Admonition

by Chris Throsby

  It must have been a full hour before stiffness in my legs forced me to move away from the door and sit in a chair, though I still held on to the pipe. I sat there for a few more minutes before I even allowed myself to accept Ellis might have injured himself and not be able to get back to the house. Sparked into life by that thought, I forced myself to open the door a crack and listen for any sounds that might give me a clue as to what Ellis was doing, and more importantly, where he was. But everywhere was quiet apart from the distant parched bleat of Jack’s few remaining sheep. Hearing and seeing nothing else, I left the house and started to walk slowly and quietly towards the barn, all the time listening for any sound.

  But I heard nothing and when I reached out and cautiously opened the barn door, I faced a bloodbath. It wasn’t so much the sheep. Each one of them had been shot once through the head, a little blood oozing from the bullet hole the only clue that they weren’t just sleeping peaceful. The same could not be said of Ellis. His body lay slumped in the chair, his rifle on the floor by his side, blood covering the sides of his face and more blood and I don’t know what else congealing on the wall behind him.

  As I moved closer, I could see the top of his head was missing. I turned away and started back towards the door, but before I got there, I heard loud drumming on the roof of the barn. I realised it had been going on for some time – I just hadn’t noticed, but I still made my way to the door; staying shut in the barn with Ellis’ body wasn’t something I fancied. When I got outside again, I stood, eyes shut, my face raised to the sky, rain competing with my tears which had begun to fall. Then, even though I was crying, I started to laugh. I know it sounds wrong. After all the man I’d been married to for a dozen years had just topped himself. But for months I hadn’t seen in him the man I married. Since the drought had started to grip the land, he hadn’t really spoken to me and then he’d tried to rape me. When he failed even to do that, he’d put me in fear for my life. So out loud I said,

  “Well, Ellis, it serves you right. I don’t know if the rain coming would have made a difference to you, but you didn’t give yourself a chance to find out, did you?”

  “What do you mean, didn’t give himself a chance?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin, I can tell you. Jack Cornwall was standing behind me, rifle in hand, and I hadn’t heard a thing. I just pointed at the hut and said,

  “He’s in there.”

  Jack opened the barn’s door, hesitated for a second and then went in, closing the door behind him. He wasn’t in there long mind, ’cos reappearing, white-faced, a couple of minutes later his voice trembling, he said,

  “It’s too late to do anything now, but tomorrow I’ll bury the sheep for you. Then I’ll have to report Ellis’ death to the authorities in Parramatta, let them decide what’s to be done.”

  So that’s what happened. The next morning Jack buried the sheep, then rode into Parramatta, not getting back until the small hours. (I couldn’t sleep thinking of Ellis’ dead body only yards away, so I was up when I saw a light shine from Jack’s house letting me know he’d just returned.) The following day, an officer from the Sydney Garrison and half a dozen men appeared at my door. The officer never said much but went straight to the barn (Jack must have described where Ellis could be found.), returning almost immediately, his handkerchief covering his nose and mouth. I guessed Ellis was getting a little high after two days’ baking. He ordered four men to take the sheet off me bed and wrap Ellis’ body in it. Telling them to put the body on the cart they’d brought for the purpose, he said they should then start off back to the Garrison.

  When the chosen four had made their reluctant way to the barn, he gave me ten minutes to put together a bag of my possessions.

  “Only things that belong to you. Everything else needs to be sold to pay for his burial.”

  So that was that. I packed some clothes and an old pair of clogs into a bag and was ready to leave in five minutes. The only thing I had worth anything was my wedding ring and I wasn’t leaving that behind; our marriage might have been a strange one and ended badly, but for most of the twelve years we were together, we got on just fine; no, the ring belonged to me. Anyway, the officer saw it when he checked me and my bag and looking straight at it, he said to me, “Alright, that’s all in order. Now hop up on the cart and let’s get you back to Parramatta.”

  It was late when we got to the Factory, so I never saw what it looked like ’til the next day. When they signed me in, they put me in a small side room, saying they’d decide what to do with me in the morning. I didn’t care. It had been a long journey and I’d hardly slept for three days. So as soon as they left me, I flung myself on the small bed which, apart from a pot, was the only thing in the room.

  I must have fallen asleep almost immediately and I only ’woke when the sun, streaming through the room’s only window, tracked ’cross my face. I’d barely sat up when the door opened and the Matron walked in. She was a short, thick-set woman, but the thing I remember the most was her colour. Well, to say it right, it was her lack of colour – she was the whitest woman I’d ever seen. I couldn’t understand it. I thought she must live in a cave or something, but it turned out she was an albino. I was staring at her. I expect that’s probably why she spoke to me like she did.

  "Up you get then. I suppose I should call you Johnson. Anyway, there’s someone here to see you. The gentleman saw your name from where you were signed in last night. Don’t get your hopes up. He was here last week looking for Admonition Payne. He says he recognises your name and remembers you and Payne were together when his ship brought you out here.

  Anyway, look lively, Mr Carlyle’s ship leaves on the evening tide and he’s still got to get back to Sydney Cove."

  Sleep-confused, I got up and tried to straighten my clothes, but the Matron was in a hurry.

  “Come along. There isn’t time for all that. You mustn’t keep Mr Carlyle waiting.”

  With that, she bustled out and I hurried after her. The name Carlyle rang a distant bell, but the only thing I really knew was that the Supervisor must have forgotten I’d changed my name when I married Ellis and had registered me as Mary Baldwin, otherwise Mr Carlyle would never have recognised me name.

  I was thinking how surprising it was that he recognised me name after so many years. I was after all just another transported convict and he must have known thousands, when Matron stopped us outside an unmarked door.

  “This is normally Mr Brown the Supervisor’s office,” she said, “but Mr Carlyle asked to speak to you alone. He’s already inside waiting for you.”

  She tapped on the door and without waiting for an invitation opened it and guided me in. I recognised the ship’s surgeon from the Sydney Cove straight away. I remembered how he’d been so kind to that poor pregnant young girl who’d died in childbirth on the journey ’ere. Unnecessarily, the Matron introduced us, so after we said hello and agreed we knew each other, Kit asked her to leave us. Ever so polite he was. She didn’t take umbrage at all, just smiled and curtsied as she left.

  There was a desk in the room and after she left Kit drew back a chair and invited me to sit on one side of it; made me feel like a proper lady he did. Sitting down on the other side, he started to tell me why he was so keen to find Adie. He said it was his father’s dying wish that he should try and find her and give her his letter. Factory records showed she’d been sent to Sydney Garrison, but when he got to the Garrison he found she’d gone to Newcastle with a Lieutenant Granger and they didn’t know when she’d be back. Trouble was it didn’t matter when she got back ’cos his ship was leaving on the evening tide. He knew he wouldn’t be back in New Holland for a year or more, and by then Adie would be free and there was no telling where she’d be – for all he knew, she could be back in England by then. That’s when he asked me if I could try to find her after my release and give her the letter. He told me the money mentioned in the letter was now in the Bank of New South Wales where they also held a copy of her signature
. She needed only to sign for it and the money was hers – mind you, he didn’t tell me how much was there.

  Of course, he was happy when I told him I’d try to find her, and he looked mightily relieved when I took the envelope. I’d always hoped me and Adie would meet again someday and now he’d given me an excuse to try to make it happen.

  Anyway, I knew there was nothing I could do for a couple of months, but I planned to go to Newcastle as soon as they released me, but when Adie turned up at the Factory, everything was suddenly straightforward. I give her the letter as soon as I was sure there were no prying eyes and the next day we shared a quiet spot where she could read the letter and find out how much money Kit had deposited in the bank.

  As soon as she had the answer, Adie started telling me her plans. These were plans she thought she’d have to give up, but now there was no reason she couldn’t follow. They were plans she hoped would include me, and we spent every minute we could over the few weeks talking over the details. After about two months, I got my ticket of release and then spent another troublesome month in Parramatta waiting for her to join me.

  As I told Adie, it might have been only a month, but it seemed as long as the whole of the rest of my sentence. In other words, it could have gone better!

  Admonition

  Freedom

  Today I’m celebrating; no, we’re celebrating. It’s been two years since my release and so much has happened. I barely know where to begin. But I suppose I must start with that letter from Henry Carlyle and the first thing to say about that is that as soon as I broke the seal and began to open it, a second letter fell out. Like Henry’s, the second letter was addressed to me and even after so many years, I recognised Jabez’ small and neat handwriting straight away; it was strange to think that both of the men who’d written those letters were dead. Of course, I’d barely known Mr Carlyle, but me and Jabez had been close; at the end we’d even married.

  Although I knew Jabez much better than Henry Carlyle, knowing him only as the person who passed notes and messages between me and Jabez, it turned out his letter was the more important of the two. Jabez’ letter was short and sentimental, concerned mostly with expressing his regret for having ever involved me in salt smuggling and it was clear he expected me to return to England where Henry could explain everything to me in person. Mr Carlyle’s letter was much longer and of far more use to me, it’s too long for me to memorise, so I’m letting you see the whole thing.

  Dear Mrs Admonition Payne,

  My name is Henry Carlyle and as you may recall, I was the barrister who represented your husband at his trial. I write to you in order to fulfil a promise I made Mr Payne and which I believe may be of advantage to you upon your release. Although your present circumstances are not known to me, I calculate that you must be approaching the end of your sentence. Clearly, if you are reading this, my son has found you and I can only hope that, despite the rigours and privations that life in New Holland must have presented, you remain in sound health.

  Before I explain the matters regarding your husband, it is with great regret I must first inform you of the death of your brother, William. I recently advised a client regarding his purchase of a plantation in the West Indies. Whilst discussing the purchase, my client had been informed of the recent tragic loss in a hurricane of a vessel hired to carry a salt shipment from the plantation to the United States of America. The ship had gone down with all hands. Amongst them was the plantation’s agent, one William Bostock, previously of Northwich, Cheshire. My client was able to provide me with sufficient detail to confirm that this William Bostock was indeed your brother. I know this news will come as a great shock to you and that it will provide you with little comfort to know that the success of the plantation’s unique salt production venture, had been in no small part due to your brother. Regardless of all else, I hope you will accept my sincere condolences.

  Now, if I may turn to your husband. In addition to defending him, I should explain that in the few months I knew him, I had many conversations with Mr Payne. He told me how he met you and in his way came to love you, why he married you as well as the unusual nature of your marriage. In his last days, he turned our conversations to explaining the truth about the work you both did for Sam Baker, why he’d become involved in the first place and how he had always regretted your involvement.

  Mr Payne believed that on your release you intended to come back to England and he felt that only when you returned should I reveal the information contained in this letter. Although he insisted that nothing further should be written down at any time, my own failing health prevents me from fulfilling that particular instruction. It is unlikely I will still be here, should it be your intention to return to England at the end of your sentence. I have also enclosed a letter to you from Mr Payne which he asked me to give you and which he swore contains nothing that would incriminate either you or me.

  Mr Payne asked me to explain the following:

  He said that although you never enquired, he knew you were aware he received payments from Sam Baker and the first thing he asked me to explain was what happened to that money.

  He realised that if he spent the money in significant amounts questions were bound to be asked, so he hid most of it beneath the floorboards in his bedroom. The remaining small amount he added to the weekly takings which, as usual, he paid into the bank. He took only the amount needed to compensate him sufficiently for the trade he’d lost since the mines had opened.

  What he intended to do with the money in the end he didn’t say, and I’m not sure if he knew himself, but he did tell me that when he realised the Excise Supervisor was closing in, he knew he had to act quickly. So, on the following Monday, just as he always did, he went into town and amongst other places, visited the bank and paid in the week’s takings. But in other ways, his day was very far from usual. Rather than walking to town, he had ridden one of his donkeys so that after finishing his usual errands, instead of heading home, he was able to ride on to Macclesfield. There, once he was certain he’d not been followed, he visited the Critchley and Turner Bank, somewhere he’d never been before, and requested a strongbox. He took all the money he had hidden and placed it in the strongbox, naming me as the signatory.

  It is because I believe the time left to me is short, yesterday, I withdrew all the money from the bank, a sum of £412 and a small bag of coins. In addition to delivering this letter to you, I have also asked Kit to deposit the money in the Bank of New South Wales (I am advised it is the most secure in New Holland.) and that he should sign it over to you for when you are free – I have taken the liberty of giving him one of the notes you sent Mr Payne so they can verify your signature.

  Mr Payne also made it clear to me that your whole life in England had been difficult and I can barely imagine how hard it must be for you in New Holland, but I hope that on your release this money will provide you with the means to lead a comfortable life, whether you choose to stay where you are or return to England.

  Kindest regards,

  Henry Carlyle

  For me, the month after Mary left seemed endless. She was free and there was nothing for me to do except worry that the money might have been stolen. But the month passed eventually, and the morning finally came when I walked out onto the streets of Parramatta. We’d arranged that Mary would be there to meet me, but when I stepped through the Factory’s doors, she was nowhere to be seen. Then, from the shadows of a building across the road, I heard a short, sharp whistle. Moving towards the shadows I could see a figure, but I couldn’t make out who it was, so I wavered. Seeing me stop, the figure moved into the light and now I could see it was Mary, what wasn’t clear was why she was hiding. I also couldn’t understand why, in just a month, she had become so dishevelled: her clothes were torn, her hair tangled and knotted and dust covered her from head to toe, but before I could say anything, as loud as she dared she called,

  “We must get away from Parramatta. I can’t be found anywhere inside the town
boundaries.”

  I didn’t understand. She had served her sentence. Surely, she was free to go wherever she wanted?

  Knowing what I might be thinking, she said,

  “I found a place jus’ on the edge of town. Let’s go there an’ I’ll explain what’s been happenin’.”

  With that, she stepped back into the shadows and cautiously started to make her way towards the outskirts of town. Leaving me little choice other than to follow her, she first led us the short distance to the Parramatta River and then, after making sure the way was clear, took us the half mile to St John’s graveyard. When we left the graveyard and started to cross open scrubland, she seemed to relax; I assumed we must have left town, though I didn’t know how she could be so sure.

  Moving beyond the graveyard, Mary quickly picked up a rough but distinct track and we had barely gone a couple of hundred yards when she stopped by a small but dense Wattle tree. From the far side of the tree, unseen from the track, she retrieved a small sack. Moving a little further from the track, she put the sack down and cleared away the ashes of an old fire. Before she began to build a new one, she pulled an old kettle from her sack and said,

  “Can you take this and fill it down at the creek?”

  I followed her gaze across the scrub and could just see the tell-tale glint of water a few hundred yards away.

  “It’ll be dry soon,” she said, “but right now it’s flowin’ enough to make pools that are drinkable and still deep enough to take the kettle. I was given some tea, I’ll use the last of it to make us a brew.”

  Who gave her the tea was another question I wanted to ask her. I’d only seen tea in New Holland when the Governor had visitors from England, but as I walked to the creek, I knew I had more important matters I needed her to explain.

  Mary was right about the creek. There was still a small but flowing stream in the middle of the creek bed and I soon found a deeper pool where I could fill the kettle. When I returned, Mary took the kettle from me and hung it over the fire on a frame she’d made herself. Inviting me to sit on a rock, she said,