Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘I do not recall instructing you to beat my son,’ I said.

  Reverend Ewing’s smile twisted into a grimace. ‘W-well,’ he stammered, ‘I’m sure you appreciate that Master Henry must be treated in the same way as every pupil.’

  ‘And do these poor children speak out about the punishments you inflict?’

  ‘They all need a firm hand. Who else do you think will toughen them up?’ Reverend Ewing smoothed a thin finger across his eyebrow, looking at me with his tired, shallow eyes.

  ‘Henry is a good boy and did not deserve such severe treatment – and nor does any other child, I might add. Not under any circumstance. His back is covered in welts!’

  Reverend Ewing’s mouth puckered like the orifice of a cold-blooded sea creature.

  ‘Surely there are other means of making your point?’ I said, collecting my emotions, exerting great effort to control the fury rising inside my chest.

  ‘Every child must abide by the classroom rules,’ he said. ‘I don’t imagine that you would wish your son singled out? Picked on in the playground for being the exception?’

  ‘From what Henry said, he was standing up for another boy. He showed courage. And you humiliated him for it.’

  ‘He was being insolent, if you must know.’ In his own show of insolence, Reverend Ewing’s gaze drifted to the window behind his desk, eyes seemingly fixed on the grey sky, refusing to see any wrong in the grim discipline he had meted out. There was to be no exception to his rule.

  ‘If you ever lay so much as a finger on my son again,’ I said, ‘I will have him removed from your instruction. I’m sure the Lieutenant-Governor will have something to say about your excessive discipline.’

  I turned on my heel, head high, and strode out of the room.

  ‘Henry!’ I said, almost colliding into him. ‘Were you listening? I told you to go and play.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ he said, standing on the tips of his toes as I bent down to give him a kiss.

  ‘I want you to feel safe,’ I said. ‘If anything else happens, you are to tell me immediately. Do you understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, his eyes shining. I am certain that he had never seen his mother act this way before. He looked at his shoes, then peeked up at me shyly from beneath his cap. ‘Thank you for standing up for me,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m your mother!’ I said. ‘Now run along. I’ll see you this afternoon.’

  Later that week I heard that a supply ship had docked at Port Davey so I decided that it was time for a shopping expedition to take my mind off things. I had been unable to stop stewing about Henry’s experience. I needed a distraction, lest I write a cross letter home, snap at Lady Franklin or treat Mary with unnecessary curtness. Instead I would take Mary with me to pass the day feasting our eyes on luxuries freighted from Europe, and having afternoon tea at an establishment famous throughout the colony for its cucumber and salmon sandwiches.

  When we returned to the cottage, struggling with our hoard from the day’s shopping, I was surprised to discover the front door wide open and John home.

  ‘You are back early!’ I said, kissing his cheek. ‘You must be exhausted! I have just the trick, shipped all the way from home. Your favourite tipple from the finest distillery in London.’ Bending down to search through my bundles for the package, I chatted happily about the treats I had bought in town: two novels for me; sweets and a book of boys’ adventure stories for Henry; John’s favourite shaving soap and new razor blades; and a small oil painting by a local artist of the harbour to brighten the sitting-room wall.

  Suddenly I sensed an eerie silence and stillness surrounding my husband, and I looked up at him. He stared past me as if I were not there. He then bent down and began lacing up his boots very slowly and methodically.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ I said. ‘I’ll have Daisy make us some tea.’

  ‘Perhaps later. I’m going to help Benstead organise the shed,’ he said briskly, rising to stand and disappearing out the door before I could say anything else.

  ‘What do you think that was all about?’ I said to Mary, watching my husband walk to the shed as though he were sleepwalking.

  ‘Best leave him be. He’ll come around when he’s ready.’

  John stayed away all day working in the shed, so the first opportunity I had to ask him what was wrong or tell him about Reverend Ewing’s harsh behaviour towards Henry, was when we were preparing for bed. I thought it best to tackle my visit to the school first.

  ‘I wish you had been here,’ I said, once I had finished my retelling. ‘It was so humiliating, having to confront Reverend Ewing myself.’ I folded back the covers and climbed in.

  John laid his field journal aside. ‘What an ordeal for you. But it sounds as though you dealt with it admirably. How’s Henry? I didn’t notice anything amiss with him at supper.’

  ‘He has his father’s stoicism, I suppose.’ I sighed. ‘I feel horribly for him.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the Reverend if it will be a comfort.’

  ‘Thank you, but I think I have sorted him out. I don’t know where my courage came from, but I refused to let him intimidate me.’

  John folded his arms. ‘As proud as I am of your performance, I have to admit there’s a practical consideration, Eliza. You make it rather awkward for me, as I was planning to ask Reverend Ewing to oversee my affairs here when we depart for Sydney.’

  ‘It’s always the business that comes first, isn’t it?’ I said, twisting the sheet between my fingers.

  ‘Come now. I’m not being deliberately insensitive,’ said John, touching my chin, trying to turn my face towards his. But I turned away to stare at the wall, contemplating all I had sacrificed to accompany my husband to this strange land.

  ‘You know me, Eliza. I have to take the larger situation into account. Anyway, we will not be in Van Diemen’s Land for much longer. Once we meet Stephen in Sydney, we’ll transfer Henry to boarding school there with your nephews. Your brother assures me it’s the best in New South Wales. We’ll just have to wait this out. I understand how you feel but we also need to keep our perspective. It is hardly unusual for boys to be disciplined in such a fashion. I was strapped as a boy several times, and not just by my father. And I’m sure your brothers received the occasional caning from a tutor.’

  ‘There’s a difference between punishment and cruelty. There is no excuse for the Reverend’s behaviour, as far as I can see it.’ Reliving the episode had exhausted me and I had not the spirit for a row.

  ‘You will have to trust me on this.’

  ‘I do not wish to speak further on the matter,’ I said, pulling the blankets towards me and adjusting my pillow. ‘Now for your story, please,’ I said, turning to him. ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re back early from Bass Strait? And where is Gilbert? Why didn’t he visit us this evening?’

  ‘I’m afraid I have some sad news,’ said John grimly.

  I sat up, my hand at my throat. ‘Whatever is it?’

  John paused wearily. ‘There was an accident aboard our boat.’

  ‘Not Gilbert?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘No, not Gilbert.’

  ‘Thank goodness.’ I clutched John’s arm.

  ‘It could never have happened to Gilbert. He is far too careful.’ John gave a heavy sigh. ‘A new collector accidentally shot himself dead. He was loading his musket with the muzzle pointed at his chest. And then the cock of the weapon caught his seat and it all was over for the poor chap in half a minute. He landed at the bow, his arm fallen across the injury, the life force spilling from him.’ John slowly shook his head.

  ‘The man – I hired him on Ewing’s recommendation – had been given every caution to be careful with his arms,’ John said. ‘His carelessness isn’t my responsibility, and yet it feels as though it’s my fault. It was I who gave him the commission. His wife’s without a husband, his children without a father. It happened so quickly, Eliza, and now I can hardly stand the sigh
t of a gun.’

  ‘You cannot blame yourself,’ I said.

  ‘One moment I was looking into his eyes, noting to myself the scarlet vitality in his cheeks. It was a perfect day for shooting – bright sun, low winds, a little on the hot side – and we were about to descend upon a pelagic rookery. One minute he was there and then …

  ‘The crew are devastated. Can you imagine the effort it took to keep my own horror in check, by way of example, while deciding upon the best course of action? The men are dreadfully demoralised.’

  ‘You look as if you haven’t had any sleep. You must have relived this over and over,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve napped in fits,’ said John. ‘I had to attend the coronial inquest the next day. Thankfully, the coroner ruled that I’d not acted with negligence. In the afternoon I arranged for funds to be forwarded to the fellow’s widow. It was the least I could do. And of course I cancelled our trips to King and Isabella islands.’

  ‘What did Gilbert have to say about it all? Surely he must have lent you his support?’

  ‘He reckoned I might have given the chap more instruction.’ John let out a slow breath. ‘We were sharing a few swigs of rum that evening in commiseration. He apologised the next morning, claimed it was the shock, said that I hadn’t acted improperly in any way. He confessed he’d been awake most of the night thinking about the incident.’

  ‘Poor Gilbert. Poor you.’

  ‘He is all right. What I think set him off criticising me is the number of men we’re taking on our expeditions. It had been bothering him for some time. He’d been growing more and more restless about how many resources we’ve been using here at the expense of collecting on the mainland. In his view, we’re at risk of wasting too much time in Van Diemen’s Land.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t argue if you wished to relocate to New South Wales sooner rather than later.’

  ‘I’m not quite ready to leave this colony yet. And what of your condition? You’re in no shape to travel.’

  ‘I know.’ I sighed.

  ‘Gilbert also brought up the subject of our going our separate ways. It was something we’d always agreed would happen. He thought the time was right. I asked where he wished to go – Moreton Bay, the Torres Strait, Melbourne, the settlement at Adelaide? To my surprise, he expressed an interest in the Swan River, right over in the west.’

  ‘And what did you think?’

  ‘It was a brilliant idea and I told him so. Based on his discussions with other collectors, Gilbert insisted that the birdlife of the far western corner of the continent is substantially different from that found on the eastern coastline. I back him completely on this, as it has always been my supposition.’ John took my hand. ‘I think I was a little foolish, Eliza.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘In my disturbed state, I became swept up in Gilbert’s ruminations. I suppose it was something fruitful to focus my mind on, in the midst of having to cancel the expedition. And to be honest I was still angry with him for his accusation. Right there and then I handed him a twenty-pound bill, insisting he take a berth on the next vessel heading west. He professed great shock, protesting that he had personal effects he wished to collect from the cottage. I waved his concerns away, assuring him I would have them forwarded promptly. We did not part on the best of terms.’

  ‘Oh, John, you do get carried away. Things will straighten out between you, I’m sure of it. You two go such a long way back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, looking at me, ‘I dearly hope you are right.’

  The next day I found myself in the shed with John, studying the collection Gilbert had amassed during his period in Van Diemen’s Land, unpolished entries for the first chapter of our manuscript on Australia’s birdlife. For two days my husband had been organising our assistant’s bill of lading, a record of the contents of the shipping trunk that would be freighted to Portsmouth via the Madras. I scanned Gilbert’s long list, impressed by how many items John had already packed and checked off: a box of geological specimens; 8 packages containing hundreds of plants; 70 sets of skeletons; 7 boxes of reptiles including 7 lizards and 1 turtle; a jar of fish including 1 king fish; 1 box of eggs; 1 box of nests; 13 species of quadrupeds including 1 water rat, 1 possum, 2 wombats, 1 large-eared rat, 2 native cats, 2 bats, 1 native mouse; 150 species and 530 specimens of birds; 500 insects; 400 shells; various crustaceans.

  My eyes fell upon a row of man-made trinkets laid out on the table, the last pieces to be itemised and packed away. ‘May I?’ I asked, pointing to a necklace made from the hard red seeds of a native grass, strung together with some sort of twine.

  ‘Of course.’

  I turned the necklace over in my hands, stunned by its understated beauty. It smelled spicy, faintly perfumed. Gilbert had also bartered for a specimen of native bread, several dilly bags used in hunting fish, more necklaces, a carved and painted walking stick, and two native weapons called ‘waddies’, one with a clubbed head, the other a curved wooden blade.

  John gently touched the beads in my hand. ‘These native materials were mostly taken from Flinders Island – it’s an encampment of sorts. The natives of Van Diemen’s Land were rounded up and sent there some years ago. Several of the men who spoke English were called upon to show our party the island, and I was shocked to hear how much distress the loss of their lands and native ways has caused. When we returned to luncheon, I felt somewhat suspicious of the administrator’s professed enthusiasm for the colony’s solution to clashes with the natives.

  ‘After the meal, I recall looking for Gilbert, but he’d disappeared, wandering off to indulge his love for barter. I could hardly pry him away when the boat was set to sail. It was just the same at the Zoological Society. He was always trying to outshine me, trying to convince our colleagues that the skins he procured for our clients where infinitely more dazzling than mine. Oh, how he loved to ruffle my feathers.’ John sighed. ‘I’ll miss his lively company.’

  ‘And I, too,’ I said. ‘I am a little cross you didn’t let us say farewell.’

  Chapter 16

  Tawny Frogmouth

  Podargus strigoides

  New Norfolk, hobarton 1839

  When the mail boy handed me two envelopes addressed in the meticulous script of our secretary in London, Mr Prince, I could not bear to open them. For months I had pined for news from home, some word from Mother and Sarah. Oddly, now that news had finally arrived I was suddenly afraid to read it. It did not help that I was alone. John had taken Henry into Hobarton to buy supplies. I placed the precious letters against the sugar bowl and paced the cottage, my heart thumping. The envelopes were like skins, their contents breathing like living beings, whispering accusations through their porous watermarks. Attend us. We have arrived. What are you waiting for?

  Whatever news the letters contained was months out of date. So long as I refrained from examining their contents, all remained well. All day I shunted the two letters about the cottage. They passed the morning on top of the meat safe, early afternoon behind the kettle and finally moved into the pocket of my apron, out of my sight but not mind. They kept me company like a friend, though one apt to pregnant pauses and portentous silences. After all this time surely a few hours’ delay reading them would cause no harm. At the very least I would wait to share the contents with John.

  When John and Henry had still not returned from their errands by late afternoon, I realised that in my agitation about the letters I had forgotten to feed the birds. The entrance to our cottage resembled a pet stall in Covent Garden Market, a riot of colour and squawks and excited scampering back and forth for a word or stroke whenever I drew near. The wooden birdcages strung on our veranda had proliferated, like the rose bushes and climbing vines the colonists trained to prettify the plain woodwork of their front porches. Twice daily either Henry or I would push a chair from home to home, opening the sprung contraptions of the tiny front doors to replace the fruit, seeds, nuts, insects and vegetables in their bowls, and to
freshen their miniature troughs of water.

  As I peered into the tawny frogmouths’ cage, my heart sank – the male lay beneath his perch, unmoving. The pair was inactive during broad daylight, carrying out their impressions of dead logs, as was their talent. But at this time they usually perked up, lazily opening their lizard-like mouths to accept meals of beetles, cicadas and stick insects, which Henry passed the hours after school collecting. With a sense of dread I unlatched the birdhouse door and reached into the narrow space of the cage. The male was still, heavy in my palm as I lifted him out, cold and stiff. His mate, roused by my intrusion, swivelled a languid eye towards me as I closed the door again. The male’s beak lay open, revealing his bile-yellow gape. His large amber eyes were closed. The bristles around his nostrils and beak stood on end, his olive talons curled. The female twisted her neck, watching me carry her companion to the table. With one hand I shifted cups and plates, searching for cloth or paper to wrap him in, wanting to shield his body from her.

  Unlike the swift parrots and green rosellas, which stridently expressed their desire to be fed whenever we took our own meals, racing along their perches and calling in high-pitched cries for attention, the frogmouths had no interest in currying the favour of their human gaolers. United, they did their resolute best to ignore Henry and me when we brought around our trays of treats.

  As I waited for John and Henry, I thought I might as well distract myself. I brought out my pencils and a lamp, and began to sketch the female frogmouth’s outline. I half expected her to succumb to her mate’s fate and did not want to miss the opportunity to draw her from life. When I felt satisfied with the composition, I picked up the male, my pencils and papers, and took myself inside the cottage to complete the detail away from her watchful eye. Prior to leaving England, John and I had been composing a monograph of the nightjar family, which showed similar feather markings to frogmouths. Indeed, to my eye, the Podargus genus resembled a creature midway between a common owl and a nightjar – or goat sucker, as they were traditionally named, for the belief they drew milk from the dugs of cows and nanny goats. In my nightjar lithographs, I paid close attention to the patterns on each feather so I could capture how their plumage blended with the barks of the trees against which they practised their arts of camouflage. To compose my lithograph of the tawny frogmouth, I would render the details of its feathers in monochrome. The process of hand colouring was more an application of washes and highlights – a dab of white here, a stroke of chestnut or moon-ash there – to enhance the fine work of the print. Inspecting the male’s crown feathers, I copied the brown bar running along the centre barbs, the splotch of mealy white at the base, the pale brown overlay of freckles. I made the most of the male’s corpse, fanning the primaries out into a web to gauge how the impression of a series of irregular tawny bars was formed. I made sure to count and measure the number and length of the rictal bristles around the beak and performed a close inspection of the scaling on the legs.