Presently, Constable Phelan returned. He bade Dorothea follow him, and conducted her across the earthen gaolyard, which was empty except for the gallows (from which she averted her eyes) and an arrangement of three long shafts of wood which Dorothea recognised as a triangle. Though she could see, in passing, no evidence of the brutal punishment associated with this construction—no dried blood or fragments of flesh—she faltered, and felt ill, and wondered if she was going to faint.
She had not brought her smelling bottle with her.
‘This way,’ Constable Phelan grunted, upon perceiving her hesitation. He did not comment on her pallor, or her trembling lip.
He led her into a small, brick building which stood separate from the main gaol, and waited with her in a little room that contained nothing but hardwood benches and a pile of lumber. It had damp-stained, whitewashed walls and a barred window. It was very chilly, even on this sunny day.
Dorothea was invited to sit on one of the benches.
She was beginning to regret having left Emily in the gatehouse. On reflection, it had not been at all kind to Emily, who was only a young girl. What if she should become frightened? What if Constable Chandler should become disagreeably attentive? Dorothea told herself that she had hoped to spare Emily the distress of seeing Daniel confined, but wondered, even as she did so, if her motives had been entirely praiseworthy.
It had occurred to her that speaking freely with Daniel would prove to be difficult if Emily was present. Aware that the measures she had taken might, very possibly, be regarded as excessive by a great number of people, she did not want the girl to know what she was doing on Daniel’s behalf.
‘Ah,’ said Constable Phelan, who was peering through the window. He had been waiting with obvious impatience. Now he went to the door, and hailed someone, and disappeared. Shortly afterwards, a man who might very well have been another constable (though he wore no stock or blue jacket) entered the room. He was escorting Daniel Callaghan.
Dorothea rose to greet them, unaware of what she was doing. Daniel, she saw, looked tired and dirty. His flesh was unmarked, but his legs were chained, so that he shuffled along in the most distressing manner. He still wore his own clothes. (That, at least, was reassuring.) He was unshaven. There were dark rings around his eyes. The defeated set of his broad shoulders was terrible to behold.
Clearly, the constable intended to remain with him. Daniel would not be left alone in Dorothea’s company.
‘Ma’am,’ said Daniel, in a hoarse voice, and almost stumbled. He stared at her as he might have stared at an apparition. The shock of his physical presence had left her speechless; before she could even utter a greeting, he spoke again.
‘Ye should not be here,’ he stammered. ‘This—this is no place for ye.’
‘I had to come,’ she replied, acutely conscious of the constable’s dead-eyed regard. ‘I wanted to tell you what I have been doing. I have been working to have you freed, Daniel.’
‘Forgive me, Ma’am, but I never betrayed ye, never. As God is my witness.’
‘I know.’
‘I’d die before I’d do such a thing—’
‘I know.’ The anguish in his voice almost caused her to lose control of her feelings. She was more deeply affected than she had ever thought possible—doubtless the sight of the gallows had unsettled her. But with an enormous effort of will she contrived to swallow the lump that had been rising in her throat. ‘I have spoken to Governor Macquarie on your behalf,’ she quavered, whereupon the constable shifted, and Daniel’s eyes widened. ‘His Excellency has promised to look into your case. He was very kind. I told him that you were innocent of any wrongdoing, and that if you gave information to Tom Hodges regarding Mr Horsley, you did so with no malicious intent.’ Feeling a little more confident, and a little less distraught, she went on in firmer tones. ‘I intend to have you released from prison. You do not belong here—why, you have not been convicted! It is monstrous that you should be so detained. I shall consult an attorney on the matter.’
‘Ma’am … ah, Jaysus.’ His dark eyes were wet. ‘I’m not deservin’ o’this.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘No. I’ve done ye a terrible disservice. I went to Hodges, and I let him deceive me. I mistrusted him, but I favoured him—when ’tis yeerself I should have been mindful of, always. I was boastin’ about the quality I served, at yeer table, and I spoke of Mr Horsley—God, God what a fool!’ He moved convulsively, so that his chains clinked. ‘I’d not have ye troubled, and look at this!’
‘Why did he do it?’ Dorothea wanted to know. ‘Why did he save your life, and then betray you?’
Daniel shook his head. He had his hands tucked beneath his armpits, as if frightened of what they might do if not restrained. ‘Maybe he has been spoiled, since landin’,’ he replied, ‘but I think not. He’s stunted in his growth, and might have needed me on board ship. I was one o’ the largest among us there.’
‘Oh,’ said Dorothea.
‘Ma’am, I’d not have ye trouble yeerself. Anythin’ but that.’
‘Nevertheless, I shall consult an attorney.’
‘Ma’am—’
‘You are an innocent man! I shall not stand by and see you condemned!’
Dorothea spoke with a good deal too much passion. She saw the colour flow into Daniel’s cheeks. When it had drained away, it left him looking white and exhausted. He said, ‘Captain Brande will not like it,’ with a speaking glance, and Dorothea coloured in turn.
‘Captain Brande’s opinions,’ she replied in muffled accents, ‘are of no interest to me.’
Daniel closed his eyes, briefly.
‘Please do not despair,’ Dorothea continued. ‘Be sanguine, for I shall do everything in my power to assist you.’
‘Ma’am—’
‘I must go now.’ She had glanced down and seen the leather cuffs that he now wore around his ankles, beneath the dragging irons. She had remembered the scars that these cuffs concealed, and knew that, if she did not go immediately, her overwrought nerves would get the better of her. She would faint, or vomit, or burst into tears. ‘I must go, but I shall return.’
‘No. Please. ’Tis not fit for ye—’
‘Goodbye,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sorry.’ With a handkerchief pressed to her mouth, she hurried past Daniel and out of the room. Crossing the gaolyard unsteadily, she found Emily waiting by the gate.
Within minutes they were again on George Street, heading home.
The fact that Dorothea found herself able to complete this journey, however brief, without succumbing to any wild demonstrations of sorrow was entirely attributable to her well-developed sense of dignity. She walked with a steady gait and a calm expression. Upon reaching her house, she did not retire to bed, but went directly to the drawing room, where she penned a letter to Mr Frederick Garling; it was even more to her credit that this communication, which sought to engage Mr Garling’s services, was simple and coherent, and written in a clear, flowing script. In it, she praised Mr Garling’s spirited work on Mr Greenway’s behalf. Then she inquired as to the attorney’s scale of fees, and gave a brief account of Daniel Callaghan’s predicament.
She finished by requesting an interview with Mr Garling at the earliest opportunity. Time, she wrote, was of the essence.
Emily was sent to deliver this letter directly to Mr Garling’s house, though Dorothea knew that he might not be at home. She had no notion at all of what his movements might be; he might be in court, or visiting friends, or consulting the Judge Advocate. But she could not have Emily running all over town, searching for him. Eventually he would return to his house, at which point he would receive Dorothea’s urgent request.
She was anxious about the cost of engaging him. She did not know, yet, if the sale of her possessions would cover the expense of his hire. Fretting about money, however, was preferable to fretting about Daniel’s shackled feet, or her own state of health. She was accustomed to fretting about money, whereas
she could not even bear to reflect on what the future might hold for Daniel—or for herself, in fact. Would symptoms of her disease begin to manifest themselves? If so, when? And what might she expect?
She had been too shocked to make inquiries of Dr Redfern the previous night. Now, though she might easily have consulted him again, she did not know that she wanted to. She did not know that she wanted to hear what he might say. Not now. Not while she had so many other things to worry about.
Later, perhaps.
Her thoughts were so tormented that she was forced to keep herself occupied. She did this, firstly, by writing a letter to Governor Macquarie, thanking him for his kind consideration, reminding him of his promise, and relating to him Daniel’s thoughts on the reason behind Tom Hodges’ betrayal of him. This task kept her busy until half-past ten. Afterwards, she cast around the kitchen for something that she might prepare for dinner. The larder was not well stocked, but she found scraps enough for a ragout, and began to chop vegetables. Then Emily returned, with news that Mr Garling’s letter had been delivered into the hands of his manservant. Mr Garling would reply as soon as was practicable.
Dorothea was anxiously awaiting this reply, and pulling carrots from the vegetable garden, when Peg Whiting addressed her from behind the paling fence. It was just after two o’clock. The sun was so bright that Dorothea had to shade her eyes before she could identify the source of the jovial ‘Mrs Brande!’ that had caused her to look up. She was greatly astonished when she recognised her former maidservant’s generous form, not having expected to see it again so soon.
‘Why—Peg!’ she exclaimed.
‘Now, will you look at this ’ere garden?’ said Peg. ‘What a good job the croppy’s done. All them pinks, there—lovely. And the turnip greens! I’ll give ’im ’is due, ’e was always a fine ’and in the garden.’
‘Yes,’ said Dorothea. She could not bring herself to speak at length; the subject was too painful.
‘I done what you asked of me, Mrs Brande,’ Peg added, lowering her voice somewhat. ‘Do you want to go inside?’
‘Yes, I—certainly. Go around the front, if you please, and I shall meet you there.’
They parted, and came together again at the front door. Dorothea conducted Peg into the drawing room, where she learned that Peg had been vouchsafed a ‘bit o’ good luck’. A certain fellow had passed through the shop, that morning, not long after Mrs Brande’s departure. When consulted as to the possible value of Mrs Brande’s possessions, his eyes had very nearly ‘popped outer ’is ’ead’.
‘It’s fine stuff, what you gave me,’ Peg added, with a sidelong glance. ‘As good as I hever saw. ’E ummed and aahed, but I could see ’e was keen, right enough, so I wouldn’t let ’im gull me.’ Fumbling around her neck, Peg drew out of her garments a purse on a string, which she emptied of its contents. Several notes—and numerous coins—fell into her lap. One of the coins bounced onto the floor, and rolled under the sofa. ‘Fifty-two pound ten,’ Peg declared triumphantly. ‘Ten pound sterling, the rest currency. Most money I hever saw at the one time—and a right good price, Ma’am, if I may say so.’
Awestruck, Dorothea gazed at the glinting silver, the crumpled paper. She had not expected so substantial a sum. Fifty-two pounds! The price of her husband’s affection.
Every one of the articles sold to realise this total had been bestowed on her by Charles.
‘Th-thank you,’ she stammered. ‘Thank you very much indeed.’
‘ ’Twas the jewellery that made the difference,’ Peg observed, dumping the money into Dorothea’s lap. ‘Well, and I trust it’ll all prove ’elpful to you, Madam. Is the croppy about? I’d like a quick word, if I may. Find out ’ow ’e’s faring.’
‘Daniel is not here, at present,’ Dorothea replied. She said nothing about his unhappy circumstances, but allowed Peg to babble on for several minutes before expressing her gratitude once more, offering up a coin which was cheerfully accepted. She was feeling a little dazed. With fumbling hands she gathered the rest of the money into a handkerchief, while Peg delivered herself of various opinions concerning the harvest, the state of the road to Parramatta, and the latest accidental drowning of a small child off the Government wharf. Though obviously curious about the transaction that she had undertaken for Dorothea, Peg displayed an almost astonishing delicacy in the restraint with which she expressed herself on the subject. Having made a few gently inquisitive remarks about Dorothea’s ‘coming voyage’ and the ‘tiring preparations’ associated with it, she seemed quite content with the vague replies that she received.
She departed at a quarter before three, leaving Dorothea to rummage about frantically in her workbasket and linen press. It seemed to her that the wisest course would be to sew the money into one of her old petticoats, in such a way as to prevent it from clinking together. No one would think to seek out fifty-two pounds and ten shillings in the hem of her petticoat.
She was still engaged in this painstaking and time-consuming task when Charles returned from the barracks. He walked straight in, without knocking. He left Jack Lynch in the front garden.
Dorothea glared at her husband as he entered the drawing room.
‘You should knock,’ she said, and caught him off guard.
‘What?’
‘You should knock before entering.’ Fortunately, she had had time to bundle up her work, and conceal the glint of silver. Charles, moreover, was so profoundly uninterested in domestic chores that his eyes had not even strayed to the articles with which her hands were occupied.
Even so, being anxious to conceal from him her sudden possession of wealth, she was annoyed at his abrupt intrusion.
‘I may not wish to admit you into my presence,’ she declared, and he flushed, and lost his rigid posture.
‘You are ridiculous,’ he spluttered. ‘Do you still intend to proceed with this absurd charade?’
‘I do not understand you.’
‘I have given you a night alone to reflect on your errors. Surely you must concede that you have been unjust?’
‘Not at all.’
‘For God’s sake! I am your husband!’
‘And I am your wife. And you betrayed me—’
‘I did not!’
‘I see no purpose in discussing this any further. I have told you my feelings. You disgust me. I have no love for you. It is better that we should live apart.’
Charles gasped. The hectic colour in his face deepened. ‘This is my house, Madam! I pay the rent!’ he cried, his eyes glittering in a most suspicious fashion. Surely, Dorothea thought, those cannot be tears? Then she realised: he is going all to pieces. But she could not summon up much sympathy. He had used up all the sympathy due to him long ago.
‘I did not mean that we should live apart here,’ she explained, in a more gentle manner. ‘There is so little time before your ship sails—it will not be a great hardship if we occupy the same house until you leave. But not the same bed. If you wish, I shall sleep on the sofa.’
‘What do you mean, until I leave?’ Charles seemed bewildered. ‘We shall both be sailing on the Matilda, surely?’
‘No.’
‘No? But—’
‘I do not want to sail to England via Madras. I want to sail there directly. And the Matilda will not do that.’
‘But—’
‘I shall wait here until a ship arrives that will take me directly to England.’
Charles was shaking. In faltering accents he protested and complained, and finally pleaded. Why had she not changed her mind? What would everyone think? Why should she not accompany him to India? She might come to her senses, if given sufficient time to do so. She might choose to stay with him, rather than proceeding home.
Dorothea replied that her health would not permit such an arduous voyage. She was determined to return to England, and by the least taxing route. If Charles should take exception to this, she would tell Mrs Molle exactly why her health was so poor.
‘I do not c
are that everyone should know,’ she said passionately, ‘because my life is ruined in any case. I will have no children. I am married to a man I do not respect. What matter that society should be aware that I am diseased, and very probably betrayed? I care nothing for that! Nothing! I want to go home! I want my sister! And you will not stop me!’
Her voice cracked, and Charles approached her with an outstretched hand. But when she threw her scissors at his face, he retreated. He called her insane. She called him reprehensible. Prevented from raising his hand to her—by the threat of exposure, if not his own want of courage—he was driven from the room, at last, though not from the house.
He went to the kitchen and demanded his dinner, which he toyed with alone, in the dining room, displaying a distinct want of appetite. Dorothea ate in the kitchen. Afterwards, they retired to separate quarters, Charles gaining possession of the bedroom while Dorothea occupied her maidservant’s hammock. She pushed a travelling chest against the door of the room in which she slept, to discourage Charles from approaching her during the night.
The next morning, she waited behind this barrier until he had departed. Nothing would persuade her to emerge while he was in residence. Though he stormed and entreated and even kicked at the door, she remained unmoved. Her only concern was that Mr Garling’s letter might arrive, and that Charles might retain custody of it—might perhaps even use it to extract from her certain promises.
But the letter did not arrive until a quarter before noon. By then, Charles had left the house to attend to his duties, and Dorothea had fretted herself almost into a prostrate condition. Unfortunately, her state of mind did not suffer any improvement when she became acquainted with the letter’s contents.
It was a wordy epistle, three pages long. In it, Mr Garling offered her his very sincere compliments, and professed himself gratified by her praise. Naturally, he had been eager to assist her in this particular, and had taken it upon himself, before answering her missive of the fourteenth instant, to acquaint himself with the facts of the case that so interested her. It had occurred to him, upon reading her account of it, that circumstances might be favourable to application being made for a writ of habeas corpus.
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