Far From Botany Bay

by Rosa Jordan

*

  Mary did not talk to Will that night, as she had promised to do, because he did not return to their room. This she discovered when she woke from a dream, a dream in which it was she, not Bados, standing in the canoe, feeling freer than she had ever felt before and not concerned about her nudity, not even aware that she was nude until she was in the water with James, wrapped in his skin as he was in hers.

  She woke damp, but it was the salty wetness of her own perspiration, not that of the lovely lagoon. Dawn had already greyed the sky. The coverlet on Will’s bed was smooth, as the maid had left it, which indicated that he had not returned. Mary slipped out of bed and went to stand on the veranda, watching the sunrise. She ached with longing for the kind of freedom Bados and Inah seemed to have, and she envied Mira, who could at least share touches and laugher with the man she loved. Yet she, who had brought them this close to their dreams, still languished oceans away from the fulfilment of her own.

  Mary saw Bados once more, about a week after her first visit. This time she found him sitting on a bench next to one of the huts across the lagoon. He was playing his flute—a newly made one, Mary noticed—while Inah accompanied him on a stringed instrument that resembled a lute. The pair continued to play as Mary and Mira approached, and laid aside the instruments only when they were standing before them. Mira applauded delicately. Mary unwrapped the navigational instruments from her seledang and handed them to Bados.

  Bados turned to Inah. “You see. I told you she would bring them.” He motioned to Mira. “You tell Inah, Mary is our friend.”

  Mira made the translation, then said, shyly, “I also your friend, Bados.”

  He grinned. “If you didn’t tell anybody where I’m at, I guess you are.”

  “More friend than that,” Mira insisted. “Pip and me, we want to go with you.”

  “Go where?” Bados asked in surprise.

  “To that island,” Mira said, and repeated the request to Inah in her own language.

  Bados looked thoughtful, and opened his mouth to give what Mary judged to be a positive response, but Inah interrupted sharply. Mira hung her head in shame.

  “What’s Inah saying?” Bados wanted to know.

  “She said I am nothing, just house girl. Not strong for work, not smart to learn,” Mira confessed. Then added hopefully. “But my Pip, he is very smart, yes?”

  “Pip’s a good boy,” Bados agreed. “But he’s a white boy. He’ll be wanting to go back to England with the others.”

  Mira seemed to give up on Bados understanding, and appealed to Mary. “Pip want to marry me, but Governeur Wanjon will not allow,” she said hopelessly.

  “Have you asked the governor?” Mary wanted to know. “Maybe he—.”

  But Mira was shaking her head. “I cannot go. I his babu.”

  “What’s a babu?” Bados asked. “That mean you his slave or something?”

  “His babu,” Mira repeated, leaving them still unclear as to the extent of the governor’s control over her life. She spoke again to Inah, and Inah nodded, a bit more sympathetically this time. Mira made a prayerful motion with her hands, and Inah shrugged.

  “We think about it,” Bados said finally. “Pip’s little, but he can row like a man. And you,” he grinned at Mira. “You’d be worth something to tell me what my Inah’s saying when we’re not grasping each others’ meaning.”

  *

  It was now early August, two full months since their arrival, and still no European ship had called in at Kupang. Mary did not see James again, but guessed that his talk with the men had not done much to modify their behaviour. Will, when he came back to their room at all, stumbled in late at night reeking of rum. His arrival was not particularly quiet, and she could only hope that it did not wake Governor Wanjon in the other wing of the house.

  Mary had a great deal of time on her hands. She had no responsibilities other than tending her children, and even that pleasant chore she could discharge onto Pip whenever she wished. Not since she herself was a small child had she had the luxury of so little labour and so much time to muse and meditate. The experience worked strange spells on her. Sometimes she would wake in the night filled with longing for James, and slip out onto the veranda where she could gaze at the stars and imagine him beside her. Often the fantasy placed them in Cornwall, gazing at this very same sky albeit with stars in very different alignments. Or she might imagine them aboard a ship bound for Canada, where yet another life awaited them.

  Then there were nights when she woke in terror from a dream, remembered or not, in which she and her children had seemed in great peril. In those frightening moments she would turn her head to listen closely to the breath of first one and then the other of her children, stroke back the hair from their foreheads, and run her hands along their small, smooth limbs. Reassured that they were safe and sweetly asleep, she herself might fall back to sleep. Or she might not.

  Three things lurked in her mind like great crouching beasts. There was the fear that Bados would get caught trying to steal the boat and be hanged before her very eyes, for which she would surely hold herself responsible. There was the fear that Will or one of the others in their drunkenness would spill out who they really were. And there was the fear that she herself might make some slip which would reveal to the governor that she was not the wife of an officer at all, but an impostor, a convicted criminal.

  These things tormented Mary, not only at night but sometimes in the bright light of day. Wandering around the beautiful grounds of the governor’s home, dressed in yet another of the exquisite sarongs Mira provided for her, watching her well-clothed children frolic about on legs that had grown plump, fear stalked her even during those languorous hours.

  Little wonder that she sometimes rose at night and slipped out onto the veranda where the flower-perfumed darkness aided her in conjuring a fantasy of loving James in the flesh as well as in her imagination. Only then did the crouching fears back off, allowing her something approximating peace.

  Fears and fantasies alike she put aside when Mira came with an invitation from Wanjon to join him for tea. Mira was always on hand, as she had been that first day, to ensure that Mary was bathed, dressed, combed, and braided before the appointed hour. All Mary had to do was climb the stairs to the second-floor veranda, where she would find Wanjon waiting.

  It was on such an afternoon at the very end of August that she sat down to tea with him with a sense of actual pleasure, for she had learned to read his moods and could see that on this day he was much at ease. To a casual observer it might seem that nothing had changed during the two months he and Mary had been taking tea together. He continued to adhere rigidly to the single hour before sunset, that hour ending after they stood at the balcony railing to watch the red ball as it touched the horizon and melted into the ocean. Given that they had by now engaged in this ritual a dozen times or more, it was hardly surprising that there had been modest changes, both in the content of their conversation and in their appreciation for each other’s company. They talked more easily now; Mary, because her confidence in her ability to give acceptable responses had grown, and the governor because he had discovered that Mary was genuinely interested in the subjects upon which he chose to discourse. On this day which, unbeknownst to her, was the last time they would share this pleasant hour of sociability, he said as much.

  “The nautical adventures of Europe’s great explorers, crime in the colonies, the difficulties of Dutch traders—you are the first lady I have met who converses on such subjects, Mevrouw Bryant. Tell me, vere did you gain your knowledge?”

  Naturally Mary had made good use of the things she had learned from Captain Smit, but she had not been aware that these were subjects about which most well-bred women would be ignorant. The truth, or part of the truth, was as good a reply as any. “Perhaps men discuss serious matters more freely in the presence of ladies on shipboa
rd, where they cannot escape,” she told Wanjon with a smile.

  The governor laughed—not something he did easily or often—and Mary felt encouraged to continue. “And the conversation of wise men interests me,” she confided, aware of the flattery implicit in her words. “Perhaps I listen more than I should.”

  Immediately the governor grew serious. “It is no vaste of time to listen ven one does so intelligently, Mevrouw Bryant.”

  Mary was trying to formulate an appropriate response to the compliment when a racket from downstairs attracted their attention. Will’s voice and heavy tread rose above a clamour of servants’ voices and—was that James, trying to cajole him into going to his room? But the voices came closer as the footsteps moved ominously up the stairs.

  By the time Will stood teetering in the doorway, Wanjon was on his feet. His face was a mask of disapproval, but he spoke with stiff, and probably feigned, cordiality. “Gentlemen! Just in time for tea, is it? Or something stronger perhaps? Normally I vait for the sun to set, but a little earlier, I see this is no problem for you, Meneer Bryant.”

  “Thank you, Governor,” James responded quickly. “But Mr. Bryant has a fierce toothache. He—”

  Will, speaking in a slurred voice, interrupted. “One little nip to tide us over till dinner would be welcome, Gov’nor, an’ I thank ye kindly. A pleasure ‘twould be to sit me down with me little wife and such a gentleman as yerself, Sir. A man likes that sort of thing after a hard day’s work, he does.”

  Mary rushed to Will’s side, exclaiming over her shoulder, “You must excuse us, Governor! I believe the rum my husband took for pain makes us not fit company. I must do what I can for his comfort.”

  Will cast the governor a triumphant look and beamed down at Mary. “As ye say, little wife. We’ll be off to see what you got in store for me comfort.”

  James and Mary managed to get Will turned around, down the stairs and along the hall. As they reached their room, Mary realised that Mira was following anxiously behind.

  “Mira,” she whispered urgently. “Tell Pip to keep the children outside or down in the kitchen as long as he can! Time for my husband to fall asleep!”

  “Yes, Mevrouw!” Mira replied, and scurried away.

  By the time Mary entered the room, James had Will seated on the bed, and had knelt to unlace his boots.

  “A fine flunky ye make, Jamie,” Will chortled. “A gentleman’s flunky I’d say. But ye needn’t go to such bother. I been in the hay with this ‘un,” he waved his hand in Mary’s general direction, “with me boots on before.”

  James cast Mary an anguished look which she read too well. It said that he did not want to leave her alone with Will, but neither did he want to remain, knowing that his presence only intensified the humiliation she was already suffering.

  “Go, James,” she said firmly. “I can manage.”

  “Righto,” Will chortled. “We’re wanting it to be just the two of us now, we are. Whyn’t you go finish slopping down tea with Gov’nor Sourpuss?”

  Reluctantly, James moved toward the door, but went out only when Mary urged him. Jerking her head toward Will, she closed her eyes in a gesture of sleep. James nodded with understanding, and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Bryant. And a good evening to you, too, Will. See you on the morrow.”

  Will did not respond for he had fallen back on the bed. His feet, clad in unlaced boots, still rested on the floor. Within minutes he lapsed into a drunken snore.

  Mary slipped out and down to the kitchen, where she found the children being fed. To avoid offending the cook she ate a little herself, although she had no appetite. Then she took the children back to their quarters, explaining on the way that their father was sleeping and they must be very quiet when they entered the room. She tucked them into bed and climbed in beside them without bothering to undress them or herself.

  They were soon asleep, but Mary was not. After a while she got up and tiptoed out to the veranda, where she tried and failed to conjure a fantasy that might bring her peace. The beasts of fear that skulked at the edges of her mind were more present now than ever. Even that first day when they were yet unpractised at passing themselves off as shipwreck survivors, with the governor’s sharp ears and eyes judging every word and gesture, she had not been in such a state of anxiety as this. It was as if the night-time darkness that had closed in around her was the thing to be feared. As with so many of the dangers she had faced, there was no way to run from it. No place to go.

  There was a flicker of light behind her. Mary turned with a start and saw that Will had wakened and lit a candle. He staggered to his rucksack, which had been dropped on the floor, and from it took a bottle. Uncorking it, he sank down in a chair and began to swig. To Mary’s alarm, she saw that it was more than half full.

  She stepped back inside the room. Will lowered the bottle and looked at her with a crooked grin. “Come here, Mary, and sit upon me knee.”

  “Will,” she said quietly, trying to keep scold and anxiety out of her voice, “you must stop drinking.”

  She reached for the bottle but he held it away from her, and deliberately took another long gulp. Then he wiped his mouth and sneered, “Since when do you tell me what I must, Madam? Since you become a lady and started taking tea with the gov’nor?”

  “Will, please,” Mary pleaded. “Can I refuse when he offers me a cup of tea? We are his guests. We cannot rile him!”

  “I cannot? I cannot? Why, surely I can. I got you to keep him sotted, just like you sotted that old Dutch bastard back in Botany Bay!”

  As he spoke, Will lurched to his feet, jerked the top of Mary’s sarong to her waist, and grasped one of her breasts.

  “No!” she whispered, backing away, and thought him put off when he tipped the bottle again and gulped several times more.

  Then, carefully, he set down the bottle, and without warning, slapped her across the face with the hard-knuckled side of his hand. She dashed out onto the veranda, but Will was right behind her. There he caught her and hit her again. Then, half-seated on the veranda rail, he tried to pull her to him. Mary gave him a shove with all her strength. He toppled backwards over the rail, landing on the lawn with a thump.

  “You whore!” he bellowed. “You’ll answer for this!” He got to his feet and reached for the railing to haul himself back up onto the veranda.

  “You come over that rail, Will Bryant, and I’ll scream to bring every soul in the house! You’re the one who will answer—to the governor.” With that Mary fled back into the bedroom, locking the door behind her.

  Will stared through the veranda railing at the locked door. “Bleedin’ bitch. Gonna rat on me, is she? Wants me out of the way, that’s what. Well, we’ll see about that!” Off he staggered, either to the front of the house to be let back in, or to the barracks to spend the night.

  Hoping he had headed for the barracks, Mary blew out the candle and climbed into bed without undressing. In the darkness she heard, not for the first time, the plaintive tinkle of a piano coming from Wanjon’s wing of the house.

  Will heard the sound, too, and followed it, although Mary learned this only later, when Mira related what had transpired. Mira said that, despite her efforts to prevent Will from going unannounced to the governor’s quarters, he barged right in. Outraged by the intrusion, Wanjon rose from the piano and roared, “Bryant! I do not invite you here!”

  To which Will responded, in what Mira described as a very impertinent tone, “Beggin’ your pardon, Gov’nor. Not up to snuff, am I, for private chit-chat? My lady wife, now, bet you’d be glad enough to have her pay you a little visit.”

  “You are drunk, Bryant. Go to your quarters at once.”

  “Now, Sir, if it’s my wife you’re wanting, you can have her. Not for free, mind you. Old Captain Smit back in Botany Bay give her a chart and a compass and a musket to boot for spreading t
hem bonny legs. If she’s doing the same for you, why—.”

  “Godverdomme! Sit down, Bryant!” the governor commanded. Then he told Mira, hovering in the doorway, to fetch Bruger at once with a contingent of guards—a command which, being in Dutch, Will apparently had not understood.

  As the governor was instructing Mira, Will was saying, “You not being an Englishman, I can see how you mighta been fooled. But ‘tween you and me, Gov’nor, our Mary ain’t the lady she makes herself out to be. ‘Twas for stealing a cloak she got transported, with one brat born on the crossing long before she hooked up with me. I was all for staying in Botany Bay. My time’s now up, y’see. I’m a free man. I woulda done well there. But Mary was set on getting out, and laid such plans as you wouldn’t believe could be worked by a woman’s mind. Never knew a doxy with such a talent for having her way with men.”

  Mira understood something of the slurs being made against Mary’s character, but did not know the meaning of Botany Bay, thus did not grasp that Will had confessed to their being bolters. Had she understood this, she would have gone to warn Pip. But she recognised only Wanjon’s anger at Will for invading his privacy, and never guessed the disaster those words portended for all of them.

  Mary, as yet knowing none of this, heard the piano music break off abruptly. She feared that Will had created some sort of ruckus on the other side of the house which had caught Wanjon’s attention. It required no prescience on her part to know that the beast of human error which she had so long feared was about to pull her into its maw. She stood looking down at her sleeping children, wishing she had the courage to end their lives and her own at this moment. If she could have done that, she felt that she would be able to endure whatever afterlife awaited her for the crime, knowing that her children had died in sweet innocence, having spent the last months of their life in peace, plenty, and freedom.

  As for herself, she felt the impulse her father must have felt that night he pointed his little boat into the storm and shouted, “At least I’ll die a free man!” Except that he had known freedom and she had not; at least, not as her mother had known it, free to come and go as she pleased, in her own cottage or on shipboard, free to go wandering in the woods or along the shore. Free to lie in the arms of a man she loved.