Stranger in Dixie

by James Fearn

  John leant across the table and looked Harry straight in the eye. ‘But why, Harry? Is it because of my convict background?’ he said anxiously. The unexpected rejection had momentarily shaken his confidence. Anna sobbed uncontrollably while Colleen put her arms around her to comfort her.

  ‘No, John. It’s not you personally,’ said Harry. ‘It’s because Catholics cannot marry Protestants. Unless you are prepared t’ convert t’ our faith Oi cannot give you me blessin’. I would be helping y’ t’ commit a mortal sin.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous!’ erupted Anna again. ‘If thart’s what the Church says then Oi want nothing t’ do with it!’ She ran outside in tears closely pursued by John. The young couple talked for some time at the gate until with a farewell kiss John made off on his horse down the dimly lit track.

  Whilst in Stanley that afternoon, John had noticed an advertisement for Paddy’s Family fair, which was coming to town the following week. The young couple planned that this would be the excuse that Anna would give to her parents for absenting herself from the farm on Friday afternoon next. She would go with her friend, Mary to the wharf and meet John there. The motor vessel, Pat-the-Rover, usually sailed from Circular Head every Friday at three o’clock bound for Port Phillip. If they could not have Harry’s permission to marry, then they would have to proceed without it. True love was not going to be thwarted by the Church’s teaching on this occasion.

  Pat-the-Rover gave three blasts as John and Anna waved farewell to the small anonymous crowd on the wharf. The young coupled watched as the rolling hills in the distance and the rocky outcrop known as The Nut receded into the distance. They realised that they may never return to this intriguing island. They had passed themselves off as brother and sister and so had separate berths. But the journey across Bass Strait was far from pleasant and by nine o’clock a very heavy swell was buffeting the little ship. Anna was a poor sailor and by ten she, like most of the passengers, had been laid low with violent seasickness. John tried to cheer her up. ‘If this is God’s idea of punishment for the wicked, then you must be very wicked, my dear Anna,’ he quipped.

  John had borrowed a copy of the Melbourne Gazette from the ship’s dining room and was reading it by the light of a new kerosene lamp while Anna lay still trying to keep a calm stomach.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he whispered to himself. There was no response from Anna who had drifted off into sleep. What John had just read filled him with apprehension. It was a public notice from the General Post Office in Melbourne. There was his name—Mr John Francis Oxley. A letter postmarked Sheffield, England awaited him.

  Such was the rolling of the ship that few of the passengers had any sleep that night, but by midday on Saturday, they had reached the calmer waters of Port Phillip and were moving slowly towards the pier at Sandridge. This tiny settlement was little more than a clearing in the bush just above the glaring, sandy beach.

  Within the hour, the ship’s company had disembarked and stood somewhat disoriented on the pier. Most of the passengers were young squatters hoping to improve their lot on the pastures of the mainland. They looked rather dashing in moleskin trousers, blue serge shirt, and colourful scarf knotted around the neck. A jacket and wide-brimmed hat completed the outfit. Many of them were smoking strong tobacco in short black cutty pipes and wore full beards to save themselves the trouble of shaving in the bush.

  One or two of the more prosperous gentlemen wore dress coats and black top hats, a sign of their affluence, while their women were decked out in voluminous ankle-length dresses and shawls and poke bonnets decorated with ribbons and bows. The crew of Pat-the-Rover struggled along the narrow pier in the hot sun, carrying the passengers’ baggage to the beach. From a nearby sand dune, John and Anna could see quite a cluster of sailing ships lying somewhat to the south. This, they later discovered, was the port of Williamstown where most of the Port Phillip immigrants normally came ashore.

  As they watched a light cart pulled by two rearing horses charged away up the track through the forest to the north, carrying what appeared to be the mail bags. John and Anna walked to the waiting coach to Melbourne Town and climbed aboard. No sooner had they settled than the coach jolted into motion. The track followed the course of a river, muddy and lined with scrubby ti-tree on the western bank. Reaching the industrial area, they passed an unbroken line of slaughter houses, fell-mongeries, and tanneries filling the air with foul odours, which had them gasping for fresh air. John noted many thatched huts clad with what looked like tree trunks laid horizontally and bound together with yellow clay daubed in the cracks.

  During the journey, John had been conversing with a man in his forties rather flamboyantly dressed with a colourful striped jacket and crimson cravat. His pencil-line moustache and French accent gave him an air of urbanity that seemed a little out of place in this pioneer country.

  ‘I am Maurice Laconte, mon ami’, he said. ‘No doubt you have heard of me.’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest, No,’ replied John.

  ‘Ah! You are from Yorshire, I see,’ responded Maurice. ‘I know ze accent. That explains it. I have been playing at ze Covent Garden Music Hall for ze past year, but I am not very well known outside London.’

  ‘Well’, responded John. ‘We’ve been living in Van Diemen’s Land for several years. That’s why we haven’t heard of you. Tell us about your act.’

  The dapper little man drew himself to his full height. ‘Monsieur, I am ze song and ze dance man extraordinaire, and I juggle as well,’ he said with all the apparent confidence of an experienced showman. ‘I’ve heard that ze opportunities for vaudeville artists are good here in Australia, so I’m on my way to try my luck in Melbourne Town. Do you know anything about ze Theatre Royal?’

  Maurice was a garrulous entertainer and proceeded to recount some of his triumphs in the music halls of Paris and London. The journey ended in the centre of the town a little to the north of the river, which they had tracked. The occasional sandstone building gave the place a charm reminiscent of parts of Sheffield.

  ‘I have arranged my board at the Eagle Tavern. Are you staying in the town too?’ asked Maurice. ‘Oh, we’d love to stay at the Eagle Tavern,’ said Anna, looking at John for a nod of approval. She was feeling a little apprehensive since this was only her second night away from her parents. ‘Yes, the Eagle Tavern sounds fine if they have room.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can explore the town together when we’ve settled in,’ suggested Maurice. John and Anna had taken quite a liking to this colourful little man and accepted his invitation cheerfully. Melbourne was not as big as Sheffield, but it would, nevertheless, be easy to become lost especially in the poorly lit side streets after dark.

  They met Maurice early that evening and set out to explore the place. But the going was not easy. Not only were there water-filled ditches, but there were also in some of the lesser streets many quite large tree stumps that made walking at night a hazardous pastime. They set out at a brisk pace up a street named Collins Street after one of the local explorers. It appeared to be the main shopping centre of the town.

  ‘Look! There’s the Van Diemen’s Land Company’s Melbourne office, John’ said Maurice pointing to a timber building on the southern side of the street. ‘And just over there is the Post Office.’

  John noted the Post Office particularly and wondered whether he should tell Anna of the Gazette notice. While he was mulling it over in his mind, a fine carriage drawn by four beautifully groomed thoroughbreds and flying a small Union Jack drove past bearing an important looking couple.

  ‘They must be important people with a carriage like that,’ said Anna.

  Indeed, they were. Governor and Lady LaTrobe had just driven past en route to a public function. Charles Joseph LaTrobe was lieutenant governor of the fledgling colony of Victoria, named after the reigning queen of the British Empire. He was well liked and had established a good system of local gove
rnment. Little did John realise that within a short time he would have cause to disagree violently with the governor’s decisions.

  ‘Come!’ said Maurice. ‘Let’s explore that hill yonder.’ The three of them walked for about twenty minutes before reaching the summit. A small observation tower surmounted by a large flagstaff was set on top of the hill. A neatly tended garden with brightly coloured zinnias and sweet-scented roses gave a touch of beauty to the hill, which had been all but denuded of its natural vegetation. It was from this place that flags were flown to indicate to the citizens of Melbourne the arrival of vessels in the bay.

  Vast scrub forests stretched away to the north and to the east while to the south several impressive buildings could be seen on the cleared slopes near the river. There was one in particular, which caught Anna’s eye. This was St James Church a solid bluestone building with a pepper-pot cupola. Anna fell in love with it instantly and resolved that this was where she and John would be married. The church stood in a commanding position at the top of the William Street hill and could be seen from most parts of the town below.

  It reminded John very much of the chapel in East Sheffield where his mother had taken him with his brother, George, and his sister, Eliza, Sunday by Sunday when they were children.

  The moon was beginning to rise over the eastern horizon as they made their way back towards the Eagle Tavern. Suddenly, Maurice changed the subject of the conversation. ‘Hey! Would you like to accompany me to the Theatre Royal tonight. Come, be my guests,’ he said excitedly. ‘Right now?’ queried Anna. ‘That would be fun wouldn’t it, John?’

  ‘This is where I want to make my name and my fortune,’ said Maurice when they reached the theatre, a rickety-looking wooden structure, which stood alongside the tavern. ‘I’d like to see what the local talent is like. What say, you? Are you coming in with me?’

  John and Anna jumped at the chance and followed him inside. Maurice was appalled at the state of the place. When the wind blew the whole building rocked on its foundation, the floor was filthy, and the orchestra pit resembled the crater of an active volcano as the musicians smoked incessantly.

  The theatre had quite a reputation for risque acts. There had been one memorable night some months earlier when the chief constable had stepped on to the stage and stopped a ballet performance to the accompaniment of the howls and boos of the audience.

  The Gazette editorialised with the words, ‘Until this place is under the control of respectable parties it never can prosper.’

  The three new immigrants sat on the wooden benches as the orchestra struck up. As soon as the Master of Ceremonies appeared, it was obvious that they were in for a dubious evening’s entertainment. In the first place, he confused the names of the performers of the first two acts and had to return to the stage to make the correction. The audience booed as he left. In his confusion, the poor fellow slipped and fell into the orchestra pit to the delight of the raucous gallery. ‘Encore!’ came a cry from the back of the hall. John and Anna laughed heartily and momentarily forgot the trauma they had left behind them across the water.

  The vaudeville acts were generally of a low standard in more ways than one. A singer from Sydney who sang romantic ballads like ‘Meet me in the Willow Glen’ was received with sedate applause, but her encores, which were decidedly bawdy brought the house down. It was obvious where the tastes of this audience lay. Anna squirmed in her seat not knowing which way to look. She had never heard such rude songs before and felt highly embarrassed by the lewdness of the woman.

  Venturing out the following morning, John and Anna strolled down a street that led to the river, wanting to explore the town in the light of day. The north bank of the river was a slough of dark mud in a state of fluidity. Along the entire distance was a line of lighters and inter-colonial vessels, four deep discharging bales of soft goods, boxes of dried fruits, cases of brandy, and barrels of flour into the mire. Near the bottom of another street just east of a wooden bridge over the river, there was a wide grassy plain, which fell away rapidly into the muddy morass. It was here that John and Anna came across a cricket match in progress. Having played the game at school and in Van Diemen’s Land, John was interested to watch the batting and bowling techniques of these antipodean sportsmen.

  An orthodox field had been placed for a stocky left-handed batsman with an elegant cover drive. The fast bowler started his run to the wicket almost at the edge of the morass running up hill towards the pitch. The batsman crouching low over his bat, was unable to see the approaching bowler properly so he kept bobbing up and down, trying to catch sight of the arm which would hurl the ball towards him. Suddenly, the bowler came into full view and let fly with a beamer that flew straight towards the batsman’s head. Dropping to his knees the poor fellow managed to avoid oblivion and cursed the offending bowler in terms that would have made even the devil blush.

  The next ball was short-pitched and the batsman laid his willow upon it in a full-blooded pull to square leg. The ball flew high above the umpire and out towards John who was standing close to the edge of the grassy plane. Keeping his eye upon the ball John instinctively moved slowly backwards down the slope and lifting his right arm high above him took a spectacular catch. For a moment, he held the ball triumphantly in his outstretched hand. Suddenly, the soft edge collapsed under his feet and John fell backwards into the black enveloping mud. The would-be fieldsman struggled in the mud to regain his footing and his dignity. The cricket may not have been of the same class as that played at Lords, but no one could deny its entertainment value.

  The young couple beat a hasty retreat so that John could clean himself up. His muddy appearance was embarrassing enough, but was not to be compared with the stench of the mud that accompanied it.

  As John approached his room in Eagle Tavern, he was surprised to hear noises coming from within. Slipping his key quietly into the lock, he suddenly burst open the door to find two masked figures rifling his baggage. Startled, the intruders rushed towards the open window. With a quick athletic movement, John laid low the taller miscreant with a fierce blow to the jaw. His accomplice offered little resistance, and John soon had the fellow in a headlock. The noise of the scuffle brought the innkeeper running to see what the disturbance was. To his amazement, he saw his new boarder standing over one of the intruders lying motionless on the floor and holding the second squirming figure by the arm.

  ‘Well done, Mr Francis!’ he said excitedly. ‘There’s been too much of this kind of thing recently. Did they take any of your things?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’ll check in a few minutes to see what they are carrying,’ replied John.

  At that moment, the figure on the floor groaned. John ripped off their masks. To everyone’s surprise, they saw that the would-be robbers were young women.

  ‘Well, blow me down!’ cried the innkeeper. ‘These two look like the two escaped convict women that I read about in the Gazette only yesterday.’

  The chief constable was summoned and the two were led away in handcuffs. ‘Thank you, Mr Francis’, said the officer. ‘A very fine piece of work.’ John was grateful that the two offenders had not been males. The outcome may well have been different.

  After dinner, John and Anna went into the sitting room to chat. What a place? There was bawdy vaudeville, incredible cricket, and attempted burglary. There was certainly more excitement here than in Circular Head.

  Being one of only a few boarding houses in the young town of Melbourne the Eagle Tavern was temporary home to a great variety of passing travellers. One of these was Patrick O’Toole, a middle-aged Irishman headed for Van Diemen’s Land to work as a farm overseer. As John knew something of the Bog Irish, he took an instant liking to the man.

  Patrick, it seemed had spent some time on the California goldfields and had done quite well for himself. John listened attentively to the garrulous Irishman as he was regaled with stories of the man’s expe
riences while they sat together sipping an ale.

  ‘Now Oi met quite a few Orstralians when I were in California, mostly from Sydney, I tink. Good fellas on the whole, but the locals didn’t seem to take to ’em. I saw one poor fella beaten up by a band o’ young lads and told to “Go ’ome convict!”‘ The poor fella’s face was beaten to a pulp. They didn’t seem to like foreigners takin’ their gold,’ said Patrick with flamboyant gestures.

  John interrupted him by recounting some of the tales he had heard about the muggings in the back streets of Melbourne after dark.

  Patrick went on to tell how some California Post Offices refused to forward mail to New South Wales as a gesture of disapproval of the presence of Australians on their goldfields.

  ‘But then the interestin’ ting was thart when the boot was on the odder foot—when gold was found in dis country—the Sydneysiders treated the Americans the same way, particularly Californians,’ he continued.

  ‘Y’ could always pick dem Californians on the streets o’ Sydney with their outlandish hats an’ silver-trimmed Mexican shirts. Dey stood out among the Orstralian diggers who wore plain serge shirts an’ cabbage-tree hats. But Oi liked ’em, dose Americans. Drab ole Sydney sparked up, it did, when dem Californians were around.’

  ‘And there was one good ting Oi liked about the American diggers,’ Patrick recalled. ’Dey taught us much better minin’ methods. Y’ see the ting in prospectin’ is to harve enough water t’ wash out the dirt from the diggins so y’ can get t’ the nuggets easier. Well, dose Americans started box-sluicin as dey called it. What dey did was t’ cut a race and channel darmed-up water into a row o’ troughs to wash out the dirt. I tell y’, it did the job an’ made dem a lot o’ money,’ Patrick explained.

  John listened attentively. He’d heard of gold fever and began to envy the people like Patrick who had experienced it.