‘John,’ she called.
He turned, already at the foot of the steps. ‘Yes, Hannah?’
‘I will never forget your kindness.’
‘Nor I forget you,’ he replied, voice choked. He waved one last time before climbing the steps and disappearing into the crowded throng .on the poop deck.
Hannah joined Porter on the rail. Together they absorbed the commotion below them on the wharf. ‘They tell me the Governor is coming down to see us,’ Porter said dryly.
‘Well, bully for him. By the way, where’s Rosie?’
‘She’s with Bart, saying goodbye. Last I saw of them they were in a clinch to end all clinches.’ Hannah Porter gave a devilish chuckle. ‘And not coming up for air. Talk about that stage play I heard about. What’s it called? Romeo and Juliet, I think. Well, it’s got nothing on Rosie and Bart.’
‘She’ll never see him again, I wager.’
‘She’ll get over it. It’s just a question of time.’
Hannah smiled. ‘Maybe.’
An ear-piercing whistle stopped any further conversation. Hannah and Porter looked at each other in fearful anticipation. A number of shrieking blasts swept over the ship followed by an eerie silence. The convicts stood motionless, awaiting their fate as the First Officer strode to the poop rail. ‘Listen up,’ he shouted. ‘Here are the Captain’s orders. You will, on my command, move to the wharf and enter only the area marked by rope. You will remain there until further advised. Anyone who goes outside that area will be charged.’ He turned to his Captain who nodded. ‘Now go,’ he gestured to the convicts.
There was a frantic race for the side of the ship, where the rail had been removed. Some pushed and shoved in their eagerness to set foot on land. Hannah and Porter grabbed a tear-stricken Rosie and together they jumped down on to the thick, rigid timbers of the wharf. Their sea legs were like jelly on the non-swaying surface as they staggered to the roped area and sat, their tight bundles of possessions lying beside them. On the ship, the crew directed the elderly and less active convicts down the gangway to the wharf. Before them, at the entrance to the roped area, government officials sat with quills in hand, piles of writing paper on the table tops before them. Forming almost an enclosed circle around the roped convict area stood soldiers in regimental caps, striking red jackets with crossed white straps and tight brown breeches, and prosperous-looking men in fine double-breasted waistcoats and colourful dress coats. Interspersed within the crowd, Hannah noted the ladies of the colony, dressed in their refinery, clutching pretty sun-shades and attired in a wide variety of high-waist cotton frocks and some with satin sashes.
A little apart from the well-to-do people and in a group of their own stood quite a few simply dressed men, battered cabbage-tree hats, worn, oily moleskins and grubby-looking kerchiefs contrasting greatly with the immaculate dress of the rich or those in comfortable government positions.
‘They’re the riff raff,’ an old lag whispered in Hannah’s ear and Hannah cringed at the foul breath. ‘Convicts still doing their time but now on a ticket of leave,’ the old lag continued, oblivious to Hannah’s grimace. ‘They’re scum, most of ‘em. You don’t want to go there as a servant, let me tell you. I know. I bin’ there once.’
‘Jasus,’ Porter gasped and pointed. ‘There, Hannah, I told you. Here’s the Governor come to welcome us. Look.’
All eyes focused on the small group of officials approaching. Hannah recognized the Colonial Surgeon and their own Captain Ward trailing the Governor and his aides. She thought Governor Macquarie cut a fine figure in his heavily gold-lined dark blue dress coat with the high white collars, double-breasted red waistcoat, the red sash with sprayed tassels on the end, cream skin-tight trousers, and near knee-height mirror-finish boots. His face was fine-featured, if somewhat gaunt, that is what she could see under his broad dark bicorn. He wasted no time climbing a small dais to address the gathering.
‘I bid you welcome to New South Wales,’ he began, eyeing his captive audience. ‘You will serve your sentence here in this new land. Some of you will go to the Female Factory down the Parramatta River a bit.’ He raised a white gloved hand towards the west. ‘But the greater majority of you will be allocated work on the farms or businesses here around Sydney Town. Note well, people, that each one of you has an opportunity to put your crimes behind you and start a new life here in this land and, make no mistake, it will be a great land one day.’ The Governor paused for effect. ‘Sydney will be a great city and I want you to be a part of it, but it’s up to you, entirely up to you. After you have been here for four years, you may apply for a ticket-of-leave which means that you can work for yourself doing whatever legal occupation you wish to do. This is a privilege you should not ignore if you want to better yourself. If you misbehave or commit a further crime, you will be jailed, receive punishment and your current sentence increased. You could even be sent to Norfolk Island or Newcastle. God forbid if that happens. Believe me you would not like it there. Now, that’s about all I have to say. A selection will now be made for the purpose of work allocation. I would close by issuing a word of warning to those who are allocated convicts in their employ. Any mistreatment of these women over and above their normal duties will also be harshly dealt with. There are rules governing the provision of lodging, victuals and the well-being of convicts under employment and they are to be strictly adhered to. That is all. I wish you good luck in your new endeavors.’ The Governor strode away briskly followed by his entourage.
Rising excitement and murmuring grew within the crowd and the convicts. The clerks wasted no time in starting the selection. The senior clerk stood and started to read names while a subordinate made ready to tick the list and made notes. ‘Emily Fraser. Stand up, please.’ The pretty Lancashire lass with curly, brown hair, sparkling blue eyes and wholesome figure stood uncertainly. ‘You are spoken for as a servant,’ the clerk said, ‘in the employ of Lieutenant Andrew Ferguson.’ The tall soldier came to the rope entrance and awaited his employee. ‘Go with the Lieutenant, Fraser,’ the clerk ordered. ‘Next?’ he queried his subordinate. ‘Agnes Charlton,’ intoned the clerk. ‘Stand up,’ ordered the senior clerk. A fat heavily bosomed woman rose to her feet, confusion on her plump, acne-ridden face. ‘You’re allocated to the Female Factory. Remain in the area. Sit. ‘
‘My God, if they’re sending the ugly ones there, it’s me for sure,’ Porter giggled.
‘No way, Hannah P.’ Rosie patted Porter’s hand. ‘You’re too pretty.’ Her eyes suddenly misted over. ‘Oh, how I do hope we three will be together, somewhere, wherever it is.’
Hannah took a deep breath. ‘There’s something that I should tell you. I ’I am allocated to the Female Factory.’
‘Oh, God, no.’ Rosie pushed a fist to her mouth, eyes wide open in shock.
Porter sat, lips pursed, slowly shaking her head. ‘I had an idea it was going to be a bad day,’ she said, dryly, ‘when I first got up this morning.’
‘I’m sorry, girls. It’s not my idea, it’s the rules apparently, because I’m pregnant, you see.’
The girls sat quietly, half-listening to the names as they were called, Rosie with eyes downcast, sniffing every so often. Hannah reached across and took the youngster’s smooth hand in hers, feeling the pulse racing in the thin, blue-veined wrist. She felt an overwhelming sense of sadness and frustration. Whatever happened to Rosie in the next few minutes was beyond her control.
The calling went on and on along with the invitation for claims, the challenges and ending with the meek surrender of the woman to her employer. So routine, Hannah thought, but how damn degrading, like sheep at a country sale. When the name was first called, they missed it, alone with their thoughts, until the name was repeated with vehemence... ‘Hannah Porter, where are you?’ Porter threw her arms around Hannah and Rosie and they hugged and kissed. Porter’s tough exterior crumbled into a torrent of tears. ‘Don’t ever forget me,’ she pleaded, standing now, wet eyes focused on her friends.
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br /> ‘Be strong, Hannah P until we meet again.’ Hannah reluctantly released Rosie’s hands. ‘We will meet again. Never doubt that.’
Porter nodded. ‘Be good, Rosie, or be careful,’ she chucked the youngster under her chin and turned to face the senior clerk.
‘Ah, there you are. Porter,’ the senior clerk snorted. ‘We thought you’d gone to sleep. Ha ha. Right, any claims?’ He turned to his clerk. ‘Already allocated, you say? Servant and kitchen hand at Government farm, Sydney Town with Overseer Smithers. Yes, now I recall. Okay, Porter, go with Mr. Smithers here. Come along, now. Right, now who’s next?’
The two girls huddled together watching Porter leave. She turned to offer a forlorn wave before the thickset, unsmiling overseer took her firmly by the arm and steered her into the crowd. Hannah stood quickly when her name was next called. She already knew the allocation. She wanted it over and done with so she could give her attention to Rosie. ‘Ah, Stanley, you’ve been busy. I see.’ The tittering among the remaining convicts was overshadowed by loud, suggestive laughter from the gentry. It’s all a game to them, Hannah thought. ‘Okay, Stanley, it’s the Female Factory for you. You may sit for the time being.’
‘Rosie O’Donoghue.’ Hannah shuddered at the mention of the name. Please God let her go somewhere with good people who will help her... who will love her as we do. Rosie stumbled but stood, one hand resting firmly on Hannah’s shoulder.
‘Yes,’ said the senior clerk, eyeing her intently. ‘Young Rosie is a comely lass indeed. Are there any prior claims recorded?’ He motioned to his clerk. ‘Ah, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Right, Mr. John Williams of Campbelltown, settler, has asked for a house servant. Where are you, sir? Would you come forward, sir? Thank you.’ He turned to Rosie. ‘Come now, go to Mr. Williams. That’s a good girl. You’ll be happy there, I warrant.’
Hannah held the sobbing child to her bosom patting the long brown hair. Rosie froze, unwilling to move until the senior clerk bellowed. ‘Move now, miss, and hurry along.’ Rosie picked up her bundle and moved unsteadily through the decreasing number of women. Her master raised his hat to her before taking her arm. Hannah wondered at that. It was a strange thing to do to a convict. Maybe, just maybe, Rosie had found a good home. God only knows she deserves it.
A voice rang out strong and clear, rising above the wharf noise. ‘May God bless you, dearest Rosie, I will never forget you.’ Rosie froze. She swung around, searching the ship with eager eyes until she sighted him, a lone figure on the mid-ship shrouds, hands waving his bicorn. ‘Bart, oh, dear Bart, thank you. I love you, Bart,’ she screamed, weeping anew, eyes unwavering until John Williams took her arm lightly and led her away.
Hannah sat numbed as the selection continued. When it was over, only the convicts destined for the Female Factory — mothers-to-be, elderly and ugly — remained. They sat, silent, resigned, sweating in the hot midday sun, and waited for the boat to take them on the ten hour journey down the Parramatta River to their new home.
Daniel Clarke had watched the entire selection process from the top landing of the government warehouse. Leaning on the balcony rail, he and two other seamen of the Spring Grove had a clear view of the proceedings and the convicts herded into the roped area below. They were a motley lot, he thought, the dregs of London and Dublin society, but where they all bad? His gaze flittered from face to face, analyzing them and wondering about their past. There was some downright ugly wenches amongst them, some with coarse, pox-ridden faces that suggested they were whores, others stern-looking, antagonistic, probably thieves or murderers but there were some — only a few perhaps — who looked out of place. In particular, his eyes kept returning to three women who sat together, holding hands and talking quietly to each other. One was a very young girl who was exceptionally beautiful with curly brown hair that leapt wildly from under a blue bonnet. She’ll break a few hearts in this rough town, he surmised. The woman in the middle of the trio was rather thin and pale-faced but she had a friendly, cheeky face, the type of woman who would always be fun to be with. The other woman was pretty too — like the young one — but in a more mature, confident way. Her abundant dark hair was held in an elegant spiral at the nape of her neck by a large tortoiseshell comb, the white bonnet pushed lower onto her brow as shade from the hot sun. He could not see her eyes, only a full, sensual mouth — conspicuous even from this distance — and a rounded, smooth chin. She was a well-developed woman, too, with female curves that could not be hidden, even by the heavy calico smock that she wore.
He watched, anxious now — which surprised him — as the names were called for allocation. He found himself wanting something decent for these three women, hoping they would be sent somewhere where there was hope for the future and perhaps happiness. When the thin woman was claimed by the government overseer, he felt some sympathy but when the pretty mature woman, Hannah Stanley, was called by name and assigned to the Female Factory, he felt a strong sense of injustice, of loathing for the system that permitted this barbarism to a woman like her. When she stood proud and unafraid, his eyes narrowed as he viewed her figure. There was no doubt about it. She was carrying someone’s child. Irritated as he was at this discovery, it did not detract from his favorable impression of this woman who had triggered his senses. Later, he watched with distaste as the weeping young girl was assigned to a prominent settler. He smiled, along with his shipmates, as the vocal young officer on the deck of the Canada shouted his loving farewell to his sweetheart. ‘Good for you,’ he shouted, clapping his hands in appreciation.
‘Come on, Dan’el,’ said one of his shipmates. ‘The party’s over. Let’s go. We’ve got to load some stores.’
‘Aye, that we have,’ Daniel replied, thoughts elsewhere. He looked back to the convict group, his eyes seeking Hannah. She sat alone now, dejected, head resting on raised knees, one hand resting languidly on her sole possessions in the bundle beside her.
He felt an overwhelming hate for the system along with an irresistible urge to go to this woman, to give her hope, to make her smile, to hold her hand and perhaps laugh together but he couldn’t. Besides, what was the use? His whaling ship was returning to England in three weeks. Who knew when he would return to Sydney Town, if at all, while Hannah was going to the female prison that was down the Parramatta River. They would be worlds apart. There would be no tomorrow. ‘Coming,’ he replied to his shipmates, and, with one final glance, followed them down the stairs to the pathway that led back to Campbell’s wharf and the whaler Spring Grove.
The boat glided quickly swiftly down the fast-running river. They were with the tide, Hannah saw. She sat on the bow, with the other fifteen convicts assigned to the Factory.
‘Sit there and don’t move,’ the soldier lieutenant ordered, his boot hurrying along the arthritic, aged convict, Heather O’ Rourke.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Hannah objected. ‘She’s an old woman. Why don’t you have a little compassion?’
The lieutenant loomed over her. ‘I see you’ve got a big mouth, slut. You’d better shut it.’ He looked her over, focusing on her bosom, a sneer on his thin lips. ‘If you weren’t with some poxy kid, I’d fix you up proper, in more ways than one.’ He pursed his lips followed by a tongue lapping motion and moved away to share his thoughts with the fat sergeant clutching a rifle and bayonet. ‘They only understand two things, these whores, Jack,’ he pointed out, ‘fist or fuck.’ The Sergeant gave a belly laugh. ‘Quite right,’ he blurted.
Hannah gritted her teeth but remained silent as they rounded a sharp bend. A flock of white cockatoos erupted into the air, shrieking their displeasure at the invasion. Hannah marvelled at the way they swerved and turned in unison as if under a common command.
‘They’re pretty, aren’t they?’ Hannah turned her head to better view the convict squatting beside her. She was a short, buxom woman, chubby cheeked, short-cropped, corn-colored hair and large, electrifying blue eyes that instantly reminded her of young Bart Stubbins. ‘Yes,’ she replied thoughtfull
y. ‘They are.’
‘I’m Sarah Hutchins.’ The wide smile lit up her face like a beacon. ‘I saw you on the Canada but we never spoke. Isn’t that strange? Maybe, because I was up at the far end, just near the sick people and . . .’ She chuckled, ‘always the last on deck.’
‘I’m Hannah Stanley, poor, pregnant and petrified otherwise not a problem in the world.’ The two women shared a laugh.
‘Oh, look,’ Sarah pointed, ‘at the natives over there on the bank. Do you see them?’
Hannah looked. There was a group of them. John had told her on the ship about the local savages and now she was seeing them in their natural state. She held her breath with excitement, assessing them, men and women, standing ― seemingly frozen in time ― eyes focused on the lighter as it slowed. She glanced behind her. Even the rowers had stopped their motions, resting arms on their long oars, happy to rest and view the spectacle. Hannah’s gaze returned to the women, totally black, frizzy haired, naked except for a single string around their private part and the elder ones long, stringy breasts hanging almost to their waists. The men stood to the side, away from the women, clutching tall, slender spears that reached above them. They showed their complete nakedness, placid penises open to sight, some of them resting one foot on the opposite calf, and standing on one like she’d seen storks and cranes do. Bones poked through the noses of at least two of them and their bodies, unlike the women, bedecked in white strips of paint on chests and the thighs of their stick-like legs.
An eerie silence prevailed as the lighter glided past with the tide, the natives immobile, not a sound, not a movement. It’s like a mirage, Hannah sensed. The lieutenant broke the silence. ‘Okay, the show’s over. Let’s go.’ The convict rowers bent to obey and the lighter skipped ahead, rounding a bend and providing only a final instant glimpse of the blacks, perfectly still and watching.
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