Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  John reached down and picked Henry up, hugging him tightly. Farewells over, he tipped his hat in a final salute to us, the rising sun making an orange fringe of the brim, before he disappeared inside the wagon. Henry jogged to my side. A whip flickered. For a long moment my son and I watched the wagon recede, holding a shadowy vigil under the eucalypt grove. We were not ready to return to the cottage. We were both spellbound, paralysed until the lumbering convoy had descended to the base of the slope and we could no more make out their slow trail, only listen to the horses’ hooves, the occasional whistle from the driver.

  When we finally turned towards New Norfolk, I felt overwhelmed by the need for rest. I removed my walking shoes and called for Henry. In the bedroom, I pulled across the curtains, blocking the rosy glow of the new day from view. Fully clothed, I coaxed Henry into his cot. I then slid into my own bed, drawing up the thin sheets and closing my eyes.

  Around midday, I awoke to quiet, but for the burr of cicadas grinding their legs in the heat. No John, no Gilbert, no Benstead. For twenty-one days I would not be bothered by the commands of any man. Surely that had its advantages.

  Sir John was generous with supplies from the homestead, providing us with fresh butter and milk, sides of mutton, apples and peaches from the orchard and eggs from the chicken coop. After packing Henry off to school every morning, I would return to work sketching. For the most part, I was absorbed in colouring my newly acquired botanical collection. Mid-afternoon, I would put my brushes into their water jar, lace my boots and call Mary for a meander along the walking paths beside Government House. Starting from our perch on the ridge of a low hill overlooking the wharves and harbour, we liked to trace its spine with our steps. Most days we walked all the way to Battery Point, where I would check the flags hoisted up the semaphore pole, an optical telegraph in front of the port office building that signalled the sighting of a ship bound for harbour. Six months had passed since I had heard from home, and I longed to see the swell and whip of the Union Jack, heralding news from Golden Square.

  Twice a week Henry and I were invited to supper at Government House. Usually it was a simple meal of salad greens and mutton, gravy and flat bread, with fruit and cheese to finish. While Lady Franklin was away, the Governor preferred to dine without formality, unless entertaining official guests, in which case he brought out his Admiralty uniform, the array of shining medals pinned to his breast mightily impressing Henry. Our host ate with pleasure, between mouthfuls asking about my sketching and quizzing Henry on his lessons. He regaled us with stories about the latest visitors to Government House and suggested upcoming events that he believed we might find diverting. More often than not, there would be an interval when he let his chin drop, closing his weary eyes for several moments.

  I took the opportunity to reflect upon the hardships Sir John had encountered during several expeditions to discover the fabled Northwest Passage, a westward shipping channel that wriggled through an archipelago of islands in northern Canada, connecting the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. Over hundreds of years, successive explorations had piece by piece contributed to building a map of the difficult route. During his expeditions, Sir John and his crew had suffered unimaginable hardships: lack of provisions, the vessel’s entrapment in pack ice, loss of men through starvation and exposure, and hostile exchanges with the natives inhabiting the harsh and remote islands.

  My artist’s grisly eye kept picturing the infamous story of him trying to cook his boots in melted snow for food, while frostbite threatened to blacken his toes and fingers. Every now and again a remote look would flit across the Governor’s features, and I could not help but wonder if he were dreaming of ice mountains and windswept glaciers, of fierce gullies and bracing winds, of the unimaginable pain of losing his trusted men to scurvy, starvation, madness and exposure.

  From these dinners I learned a good deal about the complexities of administering the colony. The Governor faced ongoing difficulties in his dealings with the New South Wales settlement, which was being crippled by drought. Free immigrants, who ten years earlier had considered their fat fortunes inviolable, watched in horror as their yields fell and their livestock starved. Within Van Diemen’s Land, the warring local factions created a constant state of tension, delaying decision making and the passing of laws. And that was not even taking into account the growing threat from the English Parliament to significantly enlarge the island’s penal colony.

  One Friday evening after the first course was served, our host announced that a 54-gun ship, French flags billowing, had docked in the harbour.

  ‘How exciting,’ said Henry. ‘May I go onboard?’

  ‘You may very well, lad, as long as your mother has no objection. There are great entertainments to be had – feasts, dances, everything.’

  ‘Can we go, Mama?’ my son begged.

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ I replied, before noticing a wry look cross Sir John’s face. ‘You’re not glad of the visit?’

  He set down his glass. ‘I am, but I can tell you now, Mrs Gould, that at first I was concerned there might be an international incident.’

  ‘Whatever gave you that impression?’

  ‘The vessel arrived unannounced. We’ve short memories when it comes to our Gallic neighbour. I put the military on immediate alert and sent several hasty despatches to the captain. But, as it turns out, the vessel bears a scientific expedition, thrown anchor to sample our natural productions. There’s a naturalist, an ornithologist and a botanist, as well as navigators and surveyors onboard. I may have them over for a luncheon one afternoon. I would be very pleased if you could join us, Mrs Gould. The party will be more than interested in your expedition, I suspect.’

  ‘Ordinarily I would enjoy that very much, but I’m afraid it will depend on how I’m faring,’ I said, though I suspected I would have to decline the invitation. In my present condition I feared I would lack the energy for a long dinner. ‘It’s such a shame Lady Franklin and John’s expedition hasn’t yet returned, as they would both adore a chance to talk to some fellow explorers,’ I ventured. ‘Surely we’d have heard by now if they’d run into trouble?’

  ‘They’ll be home in good time, Mrs Gould,’ Sir John said soothingly. ‘My wife is quite the adventurer, and I’m used to changes to her plans. While we’re on the matter, I received news this morning that the vessel on which you sailed to the colony has sunk.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I said, suddenly feeling ill. ‘Some of our fellow passengers were still on the Parsee.’

  ‘Did anybody drown?’ interrupted Henry, his eyes wide with concern.

  ‘No, no, thankfully,’ said Sir John. ‘I was sent a transmission from the Port of Adelaide, to where the Parsee sailed after laying up for several weeks in Port Davey for repairs. The barque ran aground, dropping anchor in the settlement’s harbour – it’s a notoriously dangerous landing. The passengers were rescued in rowboats, the livestock urged off with pulleys and ropes. Most of its cargo was salvaged.’

  ‘We knew a couple onboard, a Mr and Mrs Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m so very relieved to hear they are safe. What an initiation into their new lives.’

  I lay in bed that night imagining the delicate Mrs Martin’s laces and silks floating on the ocean’s surface, her many-buttoned walking shoes, her soft gloves and fancy feathered hats all tossing in the waves. I must write to reassure my family at once, I decided, lest they learn of the incident in The Times’ shipping news and think our party the group afflicted. How I wished John was with me. I could do with a dose of his stoic reassurance.

  Upon waking, my thoughts flocked to the joyous notion that on this day I would receive news from London. Since John’s departure, I had written four letters home and dared not start another for fear of increasing my anxieties about what was happening in Golden Square. In crafting my last letter I hoped I had managed to convey a cheerful conviviality of tone. But beneath the light strokes of my pen lurked endless concerns. Little Louisa might be cutting a tooth. It was close to h
er first birthday and yet her mother would not be there to kiss her. Did she totter and trot around the second floor like her siblings at that age? And what of Lizzie? She was nearer to three, the year when children begin more mischievous entertainments, and often when they decide to cleave strongly to one parent. She would be testing her independence. I envied the amusement Sarah and Mother would surely find in her antics. Thoughts of Charlie stuck a needle in my heart. I pictured him in a blazer, tie and starched shirt. At four he was so terribly young to start boarding school, and I hoped the masters and the older boys kept an eye on him. I prayed the housekeeper had a kindly heart and did not stint with kisses and demonstrations of warmth, that Sarah sent treats to him when she was able.

  While I imagined my children dreaming of Christmas as the festive season neared in London, Hobarton’s hot winds and beating sun caused me an uncanny sense of dislocation. In Golden Square the trees would be leafless. Mulled wine and hot cider, roasted chestnuts and spiced sugar cakes would be hawked on every street corner, carollers wreathed in scarves and mittens serenading passers by with renditions of ‘Silent Night’. I thought of the row of knitted stockings hung over our mantelpiece, the holly wreath nailed to the front door. Mother and Sarah must have felt such joy in selecting and wrapping each of my children’s gifts. Henry and I had taken immense pleasure in polishing the pretty shells and fossilised wood we had kept aside from John’s collections to make presents for his brother and sisters. We designed cards with a sketch of New Norfolk on the front, a wish and prayer especially chosen for each child written inside. I pictured my three youngest in their Sunday best, home from midnight service, crouched at the fire and itching to rifle through their festive stockings.

  Come the winter solstice, I sat at the kitchen worktable blotting a wash onto the leaves of a wattle sketch and avoiding the stifling heat outside. Dabbing my brush on a cloth, I glanced up, noticing movement beyond the window. A boy was approaching with a package under his arm. I felt a rush of excitement. It seemed I was to receive an early present. I watched the boy pause on the veranda to study the bird cages that Mary and I had been scrubbing in preparation for the return of John’s party.

  The young man thumped his fist on the door. ‘Mrs Gould?’

  I nodded in greeting. ‘You like birds?’ I asked, my voice indulgent. How quickly I would tear open the letter!

  ‘Pigeon tastes fancy.’ The lad shrugged, handing me an envelope.

  One look at the sender informed me that I was not on the receiving end of a missive from Golden Square. The handwriting belonged to my husband.

  The Eliza, the vessel on which John had sailed with Lady Franklin, had become windbound at Recherche Bay, not more than twenty nautical miles from Hobarton. Severe weather holed up the expedition near D’Entrecasteaux Channel. Lady Franklin’s hope of navigating the southwestern route to Port Macquarie lay in ruins. However, with his usual ingenuity, John had managed to make the best of the situation and row a small boat to several islands in the vicinity of the channel, where he collected the skin of a snow-white petrel, an albatross with a grey brow, the eggs of the black oystercatcher, some gulls and teals, and the nest of a new species of wren.

  Then he had led an expedition to Bruny Island to raid what appeared to be a shearwater rookery, but they had been turned back by the stench of rotting whale flesh. Just around the headlands, a pod of southern right whales had been herded into the bay by a whaling ship and slaughtered. John was horrified by the waste and disregard for life. The beach looked like a charnel house of decaying meat and dried skin; of bleaching yellow bones, their parts so enormous he was reminded of furniture washed onshore from a sunken ship, the whales’ skulls the size of small canoes.

  According to John, the most incredible sight was out on the open sea, the skies filled with southern giant petrels. The species, large as albatrosses, reminded him of airborne turtles, their lower bodies plump, their achievement of flight inexplicable. They dove down en masse to tear the blubber and flesh from the whales’ discarded remains. The southern giant petrel was a fighting species, prone to attack, smashing their own and other species in the head, forcing them to disgorge the fish in their crops. Thanks to the heavy markings on their foreheads, they looked perpetually cross.

  I threw the letter across the table. ‘Mary!’ I called into the garden. ‘Can you and Henry come in, please. I have news.’

  ‘What is it, Mama?’ asked Henry, rushing through the door, ever sensitive to my moods.

  ‘Papa won’t be back for Christmas. I’m sorry.’ I tried to read the shifting emotions on my son’s face as he considered this news.

  ‘Then I say we celebrate Yuletide twice,’ said Henry, cheerfulness winning out over resignation. ‘How about that?’

  ‘Dear boy, you’re a fount of cleverness. Two celebrations instead of one sounds like the perfect compromise.’

  As Sir John would be alone for Christmas, he kindly invited us to Government House to celebrate and share supper with him. The table looked wonderfully festive, with vivid red and green napkins, bonbons and an eye-catching bouquet of waratah for the centrepiece. Despite the heat we dined on roasted pheasant with all the trimmings, basted potatoes and fresh greens, followed by a traditional plum pudding and brandied custard. I enjoyed a tipple more than my usual glass of madeira, while Henry was allowed raspberry cordial in a wine glass. After supper, we convened to the drawing room to exchange gifts. Sir John spoiled us with boiled sweets and shortbread, some port for me, as well as a bottle of fine Scotch whisky for John – from his own personal hoard, I suspected. In return, Henry presented our host with a framed painting of the nest and eggs of the clinking currawong, which we had worked on together for several evenings. Mary gifted me with a novel, and I returned the favour with a fetching new day bonnet and pair of dainty lace-edged gloves. Mrs Ewing sent my son a delightful book of children’s tales, which I was looking forward to delving into myself.

  I heard a soft snore near the hearth fire. Sir John, who I suspected was exhausted from his administrative chores, all the more burdensome without Lady Franklin’s counsel, had fallen blissfully asleep in his armchair.

  Henry, Mary and I walked home to New Norfolk, our spirits light. Halfway along the path, Henry suggested we should all lie on the grass to inspect the full moon, so we set down our cargo of gifts and lay back to drink in the night sky’s fathomless sweep of stars. I felt strangely content and at peace.

  After such a happy day with my son, I suggested Henry sleep in my bed. He looked up at me, a twinkle in his blue eyes. ‘May I please have some of my aniseed balls and fruit drops?’

  I frowned and then capitulated. ‘Only because it’s Christmas. Let’s both have a treat.’

  We broke our house rules of not eating before bedtime with glee, gorging ourselves on sweets and shortbread. Henry, his head on the pillow, soon became sleepy. I turned the lamp down and gently stroked his hair as he drifted off to sleep. Without my noticing it, the weather had turned. A wind howled, shaking the cottage’s timber frame, and my thoughts turned to John, encamped on some remote beach, the day’s kill drying on a pole outside his tent, the fire burned down to a coal and him sleeping atop the wallaby pelt I gave him.

  Suddenly bereft, I picked up Henry’s hand and stroked his palm, recalling the little hands of my other children. I pictured the dimples on their knuckles. I imagined them gathered around me, Louisa across my belly, Charlie on my left side, Lizzie to my right, their breaths warm in my ears. After such a long absence, my memories of them had become difficult to capture. It was like learning a new brush technique, clumsy with the first few strokes, but improvement lying in wait so long as one persisted. All but the owls and the vessels dipping in their docks had fallen quiet. Suddenly I felt a pain in my lower abdomen. It came again, a goldfish swimming. And then I knew the sensation was my new child, its first felt movement, quickening inside.

  Chapter 15

  Green Rosella

  Platycercus caledonicus<
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  New Norfolk, Hobarton 1839

  Although his hair was chalky with dust, his cheeks peeling from sun exposure and his clothes grimed with blood and animal fat, I wrapped my arms around my husband, holding back tears of relief and joy.

  ‘You appear in brutal health,’ I said, submitting happily to John’s enthusiastic kiss. I caught a sharp smell of the sea, of pork and hard biscuit, of arsenical soap.

  Behind him stood a rueful Gilbert and Benstead, similarly filthy, their necks sunburned and damp with sweat, their hands rough and scarred. Lady Franklin and her retinue were absent, I assumed having already been let off at Government House.

  ‘It is so wonderful to have you back!’ I said. ‘Come, we’ll get all of you cleaned up and fed.’

  Mary and I busied ourselves preparing tubs for the weary travellers to bathe in, laying out bandages, ointment and lotions from the medical kit to tend blistered skin, bites and cuts. Despite our preparations for their comfort, the menfolk had abandoned us to unpack their treasures, and in the midst of the flurry I was delighted to see Lady Franklin traipsing down the hill leading to our cottage. I rushed out to meet her, insisting she stay for tea.

  Seated on the veranda facing my guest, I decided that apart from some peeling on her nose, Lady Franklin fairly burst with vitality. As efficient and no-nonsense as ever, her hair had already been washed and pinned, and she had changed into fresh clothing and shoes, even tying on a pretty bonnet.

  ‘I do hope John did not wear out all of your patience,’ I said.

  Lady Franklin’s eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘We had a few little struggles here and there about who was in charge of the expedition.’