when baby William was only six months old, John Macarthur was involved in yet another fracas. A visiting naval lieutenant, Marshall, allegedly stole from the effects of a young man who had been lost overboard. Captain Macarthur, acting commandant of the troops at the time, investigated the claims, and Marshall eventually confessed. Governor King issued Marshall with a severe reprimand and booked him an ignominious passage home. Marshall focused his embarrassed rage entirely on John Macarthur, accosting him in the parade ground, the hub of Sydney Town. After a brief exchange of insults, John Macarthur challenged Marshall to a duel.

  This time it is certain that Elizabeth had no idea. The combatants were both in Sydney, well over an hour’s ride from Parramatta, but although they were scheduled to meet later that same afternoon, technical points of honour meant the duel did not take place. Feverish negotiations continued all afternoon but an appropriately senior second for Marshall could not be found or agreed on. Marshall turned up anyway and was incensed when Captain Macarthur and his second, Captain Abbott, did not. Marshall had all night to stew on it. The following day just before noon, again at the parade ground, a furious and shouting Marshall struck Abbott on the shoulder with a bludgeon before looking set to use it on John Macarthur’s head. John drew his sword and threatened to run the young naval lieutenant through. Marshall lowered his own crude weapon, and was taken to the guard house.3

  Did John Macarthur manage to keep this escapade from his wife? In the small world of New South Wales society, it seems unlikely. Just as she had in the wake of John’s first duel, on the wharves of Plymouth over a decade before, Elizabeth once again faced losing her husband—and her family’s financial future—as a direct result of his impulsive behaviour. At the subsequent trial Marshall escaped the noose, although his naval career was over. On the charge of attacking Abbott, Marshall was fined £50 and ordered to be gaoled for twelve months, in England. Given that Macarthur had received no actual blow, Marshall’s attack on him was referred to London.

  The court was presided over by Atkins, but otherwise made up of officers from the New South Wales Corps and a solitary naval lieutenant. Not one to take life’s blows quietly, Marshall strongly protested that the military make-up of the bench rendered it impossibly biased against him. Governor King, a navy man, prevaricated and called on Judge-Advocate Atkins to reconvene the court, but the officers of the corps were incensed: King’s request constituted an insult of the highest order. How dare the governor imply that the military men did not act impartially? Macarthur threatened to write to the authorities in England and any friendly goodwill between the King and the Macarthur families evaporated. Almost a decade later King would write that there was no society where the clashing of duty and interest between the governor and the governed was more violent than in New South Wales, and more particularly so if the governor did his duty.4

  No matter what Elizabeth thought of her husband’s views, her hard-won friendships with Anna King and Elizabeth Paterson were affected by them. Among the ladies’ friends was a young Lieutenant Matthew Flinders, who had, in 1798–99, circumnavigated Van Diemen’s Land and proved it to be an island. He then sailed back to England, married, and in 1802 was again in New South Wales. He wrote regretfully to his wife in England about how much she might have enjoyed Sydney, if only he’d been allowed to bring her. Flinders was friends with all the ladies in Elizabeth’s circle but clearly had his favourites. ‘Two better or more agreeable women than Mrs King and Mrs Paterson are not easily found; these would have been thy choicest friends,’ he wrote to his wife, although he also noted that the other ladies, including Elizabeth Macarthur, would be perfectly fine as ‘visiting acquaintances’ and, he conceded, ‘very agreeable for short periods’.5

  As it happened, Elizabeth Paterson and Anna King were close friends. A decade earlier the Patersons and the Kings spent fifteen months living on Norfolk Island. Together Mrs Paterson and Mrs King were instrumental in establishing Sydney’s first home for orphans, and the children of ‘undesirable’ parents. One or both of the ladies visited every day to ‘ensure the cleanliness, the instru
ction and the good quality of the food’, and visitors were impressed by their ‘solicitude and touching care’.6 Elizabeth was never involved with the orphanage and perhaps this further accelerated her family’s falling out with the Kings. Elizabeth Macarthur was not the sort of woman, nor did she have the time, to indulge in the public performance of good works, particularly when friends closer to home needed her more. In August 1801 Elizabeth’s friend and neighbour Betsy Marsden had a terrible accident. Not twenty metres from the Marsden farm gate her carriage overturned, spilling out a pregnant Betsy and her three-year-old son, Charles, who died in his mother’s arms. Two months later Betsy gave birth to another boy, John, but this didn’t cure her heartbreak and depression, and she didn’t write to friends in England for more than a year.

  Betsy Marsden wasn’t alone in her grief. Almost all of Elizabeth’s friends had lost, or would lose, a child. Mrs King’s daughter Utricia, the third of her five children, was about two when she died in 1797.7 And now the King’s older children, Phillip and Maria, rather than returning to Sydney with their parents, remained in England, safe from colonial mishaps. Louisa Abbott’s third child, Harriet, daughter of John Macarthur’s friend and colleague Captain Edward Abbott, died aged about two.8 Elizabeth Paterson had no children, or at least none that survived long enough to be recorded, and it would be a rare woman who didn’t grieve for what she couldn’t have. And a rare woman too who, like Elizabeth Macarthur, didn’t share her friends’ hurts and sorrows.

  But Elizabeth’s friendship woes continued apace. After falling out with Anna King, it was almost inevitable that Elizabeth’s friendship with Elizabeth Paterson would not endure. During the Marshall affair, John’s commanding officer, William Paterson, at first provided his full support. (Paterson was in fact one of the five who had passed judgment on Marshall and he joined Macarthur in writing to the authorities at home to complain about Governor King.) But John pushed the friendship too far when he tried to induce Paterson to end his social relationship with the governor. King and Paterson were both protégés of the redoubtable Sir Joseph Banks, and they shared a keen interest in the natural sciences. But even without King and Paterson’s shared interests, John should also have known that the relationship between Paterson’s wife and King’s made any rift impossible