The sadness I felt in parting from my brothers was hard to bear. It was impossible to know when we would see one another again. ‘Look after each other,’ I said, my eyes filling with tears. I teased Charles that I expected to hear news of a paramour, and sooner rather than later. I drew Stephen close, reminding him of our offer of help. To Will I gave a friendly scolding, begging him not to forget to write his dear mother once in a while.
But I knew that no matter how frequent my brothers’ correspondence, our letters could never serve as a substitute for the precious moments we had enjoyed together, planning our day’s adventures over breakfast and grumbling when flocks of cockatoos made it impossible to hear one another speak. However temporary, Yarrundi had fast become my dear Australian home.
I slept poorly that last night at Stephen’s farm, leaving my bed early to soothe Frank and check again that I had everything I might require in my bulging valise for the overland trip to Maitland.
We were barely beyond Scone when Mary began to sob.
‘What is it?’ I asked, concerned.
‘I’ll not be returning to England, ma’am,’ she said, avoiding my eyes. ‘Mr Benstead has requested I stay back with him. We’re going to try for a parcel of land.’
‘I see.’
‘We are to be wed.’
I was momentarily speechless. While on occasion I had noticed that Mary had formed an attachment of sorts with Benstead, I had thought their exchanges nothing more than an innocent flirtation.
‘I see – well, congratulations are in order. I’m pleased for you both,’ I said, recovering my voice. ‘But why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you think to mention this earlier?’ I felt more than a little hurt.
‘I do apologise, ma’am. I was unsure how to bring it up. And I did not know how you would take it.’
‘What will I do for a companion on the voyage?’ I asked, vexed.
‘You have Henry,’ Mary said entreatingly.
‘I shall have to do with him, then.’
‘Ma’am, I would have said something, and I wished to, many times, only I feared you might think me unprofessional.’
‘I’m sorry, Mary – I understand. You just took me by surprise, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll be very happy. But I will miss you sorely,’ I said, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
We had departed Yarrundi with a menagerie of living native animals corralled into a separate wagon. It was our wish to import as many live creatures as possible to London, not just for ourselves, but also for John’s client, Lord Stanley. A collector and breeder of curiosities – birds, mammals, botanicals – Lord Stanley also gathered around him artworks, rare manuscripts, antiques and any other exquisite item that piqued his interest. Rarities were his weakness. The more impossible or improbable a particular piece or creature, the greater the resources Lord Stanley poured into securing it for himself. But since we had received news that he had become gravely ill, we were eager to fulfil what might well be his last order: a list of marsupial desiderata.
However, while we were skilled at preserving animals in death, it seemed we were dismal failures at keeping them alive. Our party was just two hundred miles from Sydney when the male splendid red kangaroo perished. The female remained in health, along with four other species of Macropodidae, including an eastern grey kangaroo, a rock wallaby and a wallaroo. Our travelling menagerie also contained several other varieties of marsupial quadruped: the possum, bandicoot and dunnart; members of the large and sluggish family Diprotodontia, male and female common wombats; and the silvery koala, which required many hours’ daily sleep. Arriving in Sydney via three modes of transportation – coach, steamer and ship – we were kept busy organising importation licences for all the animals in order to avoid smuggling charges upon our return to England. We purchased feed, cages, brooms, buckets, fresh water and medicine. Most importantly, we negotiated a fee with the captain of the Kinnear, the vessel we were to sail home upon, to pen the animals in steerage.
We collected Henry from boarding school, spoiling him with cuddles and treats, as well as pens, paper and novels to keep his boredom aboard ship at bay. Now nine, my oldest boy was excited about going home, and confessed that he could barely wait to see his sisters and brother, a sentiment to which I readily agreed. We were to return to England a much changed party. We had gained a member in Frank, but lost Mary, Benstead and John Gilbert.
My son and I relieved the tedium of the first leg of the voyage by caring for our noisy menagerie. Our days were taken up with mixing gruel, filling buckets with fresh water and changing hay. I charmed the ship’s surgeon into dressing the animals’ wounds, which were mostly caused by their scuffling, digging claws and paws between the iron bars of their cages.
For the most part, fine weather prevailed, the poop deck rarely flooding with more than a bucketful of seawater. However, while navigating the southern coast of Chile, we entered vastly different conditions. The crew struggled to shorten the mainsails of the barque to offset gusting winds. The Antarctic currents caused incessant rolling waves and the poop deck was inundated with water. But our trepidation at rounding the notorious Cape Horn, the southernmost point of our voyage, was suspended one evening when we were treated to a display of the aurora australis. The uncanny magnetism of the southern lights’ phosphorescent green gauze raised the hairs on the back of my neck.
The show, we soon learned, was merely a reprieve. The dire weather intensified, consigning us to our cabin for days, unable to inspect how the animals fared below deck. When the waves finally calmed, we trooped down the stairs to investigate the pens. It was a distressing sight. The poor animals had clearly suffered. We set to work immediately, rinsing out the waste-fouled straw with pails while being doused to the skin in seawater. The weather had improved but not to the point of drying out the steerage hold. The marsupials’ fur was encrusted with salt and had to be lathered with soap and water. Ocean brine had rusted the mesh siding of the cages, staining the plumage of the sulphur-crested cockatoo pink. The red kangaroo had caught a cold and had to be treated with tincture of opium. John tied a leash around her neck and took her hopping about the forequarter deck, to the amusement of the crew gathered there to mend sails. The grey kangaroo and the wallabies were covered in scratches after a fight, requiring another visit from the surgeon for stitching. Our store of hay had run dry and we had to feed the animals grains from the hold, but it did not appear to suffice as food. Though we had set out with the purest intentions, was it any wonder that we managed to provide less than adequate care?
One by one, Lord Stanley’s prized quadrupeds died. First, we lost the red kangaroo, next the wombats, and then the koala and possums. Until none remained. Not to be outdone by nature, John carried off each carcass to his stuffing room to have the meat removed and the hides salted. When the skins cured, he rolled them up for storage like winter carpets.
Although the conditions onboard were ideal for human cargo – we slept in dry cabins, ate well and could take exercise on the top deck or while away the hours reading, playing cards, talking – we had clearly not factored in the reality of what the living conditions would be like for our menagerie, which was now reduced only to birds.
Nearing the equator we imagined our trouble over. Parrots, we presumed, were the hardiest of species, and we were passing through what would seem to be the best environment for them. As we entered the tropics, however, our charges suffered a second bout of expiration as the stultifying heat began to claim our feathered friends. Frantic, we wet rags and placed them over the cages and deployed our brooms as fans, but it was of little use. We lost the Major Mitchell parrots, the sulphur-crested cockatoos and the rose hill parakeets. The six budgerigars, which had been in rude health when we brought them onboard the Kinnear, were reduced to two. Along with the budgerigars, a handful of crested parakeets and two pink and grey galahs also, thankfully, endured.
I became determined that the budgerigars should make it to London alive and not add to the tall
y of deaths we had caused in the name of science. If they survived, I would make them a gift for the children. Ignoring John’s disapproval, I relocated the parrots to our cabin and honoured Henry with the charge of their welfare. When we took hot chocolate in the early evening, we would let them free, giggling as they climbed over our hands and hair. We fed them crumbled biscuit, delighting in their complicated grooming rituals.
There were other pleasant diversions to pad the long days. One afternoon, while I was enjoying a nap with Frank, Henry burst into our cabin.
‘Mama,’ he called, removing his battered hat and twisting it in his hands. He could barely stand still in his eagerness to speak. ‘You’ll never believe it, but we saw a whale!’
‘Oh my goodness – how wonderful! You must tell me all about it,’ I said, patting the bunk for him to join me.
‘She was huge and she leaped above the waves. She was a mother whale. She had a calf. There were barnacles all over her back and you could see enormous grooves on her underbelly when she rolled over. Papa said the barnacles have an opening at the tip and they filter food through it.
‘She’s gone now. I wanted to wake you, but Papa said no. I wish Charlie and Lizzie and Louisa could have seen it.’
‘Maybe you can make a drawing while it’s fresh in your mind, for your brother and sisters to enjoy when we get home.’
‘Yes, Mama, what a fine idea,’ said Henry, his eyes bright. And then his face seemed troubled. ‘I can hardly wait to see Charlie, but I don’t really remember what he looks like.’ My son glanced at me, seeking reassurance, as if in his failing memory he had somehow done wrong.
‘What would you say if I told you that sometimes I have the same care?’ I put my hand on his chest and felt the rapid hammer of his heart. I drew him close.
I tried to accompany Henry whenever I could to share his joy in spotting sea wonders. And, wary I might forget any precious moments, I made notes in my journal to share with Mother, Sarah and the children upon our return: Henry’s sighting of the whale; gulfweed that stretched for miles; a floating net that trapped mussels and oysters; colonies of driftwood the size of a boat; chunks of cork, fishing line and rope, all hoarded on the seaweed’s insect-infested surface. Shells like lamp casings, prawns as large as your thigh, winged fish. Man-o’-wars that trailed their snaky tentacles as the Kinnear cut a furrow through their enigmatic procession, like garlands or wreaths, tiny sparks in their tresses illuminated by the ship’s lights. The medusas I so loved were like fires set on wooden rafts, their soft flames dancing for a full hour one evening as we plied our way across the Atlantic Ocean.
Early one morning as we entered the Bay of Biscay, the Kinnear became shrouded in thick fog. We were less than forty miles from home when a violent tempest paralysed the ship. The deadlights were drawn and the hull rolled and lurched in the biting wind. After tossing and swaying for hours, many of the passengers became seasick. Henry, an excellent nurse, found me a bowl to bend my head over while John busied himself tying every loose item, large or small, to some sturdy part of the cabin. He secured our inks, books and papers in drawers and then, with Henry’s help, coiled rope around the budgerigar cage. The birds were spooked, calling out to one another in distress and flapping their wings, though there was precious little we could do to quell their fears.
With every jagged wave, with every violent gust of wind, my nerves stretched more tautly. It was as if I were in sympathy with the tempest, great squalls of despair seizing me, then falling back into moments of calm. Henry, Frank and I huddled together on the bunk, and because there was no room left, John sat at our feet on the floor.
Suddenly a tremendous crack befell the barque, as if we had run aground, as if the hull was sliced open by a hidden reef. My heart leaped and I my throat tighten; I struggled to breathe. Terror spread under my skin, reaching the very tips of my fingers and toes. John’s face hardened into a mask, only his eyes betraying his grave concern.
He held out his hand and we staggered towards the porthole. Had the green sea risen to the glass? Were parts of the ship aflame upon the waves?
But it was too dark to make out the source of the thunderous explosion.
‘I’m going up on deck,’ said John. ‘Wait here.’
‘Be careful!’ I pleaded, reluctant to let go of his hand.
John pulled the cabin door open. Panicked shouts flowed like water into our small berth. My husband staggered down the narrow corridor to investigate.
‘It’s utter chaos on the top deck,’ he said on his return, slamming closed the door. ‘Sails everywhere, the boards inundated, the rigging come loose. Before my eyes a midshipman slid from one side of the vessel to the other, as if the decks were greased.’ He seized my shoulders, turning my face towards his. ‘We must be strong, Eliza. This is a test.’
I nodded dumbly, clutching Frank and Henry closer. Henry’s hand was clammy, cold. This was the end. We were to be pickled in the briny deep, so close but so far away from home. How could we have been so blind, so confident in our expedition, when all along this was to be our final chapter? I imagined the notice in The Times: ‘The Kinnear and its thirty passengers wrecked off the coast of France.’ The faces of my children passed rapidly before my eyes. I imagined Lady Franklin, Charles and Stephen receiving the letters that announced our tragic deaths. As if he sensed my terror, Frank began to scream and would not be calmed. Dear Henry then lost his stoic hold, sobbing without relief alongside his brother’s desperate howling.
I drew a shuddering breath. I must keep myself calm, I thought, if only for the sake of the children. I kissed Henry and Frank on the tops of their heads. ‘John, come, we must be together.’ My husband pressed his forehead to mine. We pulled apart and I took in his beloved face, his crisp, intelligent gaze.
‘We must pray,’ I whispered.
John nodded. ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven,’ he began. Henry and I joined in, making a kind of chorus to drown out little Frank’s cries and the sounds of the lurching, listing barque. ‘Our Father, which art in Heaven …
A thump on the cabin’s door; the handle turned. The captain, his woollen coat half-drenched, glanced around our tiny cabin. ‘Is everybody here accounted for?’
‘Yes, it’s just us.’ John motioned to Henry, Frank and me, still clustered together on the bunk.
‘There’s no need to panic, Mr and Mrs Gould,’ he said, offering a weak smile. ‘The mainmast has been struck by lightning. It’s split, probably irreparable. When the storm subsides, we’ll properly survey the damage.’
‘Is she fit to sail?’ asked John.
The captain nodded. ‘Yes, we may be delayed a few days, but we can most certainly return to England on the Kinnear – we’ve still two fully serviceable masts.’
‘Do you suppose the worst is over?’ I asked.
‘It’s hard to know, ma’am,’ said the captain. He dug his knee into the doorframe to avoid losing his footing as the vessel lurched. He glanced down the corridor. ‘Though I daresay we’ve earned a lull.’ He instructed us to stay in the cabin ‘until further notice’.
By early evening the storm had died down and we could light candles and fire the camp stove. Thankfully, I still had some powdered milk, water and a supply of drinking chocolate, tea and biscuits so we shared a small supper up on deck while the Kinnear was readied for the last stretch of the voyage. Minor tears in the sails were stitched and the water casks that had sprung loose in the hold were put to rights. The main spar, rent asunder, was deemed unsalvageable. By mid-afternoon the following day, the call was made to hoist the sails and our hardy barque was ready to continue her voyage to Portsmouth.
We might have won a reprieve, but the shock of the storm destroyed my equilibrium. My sea legs dissolved into jelly. The closer we sailed to English waters, the more a paralysing nausea tightened its grip upon my mind, choking my thoughts. I fancied myself adept at mastering concerns, shaking them off like a finch flinging water droplets from its coat after rain, but I co
uld not overcome this feeling, and nor could I confide it in anyone. After our ordeal I regarded the sea with fear and distaste, barely able to raise my sights beyond the foamy scum curling white on the blue-black waves. Until we were safe at harbour, the tension I felt would not ease, the wait to be reunited with my dear ones stretched too far.
Portsmouth stank of oil and blighted food. Gulls and shearwaters swooped on the rancid ballast water. Porters bargained and shoved one another trying to win our custom. John organised a coach and I slipped inside, Frank in my arms and Henry clinging to my elbow. My impatience to disembark, my anticipation at the thought of pressing my boots onto solid ground, had emptied the last of my reserves. Weariness seeped into my bones and I felt gratitude for the darkness of night, no power left in me to fight off the sun.
A footman hauled our valises onto the coach, John climbing in behind. The remainder of our luggage, our suitcases and chests and crates, were to be left at the port for clearance.
‘Can you believe we’re home?’ I asked John.
‘I cannot say I’ve taken it in,’ John replied, searching my eyes. ‘All I asked, Eliza, was that we would survive and our collection make it to London undamaged.’
‘Do you think they are safe?’
‘The birds were packed by experts,’ said John.
I turned my lips in a wry smile and shook my head. ‘Not the birds, silly. Our children!’
‘Of course.’ John smiled, taking my hand. ‘They have been in the very best of care.’
The steady clop of the horses’ hooves soothed my sons back to sleep, Frank lying across my lap and Henry burrowed into his father’s side. I surrendered to a fitful rest, recalling little of the journey until the driver sharply pulled up his bridle to avoid an obstacle on the road and I was rudely jerked awake.
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