‘Out of the way!’ yelled a voice. I whipped my head around just as Mary wrenched me from the path of a speeding carriage. The driver, clicking his tongue, his whiskered jowls greyed with smut, rushed past us in a blur of whip and bridle, dappled flank and spinning wheels, one of which caught a puddle, sending a flare of dirty water to drench the bottom of my dress.
I clung to my maid, catching my breath. ‘That was close, Mary, thank you. Now where in the Dickens shall we go?’
‘There seems to be a bit of life at the top of the rise.’ Mary indicated with her gloved hand. ‘Perhaps it’s a market.’
Indeed, a ramshackle marketplace had sprung up on a raised plain above the wharves. Hawkers of every kind offered a conglomeration of wares, displayed in a haphazard arrangement of boxes, carts and wheelbarrows. The more enterprising had unfolded makeshift stalls complete with bars, benches and shelves. Boys with shirts untucked and bare ankles showing beneath their threadbare trousers snaked between the crowds, crates affixed with leather straps slung about their necks. I might just as well be wandering a backstreet market at home, I thought, listening to competing shouts to snap up bargain-priced roast mutton, salt pork, and charred potatoes. Hard-at-work women wearing calico dresses and aprons wheeled barrows of flour sacks, dirt-encrusted tubers and loaves of bread wrapped in brown paper. A girl of no more than twelve pushed past us bearing a crate of fan-shaped scallops and oysters bigger than my hand. Taking in the burlap and string sacks dangling from their wrists and the folded bat wings of umbrellas clamped beneath their armpits, as if the weather in Hobarton were permanently inclement, I surmised that many of the market’s customers were local.
Clusters of orange, purple and yellow caught my eye. ‘Come, Mary,’ I said, rushing to the stall of a flower seller. Propped up in wooden pails were bouquets of peonies, wisteria, daisies, honeysuckle and hydrangeas, all looking as fresh as if they had just been picked from the field. I buried my face in a bunch of fat cabbage roses.
‘Ah, ma’am,’ said Mary, ‘it seems we’ll not be wanting for much.’
‘Six pence a bunch,’ called the plump flower seller.
‘Did you hear that?’ I whispered. ‘The price is far too dear.’
‘Never you worry,’ said Mary, ‘I’m an expert haggler.’
‘Another time,’ I said, moving deeper into the market, my attention caught by a fruit wagon. I ached with longing at the sight of mountainous promises of oranges, lemons and grapefruit. There were rounded melons with green and white outer skins, fat peaches, red-cheeked apricots, deep burgundy plums and spiky pineapples. The lush symmetry of the arrangements enchanted my senses. After the impoverished diet of the Parsee, I could have stood half the day taking in every detail of the glossy, pitted and smooth textures of their skins. A girl in a grey cap and woollen smock sliced open one of the melons with a heavy bladed knife. ‘Would you like a taste, ma’am?’ she asked, thrusting a juicy wedge towards me, its colour the same deep pink as the flesh inside a bird’s breast. I accepted the fruit greedily, biting into its crisp meat, not caring about the juice running down my hands and wrists. Mary hungrily followed suit.
‘Shall I show you how to beat down the cost?’ she whispered.
I searched in my bodice but I had left my purse in my valise, having no cause to use it these past five months. I thanked the girl, praising her wares, and promised to return.
We wandered past a plant stall, all manner of seedlings set in rich soil in muslin bags to transfer to one’s garden bed or porch pots. We stopped at a cart filled with women’s powders and lotions. The girl attending the goods insisted we rub her delicious-smelling lavender water into our wrists and recommended we stock up on ‘oil-of-emu’, apparently a cure-all for minor aches and pains.
‘Fancy some game?’ asked Mary, covering her mouth.
Unplucked parrots, honeysuckers, pigeons and turkeys dangled by the legs from a long beam, flies settling on their eyes. The shopkeeper, rubbing his bristled moustache, greeted me with exaggerated courtesy. Indeed, it had escaped no one’s attention that Mary and I were fresh off the ship.
‘Good eating, that native pigeon,’ he said, spitting a wad of tobacco into a tin cup. ‘Local parrot’s not bad either. Here,’ he thrust a small, printed pamphlet at Mary, ‘take this to your kitchen. There’s plenty of recipes for your cooking.’
‘We’re much obliged,’ I said, softly pinching Mary’s side.
Conspirators, we giggled like debutantes, hurrying as fast as our legs would take us from the wicked game stall. Sneaking back to the passenger shelter to await John, I felt much revived by our little tour. I vowed that Mary and I would return to the marketplace at the next possible opportunity, though this time with coins in our pockets and carry-sacks on our arms.
After our adventures, the dining room of the Fischer Inn on Davey Street, where John had negotiated lodgings for our party, was a welcome sight. The serving bar was panelled in blond timber, its high ceilings supported by thick crossbeams, the chairs and tables plain-sawn and oiled.
Our rosy-cheeked waitress had curled red hair, half falling out of its pins and cap, and while she wore the customary plain black dress and white apron, she was unlike any London serving woman. Her face was full and her hands thick and strong. I imagined them wringing the neck of a chicken, chopping turnips for supper, scrubbing boards and balancing accounts.
‘What’ll it be, ma’am?’ she asked.
‘We will have the pie and peas, thank you,’ I said. Mary, the boys and I had agreed that the evening’s special seemed the most promising. ‘And a large pot of tea.’
‘As you will,’ said the woman, moving away to serve John, Benstead and Gilbert. They were drinking ale and poring over a map of Hobarton.
‘Did you see any albatrosses on your walk, Aunt?’ asked Will, a sly look crossing his face.
‘I’d be surprised to see an albatross this far inland,’ I replied, choosing not to be baited.
‘That’s what I told him,’ said John. ‘By hook or by crook, I’ll catch another of those beauties, don’t you mind.’
I glanced down at my teacup. John had been furious upon discovering the empty, damaged birdcage. Though fortunately he did not suspect sabotage, he had become determined to capture another of its tribe, repeating his desire at least once daily and causing a guilty blush to creep up my neck.
Nevertheless, the incident had signalled a turning point in my relationship with my nephew. While I sympathised with his actions and did not reprimand his behaviour, I began to watch him with a close eye. He was a clever lad, but he ran to cheek when idle and I did not want him leading Henry astray. Will had made something of a reputation for himself aboard the Parsee for skulking around the crew as they worked, often putting himself in the way rather than assisting, which inspired the occasional scolding. He had a quick temper, which had also got him into trouble more than once. It was not that I had given up on my nephew but I had quickly realised that his rebellious streak and fiery temperament made him unsuitable for bird hunting. I could only hope the plan to send him to Stephen’s farm proved the right decision for all concerned.
Throughout supper we were tended by a pair of girls with striking resemblances to the woman who had taken our orders. They carried trays and tankards between tables with practised care, the tempting smells of butter and onion trailing their aproned smocks. When not waiting on customers, the sisters scuttled like geese behind the serving station, ladling soup and slicing bread, their black and white plumage a busy blur.
Patrons wandered into the dining room in a steady stream all evening, lining up in rowdy queues to buy mugs of rum and beer. I had expected families such as our own but we were the only group with servants and a child. No doubt there were more refined establishments further from the docks but John had negotiated a price we could afford and we were tired. The inn seemed mostly to service the local wharf workers. Hardness underlaid the men’s features, as if they had sailed to the antipodes to turn about t
heir lives but somehow found themselves trapped offloading cargo, the money to be made in the colony requiring more elbow grease than first thought. Or was it that these were simply men without their wives and families near? Whatever the case, it was much too soon to tell.
My head was filled with the scents and sounds of Hobarton but as soon as I donned my nightdress I fell into an exhausted sleep. It must have been a deep slumber because I was unaware of the early morning disturbance that unfolded on the lower floor. Preoccupied with thoughts of breakfast, I entered the dining room to discover two policemen talking to the publican at the bar. In a far corner of the room, shackled to a beam, a battered-looking ne’er do well man and woman argued back and forth with each other.
‘Do not look,’ I told Henry, forcing my eyes away and moving to the table near the fire where John and Gilbert were sharing a pot of tea.
‘Whatever is going on?’ I said.
‘Well, Eliza, meet your first Van Diemen’s Land ticket-of-leave holders,’ said John, smiling grimly.
‘And you think this amusing?’ I said sternly. ‘What of Henry?’
‘It will not hurt him to see a bit of real life,’ said John.
I had heard that recidivist convicts from Port Jackson were sent to Van Diemen’s Land, banished to Port Arthur for cruel punishment. They were put to work felling timber and hewing stone, cutting and lumbering, nailing and sawing, erecting brick by brick the government buildings and storage facilities, working on ships and at the arduous and unending tasks of laying down road and digging drainage. Water surrounded all sides of the isolated prison colony, and rumours of sharks were spread to deter escape. The thin neck of land that joined the peninsula to the island of Van Diemen’s Land was patrolled day and night by guards and vicious dogs.
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘Apparently the woman stole the key to the liquor cabinet, and the two ex-convicts had themselves a little party. Mrs Fischer found them this morning when she came down to build the kitchen fires, sprawled dead-drunk on the floor.’
‘How terrifying for her,’ I said, turning to catch another glimpse of the slovenly pair. They had fallen quiet, the woman’s head drooping, the man’s hate-filled eyes glaring at the officers and Mr Fischer.
‘The lady’s from the Women’s Factory, the workhouse they set up for transported female convicts,’ said Gilbert.
‘I feel for Mr Albercrombie,’ I said, recalling the position he was to take up at Port Arthur. ‘I hope Mrs Albercrombie’s prepared for all the riffraff – especially with a new baby to care for.’
‘It’s no different to home,’ said John.
‘I suppose you’re right.’ But I could not help feeling that here it seemed more brutal, more untamed. I pointed to the teapot. ‘May I?’
Though I was reluctant to admit it, the scene stirred in me a fantastic excitement. In London I had been protected from the coarser elements of the city by companions and chaperones; I had never dined in a public house in my life. But in Van Diemen’s Land it appeared I would not be shielded from mankind’s more unsavoury side. Oddly, I felt undisturbed by the observation. Rather, I experienced a firing of purpose to begin my new existence. It appeared I would be learning a good deal more during our Australian sojourn than how best to draw the local birdlife.
Chapter 12
Superb Fairy Wren
Malurus cyaneus
Davey Street, Hobarton 1838
Unable to quell his curiosity about the colony’s wildlife any longer, John had summoned a boy to send a message to the New Town residence of Reverend Thomas Ewing, his most valued correspondent in the area and one of his most steadfast folio subscribers. Over the years Reverend Ewing had supplied us with many fine specimens to describe and draw, and had gone so far as to suggest that John focus his attention on the birds of the Australian colonies. The boy carried a note proposing that Reverend Ewing guide John and his party on their first hunting trip in Van Diemen’s Land.
And so it came to be that on the third morning of our stay in Hobarton, I was introduced in the inn’s dining room to a twitchy gentleman with a whiskery moustache that drooped over his top lip, teeth that were long and yellow like a dog’s, and eyes the murky green of shallow waters. In the effort of removing his hat, Reverend Ewing fiddled it about in his hands and then squashed it onto his scalp again. Although the reverend was regarded as an eminent naturalist in Hobarton and served as a tutor at an exclusive school, he seemed unmanned by a case of nerves.
Sensing his discomfort, John clapped him on the shoulder cheerfully and smiled reassuringly. Reverend Ewing relaxed and soon the two men were bantering about finally meeting after such a long correspondence.
Introductions over, we stepped outside to join the remainder of our party securing hunting equipment and food in the coach that John had hired for the expedition.
‘Whatever is that stench, sir? I cannot decide if it’s good or not,’ asked John, grimacing.
In answer, Reverend Ewing offered John the package he had been holding, the source of the strong smell. Inside were strips of kangaroo meat. He had bought the cooked meat from a street vendor on an impulse, thinking our party might like to taste one of the local specialties. The wild meat was skewered onto a stick, topped with a knot of salt pork and smoke-cured over an open fire. John waved Gilbert and Benstead over, encouraging us all to try the kangaroo meat snack. I declined, claiming to be plagued by a queasy stomach since the previous night, though in truth I was not quite ready to sample the colony’s native animals just yet.
Despite my discomfort and better judgement, I had given in to John and Henry’s insistence that I join their hunting venture, my only condition being that I should be allowed to bring Mary. While the men ate and shared plans, I warned Will and Henry to stay out of the way of the guns and to always wear their hats. Instinctively I reached out to straighten Henry’s sleeve, but he pushed my hand away.
‘All right, then, off with you!’ I said, feeling him slip like an eel out of my fingers.
He ran towards the wagon, dust rising from his boot soles, glad to be rid of my womanly fussing. Licking their fingers, Gilbert, Will and Benstead climbed into the dray followed by John and an excited Henry. Reverend Ewing then held out his hand to help Mary and me board.
With a flick of reins from the driver, the wagon began its slow negotiation of Davey Street. Sitting in the front, I had the perfect vantage point to survey the settlement that would be our home for several months. It was still early, the quality of light full and bright, and I could look out from the elevated aspect of my seat at the shipping holds and locks. Hungry seabirds swooped the smelly bilge water, hoping to catch fish. Beyond the docks were the fisheries, the trawlers that set out before dawn to lay nets and lines to bring in shrimp and lobster, and intriguing varieties of local fish I was yet to learn the names of.
As the wagon climbed the rise of the thoroughfare, the whaling ships docked at harbour came into view, their iron bows mounted with harpoons. I pictured their crews, shouting as they heaved the flensed carcasses of the whales they had hunted back into the sea, attracting many shivers of sharks. The stench from the boiled blubber, said Reverend Ewing, was enough to keep one inside with all the windows shut, should a westerly happen to blow. By law, the whalers were prevented from rendering their oil on market day.
As we climbed further, Mount Wellington revealed herself, a cake of snow buffeting her summit. She lay like a sleeping elephant, rough cloud smoothing her jagged peak. The mountain cast its languid eye over the sloops and ships sailing the Derwent, the horse carts and buggies plying the streets. According to Reverend Ewing, the majestic aspect of Mount Wellington and the density of forest covering its foothills served as reminders to Hobarton’s settlers that they had not yet tamed the wild landscape into submission. Our guide drew attention to the municipal buildings, composed of heavy sandstone and bluestone blocks, hand hewn by convict labour. ‘They’re chained around the ankles,’ said Reverend Ewi
ng, ‘like beasts of burden, overseen by cruel wardens who do not stint with their whips, even when a fellow drops from exhaustion.’
I blinked in the extravagance of the morning light. I was not accustomed to such shimmering brightness, which brought with it a sharp lick of heat. I felt drawn to the teeming village aspect of Hobarton: the houses constructed from the local Huon pine, a pale and durable forest timber, their outer walls fashioned by horizontally arranged logs. The gabled roofs were pitched at an angle that anticipated snow, every detail displaying an undeniable degree of hard labour. Their shingled roof tiles were not slate or thatch but hard wood, sourced from the eucalypt, which dried a blackish-grey in the sun. The eucalypt was a tough tree that had offered great promise to the early settlers for ship-building. But, alas, the heavy timber did not float.
I delighted in the long verandas built onto the dwellings, their attractive A-frame gables and crossbeams, their iron-laced railings. I noticed an elderly woman drinking her tea on one such porch and wondered if she, too, was invigorated by the early morning’s hustle and bustle. A vine wound its stem around her latticed trellis, its clumps of glossy buds waiting to burst forth in colour. Indeed, I began to suspect that gardening might be the favourite pastime of the Van-Demonian, as most house fronts boasted abundant rose varieties to enliven their gardens or at the very least a pair of white rose standards to salute the stone front steps.
To be honest, I had given little thought to everyday life in Van Diemen’s Land. From my reading about the colony I knew that there were convicts and free settlers, wool and wheat trades, timber and whaling businesses, but I had no idea how far the settlers had swung their axes into the forests or built their stone and wood houses beyond the town’s bustling centre. I did not know or think to care about the quality of the roads, which goods were dear, what was scarce or abundant. New South Wales, rather than Van Diemen’s Land, was where I had assumed we would focus our efforts. Thanks to my brothers’ correspondence, I was well versed in its attractions and troubles, its politics and economics, its challenges and freedoms.
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