‘Do come on, girls,’ urged Sir John, looking back at them. ‘That tune is our signal that it is time for us to show ourselves. Crozier arranged it. If I’d had my way they’d have fired a gun.’
Starting after them, Sophia turned to Eleanor. ‘Nell, do you know the name of that charming air?’ And Eleanor replied that she did not, though she was sure she had heard it before. Then young Elliot, whom Sophia had completely forgotten, spoke in the darkness at her side.
‘I believe it is called “The Brighton Camp”. A very old melody. It is the lament of a young man who must forsake his darling and sail off to war. It is very popular with soldiers and sailors, I believe.’
Sophia drew her shawl a little tighter round her shoulders. ‘Thank you, Mr Elliot. You are always so well informed.’
She held Eleanor closer still and hurried on to join her uncle. And Elliot, left with only the second footman for company, smiled to himself unseen.
The band stopped playing as they crossed the pontoon, the boards rocking and flexing under their feet. Sir John led the way with Sophia while Elliot followed with Eleanor on his arm. A cool wind flowed down the river, bringing with it the smell of eucalyptus from the hills. They are all watching us, thought Sophia, adjusting her grey silk shawl. They are all watching me. She pushed back her shoulders and raised her chin, as she had seen her aunt do on such occasions, and she averted her gaze from the faces which crowded the rail of the ship. One of those faces, she knew, must belong to Captain James Clark Ross, captain of Erebus and commander of the Antarctic expedition.
A fit of dizziness assailed her. But if I look down at my feet I might stumble or trip, perhaps fall into the river. If that were to happen, she thought, I should not wish to be rescued. The only escape from such an embarrassment would be to do the correct thing and drown. And perhaps, to increase the effect of distraction, I ought to drag my famous uncle down with me. At that, she could not helping smiling to herself. And several of those at the rail, seeing her smile, murmured together: such pleasant ease of character, to go with such beauty and poise!
The boatswains piped them aboard in a blur of light and faces, of whispered advice and discreet steering touches. Masts and rigging made a fairy roof above Sophia, gleaming with mirrors and lights. She saw Sir John touch his hat to the quarterdeck, and everyone fell silent as the band of the 51st Regiment, the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, played the vice-regal salute. The ships’ marines, drawn up on the quarterdeck, presented arms. Sir John paced their ranks in token of inspection and then he returned to Sophia’s side. And now, she thought, I shall be presented to the officers, and Captain Ross shall be the first of all.
She saw him there, waiting on his quarterdeck, his blue uniform trimmed with gold braid. He was too slim and handsome for his forty hard years. The dark, hawk-like face was smiling at her. And as she started for the quarterdeck, in step with Sir John, she felt hundreds of eyes on her back, on the thin white silk of her dress, the black curls arranged at the nape of her neck, and she shivered with a strange new pleasure. No, I am not at all cold. She stopped before James Ross, the famed discoverer of magnetic north, veteran of seven Arctic expeditions and of the late glorious voyage to the fabled Antarctic, and she let her shawl slip down her bare shoulders, just a little, and gracefully extended her hand.
But someone had stepped between them. A heavyset officer
with a homely face and bushy whiskers had moved into her path, leaning forward to whisper to the guest of honour. ‘If you’d care for a little refreshment, Sir John, before we set off the dancing, please step over for a minute to my cabin on Terror – James’s cabin has been reserved for the ladies tonight, to serve them as a dressing room.’
It seemed to Sophia that not many officers of the Royal Navy would have presumed, even in confidence, to address a lieutenant-governor as anything other than ‘excellency’, or to refer to his immediate commander by his Christian name. But she ought to excuse Commander Crozier his impertinence. Though he did not enjoy their rank, birth or wealth, he was, she knew, accepted by both Ross and Sir John as a friend and a peer, one of the navy’s intimate circle of polar explorers.
Sir John released Sophia’s arm so he could grasp the commander’s hand. ‘Indeed, Frank, there’s an idea for you! On a cool night like this it will be just the thing.’
Crozier turned and smiled at Sophia. ‘Miss Cracroft,’ he said, ‘how delighted I am to welcome you aboard tonight. Your first dance must of course be reserved for Captain Ross, but I believe that as deputy commander I am entitled to the second. I now present my claim.’
His soft Irish consonants were butchered by harsh Ulster vowels. Yet her Aunt Jane, Sophia knew, was charmed by Crozier’s rustic way of speaking, and had become a great friend and champion of the Terror’s shy captain. That’s quite a pretty speech for poor Crozier, thought Sophia. He must have practised it ahead of time.
‘I believe that the second dance is due to my uncle, as governor,’ she replied, ‘but I would be honoured to pledge you the third.’ She was inwardly calculating, in spite of her better sense: after my first dance with Captain Ross, with how many other men must I dance before I might come to Ross again? But after all, what harm was there in that? It was merely for her own amusement: she knew very well that he was said to be engaged.
Sophia had, to her credit, done her best to avoid it, had wriggled and squirmed like a worm on a hook, but she could not escape it: she must open the dancing on the night of the ball.
But the ladies of Hobart will scorn me, she had protested. It is well known that I am helping to direct the preparations for the ball. If I stand up at the head of the dance, the ladies will flutter their fans to hide their mouths, and whisper together that it is a place of rare honour which I occupy, having appointed me to it myself.
Nonsense, said her uncle. The invitation is not yours, nor even mine, but comes from the hosts of the ball, Ross and Crozier. In any case, Lady Jane being absent, you are the mistress of my household and therefore take precedence; Eleanor may be my own daughter, but she is still too young. And to be quite frank, my dear Sophia, as we are both aware, Eleanor does not dance half so well as do you. Her education in such matters has been neglected since we left Lincolnshire. So let us send for a dancing master, if a respectable one can be found in this town.
Alas, there could not. Such dancing masters as there were then in Hobart Town were of a low character – men of the theatre, or poets or journalists, most of them tickets-of-leave or emancipated convicts. Two very fine dance teachers had lately arrived from London and Bath but neither could be engaged, as the one had been transported for poncing, the other for unnatural crime, and – the assignment system having been lately abolished by London – it was now quite impossible for the lieutenant-governor, as guardian of the law, to requisition their service, even in the character of gardener or groom.
This difficulty had scarcely presented itself before it was overcome by means unlooked for and external. Within days of the ball’s announcement an army of dancing masters had invaded the colony. So swift was their arrival that Captains Ross and Crozier, who were staying with Sir John at Government House, got out their charts and puzzled over the prodigious winds and currents that could have sped word of the ball so quickly to New South Wales. The newcomers were for the most part men of unknown character – a circumstance which must, in an Australian penal colony like New South Wales or Van Diemen’s Land, have its advantages – and so were able to pass into the employment of the wealthiest colonial households and even those of the garrison and government.
By great exertion Sophia was able to find a man whose character was without proven blemish, having arrived into New South Wales two years before as a free settler. Before that, of course, his history was obscure, but whatever his origins, Mr Snow was a very fine dancer and a patient teacher. Classes were held each day in the breakfast room of Government House, cleared of all
furniture. Sir John’s maids, a trio of transported prostitutes who still sometimes dabbled in that trade, would make excuse to sweep the veranda outside, peering in through the half-open windows, as Eleanor and Sophia and several other daughters of the colonial establishment practised the country dance, the quadrille, the new Schottische and the daring waltz, with Mr Snow and Sophia taking turns at the pianoforte.
Sophia had come out very well in London and had little to learn about dancing; indeed, she might have set up as an instructor herself, and saved Sir John a portion of his quite inadequate stipend, but for her want of patience and her habit, when angered, of revealing the sharpness of her tongue. This was apparent to no one more than to poor Captain Ainsworth of the 51st who, having already had a marriage proposal rejected by Sophia, had attempted to join in the lessons himself, claiming – falsely, as Sophia well knew – that he had never learned to dance. Assuming the character of her aunt, Sophia had coldly enquired of the lovestruck captain whether he considered it appropriate that he should be present, a gentleman in a red coat, at a gathering of girls who were there without chaperones, and had he not better wait until the night of the ball? He had departed, quite crestfallen, and Sophia, soon repenting of her scorn, had sent him a short but friendly note, advising him of the other times when Mr Snow’s services might be privately engaged. In reaching out to him thus, having already dismissed him, she believed in all innocence that she was being kind.
For weeks the dancing masters prospered in Hobarton and Launceston, instructing the sons and daughters of the colony in the latest points of the terpsichorean art, direct from the ballrooms of London and Paris. Even those with no hope of attending the ball were swept up in the fashion for hopping and stepping and bowing, until the lessons became an end in themselves, informal social occasions for which invitations were not the less ruthlessly sought and withheld.
Then came the week of the great disappointment, when a mere two hundred and fifty cards were sent out requesting the company of the recipients aboard Terror and Erebus on the first night of June 1841. The bubble was burst, and the disbanded host
of dancing masters straggled back to Hobart port, counting its takings – all but a few who had found positions on the island, or who had fallen in love with their students, or resolved to go into business, and who would stay in Van Diemen’s Land: for every army must have its deserters. Mr Snow also remained, bringing his charges to the point of perfection, and then on the last day of May he too departed, intending to establish a school or hotel in the new mainland village of Melbourne. Like many who passed through Van Diemen’s Land in those years of its decline he was never seen in Hobart Town again.
The ball would open with a country dance; the free settlers would expect it, having most of them quit England at a time when the quadrille was new and the waltz was still scandalous. And so, with a great deal of chatter and flirting (the officers and their partners) or grim-faced froideur (the free settlers, who were determined to be set in old ways half remembered) two lines were formed on the main deck of Erebus, the men facing the ladies.
At the head of the line stood Sophia Cracroft, fanning herself with her dance card, not because she was hot but to conceal the fact that her hand was a-tremble. She looked down the lines of the dancers, the men in their coats of black or blue or red, the ladies in dresses of muslin or tulle, trimmed with silk flowers and ribbons, their slippers bright with hand-stitched roses, and she heard the musicians finish their tuning – a last few scrapes of a bow on a cello, a toot of the bassoon. The lights in the rigging, the lamps above the rails, shone on the jewels of the ladies, gleamed in the medals and orders of soldiers and sailors and softened the harshest colonial faces, making them young again. The watchers fell silent around the ship’s rail. All faces turned to Sophia, waiting for her to open the ball. And Captain Ross, at whom she hardly dared to look, her partner for the long, formal evolutions of this opening set, made his bow and addressed her.
‘Now, Miss Cracroft, what is it to be? We have cleared our deck for action: please do us the honour of giving the word to commence the engagement. With what music would you have us begin?’
She was prepared for this. Her choice had not been difficult and the musicians were already informed. She smiled at Captain Ross, made her own curtsy. ‘On such a rare occasion as this,’ she said, ‘aboard two of Her Majesty’s ships of war, there can only be one fitting commencement: let us have please “Nelson’s Victory”!’
Those close enough to hear her – the next in line were Sir John and his partner for this dance, a debutante daughter of the 51st Regiment, and then Commander Crozier, who stood up with Eleanor – warmly approved her decision. Captain Ross spoke to the band leader, then turned to his friends. ‘A most excellent choice, Miss Cracroft, particularly in our present company. For although I have heard it disputed whether the victory celebrated in that tune was Nelson’s victory at Copenhagen or that of Trafalgar, His Excellency Sir John has very politely smoothed over the question tonight, by having had the foresight to serve gallantly in both.’
There were laughs and a round of applause, and Sir John, wiping his forehead, called out: ‘I fear that the victory in question was that of the Nile, Captain Ross. From which I was absent.’
How prettily Ross put things. Sophia would have to remember his words, stow them in a mind already confounded by lights and confused by impressions, so that she could recount them to her Aunt Jane who, like Sophia herself, admired nothing in a man so much as wit and learning. It was merely a superfluity of charm that made Captain Ross so handsome, so calm in command, so esteemed and graceful in his bearing. Yet it was said that he had a fiancée and that she was quite undistinguished, untravelled and unread, the child of a mere Yorkshire squire. In the course of his recent Antarctic voyage Ross had already named an ice-bound island and a stormy cape for this placid domestic, this tranquil Ann Coulman; to Sophia it seemed inappropriate: indeed, it was almost indecent. And she could not but wonder, who would name an island for Sophia Cracroft? Must she find one of her own?
All this, in an instant. Then the music began and Sophia, her gloved hands raised easily, her dance card hanging prettily from its ribbon round her wrist, stepped forward from her position and, watched by all eyes, paced out the pattern that all must observe and all must follow as the sets moved down the line. Forward, side, back, hand, turn – the decorous, detached self-absorption of doing things correctly, of doing them exactly as they ought to be done, rotating like clockwork, sometimes facing your partner, sometimes not.
Well, there would be waltzes later, in which a lady and her partner might turn away from the others and circle each other, their hands together, his right on her waist. She had by various stratagems and flutters of her dance card kept all her waltzes free thus far, although it was really not done to refuse a dance to one man and then to later be seen dancing it with another: she had been forced to invent phantom partners, official duties, even a fainting disposition, though she felt nothing but scorn for young ladies who fainted. Yet she could not have admitted, even to herself, for whom she was saving her waltzes; it is just, she told herself, that I must first be quite sure of my gentleman’s dancing, to protect my dress and my slippers and to prevent the crushing of my toes.
She smiled at Captain Ross, with whom she had just crossed hands. He was not a tall man, scarcely taller than herself, and his eyes – the black, Scottish eyes that the ladies found so picturesque, for which he was known as the handsomest man in the navy – were not a foot away from hers.
‘How very pleasant it is,’ she said, ‘to see naval officers dancing in their uniforms. I always thought it so unfair in England, that officers of the mere county militia are permitted to attend balls in their red coats while the gentlemen of the navy must wear civilian dress. It gives the army such an advantage with the ladies.’
I am being bold, she thought. But I am known to have a bold character. I must be permitted
to be myself. And he is engaged, of course.
They cast off around Sir John and his partner, who was too young and too shy to talk while they danced, to do anything but watch her own steps, and when Sophia and Ross came back into the set they gave hands, together again.
‘Miss Cracroft,’ Ross said, ‘you have seen through our game. We have practised a ruse. Our whole expedition – the Magnetic Union, the voyage to Antarctica, and the natural researches of Mr Hooker and Mr McCormick – was conceived by Crozier and I, with the connivance of our old friend Sir John and the men of the Arctic Council, so that we might dance in our blue coats in Van Diemen’s Land. How else are we to win the hearts of ladies, when in England we are shut out by the red coats?’
They passed by the right, performed a hey. I amuse him, she thought. That is why he is smiling.
‘Cut out at home, Captain? Surely not. It is generally understood in the colony that you already have an understanding.’
It was an indelicacy which she would never have permitted herself in England, or even ashore in Van Diemen’s Land. But they were far from England, in a new country with manners of its own, and there was also the excitement of being on the deck of a ship of war, even if it was only at moorings in a stream. And there was also the light of the lamps and the candles, and the moon that now rose in the mouth of the Derwent. She had already drunk a full glass of champagne. Around the rail, people laughed and talked and stared at the dancers. Many men will be looking at me. They can see me dance, but they can’t hear what I say.
They were to stand up, marking time, while Sir John and his partner cast off in turn. Ross’s smile was still amused, it seemed to Sophia. ‘And it is also understood in the colony, Miss Cracroft, that you yourself are not entirely repelled by the sight of a red coat.’
Minds of Winter Page 2