Her hands began to shake. The message from Daniel had upset her thoroughly; she had found it pitiable beyond expression. Would he ever receive his clothes? Was he being properly fed? Why had she allowed him to associate with his dubious friend, when she could have obeyed her instincts and forbidden him such low company?
I should have sent him my Bible, she thought, and cursed herself for not doing so. He would need every comfort, now. She wondered if he had been fettered, whether he had witnessed any hangings, since his incarceration. She remembered the scars on his ankles. It occurred to her that she did not know his age, or the place of his birth. He had worked in her house for nearly four years, yet she did not know if he had any siblings, whether his parents were alive, how long he had been married …
She did not even know if he had ever been flogged. She had never seen his naked back, and they had never conversed on the subject. She had heard cries aboard the General Hewitt—had they been his cries? The possibility made her feel ill. Covering her eyes, she prayed to God that He might preserve Daniel from all harm. All harm. Then she realised that she might very well be forced to leave the colony before his fate was decided, and she groaned aloud.
No, she told herself. That will not happen. Dr Wentworth has promised me a speedy trial. I shall hold him to that promise.
Time passed. Dorothea sighed, and fretted, and sighed again. She was indescribably weary. When Emily failed to return, she began to grow restless and fearful. She paced about. She peeled the skin off the beef tongue, and put it back on the fire to boil. She peeled and chopped some onions.
By the time Emily finally appeared, Dorothea’s eyes were as red as beets, and her complexion was sadly inflamed.
‘Are you all right, Ma’am?’ the housemaid wanted to know, whereupon her mistress replied, ‘Onions’, tersely. She wiped her hands, and inquired as to whether Emily had completed her task. The answer was not reassuring.
‘Well … I tried,’ the girl said, with some hesitation. ‘But …’
‘But what?’
‘Colonel Molle and Colonel Erskine—they was … busy like.’
‘Oh.’ The court martial. Dorothea had forgotten all about it. ‘But you found them?’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Nervously, the housemaid explained what had happened. She had been forced to wait for a very long time at the barracks. Colonel Molle had been busy with important ‘business’, in a large room containing many people. Among them had been Captain Brande, who had recognised Emily, and demanded that she account for herself.
Upon being presented with the letter addressed to Colonel Molle, he had broken the seal, glanced over his wife’s scribbled plea, and ripped it to pieces.
The same fate had befallen Dorothea’s letters to Colonel Erskine, Mr Wylde, Mr Riley, Mr Lord and Mr Campbell, all of which Emily had been forced to surrender. Captain Brande had bade her return to the house. He had entrusted her with no verbal message for his wife.
Doubtless he had assumed that his actions would speak louder than any words.
‘I—I’m sorry, Ma’am,’ Emily stammered, as Dorothea sat down heavily on one of the kitchen stools. ‘I ’ad to give ’em up.’
‘I know.’
‘I was afeared the master would box my ears, else.’
‘I know. Shh. I know.’
Dorothea tried to think. She was frightened, not angry. She rose, and went into the drawing room. Upon reaching it, she was startled by the sound of gunfire. Artillery was being discharged at Dawes Point. Then she remembered one of her husband’s observations from the night before, concerning Colonel Erskine’s appointment as Lieutenant Governor. Owing to a regrettable oversight, Colonel Erskine had not been sworn in to the accompaniment of a thirteen-gun salute.
This omission, it appeared, had just been corrected.
I cannot rely on the magistrates, thought Dorothea, as she pressed her hands to her temples. Dr Wentworth will be prejudiced against me because of the Regiment’s treatment of him. Colonel Molle will be prejudiced against me because Charles will see to it that he is. Mr Wylde will be just, because he is a good man, but the others—how am I to convince the others? I do not know them.
Mr Lord. Mr Riley. Mr Campbell …
Dorothea considered Mr John Campbell. He was the Governor’s secretary, trim, dour and an implacable enemy of the Governor’s opponents. Charles viewed him with the utmost contempt. Dorothea had met him only three times. He had struck her as rather a formidable gentleman, but surely he would share the Governor’s more generous opinions on the reformation of convicts?
The Governor.
Dorothea stopped pacing the floor. She glanced out the window. It was perhaps two or three o’clock in the afternoon, somewhat grey and cloudy. The complexion of the sky promised rain, but not for an hour or two. The wind off Port Jackson was brisk, but imbued with a touch of spring. A laundress passed, laden with bags of dirty clothes.
Dorothea considered writing a letter, before dismissing the notion. A letter would first pass through Mr Campbell’s hands. It would doubtless be classified as something unworthy of immediate attention. It might, perhaps, not reach the Governor at all. Mr Campbell might choose to summarise it briefly, in a few ill-chosen words, before offering to respond to it in ‘the usual manner’.
No. If she was to approach the Governor, she must do it in person.
She fetched her good bonnet and shawl from the bedroom, anxiously examining her face in the glass as she did so. Alas, it presented a woeful appearance. Her cheeks were white, her eyelids still inflamed. She looked ill. But perhaps it was all to the good. Perhaps the strength of her feelings would be conveyed with more force if she was pale and red-eyed.
When she informed Emily that she was going out, the housemaid blinked nervously. But she said nothing as her mistress gave her instructions regarding the beef tongue and the suet pudding. ‘I do not know when I shall be back,’ Dorothea remarked, ‘though it will not be very soon. Should Captain Brande return …’ She hesitated. She and her maidservant looked at each other. ‘Should Captain Brande return,’ she finished, with a raised chin, ‘you may tell him that I have gone to consult His Excellency.’
She did not linger to watch Emily gasp and place a hand over her mouth. There was no point in putting off the awful necessity. With a pounding heart she walked straight out of the kitchen, through the house, and into the street, where she stood for a moment considering her options.
Government House lay on the opposite side of Sydney Cove. To reach it, she would have to cross the causeway on Hunter Street (which was always very damp and dirty), or follow Hunter only as far as George Street, then turn left and head for the bridge. This would be the drier route, though more crowded, and perilously close to the Rocks, the wharves and various other unhealthy destinations. In the end, however, she decided in favour of Bridge Street. The choice was made for her, because, after skirting the northern end of the Barrack Square, she glanced down Hunter Street and saw that a cart had lost its wheel—and half of its load—not far from the causeway. Firewood was scattered across the muddy ruts. Innumerable people were gathered about. Dorothea heard the noise and laughter, and immediately turned left. She had no wish to pass through a knot of hilarious, idle men in caps and neckerchiefs.
With her head lowered and her shawl pulled tightly about her, she proceeded down George Street, treading carefully around deposits of manure and gluey potholes. She was very anxious. Dogs nosed about at her feet. A child ran across her path, screaming, in pursuit of another child. The smell of beer assaulted her nostrils, and she knew, without raising her eyes, that she was in the vicinity of a drinking house. She therefore quickened her pace, lifting her skirts as high as she decently could. Ahead, somewhere, was a guardhouse. She could not remember where, though she had a notion that it would not inconvenience her, being somewhat farther along George Street than the bridge. Beyond the guardhouse lay the Rocks, of course, and that was evident from all manner of things: raised voices, the smell of
slaughter, the distant, ringing blows of smiths’ hammers in the lumberyard. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of the Rocks. Down there, somewhere, Daniel was languishing in gaol.
It was a troubling thought—more troubling even than the threat of stray pigs, or half-clad women, or being accosted by a drunken hospital attendant.
As she passed the large, brick shape of the Female Orphan School, and turned into Bridge Street, the sound of jingling irons caused Dorothea to look up. She saw a file of convicts shuffling along in white woollen Parramatta frocks and trousers, every item of clothing daubed over with arrows, letters and numbers in black, white and red. The convicts were unshaven and menacing. They wore leg-irons. Glancing away, lest one of them catch her eye, Dorothea hurried to overtake them; she crossed the bridge at a smart pace, narrowly avoiding a man who stopped in front of her without warning, apparently for the purpose of depositing his spittle on the road. The briny smell of mudflats filled the air. Industrious noises issued from the dockyards.
But Dorothea knew that she had almost left the perilous regions behind. Ahead, Bridge Street was lined with the houses of notables such as Mr Cowper and Mr John Campbell (to her right) and Mr Lord, across Macquarie Place, to her left. Dorothea had always envied Mr Campbell his house. It was a two-storeyed structure of classical proportions, with shutters and a portico. Mr Lord’s house was even more impressive—boasting three storeys in front and four in the rear, together with verandahs and fanlights and all manner of exotic contrivances—but because it was roundly condemned by the colony’s gentlefolk as being the boastful handiwork of an upstart emancipist, Dorothea had never openly expressed her admiration for its fine lines. Now she glanced at it quickly, for reassurance, but did not dare let her gaze linger. She was frightened to expose her face. This portion of Bridge Street was always well frequented by people known to her. She did not want to be stopped by Mrs Cowper, or Mrs Wylde, who would want to know what she was doing here, on foot and unattended. She did not want to be waylaid.
She had never entertained any fears as to whether she would be admitted into Government House. No inconvenient questions would be asked of an officer’s wife, she felt sure—and her instincts, in this case, were correct. For as she approached the great gates in the high, stone walls, she happened to encounter Lieutenant Watts, emerging from the vice-regal grounds with a sheaf of papers under his arm.
He stopped abruptly when he saw her, and blinked.
‘Mrs Brande,’ he said, bowing as she curtsied. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Lieutenant Watts. How very fortunate.’
‘Are you well, Mrs Brande?’ He peered at her, his expression of mild surprise shifting, somewhat. ‘Do you require assistance?’
‘Oh yes. Yes, I do. Will you help me, Lieutenant? I must speak to His Excellency.’
There was a brief silence. The Governor’s aide-de-camp shifted his weight, and took a deep breath. ‘Indeed,’ he murmured.
Dorothea noticed a flicker of feeling in his tranquil, wide-set gaze.
‘Is the Governor not at home?’ she asked, knitting her brows, whereupon the Lieutenant offered her a pleasant smile.
‘He is, Mrs Brande, though he is not well.’
‘Oh.’
‘I am sure, however, that he would not object to being informed of your arrival. Are you …’ he scanned the immediate vicinity, ‘… alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then by all means follow me, and I shall convey your wishes to His Excellency.’
With some relief, though also with mounting disquiet, Dorothea obeyed the directions of Lieutenant Watts. She took his proffered arm, and accompanied him into the Governor’s garden, trudging up the semicircular carriageway past mulberry trees and clipped hedges. A soldier of the 48th Regiment stood at attention by the front stairs. Some distance away, a gardener swung his scythe. No other human being was visible.
Lieutenant Watts allowed Dorothea to precede him into the house, which had always struck her as a rather awkward and conglomerate dwelling. In the wide entrance hallway (which was lined with cedar chairs), they were met by Sergeant Charles Whalan, of the Governor’s guards. Together the two men conversed in low voices; Dorothea glanced around nervously as she untied her bonnet strings, noting how quiet and dim the house seemed to be. Were Mrs Macquarie and her son not in residence? She had not the courage to ask.
Then Sergeant Whalan retreated down the hall, and Lieutenant Watts turned back to Dorothea.
‘I must away,’ he said, smiling, ‘but Sergeant Whalan has gone to inform His Excellency of your arrival. Would you care to wait in the parlour, Mrs Brande? It is a great deal more comfortable than this hallway. I only wish that Mrs Macquarie were here to welcome you.’
‘Is she in Parramatta, now?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. Mrs Macquarie prefers Parramatta.’ Lieutenant Watts conducted Dorothea into a parlour, directly off the hallway, which she had never before seen. Its windows overlooked the verandah and the harbour beyond. It had pale green walls and a scrubbed-wood floor, and contained many large and dignified articles of furniture. Lieutenant Watts motioned Dorothea into the smallest of these—a very comfortable armchair—and bowed again. ‘Sergeant Whalan will return directly,’ he said. ‘May I say, Mrs Brande, how delighted I always am to see you. I wish I could stay, but I have some pressing business—’
‘Yes, of course,’ Dorothea interrupted. The prospect of making sociable conversation with Lieutenant Watts, however courteous and sweet-tempered he might be, filled her with dismay. ‘Please do not let me detain you, Lieutenant. I am only sorry to have distracted you from your duties.’
‘A welcome distraction, Madam. None more so,’ Lieutenant Watts replied. Another smile, a final bow, and he departed, leaving Dorothea straight-backed and stiff in her armchair, her fingers knotted together and her heart jumping almost out of her chest. Now that she was in the Governor’s house, she was beginning to wonder if she had behaved unwisely. Outside, black clouds were rolling in from the east. Inside, the house was gloomy, formal, intimidating.
It is for Daniel’s sake, she thought, closing her eyes—and jumped as Sergeant Whalan addressed her from the door.
‘Mrs Brande?’ he said. ‘Please come this way.’
He was a large man, with a red face, a deep voice and an impressive bearing. His step was slow and stately. Dorothea followed him down the hall until they reached the Governor’s office, whereat he stopped, stepped back, and indicated that she should enter ahead of him.
Hesitantly, Dorothea obeyed his wordless instructions. She found herself in a large, dim room lit by one lamp, which had been positioned on an expansive writing table. To the left of this table she saw a chest of drawers. To the right could be found a mahogany washstand.
And behind the table stood the Governor, his gold braid gleaming.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE GOVERNOR DID NOT look well. His skin was yellow, there were great pouches under his eyes, and he moved a little stiffly as he responded to his visitor’s curtsy, inviting her to be seated. Dorothea did so, choosing one of the cane-bottomed armchairs opposite the writing table.
The Governor lowered himself into his own chair as if the action caused him considerable discomfort.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Mrs Brande,’ he said, his rolling Scottish cadences pitched low. Two weary but penetrating brown eyes surveyed her across the tabletop, and she blushed, and murmured something to the effect that it had been kind of him to receive her.
‘Not at all,’ he said politely.
‘I am sorry to have missed Mrs Macquarie. I hope that she is well?’
‘Never better.’
‘And your son?’
‘Thriving, I thank ’ee.’ The Governor leaned back in his chair, regarding her from beneath heavy eyelids. ‘What of yourself, Mrs Brande?’
‘I—my health is good, Your Excellency,’ Dorothea stammered, ‘but I am very much distressed.’
‘I
ndeed?’
‘It is a matter—it concerns a man called Daniel Callaghan, who was assigned to me—to us—four years ago, and had never given me a moment’s trouble—even the slightest cause for alarm—’
‘Until now,’ said the Governor, shifting in his seat. With a sigh, he added: ‘What has he done?’
‘Nothing!’ Dorothea exclaimed. She saw him raise his eyebrows, and strove to keep a check on her emotion. ‘Nothing,’ she repeated. ‘He has been accused of receiving stolen goods, and planning a burglary, but I know that he is innocent.’ She proceeded to relate the story of Daniel’s association with Tom Hodges, and the circumstances of Daniel’s conviction for theft. She attempted to describe her manservant’s character, and the reasons upon which her belief in his moral reformation were founded. ‘He sincerely regrets his past wrongdoing,’ she declared earnestly. ‘He is diligent, temperate and obedient. My husband would not have it so, because he is so very prejudiced against Government men—particularly those of Irish extraction—but he is not well acquainted with Daniel. I am. I know him well. And I know that he is not the irredeemable villain that Captain Brande, with no foundation, claims him to be.’ Searching the Governor’s somewhat ravaged face, Dorothea coloured and said: ‘I—I believe that the principles upon which you have based your administration, Sir, regarding the—the association of free and emancipated colonists, are just, humane and benevolent. It seems to me that convicts can improve, and find redemption. The stain of their crime need not be ineluctable. Daniel has shown me that. Though once a thief, Sir, he is a thief no longer. He is an honest man. I would swear to it.’
The Governor gazed at her intently for a while, before remarking: ‘Then why has he been arrested, Mrs Brande?’
‘Because stolen goods were found in his possession,’ Dorothea replied. ‘They were stolen by Tom Hodges, and given to Daniel. Daniel did not know that they were stolen. He assured me of this. And if he did mention to Hodges that Mr Horsley would be dining at our house on the night of the burglary—as Hodges claims—then it would have been done without malicious intent.’ Seeing that the Governor’s expression remained bland, Dorothea’s tone became more urgent. ‘I have not been given the opportunity to speak to Daniel at length on this subject, Your Excellency, but I know that his explanation must be a reasonable one. He would not have questioned his friend’s motives. The man saved his life.’ As the Governor refused even to blink, Dorothea cried out, in an agony of frustration: ‘I was aboard the General Hewitt! It was a dreadful ship! You yourself ordered an investigation into the deaths that took place among its passengers!’
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