PETER
YELDHAM

The Currency Lads


'The master of the Australian historical blockbuster.'

DAILY TELEGRAPH

Daniel Johnson and Matthew Conway are currency lads
born
and bred in the new land now being called Australia.
Closer than brothers, they harbour a secret that binds
them for life. But change is coming. When the British
government resolves to turn back the clock and renew convict
transportation, Daniel and Matthew find themselves on
opposite sides of a fierce conflict that threatens to
tear their friendship apart.

Set in the bustling maritime world of 1830s Sydney, and
spanning two decades, this is an unforgettable novel of loyalty
and love that captures the spirit and energy of early Australia.

' 'A ripping great yarn, featuring characters
with depth and storylines to match.'

WEEKENDER

'Combines the facts of a turbulent part of Australia's
history with a moving and often riveting fictional narrative.'

GOLD COAST BULLETIN


Penguin Books
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First published 1998 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pry Ltd
This edition published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2009
13579 10 8642
Copyright © Peter Yeldham 1998
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may
be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means
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Printed and bound in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group, Maryborough, Victoria

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:
Yeldham, Peter.
The currency lads / Peter Yeldham
9780143010371 (pbk.)
Journalists New
South Wales Sydney
Fiction
Sydney (NSW) Fiction
A823.3

penguin.com.au

For my grandchildren

Phil, Rob and Olivia Cawthorne,
Peter, Emily, Lydia and Bronuyn

If the politicians don't ruin this country,
the future is yours
The Arrival

1849
Before anything else, there were the rumours. They began along the
waterfront, among the warehouses, the shipyards and loading
docks, and from there sped to the Whaler's Arms in Windmill
Street, and the lag's jetty on Jack the Miller's point. Before the day
was out they were circulating all over the town; through the
markets, the factories and mills of Sussex Street, the drawing rooms
of palatial harbourside homes, in the gaols and on Gallows Hill.
Initially there was doubt, for this had become a place disposed
to gossip and hearsay. Trade was booming, and the port grown in
stature with its influx of ships; not only the East India Company
vessels now, but from all over the world, from the Americas,
Spain and Portugal, from the Cape of Good Hope and Rio. With
their cargoes they brought countless rumours, many of them
influenced by the vicissitudes of the long voyage and embellished
by distance.
But these seemed different. Soft as whispers on the wind,
they had a disturbing authenticity.
There was talk, they said. It was being considered.
London was contemplating, speculating.
People ridiculed it. Unthinkable, after all this time in
this
day and age. Yet the talk persisted, grew like a warning.
London was considering the idea of bringing back convict
transportation.
Matthew Conway heard it from one of the turnkeys in the old
prison, where he was making his rounds to collect the week's
news. The prison, the original town lock-up, lay at the foot of
Middlesex Lane, below the labyrinth of hillside streets known as
The Rocks. It sheltered behind an arched entrance, a deception
that promised graceful Georgian architecture, but delivered
instead a shabby ruin, old, damp and beset by termites. Its
demolition had been ordered some eight years earlier, yet still it
stood here, a remnant of the polluted past. In tiny unventilated
rooms prisoners were fettered without distinction; hardened
criminals alongside those yet to face judgement; murderers,
thieves and debtors all receiving equal treatment when it came to
rations and cruelty.
The gaoler was dismissive of the rumours.
'Load of bollocks, if you ask me,' he said. 'Bleedin' place is too
full of prattle. People ain't got nothin' better to do.' Matthew copied out the lists of impending court cases, the
verdicts and penalties already decided, noted that a hanging was
to take place at noon on Friday, and left the place with relief.
There was no one in the stocks on Essex Street, or it would have
drawn an eager crowd. The stocks and pillory were considered
diversions second only to a public execution, among those who
thronged to such entertainments.
He made his way over the arched stone bridge that crossed
the Tank Stream. Long before he was born, in the days when this
had been a stockade town, the stream had run freely, a vigorous
spring of fresh water amid thriving ferns and wattle trees. He had
seen a painting of it as it had once been. But now the lush foliage
was all gone, chopped down to make way for gentlemen's homes
in Bridge Street, and the water was sluggish and turbid,
contaminated by years of use as a public laundry, and the daily
discharge of chamber pots.
Fortunately, new springs had been located to supply drinking
water as the city continued to expand for
it had trebled in size
since his school days, thrusting out to new districts way beyond
the Surry Hills and past the farms of Paddington. Matthew knew
the rapid growth was inevitable, but hoped not everywhere would
be destroyed by progress as thoroughly as this once forested
glade.
Wherever he went in the course of the day he heard the same
rumours. The first scepticism turned to speculation. By nightfall,
everyone was talking about it.
'They'd be insane,' Sean Geraghty said in his pub down by the
quay, and his early evening drinkers all nodded sagely.
They would,' said Pat Murphy. 'They would and all.'
He ordered another pint of mother-in-law, which was a blend
of old and bitter.
'But on the other hand,' Geraghty said, pumping the beer,
'when did a bit of insanity stop the British from their mad
ways?'

They all took another drink, while thinking of that.

Night fell on torn sails, far out at sea. The vessel was slow, blunt-bowed,
like a North Sea collier with a high, square stern and
dorsal windows. The prevailing wind that had followed them
across the Bight and through Bass Strait had turned to the south,
becoming first a squall and then, the barometer dropping, a hard
gale with driving rain. With the onset of dark, off Cape Howe, the
storm was whipping the waves into a frenzy, but the ship rode
them, rolling and falling in the ocean troughs, a torment to the
wretched cargo in the crowded lower holds who had been seasick
since Gravesend, but safely afloat despite the broken bowsprit
and the shredded topgallant. The fore and the main masts were
still holding, and most of the canvas had been secured before the
worst of the storm had struck.
Down below, the old transport was taking water. It was to be
expected. They had been a hundred and fifty-eight days at sea,
seventy-one of them without landfall since leaving the Cape, and
she was an elderly ship, a cheap purchase like so many of her ilk,
badly in need of a dry dock and hot tar patches, for she was
riddled with teredo worms. In the bilges, up to their knees in
freezing water, those of the crew sent to inspect the damage
relayed messages aloft that the pumps were losing the battle,
while they cursed the night, the storm, the stink of the unwashed,
seasick human cargo, and swore to Christ this would be their last
voyage.
On the pitching deck a worried first mate wished he could see
the stars, and hoped to God his skipper knew what he was about.
This blow was a real bastard, as bad as any he'd sailed through; he
was acutely aware that somewhere on their lee side in the black
night and the boiling sea, there were reefs that would slice this
exhausted and rat-infested old coal carrier into scraps of
driftwood.
Early next day, rumour became fact. One of Benjamin Boyd's whaling fleet from Twofold Bay, with the flamboyant Boyd himself at its helm, entered harbour in a grey dawn and tied up at the wharves below Bunker's Hill. It was a situation made for a man who relished the limelight, and within an hour an excited crowd was at the quay. Boyd climbed on a platform of fishing crates, so all could see him and hear what he had to say.
'Listen to me,' he shouted.
We're listening; You say something,' a Currency Lad in his distinctive garb shouted back, and the crowd laughed.
Boyd, ignoring this, proceeded to hush them with his news. He told them another of his whalers down in Bass Strait had laid up alongside a clipper carrying a consignment of grain from Liverpool, and there had been an exchange of visits by longboat. The master of the speedy clipper reported that out of Cape Town, in the Indian Ocean, they had overtaken an old tub, a Whitby merchantman named the PeverilBay, which was being used as a convict transport and was bound for Eastern Australia. For Sydney.
The news was weeks old; it had been delayed while his ships went south to fish their quota of whales. Even though the vessel was slow and ponderous, she should be arriving within a matter of days. She was carrying two hundred and forty prisoners, and the expectation was there'd soon be other convict transports following, once this one was safely berthed and had discharged its cargo.
Amid the clamour of outrage that followed, Boyd continued to make himself heard. It was his moment, and he intended to use it.
'It's a scandal,' he shouted. 'They've broken faith with us. The whole lot of 'em. Lord Grey, Gladstone, Queen Victoria herself.'
'For shame,' a woman rebuked him. 'Not the Queen.'
'No, not Her Majesty,' a man supported her, amid growing
murmurs of agreement.
'Her Ministers have done this in
her name,' Boyd insisted.
'Ten years ago they abolished transportation. We're not going to
stand for having this country turned back into a prison.'
'What can we do about it?' The voice came from the crowd,
and immediately there was a barrage of answers.
'Blockade the harbour.'
'Sink the bastard.'
'Revolt,' came a shout, and this cry was taken up by others. Revolt! Revolt! people began to chant in a unified chorus of
dissent.
The roar of it brought others hurrying towards the wharf.
The news was already circulating out to the more remote parts of
the town.
'If the Yankees can do it, we can.'
'That's it. We'll have a Boston tea party!'
'Bugger Boston! We'll stir up our own Sydney stink!'
The crowd laughed; the anger and excitement was
contagious.
'Break ties with England.'
'Make them take back their poxy scum.'
'Let's all agree on one thing,' Boyd shouted. 'No more British
crime or criminals here. This place was declared a city years ago.
We're not going to let them turn it back into a gaol.'
By the next day, Boyd's news had reached Parramatta and the
Nepean, and people were converging on Sydney to protest. The
speed with which it spread was driven by outrage, given impetus
by disbelief and resentment. A society which had already celebrated
its sixtieth anniversary, had recently been granted the status of a
city and begun to shed what many considered the stain of its
convict origin, was suddenly and without warning consigned
back to the lowly status of a penal colony. The arrogant lack of
consultation was the ultimate insult.
The Colonial Secretary, Earl Grey, was burnt in effigy. Wild
threats were bandied about. A deputation went to wait on the
governor to inform him that the colony was in uproar.

The wind had howled relentlessly all night. Driving rain as lethal
as buckshot lashed the deck and rigging. The mizzen boom had
broken loose, yards were smashed, and the aft mast was splintering
ominously. The first mate felt more afraid than in his whole
career of thirty years at sea.
His captain was mad. There was no doubting his courage, but
it was a wild venture; the whole voyage was a gamble, cursed from
the day they raised anchor at Gravesend and followed the river
out past East Tilbury and Sheerness into the North Sea. They had
had no luck. The weather had been vicious off the Bay of Biscay,
and incessant storms had followed them down past Tenerife to
the Cape of Good Hope.
The expedition was ill-advised.
The ship was overladen with convicts and manned by a sparse
and inexperienced crew. Someone had tried to restrict costs, and
had risked lives. Someone no
doubt safely ashore, and planning
to grow rich on this venture had
put them all in peril.
The dawn brought them no relief; the early light was a grim
pewter-grey, the sea a cauldron of treacherous white caps. All
morning the hatches remained firmly battened down, despite the
excessive heat and putrid damp below, for without covers there
was every likelihood the towering waves sweeping the decks
would fill the ship, and the men and women in the crowded
holds below would drown. At least that way would be swift. If
they went much further in these conditions, the poor wretches
might begin to die for lack of ventilation.

The first mate had no idea how long it might be before they
reached harbour. He had never made this voyage before. He knew,
because the Captain had told him, that within the next few days
they would pass the sandy arms of land encircling Botany Bay,
and soon after that, on a course due north, would see steepled
rocky headlands like giant entrance gates to the harbour of Port
Jackson.

Home, the Captain called it. In one of their rare moments of
familiarity he had confided he'd been born there. As a first
generation Australian, he was proud to be what they called a
Currency Lad.
PART ONE

THE BOYS

'The smiles, the tears, of boyhood years.' Thomas Moore


Chapter 1

1833
Matthew could hear the familiar babble as he passed the town market, and saw the rows of wooden carts drawn up there, all
empty after unloading the produce they had brought from the
river farms along the Turnpike Road. Crowds besieged the
vegetable stalls and fruit barrows, while the shouting
costermongers cajoled customers, begging their observance of
I the unbeatable bargains in live pigs, calves and poultry. It had the
earthy and lively appeal of all such places, but it also possessed an
unexpected elegance. The Market House itself, with its arcades
I and Grecian pillars, was a building of grace and style. The store
I houses were constructed to match it. The whole quarter was laid with sandstone, and in the centre of it a long-handled pump
supplied water to keep the paving clean. Above the scene and ) dominating it, visible for miles, was a huge ornamental cupola,
* which seemed to look down on the activity below as if distancing itself from the clamour of commerce. Matthew had heard people say the market portico looked just
like Covent Garden or Drury Lane whatever
that meant. To him it was the usual noisy neighbourhood, a din that began each day

before dawn with the clatter of carts and the shouts of porters
and vendors. He walked past without a second glance, and
slouched his way down the sloping street towards the water,
morosely kicking a pebble in front of him as he headed in the
direction of Cockle Bay.
It was a school holiday, a dazzling April day, but he felt no
enjoyment. In fact he felt glum and fed up with the world, which
was why he had his head down, focussed on the pebble, prepared
to ignore anyone who might be in the way. Fortunately no one
was, for while the market was crowded, the streets were almost
empty, and even the waterfront below seemed deserted. The lack
of people down here suited his despondent mood. Life was
rotten. It was unfair!
It was his birthday next week, but already his ma had told him
there could be no money for a present. They were having to save
to buy a print machine, and every penny counted. Nine-year-old Matthew had no idea what a print machine might look like,
except that his pa worked in a place where they had lots of them,
but he had never been there so he knew nothing about it, apart
from knowing it would deprive him of a present for his tenth
birthday. Not that he had had a present last year, because then
they were saving up to try to pay rent on a proper house, now that
his new sister was no longer a baby and his ma said she was too
old to sleep in the same room as her and his pa. His sister was only
three, a real pest, always following him about asking silly questions,
and why, when you were only three, you couldn't sleep in the same
room as your own mother and father was beyond him.
But at least they now had a terrace to live in, even if it was tiny
and in a noisy part of town, close to the sound of the convicts
working in the kilns of Brickfield Hill, and the clatter of the carts

arriving so early at the markets and
had cost him last year's
present. It had three rooms and a small upstairs attic where he
slept, as well as a cellar below street level, which his ma had
scrubbed and painted and where his pa was going to start his
own business called Jeremy Conway's Printery which
was why
they had to buy the new machine.
He kicked the pebble away, and looked down at the bay. Far
along the quay, towards Jack the Miller's point, were the tall
timber masts of moored ships unloading cargo. Ox carts and
bullock drays were in line waiting for their goods. Out in mid-harbour,
other vessels swung lazily at anchor. Matthew's mood
began to improve as he let himself be seduced by the magic of the
waterfront the
sense of excitement as he watched the big
barques hoist sail, or the busy cutters ferrying goods and
passengers in the direction of the Parramatta River or across
towards the bushland of Billy Blue's Point. Drawn by the sight,
he began to wander down to the foreshore.
Whenever he could, after school, he would gravitate towards
this view of the busy port, where he could dream and let his
imagination soar, imagine himself aboard a schooner bound for
the Indies, or making sail down the coast towards Hobart and
Van Diemen's Land. In his mind he conceived adventures,
exciting stories, far removed from the daily tribulations of pests
like three-year-old sisters, or birthdays without presents, or print
machines stories
in which he captained ships or climbed to the
bosun's peak and saw magical lands, places not yet discovered by
anyone else, which he named in his mind as Matthew's Main or
Cape Conway.
In the midst of this, about to engage in a new daydream, he
saw a boat being rowed across the bay, from the direction of

Balmain. It weaved about, the oars splashed and flailed the air
while missing the water completely catching
a crab as they
called it the
rower almost falling out of the dinghy as this
happened. Matthew laughed aloud. It was easy to tell the man
was completely sozzled. Drunk as a skunk, he said to himself. He
watched him swing the oars wildly and miss again, this time
toppling backwards in the boat. Matt could hear the man's
shouted cursing from where he stood on the junction of Market and Sussex Streets, several hundred yards away.
Now the man took a bottle from inside his shirt, uncorked it
and drank. Matthew assumed it must be rum, but he had never
seen anyone drink so much rum, for the bottle was tilted towards
the sky, and the man kept swallowing until there was nothing
left. It was possible to tell he had emptied it from the way he
shook the bottle trying to extract a few more drops, and then
impatiently tossed it into the water, where it floated off and
began to sink.
As if he'd gained strength, the boatman resumed rowing, his
oars under control now, sweeping through the water, the dinghy
moving more swiftly and certainly less erratically, until he
misjudged the distance and it crunched against the piers of a
public jetty at the end of the street. The man grunted as he
climbed onto the wooden planking. Matthew was close enough
to see him clearly now, and hear his angry swearing as he fumbled
with a knot and tied the craft to a mooring post. He was thickset,
dirty and unshaven. He left the dinghy floating on its rope, and
swayed off without a look around him, heading along the muddy
bank in the direction of Soldiers Wharf and the military windmill.
Beyond that, up the slope of Charlotte Place were the streets
known as The Rocks. Matthew guessed he would be off to one of

the public houses there on the hill Gallows
Hill it was called,
because it looked down on the old George Street gaol and the
gallows, where big crowds of people gathered on hanging days to
watch what happened.
By the time he realised the line had not been properly tied, and
the dinghy was drifting off, the boatman was too far away to hear
his shouts. And probably in too much of a hurry for a drink to
care. He wondered if it would be best to chase after him, but the
tide was flowing, and soon the dinghy would be lost. Instead, he
impulsively ran down to the jetty, took off his shoes and dived in.

Daniel Johnson hid, terrified, burrowed beneath the great pile of
dirty washing she would later take from their shack down to the
Tank Stream, to scrub and dry it for a few pence a load. He
wanted to sob as he heard the bastard hitting her. Her screams
had now become low, wounded moans of pain, and he had to
shut his eyes to stop his tears, as he heard the steady thud of fists,
and the bastard's voice.
'C'mon, girl, yer got money. Where is it?'
He knew his mother was too hurt and frightened to make any
intelligible reply. Daniel wanted to be brave, to stop hiding and
run for help, but was aware he would be seen and caught before
he could reach the door. He wished he was big enough to make
him stop, but he had tried it once before, tried to pull him away
when he was beating her, and had received a blow that had sent
him across the tiny room, knocking him senseless against the
wall, and for a week afterwards he had been sick and dizzy, the
side of his face raw and his jaw so tender it felt as if something
was broken.

His mother, Betsy, had said she wanted to take him to see if
the hospital would treat him, only there was no money to pay for
a doctor, not even a convict one. But Daniel knew the truth; she
was afraid that they might ask questions about how he'd been
hurt, and who'd done it, and the next thing they'd summon the
Watch, and the bastard (he refused to even think of him as his
father) would be manacled and up before the Beak. He knew,
although she didn't say it, they were dependent upon his rowboat
and the money he brought in, little enough as it was, for taking
merchants and their families across to Pyrmont or Balmain.
'Where's the money? I know yer got a shillin' for the washin'
yer done yesterday, and I bloody know yer hid it somewhere.
C'mon, you slag, I need a drink.'
He thought he heard her whisper a refusal. There was a slap
as loud as a pistol shot, followed by a thud and then silence.
Nothing after that, except for the sound of his laboured
breathing, growing closer, scarily closer as he searched the
shack, flinging their meagre scraps of furniture about, turning
and ripping the straw mattress on the floor, then a loud laugh
of satisfaction as Daniel heard the clink of gathered coins.
'Been hoardin' it, yer greedy moll. Stupid fuckin' tart, stop a
man havin' a drink, would yer? Well, I'll be back, then we'll see to
you, Betsy. I'll teach yer what happens when anyone tries to rook
me.'
Daniel heard him leave. Heard him outside, shouting abuse
at a neighbour as he went. He crept from beneath the pile of
washing, to kneel beside his mother. She was face down, and
motionless as he tried to rouse her.
'Betsy?'
When things were worst, he sometimes called her that. She

liked it; she said it made her feel more like his older sister, because
after all at the age of twenty-four, she was only fourteen years
older than him.
'Betsy? Mama?'
She was unconscious. He carefully turned her over; his relief
that she was breathing replaced by pity and a deep shock, as he
saw the blood around her eyes where the bastard's knuckles had
cut her, the purpling bruises on her cheeks, and livid welts on her
breasts where he had ripped away her dress. He wanted to cradle
her in his arms, but dared not in case he caused her further pain.
He thought her nose was broken.
'Mama, can you hear me?'
Her eyes stayed closed, but he felt she nodded.
'I'll try to get a doctor. Or the midwife, she might know what
to do. I'll get someone.' He found the blanket and placed it over
her. She seemed to flinch, as if even this caused her pain.
'Don't try to move. I'll get help.'
But first, Daniel thought, I'll find out where he went and tell the
police. Make them put him in gaol. This is the last time he's ever going to
do this.

Matthew was a good swimmer, but the current was stronger than he realised. By the time he caught up with the drifting dinghy,
they were almost on the muddy tidal flats at the end of the bay,
and he was out of breath. He wondered if the drunken boatman
ad returned yet to find his craft missing, and what kind of a fuss
he might be raising?

He decided it would be too difficult to push the dinghy and
swim back against the tide; much better to tow the boat by its

rope, while he picked his way along the rocky shoreline. But it
was not easy, trying to drag it, particularly barefoot, with the
stones encrusted and sharp with oyster shells. He was wet
through from the swim, and by now regretting his impulse. After
all, it was nothing to do with him. The man would probably still
be drunk, and might even accuse him of trying to steal the
dinghy.
Ahead of him, he could see one of the many small jetties that
studded this quiet, deserted stretch of waterfront. It was outside
an inn a
'pothouse' he had heard his father call it and
Pa had
said they were bad places, where the crews of freighters and
whaling ships came to spend their wages, and usually got cheated.
It looked small and shabby, and seemed closed. The jetty in front
of it was hardly a real jetty at all, just a few planks strung together.
He decided to tie the rowing boat and leave it there. After all, he
had done his best. The owner would find it, when he was sober
enough to look, and Matthew still had to go and collect his shoes
on the public landing stage further up the bay near Mr Macarthur's
private wharf.

Daniel saw the shambling, drunken figure of his father come out
of the Whaler's Arms below him, carrying a bottle. It was already
uncorked, and he took a deep swig, stubbing the cork back in the
neck before walking away. Daniel stood there on the hill above
and watched him helplessly, not knowing what to do.
He had endured a terrible time, first finding a squad of
soldiers on patrol and asking them to help him, but they had
laughed and told him to be on his way. It was none of their
bleeding concern what a man did to his woman in their ownhome, and if he wasn't soon off the streets and back home
himself, he'd end up being nicked by the Watch and taken off to
the Orphans' House. Not a good place, the Orphans' House, they
assured him, and amid some hilarity while they nudged each
other, proceeded to inform him what the male warders there did
to the young boys in their beds at night.
Daniel ran from their uncouth and threatening humour. He
tried to entreat people in the streets, who either looked askance at
being confronted, or hurried past with a hand raised, as if to ward
off participation in anything outside their own personal lives.
Finally, becoming frightened that nearly an hour had passed, and
the bastard might return home, he summoned up his courage and
went to the George Street gaol, but the turnkey on duty there said
to be off with him he
wanted no snotty-nosed kids in here
wasting his time told
him to hop it before he fitted him up with
a ball and chain. When Daniel tried doggedly to explain what had
brought him there, the man lost his temper and aimed a kick at
him. It seemed that no one cared, or wanted to listen. He felt
confused by their lack of concern that his mother was lying beaten
and hurt; then, realising no one did care or would make even the
slightest attempt to help him, he became enraged.
It was when he left the prison after
he climbed Middlesex
Lane to The Rocks, and got lost there in the maze of streets and
narrow lanes trying to enquire the whereabouts of the midwife's
house that
he found himself above Windmill Street, and looked
town to see his father leaving the inn. He had stood and watched
him drink from the bottle, then cradle it carefully in one arm,
and weave off towards Cockle Bay.
Without quite knowing why, he began to follow him.

Matthew found his shoes on the wooden jetty. The sun was
beginning to dry his clothes, and he decided it might be best to
go home. If the boatman came back, there'd be no thanks for
retrieving the dinghy. Not when he explained it was much further
down the bay, and would have to be rowed back. Somehow he felt
the man would become angry about that. He turned to leave, but
he was too late. He saw the same man weaving towards him,
clutching a bottle beneath his arm. Up close he looked much
larger and more threatening; he seemed dirtier, his face stubbled
with beard, his hands smeared with something that must be rum
or wine, but looked like blood.
Matthew began to realise he must have been staring, because
the man stopped and stared back. Glared was more like it, with
wild and angry eyes that seemed strangely unfocussed.
'What'samatterwithyou-boy?'
It came out like a mumble, and Matthew hesitated, not sure
of exactly what had been said, and in that moment the man
pushed past, no longer even bothered with him, his brow furrowed
as he gazed at the jetty, as if trying to remember something. Then
he looked off into the distance, and must have seen the dinghy
tied and floating there, shook his head as though puzzled and
kept walking. Swaying, more like. No, not exactly swaying. He was
actually walking straighter now, but his feet seemed to be
""searching for the ground with each step. Pitching, Matthew thought, that's it. Pitching like a sailor trying to find a moving deck.
He grinned to himself, repeating the phrase and memorising
it to tell his father. His pa was always pleased when Matt made up
things like that. He would sometimes say that words were like
weapons, only you had to use them carefully; used the right way
and with good sense they were as important as powder and shot,

and that was why he must go to school, even though some boys
his age went into factories and earned as much as two shillings a
week to help their families buy food. It was why, he remembered
ruefully, his pa was going to buy the print machine and try to
earn more, so Matthew could be schooled properly. Until he was
at least fifteen. The school he attended in Sussex Street would let
some students stay until fifteen, but only if they could pass a test
to show they were what the teachers, Mr Brent and Miss Shadwell,
called 'worthy'. It was a free school, owned and run by an English
gospel society, and had lots of prayers and religious study, along
with learning to read and write and do sums. Pa had said he had
to put up with the Bible stuff; it was the only way he could learn
the grammar and how to speak properly, and told him to read
every book he could get his hands on, because reading was the
best way of learning and
that was when he had made the remark
about words being like weapons.
His clothes were almost dry now, and he felt in a far better
mood. He thought he'd go home to see if the print machine had
arrived. At least it would be interesting to have a look at it, he
thought, and find out why it was going to be so important. He'd
cut across behind the isolated pothouse, and go by way of the old
burial ground. Everyone said it would not be a burial ground
much longer, because one day soon they were going to build a
town hall there, but Matthew's pa said not to hold their breath,
because it was a fine big piece of land, and someone rich would
get their hands on it and build themselves a castle instead.
As he turned to leave, he saw the boy. A boy about his own age
who looked strange, even from this distance. He looked engrossed,
intent, and did not even notice Matthew. He was too busy
following the drunken man.

They stopped further along the muddy path. First the man,
then the boy a short distance behind him. The man did not see
him; he raised the bottle to his lips again, and took a long drink,
almost as long as Matt had seen him take when he was rowing.
That was the moment when the boy suddenly moved; he ran
behind him and pushed, and the man toppled forward into the
harbour.

Daniel had not known what he intended. He felt a deep sense of
injustice and outrage that drove him to this strange pursuit: the
horror of hearing the blows, his mother's cries and her battered
face, then the refusal of anyone to help him. He had tried, done
his best, but the soldiers were crude and disgusting, and the gaoler
angry and indifferent. People in the streets had looked at him
with closed faces. Nobody cared. In this place there were plenty of
laws to protect the rich, but none for ex-convict women like his
mother, who took bundles of washing down to the Tank Stream,
and rubbed her hands raw making other people's clothes clean.
All to put a bit of food on the table, because the bastard spent
most of the scraps he earned on grog, in the cheap pothouses, or
else drinking himself stupid, like now, with the bottle raised and
the fiery stuff he craved coursing down his gullet.
That was when he did it.
He just ran, and pushed with all the force he could, and was
astonished and
even shocked at
how easy it was. His father
never uttered a sound; he just fell forward, the bottle tumbling
from his hands, smashing on the stones and rubble where the
harbour was being reclaimed, his limp body sinking into the deep
water beyond it. Daniel expected him to surface, spluttering, to

flail and shout for help, but nothing happened. He stood there,
frozen, and thought about what to do. He wondered if he had
been seen, and whether they would accuse him of murder, and
hang him. They hanged people all the time here, but whether
they hanged anyone his age he wasn't sure. They might send him
to the boys' prison island in Van Diemen's Land which
everyone
said was a terrible place, and you might as well be dead as go
there.
He contemplated whether he ought to run and call for help.
He even thought of trying to clamber down to see if he could find
him in the deep, and somehow drag him out. But that was
impossible, because he couldn't swim. And why would he drag
him out, or try to get help, so the bastard could come home and
bash and hurt his mother some more, and make their life a
misery? The thoughts tumbled through his mind, and he realised
it must be a minute it
might be longer but
at least a minute
now and no sign of him. Was that long enough?
He glanced around, but could see no one. Nobody outside
the waterfront inn. No faces at the window. No fishermen in the
bay, or sailors looking for totties up in Market Street. Just a
young boy in the distance, about his own age. Standing there
completely alone, but not looking this way.
It must be more than a minute now. Nearly two. Would two minutes
under the water drown someone?

Matthew still felt the shock of what he had witnessed. He wanted
to be brave, and run down there to shout a protest, or try to help,
but then he decided the drunk would get out of the bay in a
moment, and whatever the cause of it, there'd be a row, and since

he didn't like the look of the man, and had no idea why the boy
had pushed him in, it might be best to be like his father always
said, and not get involved. His pa was really firm about this
business of not getting involved which
seemed to mean not
speaking out too loud about things, not making a fuss, just
keeping any special thoughts and ideas to yourself. He said there
was no other way for a ticket-of-leave man or woman to act,
because anybody from a magistrate to the meanest copper could
turn you in. And the ticket only lasted one year; you had to apply
to the Convict Department for a new one every January, and if
they took against you, or heard you were trouble, you'd be back
in the quarries, or put to work on Sydney Cove, where they were
reclaiming the mudflats and making it into a big semicircular
quay. That's what could happen, his pa said, if you got involved.
Or else you'd be assigned to some wealthy merchant's family as a
gardener or a servant.
Matthew decided he wouldn't get involved, and started to
walk home. He took an alleyway, a short cut towards the burial
ground, thinking about his pa and wondering what sort of work
he'd been made to do, when he was a convict? And his ma she'd been a convict, too. Had she been a servant in someone's big
house? They would never talk about it; he didn't even know how
they first met, or when but
it must have been more than ten
years ago, because he was going to be ten next week on the
birthday without a present, and his ma once said they'd been
churched before he was born. He remembered that. She'd said it
was a Protestant church, and they were really Catholics, but it
was difficult then, forbidden to be Catholic. It could get you in
trouble, lose you your ticket if you had one or
worse.
She'd talked a lot that day, and Matthew still remembered it.

She told him a priest had come out from England, with Holy
Orders from Rome, but he was banished to Norfolk Island for
trying to set up a church, and the Reverend Samuel Marsden had
made a lot of trouble. That was when his Pa had come in, and
heard what she was saying, and asked her not to fill the boy's
head with talk like that; Marsden, he'd said, was now an old man
and no longer had any power. He was just fat and rich, and it was
all in the past.
What was? Matthew had asked. But his pa only replied that
he'd cost him, bloody Marsden had, and said to his ma it was best
left and forgotten, it was wrong to turn their son into an agitator,
'cos it got you nowhere, they both knew that. It got you chained
up and treated like a dog. So, better to forget the past, forget it
all, especially stinking Marsden.
Matthew was more than willing to forget, only he wished his
father had not come in just then, so he could have learned what
it was he would be better off forgetting. He was so busy trying to
imagine what this might be, that he heard nothing until it was
too late; only at the last moment the sound of running footsteps
behind, then someone grabbed him, and he felt pain as the
ground seemed to come up and hit him.
'Saw me, didn't yer?' a voice accused, as hands held his face
down in the dirt. It was the boy from the harbour. The one who
had pushed the man in. He allowed Matthew to struggle and turn
so that he was facing upwards instead of wedged into the ground
with a mouth full of dust, but sat firmly on his chest to prevent
him from rising. Not that Matthew could even try, until he
recovered from the unexpected attack. His head was pounding.
He felt winded and shaken.
'Saw me, didn't yer?' the boy repeated.

'Saw what?'
'Saw me shove
him in.'
'I never,' Matthew said vainly.
'Yes, yer did,' the boy said. 'That's why yer skipped, to tell
someone. To report I shoved the bastid in.'
'I was going home,' Matthew insisted. 'I saw it, and decided
not to get involved'
There was a brief silence, as the boy studied him intently, and
thought about this.
'What's that mean involved?'
'Means I felt it was none of my bloody business.' Matt felt
that swearing might help prove it was the truth. 'I was off
home.'
'To tell someone?'
'No. Honest.'
'Where's your home?'
'George Street. Near the brick kilns and the market.'
'Who lives there?'
'My ma and pa. And a baby sister.'
'What is he? Your pa? Soldier? Copper?'
'Don't be stupid. He's got a ticket.'
'He was a convict?'
"Course ... so was my ma.'
'Mine, too,' the boy said, unexpectedly.
'Why don't you get off me. My head hurts.'
'If I get off, you'll run away.'
'No, I won't,' Matthew said.
'Yer better not try. But if you do, I can run faster. I'll soon
catch yer.'
The boy hesitated for a moment, as if wondering what to do,


then he rose. As soon as the weight of his body lifted, Matthew
sat up, grabbed and twisted the other's leg. His attacker went
down with a yell of surprised betrayal. Before he could move, Matthew had him pinioned, avoiding the flailing legs until he
could use his knee to apply pressure and render him helpless.
'Yer rotten turd,' the boy shouted, trying to wrench free of
Matthew's hand, which held his face against the ground. 'Dirty
cheat.'
'What's your name?'
'Go to buggery.'
Matthew pushed down harder on the squirming figure, who
almost choked on a mouthful of dust.
'Come on, what is it?'
'Daniel.'
'Daniel who?'
'Daniel go-to-buggery. You lying, sneaky shit-sack.'
'Who was that you pushed in the harbour?'
'A bastard.'
'A drunk bastard,' Matthew said. 'I could tell that.'
'Yeah, he was.' Then, after a slight pause: The father, that's
who, since you're so nosy.'
'Why did you push him in?'
'He hit my ma.'
'Hit her?' Matthew was shocked by the flat statement, and for
a moment wondered if it was a lie. It was difficult to believe
something so utterly foreign to his own life. 'When?'
What do you mean, when? Whenever he felt like it,' the boy
said, trying to squirm free. 'All the bloody time. Nearly every day.'
'Why?'

'Lots of reasons.'

'What reasons?'
'Sometimes he was drunk, and wanted money or
else he just wanted to hit her. Black her eyes, break her nose. 'Cos he felt
like it. And hit me, if he could catch me.'
. 'He looked like a bastard,' Matthew said, trying to picture the
horror of his pa hitting his ma, and finding it impossible.
'Are you gunna let me go, or turn me in?' Daniel asked. Matthew released his grip, but stayed on his guard in case of
retaliation. He really expected Daniel to scramble to his feet and
run, but he just sat there. They looked at each other, as if trying
to assess whether they would fight some more or be friends.
'Why would I turn you in?'
"Cos I pushed him in the harbour.'
'I reckon he deserved it. But what happens ...?'
'What do you mean, what happens?'
'When he finds you?'
'Finds me?' Daniel gazed at him curiously. 'How can he find
me if he's still down there?'
'You mean ...?' Matthew felt the first stirrings of alarm. 'Still
in the water?'
'Yair. Where else?'
'But didn't he get out?'
'D'yer mean yer never saw it all?'
'I saw you push him in. That's what I saw. Nothing else.'
'Shit,' Daniel said. 'I needn't have chased you.' He stared
carefully at Matthew. 'You ain't lying?'
'I ain't,' Matthew said, adopting the other boy's mode of
speech in his anxiety. 'I told you, I went as quick as I could so
as
not to get involved. But he can't have really drowned.'

'Well, he never come up for air.'







'You'll get into terrible trouble.'
'Nobody saw me.'
'You sure?'
'Just you. You're the only one who knows, and I didn't even
bloody need to tell yer.'
'I wish you hadn't,' Matthew said.
The, too,' Daniel retorted. 'Now where are yer going?' he
asked, as Matthew stood up.
'Back down to Cockle Bay. Are you coming?'
'Why?'
'To see.'
'You mean, see if he's alive? Down there waiting for me, with
his buckle an' leather belt? No thanks.'
'If we don't try to save him, it's murder.'
'How could I save him? I can't swim.'
'Stay here, then,' Matthew said, and walked off abruptly
without a look back, until he heard the sound of footsteps
running to join him.
'It'd be stupid. All it'd do is make people ask questions.'
'We have to go and find out,' Matthew persisted.
'But why?'
'Well... he's still your father.'
'He's a pig. I hate him. I've always been scared of him. I'd hear
him at nights, belting Mama. Swearing at her, and bashing her.' Matthew thought about this, remembering his glimpse of the
drunken boatman, his unshaven flushed face and the angry, glaring
eyes. No matter how horrible an act, it was somehow possible to
imagine a man like that hitting his wife. And his son, too.
'Come on,' he said. 'C'mon, Daniel'
The boy seem to sigh, then he shrugged and nodded.


The name's Daniel Johnson.'
'Mine's Matthew. Matthew Conway.'
They stood for a moment assessing each other, then without
another word, just a brief nod of understanding, began to walk
down to where they had last seen him. The bay seemed quiet.
There was nobody on any of the jetties, no alarm raised, no sign
of any people.
'He ain't here.' Daniel was clearly scared, and anxious to be
gone. 'No point in waiting about. I gotta find a midwife, or
someone to help Mama.'
'Is she having a baby?'
'No, she's hurt. And we ain't got money for a doctor.'
'What you need is a nurse.'
'Ain't got money for nurses, either. Ain't got a single penny.
He took the lot, and poured it down his guts.'
'A midwife's no good,' Matthew explained. 'They're only for
helping you have babies.'
'Well, who'll I get?'
'We could take her to the old Rum Hospital.'
'Us? You mean you and me?'
'Yeah.'
'Why? Why would you want ter help me?'
'I don't know,' Matthew said, 'but I will if you like.' He
considered and added: 'Or else we could ask my ma. She'd help.'
'Why would she bother?' Daniel seemed aggressive at these
unexpected offers: 'I told yer, I got no money to pay anyone.'
'Don't be so stupid -' Matthew began to say, then stopped as
they saw a man at the door of the inn, a short distance off,
watching them.
'It's Geraghty,' Daniel said, alarmed.

'Who?'
'He's the landlord of that pothouse. Let's run for it.'
Daniel would have done so if Matt had not grabbed his arm.
'Does he know you?'
'Yair. And me old man.'
'Then don't run.'
The man was large, thick in the waist, with muscular arms
and a beefy face. He strolled in their direction. Matthew could
feel the other boy's growing fear, and it infected him with sudden
anxiety.
What if Daniel had been seen?
'Youse lads want anythin'? Up to no good, are yer?' When
neither answered, the landlord studied them more intently. He
stared at Daniel in particular. 'Where's that pisspot Dadda of
yours?' he asked.
Daniel just shook his head. He seemed incapable of a reply. Matthew said: 'We don't know. We were worried.'
Geraghty's eyes turned towards him.
'Ohh? Why's that?'
'I found his dinghy earlier, drifting nobody
in it. I swam
after it, and towed it back from the mud flats. Tied it to the
landing down near your inn.' He pointed towards the jetty and
the dinghy, astonished by his glib fluency, and how easy lies were
if half the story was true. 'Then I saw Daniel, and told him so we thought we better take a look.'
'That a fact?'
The landlord seemed about to ask another question, then he
turned and frowned. Matthew saw a slender girl of about their
own age come from the inn. It was as well she did at that moment,
otherwise Geraghty must have noticed the look of bewilderment

on Daniel's face. Instead, he waited and rebuked the girl as she
approached.
'Back inside, Marie.'
'Hello, Danny,' the girl said. 'How are you?'
'I said to go indoors. Now be off.'
She was pretty, Matthew thought, and had a soft voice. For a
moment it seemed as if she might argue, then she shrugged, gave
a quick smile at Daniel, a curious look at Matthew, and walked
back to the inn. Geraghty watched her, then turned back to them.
It was time enough for Daniel to realise what had been said, and
to recover from his confusion.
'Yair, he's been on the grog for days. Bashed me Mama up
again, and that's the last we saw of him.'
Geraghty nodded, as if such behaviour tallied with the man
he knew, then turned again to Matthew.
'And the dinghy was jest driftin'?'
'That's right.'
'What's yer name, son?'
'Matthew Conway.'
'And how long ago was this, Matthew?'
'About an hour. My clothes are still a bit wet. Should've taken
them off, but I just dived in.' He fingered his damp shirt, but
there was no need for the gesture. Geraghty was convinced.
'I seen him often enuff, so shickered he'd fall out of his boat.
Not much loss to the place if he's belly-up somewhere, and gets
hauled out in a fishin' net. Might ruin the fish, but nobody else'd
care a lot, an' that's the truth.'
'He's still me father,' Daniel said, looking at the ground as if
despite everything, he was unable to agree with such harsh
sentiments.

Matthew was well pleased with his performance.
'What do you think we better do?' he asked the publican.
'There's a Jack drinkin' in the bar,' Geraghty said. 'I'll tell him
and he can tell his corporal when he's back on duty. No great
rush, by the looks of it.'
'And Matthew and me, we'll go and get the dinghy,' Daniel
said. 'Before some rotten thief half-inches it.'
'Good idea. If your da is six feet under, it belongs to you.'
They both stood and watched the Irishman go back towards
the public house.

Matthew's mother told them to wait outside, and she went into
the shanty, a wattle-and-daub lean-to with a mud roof plastered
with sheets of stringybark, like so many of the hovels that still
existed in this part of town. They sat on the ground and waited.
'I'll call you when I've seen to her,' Mrs Conway said, and to
Daniel's surprise he had found himself agreeing. She was a few
years older than his own mother, and not as thin. Sort of plump,
really, and well comfortable.
It was an odd word for a person, but that's just what she
was comfortable.
And she had straight away insisted on coming
with them, and brought some liniment and a bandage, and even
some smelling salts to help revive his ma in case she was still
unconscious. She smiled and said she'd had the salts ever since
the days when she worked in Mr Marsden's house as a skivvy, and Matthew had looked surprised as if that was something he hadn't
known. She'd just slipped them into her little swag when she was
leaving his employ, she said, and Daniel had laughed and thought
how much he liked her. '

They had gone back to Matthew's house after they retrieved
the dinghy, and he'd rowed it to its usual mooring near Soldiers
Wharf. It was peculiar, because once Geraghty had returned to
his inn, they hardly knew what to say to each other. Matthew told
him he rowed real well, and Daniel said he wished he could swim,
and Matt promised one day, if he liked, he'd teach him. He told
him about rescuing the boat and seeing his father so drunk, and
after that they had run out of things to say. Even now, sitting
together outside this shack which was his home, they both
seemed tongue-tied, as if too much had happened and the day so
strange they could hardly find words to talk about it. His father
had drowned, and only one other person was aware of how it had
happened, and Daniel knew instinctively he could trust him. He
had never had a friend before, and it was a funny feeling; a real
good feeling, but it took time to get used to.
In his mind he made his plans for the future. From now on,
there'd be a new life for him and his mama; he'd use the dinghy
to get work rowing people, make enough money for them both so
she needn't do the washing any longer. He had always hated the
big piles of washing she had to do for other people, and felt
terrible at seeing her on her knees beside the Tank Stream,
scrubbing clothes in full sight of everyone. It was going to change
from now on. Since he could row as well as anyone twice his age,
it wasn't so fanciful. He might even get bigger tips than his
father, 'cos he'd be polite, and sober what's more, and even give
his passengers a smile.
He tried not to think of the moment when he had rushed at
the detested, drunken figure, and pushed, and the sight of him
going under. Had he wanted to kill him? Or just hurt him,
frighten him?If he could swim, would he have tried to save him?
Daniel considered that, and trying to be honest with himself,
simply wasn't sure. If he was to admit that to Matthew he might
lose a friend. How could someone like him understand? He had
a nice home, a happy and comfortable Mama who didn't get
bashed every day or have her eyes blackened or her nose broken.
It was best to stay silent.
But instead, he said, 'Even if I could swim, I wouldn't have
tried to save him. I s'pose you think that's a 'orrible thing ter
say?'
'No. If it'd been me, I'd have felt exactly the same.'
Daniel was glad he'd told him. He felt that having a friend
was about the most important thing that had happened to him.
He stood up as they saw Mrs Conway coming out of the broken
back door.
'She's at rest, lovey. No more pain or hurt.'
'Can I go and talk to her?'
That was when he realised it was her gentle way of saying his
mother was dead.

Chapter 2

'What are we going to do about him?' Jeremy Conway asked his
wife, although he already knew the answer.
'He can share with Matthew.'
It was the reply he had expected. What other choice was
there? Take him in, turn him loose on the streets, which was
impossible, or else give him to the Orphans' House because that would almost certainly be his fate now his father's body had
been found, recovered when it snagged some fishing nets, after
he fell drunk from his rowing boat in Cockle Bay. A ten year old
without parents it
would have to be the Orphans' House. Bess
wouldn't have that. Nor would he, although it was going to be
hard, another mouth to feed, and him so recently taking the risk
and leaving his job at the government printer's office, even
managing to borrow the money to buy his own press.
The boy had to stay with them, at least for now, come what
may. He considered the idea of discarding his plans, asking for
his job back, then rejected it as spineless. If he was to ever amount
to anything, other than a poorly paid typesetter, it had to be now,
this year. He was thirty-four years old, and already had delayed far
longer than he intended. First, it was the anxiety of giving up a

steady job while still on probation with a ticket-of-leave. Then it
was the arrival of the new baby; after that the move to this house
with an extra attic room and the cellar for a workshop. Now, at
long last having made the commitment, he could not retreat on
the purchase of the press and the chance of a better future. It was
a gamble that had to be taken, even with the additional expense
of the boy. He owed it to Bess, and he wanted Matthew to grow
up with the advantage of an education, or else there was no
future for him here. Nor for his three-year-old daughter, Lucinda.
He dreamed of seeing both his children succeed, and by doing so
avoid the mistakes of his own life.
Jeremy had been seventeen, at home in Nenagh, Tipperary,
when he was caught out after curfew by the British military. He
had been visiting a cousin, and met a girl there who made it
apparent she liked him. Flattered by this, he had overstayed the
time and was caught by a patrol as he tried to run home. Arrested
and facing a summary trial the following morning, he found
himself arraigned with a motley group of other petty offenders,
all so eager to beg for leniency and acquiescing to the magistrates
to such a degree that he felt sickened by the subservience and
refused to plead guilty. Even while he knew it was the rational
and sensible thing to do, and he would only be given a light
penalty, he found himself declaring the curfew was an immoral,
illegal law, imposed by foreigners, and that the Irish should be
left in peace to determine their own destiny. There was an
ominous silence in the courtroom after he had made this
statement.
He was flogged and placed in the stocks while Their Worships
deliberated on what was to be done with him. The young radical
in the stocks soon attracted a mocking crowd who teased and

incited him. Jeremy told them they were ignorant fools, and
ought to be ashamed of themselves; that they were nothing more
than prisoners held hostage in their land by a bunch of puffed-up
and pompous redcoats. It was overheard by a sergeant-at-arms,
who proceeded to provoke him so thoroughly, that seventeen-year-old
Jeremy called him a string of names, and was inflamed
into shouting that the British bastards had lost the American
colonies, and would soon lose Ireland, because they'd be driven
back across the sea where they belonged.
It was all carefully written down.
The following day he was taken back before the magistrates,
accused of inciting treason against the Crown and preaching
insurrection. He was sentenced to death. Given a week to
contemplate his meeting with eternity, he spent most of that
time in a state of bewildered dismay and total terror, his mind
unable to comprehend anything except fear of the knotted noose
they would place around his neck to strangle him. On the
morning of his scheduled execution, he was pinioned and taken
from his cell towards the hanging square. In a barred room, the
last place before he climbed the steps to the gallows, and where
he could glimpse the eager waiting crowd, whose appetite having
already been whetted by several men dancing to their death were
yelling for more where
you abandoned all hope and wondered
if there was any life afterwards, or if the unctuous priests had all
lied and there was nothing but a black pit, which is what he
secretly believed the
same sergeant-at-arms informed him the
sentence had been commuted, and he would be transported to
the colony of New South Wales for life instead. It was apparent
from the way the soldier relished his task that the matter had
been resolved for some days, but they had led him to the door of

hell and allowed him to experience such terror that he had soiled
his clothes.
A week later, in chains, he was taken aboard a prison hulk in
Dublin Bay, and when the holds were filled to capacity, they
crossed the Irish Sea to join a fleet at Liverpool. There were six
convict transports, a haphazard collection of vessels that took
weeks to fill to the satisfaction of the Admiralty and the owners,
and this convoy finally set sail in July 1817. By then Jeremy had
been in confinement for eleven months, and it was six more
before they were taken ashore in Sydney Cove. The voyage was
considered highly successful for the owners and their agents,
Messrs Randolph, Warren and Storrett of London, for many
prisoners in the putrid, overcrowded holds died at sea, and as the
payments were made on the numbers embarked, the dead who
had no further need of rations must therefore be an entry on the
profit side of the ledger.
It was January high
summer when
they landed, and the
heat was moist and oppressive. The alien land, the harsh
unfamiliar cries of native birds, together with the knowledge he
would be unlikely to see another Irish Christmas, disheartened
him almost to the thought of suicide. He was detailed to labour
in a road gang, the work exhausting as they cut and laid stone to
build a road resistant to the torrential rains, a method which had
proved successful on the route through the Blue Mountains.
Their overseer was an ex-convict himself, but already a martinet,
keeping them chained while they toiled, even though everyone
knew there was no reason to escape and no possible place to hide,
for the country was its own vast prison.
In his third year, by now assigned as a carter, he met Bess.
The first time he saw her, she was hanging out washing for

the wife of the Reverend Marsden; he was yoked to a wooden cart
with seven other convicts, hauling produce from the farms of the
Parramatta basin along the Turnpike Road. Bullocks, it had been decided, were too expensive to keep on importing. There was not
only the cost of the animal, there was the cost of freighting it, and
worse, the cost of feeding it. The solution was at once obvious;
convicts were readily available, they were far cheaper than oxen,
and more easily harnessed. The timber carts were huge and heavy.
Only the strongest were employed as carters, and after his work
in the gangs, Jeremy was toughened like ironbark. Bess told him
later, that was how she first noticed him. Hanging out the stays
and undergarments of Mrs Samuel, seeing this convict cart come
past the orchard garden, one man leathered by the sun and so
much stronger than the rest.
For many months their team followed the same route past
Marsden's house, hauling bricks and timber to build houses in
Parramatta, then returning to Sydney with crops and grain from
the fruitful river flats. It was a back-breaking journey, one the
carters hated because of the distance and lack of a halfway
barracks, so that they had to leave before first light and often did
not arrive at their destination until midnight, by the aid of
lanterns. On the Turnpike Road there was never time to stop for
food, and when it rained, the surface turned to mud and the load
became twice as heavy.
Among his team, only Jeremy did not curse their luck, and
pray they would soon be allocated an easier roster. Because each
day as they passed the house he would glimpse her, and he soon
began to realise she was watching for him just as eagerly. In time
she learned how to anticipate their approach, contriving to be
busily employed as close as possible to the road, so they could

exchange glances, and later on, smiles. He could see she was not
waif-thin, like so many of the other convict girls, but amply
proportioned, and had an unmistakable warmth reflected in her
smile. He wondered how they could meet, and thought about it
constantly. While he trudged and strained, yoked like an animal
and doing the work of a bullock or a mule, he fell in love.
Then came the devastating day when they were assigned to
new work. The supervisor told them how lucky they were; no
longer the tedium and torment of the Turnpike Road, they were
about to return to civilisation. With the great building boom in
Sydney Town, and all the fine hospitals and churches being
erected by Governor Macquarie, their task now was to haul the
sandstone and slim bricks favoured by the architect Francis
Greenway, as he began work on St James' Church. In between,
they carried bricks and timber to the many construction sites,
where substantial houses were replacing wattle-daubed and
thatched huts, as shacks were torn down to make way for
dwellings more suitable for the influx of free settlers.
The town was growing up, they all declared, and with it now
easier for convicts to get a grog, and maybe your leg over a troll,
or better still, with a chance to roger one of the available wenches
that romped in the streets, it was almost like freedom. The team
of carters were well pleased with their new situation. Only Jeremy
Conway's mind was in far off Parramatta, and his heart as heavy
as lead.
He wondered if he would ever see her again.
He was frustrated by the lack of any means to communicate
with her. Though he was educated, and could write, how could a
letter reach her? He did not know her name, nor could he conceive
a way to send a message that would not antagonise her employer,

and cause her trouble. That was one of his anxieties. The other
was more personal, and brought him greater stress. She was a
plump and pretty young girl, tidy and likeable in a place where
decent girls were rare. She'd be a mark for any trooper, or worse
still, an officer who might fancy her. It was an easy escape from
servitude for a female convict, and most found such an offer of
liberation difficult to refuse. Why wouldn't she? What possible
bond did he have with her, apart from a brief exchange of smiles?
There had been no single word spoken between them, and it
seemed unlikely there ever would be.
It was the architect who had helped. Francis. Redheaded,
with a temper that could blaze like a bonfire. Short-arsed
Greenway, they called him. Short as an English winter's day. But
he could build. How he could build! The completed St James'
Church proved that. It stood broad and square, fine gabled roofs,
the walls pierced with stained-glass windows, spires and towers in
perfect Georgian proportion.
'Well?'
The peppery architect paused alongside Jeremy, harnessed as
the leader of the team and gazing at the church.
'Any opinions on it from the head mule? That is what they
call you, isn't it?'
'Some do,' Jeremy said, and felt the other's uneasiness. 'I imagine it's not a term you relish,' Francis Greenway said,
in a gentler tone.
'No, sir.'
'And I daresay, as an Irishman, you think my Protestant
church an unlovely blemish, and a waste of public funds?'
'As an atheist, I don't care for churches. As a building, I think
it's the finest I've seen.'

Greenway stared at him for what seemed a considerable time.
'You appear to mean that.'
'I do, sir.'
'You should see my church and rectory at Windsor.'
'I'd rather you built something at Parramatta,' Jeremy said,
suddenly emboldened. 'Then I could see your building and
my
girl.'
'You have a girl?'
'If I'm ever allowed to meet her.'
'What's her name?'
'I don't know. I used to see her in passing and
she seemed
to like the look of the head mule.'
Greenway smiled.
'You've been carting bricks here since I began to build. So
how long is it since you've seen this colleen?'
'More than a year now.'
'She's at the female factory or
employed?'
'Employed by the Reverend Marsden.'
'Good God,' Francis Greenway said, and laughed. 'Of all the
carping clerics, the pernicious parsons did
it have to be
Marsden?'
He shrugged with what appeared to be sympathy, and walked
away, leaving Jeremy standing yoked with the others in the hot
sun. During the next hour Greenway was busy, consulting with
the builder, and twice losing his temper over details. In
midafternoon, the Governor himself came to inspect the church,
and afterwards he and the architect stood in the shade in
conference. It was not the first time Jeremy had seen Lachlan
Macquarie, for the Governor came often to survey progress of the
buildings. It was rumoured he had ordered Greenway to build a

magnificent castle with martello towers as a new vice-regal
residence, and gossip had it that the Colonial Office in London
was becoming concerned at so much money being spent on a
mere penal colony. Not to mention an ex-convict being given
such prestige and authority as the principal architect.
When the Governor had gone, a surprising thing happened.
Greenway went and spoke with the cart driver, who, in a state of
some astonishment, came and unharnessed Jeremy.
'He wants to talk to yer.' the driver said, indicating Greenway,
'so jest watch it. Don't give no bluddy trouble, or yer'll get a dose
of ginger up yer fundamental.'
The architect beckoned him into the shade.
'I asked Governor Macquarie if a transfer could be arranged,
for you to be assigned to work for Marsden. He said it's not
possible for him to even request it. They've had another of their
famous rows.' He chuckled. 'His Excellency has told the
hypocritical old bastard he never wishes to see him again.'
Jeremy, who for an absurd moment had imagined a flicker of
hope, felt dismay as it vanished with the architect's laughter.
'On the other hand,' Greenway said, 'while the Reverend Sam
dislikes ex-convicts such as me, he does at least admire my
churches. So perhaps I could try. Do you really want to be
assigned to him?'
'Is it possible, sir?'
'You don't have to call me sir.'
'Could you do this?'
'I think so. But I warn you, he's a malicious and unpleasant
creature. No longer as powerful, but not to be underestimated.
He hates the Irish and has done ever since the Vinegar Hill
uprising. I may be doing you no favour.'

'You might be changing my life,' Jeremy told him.
A week later, chained and accompanied by a guard, he had
been delivered to the Marsden home, and taken by the overseer to
one of the convict huts on the estate. His duties had been
explained; he would be a labourer on the farm, and since it
seemed he could read and write, he would make himself available
for Sunday duty copying the text of the sermon for Mr Marsden's
parishioners. Sunday work, he was told, was acceptable if it was
in the service of the Lord. He would therefore work in the library
after church, and transcribe copies of the sermon which would be
handed to him by Mrs Marsden, and which he would carefully
and faithfully record. Some of the congregation, he was told, had
collected the reverend's discourses dating back over twenty years,
and it was believed these would one day be of value.
He hardly heard a word of what was being said. For he had
caught sight of a wide-eyed Bess looking down on them from an
upstairs window, and the expression on her face as she recognised
him had made his heart leap.

'Behold the great day of wrath is come, and who among you shall be able
to stand?'
The bellowing voice filled every corner of the local church.
The Reverend Samuel Marsden, puce-faced in the pulpit, extolling
his favourite biblical text as he gazed down on the congregation;
among them a growing number of free settlers and the eminent
Macarthur family, while at the back of the church were his
segregated convict servants, and in their private pew, his safely
secluded wife and children.
Jeremy had paid little attention to the sermon. It was over six

months since he had come to the Marsden estate outside
Parramatta, and still difficult to believe he was standing close
beside Bess, their hands almost touching as they barely heard the
diatribe and listened instead to the steady sound of each other's
breathing. It was wonderful to know that she loved him, had
believed in his return, and waited for the day. It was both thrilling
and disturbing to realise that later in the afternoon, when he had
finished his transcripts, they had been granted permission to
speak to Marsden in the library, so they could request his blessing
to wed, and his indulgence that he would petition on their behalf
for a ticket-of-leave to be granted to each of them for good
conduct.
It had not quite turned out that way.
'You love her, or so you say,' Marsden had studied them while
they both stood waiting after Jeremy's stumbling petition. 'But
are we talking here of love, or lust? In my considerable experience,
Conway, that is the more likely answer for one of your nature. And
we know your nature, don't we? A man who has insulted the
King, barely escaped the noose, and pulled carts in harness like a
beast of the field. Basic animal lust an
unworthy and odious
state of mind. I will not have my house sullied by it.' He glanced
at Bess, and his gaze lingered on her full figure, so carefully tidy
in her maid's uniform. 'As the good book says, For he who shall lust after the young virgin, shall be accountable on the judgement day.'
Jeremy knew he must control himself. He wanted to reach
out and shake this bombastic parson, wipe the smug look from
his fat face, and realised that if he were to even be suspected of
thinking it, let alone attempt anything of the kind, he was
doomed. So he kept a carefully straight face, and said nothing.
'Well, Conway, does your silence mean an admission? My wife

is fond of this child, and she won't stand for any kind of ill-treatment
by an Irish troublemaker.'
She is not a child, Jeremy wanted to say. And I am Irish, but no
longer a troublemaker. We love each other, and how dare you try to make a mock of that. But he knew what the outcome would be, and again
kept silent.
'You're a surly devil. Well, we shall wait and see. If, after an
acceptable time, I'm convinced the union is suitable, and my wife
agrees, then I shall marry you. In the Protestant Church, mind.'
'But, sir '
'You intend to say something, Conway?'
'No, Your Worship.'
'Oh, yes you did. You meant to say you are both Catholics,
Bess from London, you from Ireland. Well, it won't do.'
'Sir?'
'And no dumb insolence. Remember, you require my permission
to wed and my approval for any ticket-of-leave. Which I may
grant as I have already indicated in
a reasonable time.'
He wanted to ask when; what exactly was meant by a
reasonable time? How much time? One month? Three? Even six,
at worst. But he had said none of those things: instead he had
meekly replied, 'Yes, sir.'
'If there is to be a wedding it will be a Protestant marriage.
I will not tolerate any Papist union in my diocese. It is still
considered by most an unlawful religion here, and if our prayers
are answered it will remain that way. Mrs Marsden would be
profoundly upset by an illegal ceremony, and I will not have her so. Do you understand me, Conway?'
Jeremy remembered acquiescing. Oh yes, he understood.

It was a flimsy sheet of paper. He'd kept it, the very first one, now
smudged and faded by time. But the printing was still readable.

COLONIAL TICKET OF LEAVE. CONVICT DEPARTMENT, NEW SOUTH
wales. Below it were the lion and unicorn of the British coat of
arms. The date in ink: 5th January, 1823. The familiar words:

It is His Excellency The Governor's pleasure to dispense with the
attendance at Government work of Jeremy Conway who was tried at the County Assizes at Nenagh, Tipperary, Ireland
on 20th February, 1816 for treason against the Crown
and sentenced to death. Transported aboard the Pengally Star, arrived 1818. This is to permit him to employ himself in a
lawful occupation in the district of Sydney for his own advantage
during good behaviour or until revoked by order or His
Excellency's further pleasure shall be made known. H.G. Watt.

INSPECTOR GENERAL OF POLICE.

Marsden's reasonable time had extended a further two years. It
had been sheer torture; each day, each week, hoping for some
word, for a look that promised it had even been remembered. But
the months had passed without it being mentioned again. He
began to consider irrational thoughts, like planning an escape for
them both but
where could they go? The inland was opened up
westward beyond the mountains, the Hawkesbury and Nepean
were cultivated, the land north of the Hunter River, and south of
Botany Bay were settled there
was nowhere not being developed,
nowhere they could hide. If they fled to Sydney, hoping to be lost
in its anonymity and
that was doubtful for the streets were
patrolled and security prevailed, but suppose they managed to
escape arrest how
could they survive without permits to work?



They had begun to give up any hopes of a future; despairing,
wanting each other so badly, knowing if they were caught making
love, or even in an innocent snatched embrace, the odious parson
would use his influence and his authority to separate them. To
Jeremy, so often lying sleepless at night, it seemed unbearable
that their lives could be ordained in such a cruel manner by the
perverse prejudices of one person. He had to force himself to stay
calm, not to rage against the injustice of it.
Even, finally, their wedding day, which should have been a
joy, was a parody soured by Samuel Marsden, who used the
occasion to preach against the evils of the church of Rome how foolish the authorities had been to allow its legality. On and on
he went, ranting against the religion. For Jeremy, who had no
religious beliefs, it was a double insult; it was offensive to his
bride who believed in the church, and became a day of intolerance,
instead of one that might have been blessed by goodwill and
celebration.
When they at last made their farewells and had to thank the
minister and his wife before collecting their tickets-of-leave, he
knew his face betrayed him. He detested Marsden, loathed him
with an outrage that had festered over the past two years, and the
minister was well aware of it. From that time he realised his
barely disguised contempt had made him a marked man. His
history was known, Irish rebels were anathema here, and his frail
freedom could so easily be revoked. Samuel Marsden may have
had his rows with governors, but governors came and went, and
the tight group of rich land owners and merchants who called
themselves the Exclusives remained the real rulers here, and had
powerful friends. A word in the right ear would do it.
Perhaps already had done it.

Because now, over ten years later, despite their living a quiet
and peaceful life without trouble, despite his regular position
and a series of promotions with the government printing office,
they were still dependent for their liberty on the annual renewal
of their hated tickets. Each year, reporting to the adjutant of the
inspector general, they were still supplicants for their fragile
licence to be free. In all that time there had been no offer of a
pardon. He doubted there ever would be. He wanted it so much, for Bess's sake. For Matthew's, and his daughter's. Otherwise,
almost anyone could ruin their lives, tear them apart.
It was why he was always careful, and still often afraid.

Chapter 3

Daniel thought Mrs Conway was wonderful. She was plump and
looked just like a mother should, and in no time at all had
borrowed a straw mattress from a neighbour, and there it was
laid out on the floor in Matthew's room. He was going to stay
here; she said so. She wouldn't let him go to the Orphans' House.
Mr Conway nodded his head, as if he agreed, but she was the one
who had decided. Mr Conway was a quiet man; he seemed
friendly but he didn't say much. He hoped the boys would be able
to share such a small room, because it was all the spare space they
had.
Matthew said they'd manage. Easy, he told his pa.
Mrs Conway said it'd be good for Matt, having a friend, and
did Jeremy know Daniel owned a dinghy which had been his
father's, and was going to earn his keep rowing people to
Pyrmont, or up the river.
'Can you row?' Matthew's pa asked him. He was a strong, tall
man, and he squatted down low so they were able to look at each
other, eye to eye.
'Better than my pa could -'cept
when he was sober, and that
was hardly ever.'

'And what about school?'
'I ain't ever been.'
'We'll have to talk about that. Eh, Bess?'
He patted Daniel's shoulder, then went downstairs to wait
the arrival of his new print machine.
Bess. So that was her name.
She said: 'Well, that all seems to be settled. We'll get a box for
you to put your clothes in, Daniel.'
'Yes, Missus,' he said.
'And later on we'll see what's to be done about school.'
'I can't read or write, Missus.'
'That's the idea of school to
teach you how.'
'Yes, Missus,' he said.
She looked at him thoughtfully. 'You can't call me that all the
time.'
'I was tryin' to be polite.'
'I know you were.' She smiled. Her smile made her look really
young, but he supposed she was actually quite old. Probably as
much as thirty.
'Why not let him call you Ma, like I do?' Matt suggested.
'Why not?'
'Can I? Can I really?'
'Of course you can, lovey.'
She saw his small face come alive with a rare happiness. It
was hardly surprising, after what she had witnessed in the hut
behind Pitt Row. His life, if that was a sample of it, must have
been unbearable. In Bess's twenty-eight years she had endured a
great deal. She had stolen a scarf and been sentenced to ten
years. In Newgate, the bedraggled collection of women told her
she was lucky. Pretty young girl like her, they said, still unsaddled,

just right for some randy officer, some big cocksman in a
uniform who'd see to it she was protected. At least until her
looks went. On the female convict ship she had rebuffed
invitations from soldiers to share their bed, and fought off a
bosun who tried to rape her. She clawed and kicked him, while
the old hags took bets on the outcome. Finally the uproar
brought a soldier with the ship's master, and an end to it, but the
bosun was intent on retaliation, and saw to it she was declared
uncontrollable, a wild wanton, and she had endured being
chained in the solitary dark, thrown scraps of food and not
allowed to wash for weeks at a time. She had spent many years
trying to forget such things.
But she had been lucky, though not in the way the women in
Newgate predicted. She had found Jeremy. That poor woman in
the debris of her shack, battered to death, had suffered far more
torment than she could imagine. And this boy, so anxious to be
liked, so vulnerable and insecure, what kind of horrors had he
seen in his short life? How much terror had he endured? The
same age as her own son, who was so fortunate that his father
was a gentle giant of a man.
'Of course you can,' she repeated.
Instinctively and naturally, she put out her arms. Daniel ran
to be enfolded, feeling warm and safe against her ample bosom.
He sheltered there, and thought his heart would break with joy.

They became like brothers. Inseparable, except for the times Matthew was at school, when Daniel waited by the dinghy, and,
aided by a sign Jeremy had printed for him, plied for hire. The
sign announced that the dinghy and its owner were available to

row Gentry and their Ladies to their harbour destinations for
very modest charges, and gave a list of the charges. They were
indeed so modest that they brought him custom, and because the
rower was neat and cheerful and, despite his being just a child,
could row fast and skilfully, invariably he was tipped an extra few
pennies. People who liked him began to tell their friends. It
became something of a divertissement at local dinner parties or
minor social occasions, for people to claim they had been rowed
by young Daniel. It was a modest and ephemeral vogue, but
through it at
the age often he
began to earn a living.
He brought it all home, every coin, and Bess at first saved it
for him in a stone jar she kept near the fuel stove. They had their
one disagreement when she said she would take only a shilling a
week to help towards his food, and Daniel said she should take
more, take most of what he earned or else it wasn't fair, and
eventually, almost grudgingly because he was so insistent, she
had accepted two shillings. He began to bring home many times
that, and the stone jar, once used to collect water from the public
spring, but more of an ornament now they had a tap outside
their back door, was soon full. Bess said they'd have to start
hiding it below the floorboards, but Jeremy said it was a concern,
this much coin, because there were thieves about.
He decided there was only one thing to do. He took Daniel
and carried the heavy jar down to Macquarie Place near the quay,
to the fine building that housed the Bank of New South Wales,
and requested that a savings account be opened in the name of
Daniel Johnson. They were told to wait, and eventually a ledger
clerk came out.
'What do you want?'
His tone was barely civil, and Jeremy had to restrain himself

from a terse retort. It was clear he had been immediately
categorised by the clerk and
found wanting.
'We'd like to deposit some money in your bank,' he said, 'as
I've been told it's reliable and safe, and the employees are polite.'
'How much money?'
'You'll have to ask this young man, since it's his money.'
'Fourteen pounds, ten shillings and sixpence,' Daniel said
proudly, and waited for a smile of approval.
'I don't believe we can allow this,' the clerk said.
'I beg your pardon?' Jeremy looked at him, puzzled.
'The boy is under age.'
'What's his age got to do with it?'
'We have regulations. We would also need to know how a
child came by this amount.'
'He's earned the money honestly by
hard work.'
'That's as may be,' the clerk said, investing the reply with an
element of doubt. He seemed anxious to put an end to the
discussion, aware some of their clients were glancing curiously
towards the large man and the small boy, who looked out of place
with their cheap homemade clothes. 'I think, perhaps some other
bank,' he suggested.
'Why?' Jeremy's voice, deceptively quiet until now, had a new
sharp edge to it that made the clerk hesitate.
'Because of his age, he would need a trustee.'
'I'll be trustee. As long as it's listed as his money.'
'But there's a problem. Are you a free settler?'
'I have a ticket-of-leave,' Jeremy said, after a lengthy pause.
'Well,' the clerk replied, 'that's the problem.'
'I'm afraid I don't see one. The architect, Mr Greenway, and
Doctor Redfern both banked here.'

'Dr Redfern was a professional man. He had a free pardon.'
He avoided any mention of Greenway, who had lost the patronage
of a succession of governors, and fallen on hard times.
'Anyone with a ticket is deemed to be temporarily free, unless
the law decides otherwise,' Jeremy said quietly. 'We're allowed to
go about our lives, even if there are restrictions. I have my own
business. The boy's money is honestly earned, and I fail to see
why we are being treated in this manner?'

'As I said, sir,' the clerk was trying to conceal his impatience
without success, 'there are many other banks.'
'Indeed there are. Some quite unreliable, and not places to be
trusted. This happens to be the best known, the first
established and
the one recommended to me by my friend
Mary Reibey.'
The clerk gazed at him. His eyes became cautious.
'Mrs Reibey? You're acquainted with her?'
'I said so, didn't I? She was a convict once, long ago, just as I
was. Or weren't you aware of that? Perhaps you also weren't aware
this building used to be her home, before she sold it to the
bank.'
'Er ... yes. That's true. Quite true.' The clerk kept staring at
Jeremy. 'I didn't realise you knew Mrs Reibey, sir.'
'She offered me a letter of introduction, but I said there was
no need. I'll have to tell her that was a foolish mistake.'
'Mrs Reibey is one of our main shareholders.'
'Of course she is. Which is precisely why she told me to bring
young Daniel here. She saw a fine future customer in a lad who
earns this amount in a mere month. However, if I can just have
your name to advise her, we'll leave and find somewhere more
agreeable.'

Daniel looked from one to the other, confused and puzzled
by this. He wondered why they wanted the rude man's name, and
why the man was looking so nervous.
'My name?'
'Yes, please.'
'My name is Tompkins.' Then, in a rush he continued: 'A
month, you say? This boy made fourteen pounds in a single
month?'
'Fourteen pounds, ten and sixpence,' Daniel reminded him,
and saw Jeremy Conway nod approval. 'It was really less than a
month, only the jar was full and we were worried about thieves.
I'll make more next time.' He thought Jeremy was about to
smile.
Mr Tompkins rubbed his hands together, as if in some
strange way he was trying to wash them, then he indicated a table
and drew back two chairs.
'Sir, perhaps you and -er
Daniel
would sit down?'
'Not if we're to be insulted.'
'My mistake, sir. Please?'
Mr Tompkins waited. Jeremy Conway considered it for what,
to Daniel, seemed quite a long time. Then they sat down. Mr
Tompkins scurried around the table and sat opposite them.
'Now then, er, sir the
account to be in Daniel's name, with
yourself as the trustee? Will that be suitable, sir?'
Again, Jeremy hesitated. Daniel thought it made Mr Tompkins
quite nervous. 'That seems satisfactory. Except for one thing --'
'What's that, sir?'
'He will expect your best rate of interest on his money.'
Mr Tompkins was only too eager to agree. Documents were
produced and signed, and they left the bank half an hour later,

and began the walk back the length of George Street. Jeremy
strode out briskly, and Daniel had to almost run to keep up with
him. He was avid to know more about the famous Mary Reibey.
Was she really so rich? Was it true that she'd been a convict,
sentenced to seven years for taking a ride on someone else's horse
when she was only thirteen?
All true, he was told.
And was she a nursemaid in the home of Major Grose of the
Rum Corps, and married to Thomas Reibey when she was
fifteen?
True again, Jeremy nodded. He told Daniel that Reibey had
owned three ships, and when he died, Mrs Reibey took over the
business, and now she owned a great many more ships, as well as
farms along the Hawkesbury, and property all over Sydney.
'She must be the richest person in Australia,' Daniel said.
'Near enough. Certainly able to hold her own with anyone in
business.'
'Do you really know her so well?'
'No,' he said. 'Never met her in my life. But himself at the
bank he
doesn't know that, does he?'
It was the day Daniel decided he liked Jeremy Conway almost as much as Bess.

He rowed. He became a recognisable figure, he and his dinghy on
the harbour, rowing from early light until almost dark. They
tried to tell him it wasn't necessary, he had no need to work so
hard, but he wanted to show Bess and Jeremy his love and
gratitude, and this was the only way he knew how. And because
the water was the main means of transport, he became in his own



small way a part of the waterfront lore. Most of the fishermen
and sailors from the Parramatta River to the semaphore station
on South Head began to know Daniel.
It was hard to believe a year had passed so swiftly. It would
have gone by unnoticed, but for Bess remembering it; she said
they should take a bunch of flowers to the cemetery, even though
his mother didn't have her own headstone and was buried in a
public grave. He should take flowers there each year on the same
day, so he would never forget her. Daniel said that sometime,
when he had enough money, he would like to have a small
memorial stone made for her, and Jeremy Conway smiled and
showed him his bank book. He told him it would cost no more
than five pounds, and he had almost two hundred.
They all went to the graveyard, where he selected a square of
granite, and the stone mason asked what he wanted put on it.
Daniel did not know. He looked to Matthew, as he always did,
when in doubt.
'It should just say her name and
your name.' Matt said.
'Betsy Johnson ...'
'Loving mother of Daniel,' Matthew added, waiting while the
mason wrote it down. 'And then the date. November 10th, 1833.'
'Anything else?' the mason asked.
Daniel again looked at Matthew for advice, and saw the
imperceptible shake of his head. He shook his own.
'Nothing else. That's all, thank you.'
He paid the man, who promised to have the stone ready
within a week. Nobody made any mention of Daniel's father. Bess
and Jeremy had no wish to recall that he had apparently fallen
drunk from his boat and drowned the same day. Daniel and Matthew remembered the truth all too vividly, but it was locked

away forever, and never spoken of even when they were alone. In
their own close way they felt it probably never would be.
They walked from the cemetery, after they had left the flowers
at the public grave and Bess had said a prayer. The boys ran
ahead, for they were going home to change into old clothes, then
go to Cockle Bay where they would haul up Daniel's dinghy, and
spend the rest of the day scraping off the barnacles. The next time Matthew had a day off school, they planned to buy paint and
brushes, and repaint it.
Bess and Jeremy watched them run past the Brickfield kilns,
heading along George Street in the direction of the market. They
were almost the same height, Daniel with his dark eyes and
brown hair, Matthew with Bess's own blonde colouring.
'Close as two peas in a pod.' She smiled, echoing a thought he
was about to utter.
'Reading my mind again,' he said, and put his arm around
her generous waist. He loved the soft feel of her, the cleanliness,
the sheer happiness. Four-year-old Lucy was being minded by a
neighbour, and if they went directly home they just might be able
to
'I'm
still reading it,' Bess said, and he laughed and left his arm
there, and she rested her head against him as they walked up the
hill. Her life was complete; it was hard to visualise, thinking of the
years at Parramatta, how content they were. And Daniel was a
perfect addition; from the very first day just like one of her own.
'A year,' she said. 'Imagine it.'
'He'll stay with us now.'
She nodded. There was no way she could willingly have
parted with him, and she suspected Jeremy felt the same.

School was one matter that had somehow been deferred, and had
not worked out as they planned. While Matthew enjoyed attending
the free Sussex Street School, apart from the emphasis placed on
religious instruction, Daniel from the start had shown no
aptitude or enthusiasm for learning. He could barely read or
write, and as a consequence had been placed with much younger
children, who, since they could outshine him in all their lessons,
were quick to make fun of him. He was too big to taunt, but they
could snigger and shake their heads when he stood to read aloud,
and was unable to do so. He was acutely aware of their scorn. The
few times he attended the school he had come back forlorn and
discouraged. He hated school, he announced, hated the teachers
and the kids and
if he was going to make his living rowing for
the gentry, who needed to read books or write words? Jeremy told
him he should learn to count, so he could add up his money, but
the matter was left unresolved. They felt he had been so ill-treated
in the past that they did not want to make him unhappy by
forcing the issue.
But Bess was concerned. One day she broached the subject.
'Some day you might need to read and write, Daniel.'
'Why, Ma?'
'Well, you might become a sailor. You might want to see what
the world is like outside the heads of Port Jackson, and sign on a
ship. There'd be charts to read, and maps to study, and if you
didn't know how to do it, then you might look back and feel
sorry that you never learned how. It would always be a
shortcoming.'
'What's that mean shortcoming?'
'You wouldn't be as smart as the other sailors,' Bess said, in
an attempt to find a phrase that would influence him. 'You could

never be a first or second mate, not without knowing how to
read.'
'Charts and maps?'
Daniel thought about it, and Bess explained how the country
had been discovered by navigators, who would never have found
their way out of the English Channel if they could not read maps
and understand the instruments that set their course.
'But I hate the gospel school,' he said. 'I don't like Miss
Shadwell or Mr Brent, and they don't like me. They think I'm
stupid.'
'But I don't think you're stupid,' she said, 'and I'd be the one
teaching you. At least, that's what I had in mind. You and
me we'd
have our own schoolroom here in the parlour.'
'Just us?' Daniel asked, and when she nodded although with some reservations he
had smiled and eagerly agreed.
I must be mad, she thought, and even confided her fears to
Jeremy, but Daniel's response had astonished them. He was able
to write simple words within a few weeks, and to read haltingly.
They allocated an hour each day, so it would not tire or confuse
him; it was Daniel who asked if it could be extended. They settled
on a period in the morning, after Matthew went to Sussex Street,
and another in the evening after supper. In six months the
progress had been remarkable. Within the year he was able to
read and write with some fluency. He would never equal Matthew,
but nor did he aspire to, and they all knew it. Bess was secretly
thrilled at what she had been able to accomplish, for it was now
difficult to remember that when he came to them he had been
illiterate.
'It's your teaching,' Jeremy said shrewdly. 'He wants to please
you, so you've managed to do what no tutor could have done.'

'Get away with you,' she said, but felt warm and glad he had
noticed.
'I mean it. You're patient with him. No one here laughs if he
makes a mistake. He's encouraged, and that's the best way. It
means a lot more than any fancy tuition by a fine learned
professor.'
'So I'm not a learned professor?'
'Some professors are pompous and self-important. Good
teachers are patient and care about the progress of their students.
The students respond to them because of it. You're a natural
teacher.'
Sometimes for a quiet man, he said the nicest things.

The boys dragged the dinghy up, and overturned it, then set to
work with sharpened stones to scrape off the goose barnacles
that were starting to grow and cling to the hull of the wooden
craft. Marie had promised to join them if she could, but when
there was no sign of her, they knew her father was at home and
had made her stay in. He didn't like her spending time with
them and
had said so often enough but
when the sailors were
in and the pothouse was busy, Marie often sneaked away and they
went fishing or walking along the mudflats. There were some
other days, when Matthew was at school and Daniel was between
rowing jobs or waiting for a customer, when Marie could escape
from the pothouse unnoticed, and she and Daniel would sit on
the jetty and watch the big barques sailing in from all over the world. He liked these times, because he could talk to her about
how he would sail on ships like this one day; brigantines and
schooners, and even a clipper ship. He also told Matt, of course,

but Marie was the only girl who would listen to his dreams and
not scoff or laugh, and that made her special. At times he thought
that perhaps he was in love with Marie Geraghty, but he was only
eleven and a bit scared of her bog-Irish father, so he talked
instead of ships and not of love.
Often he wished he could tell her about probably being in love
with her, because then she might kiss him, and he frequently
found himself wondering what it would feel like to kiss Marie.
Only it was awkward, because there was Matthew, who might also
want to kiss her, and Matt and he had a pact never to fight, since
that first day they had fought near the burial ground. It was not a
spoken pact, or avow or anything silly like that; they just knew it,
like they knew lots of things without needing to say them. So if it
meant upsetting Matt, and spoiling the friendship they both had
with Marie, then it was definitely best to shut up about love, and
stick to dreams of sailing by the wind and the stars.
'Ouch,' Matthew said, bringing him back to reality.
'What's the matter?'
'Just a scratch.' He sucked a trace of blood from his hand.
'Gotta be careful. Bloody barnacles, they're sharp as a razor.
Easy to cut your hands on, a bit like oysters.'
'Yeah, but you can eat oysters.'
'We'll collect some later. Take 'em home to Ma.'
'Remember the first time?'
They both laughed. Months ago they had gathered a bag of
oysters from the rocks, eaten some, and brought the rest home.
Daniel could still remember how Bess had gazed at them with
disgust.
'Nasty, slimy things,' she said, 'I couldn't eat those. I swear
they're alive.'

'I hope they are,' Daniel had said, 'or else you'd get sick.'
'Alive? And you eat them? Ugh. How could you?'
'They're beautiful to taste, Ma. Look.'
He had taken it and put it on his tongue, while Bess and Lucy
and then Jeremy, coming up from the cellar, all watched in
horror.
'Lovely,' he said, swallowing it, then they watched again as Matthew also took one and ate it.
'Please, Ma,' Daniel begged, 'just try it. If you hate it, I'll wash
all the dishes after supper.'
'You will?' She eyed him hopefully.
'Promise.'
'Well, it can't kill me, I suppose, since I've seen you two eat the
mucky horrible stuff.'
They all gazed at her as Daniel opened another shell, and she
took it and raised it to her lips. She hesitated, as if the idea was
too awful to contemplate, then tipped it into her mouth.
'Ma,' Lucy almost shrieked. 'You ate the disgusting thing.'
'Mmm.' Bess frowned, while they waited for her comment.
'I'm not really sure. Peculiar taste. Perhaps I better have another
one, just to help make up me mind.'
They often gathered oysters after that, and when they
brought them home for supper, Bess went to the corner bakery
and bought a day-old loaf of bread for a penny. Jeremy had been
converted; only Lucy resolutely refused to eat them.
Oysters were easy to collect, and plentiful. Barnacles were
different; they were a marine pest, and scraping them from the
null was hard but necessary work, because once they became
embedded they could ruin a boat, weaken the timber so it would
leak, and this boat was Daniel's livelihood.

Both boys accepted it as fact, and Matthew knew his parents
did, too. Daniel would be a waterman. They lived on the finest
harbour in the world, the sailors who had seen other harbours
told them that, and it was well known the first governor, Captain
Phillip, had declared it to be so. Besides, horse and bullock
transport on land was slow and cumbersome, except for the rich
who had their own carriages. On a fine day there was nothing
better than being rowed to your destination, and Daniel now had
a number of regulars as well as a great many casual customers and the modest bank account had grown accordingly. They knew that
Daniel with his dinghy sometimes made more in a month than
many other people did in a year. His income even outstripped Mr
Tompkins' salary at the bank. He earned more than Matthew's
pa, who had now established his printery with the flat-bed press,
and talked of one day soon starting his own newsletter. Not
exactly a real newspaper like the Sydney Gazette or the Herald, but
it would be printed once a week, and they would have regular
subscribers.
Matthew now swept up in the shop after school, and at times
he helped to set the type. If his father finally got his permission to start the weekly news sheet, which had to be applied for if you
were holding a ticket-of-leave, then Matthew would help with
deliveries. In time he would be able to gather news and write
stories. While he looked forward to that, it would have one
disadvantage. It would limit days like this, when he could spend
the afternoon down here on the water with Daniel.
He stopped work, realising Daniel was gazing towards the
vessels at anchor in the bay.
'Are you resting, or daydreaming?'
'Thinking.'



'What about?'
'Your pa said I have nearly two hundred pounds.'
'That's right.'
'If I have I
could buy a boat.'
'You've got a boat.'
'I mean a real one. With sails.' Matthew didn't say he was too young or
that he had never
been aboard a sailing ship, so he couldn't possibly know how to
manage the sails. It was not the kind of thing they said to each
other. He remained silent and waited.
'I'm too young,' Daniel said eventually. 'It's best if I wait till
I'm older. And I'm going to take a day a week off rowing, and ask
if I can help on one of the cutters. That way I'll learn to sail.'
He would, too. Matthew was certain of it.

Chapter 4

Marie Geraghty saw the small ketch with its fore and aft sails
fluttering as it tacked across the wind, and she waved. From the
boat they could see her, the breeze hugging her skirt against her
slim figure. They waved back, and Daniel slackened the sheets
and brought the coaster to leeward, guiding her in beside his
dinghy tied up at the public jetty on Soldiers Point.
She watched him as he secured all the mooring lines to the
bollards on the wharf, and furled the sails. He did it with such
ease, and she noticed the ketch, built in one of the local shipyards,
now had thick fenders on the port and starboard sides, to prevent
damage when it docked alongside a wharf. It was typical of
Daniel's way with boats; she often amused herself by the thought
he took better care of his boats than he ever would of a wife.
Marie had spent the past six years growing up with Daniel
and Matthew as her only real friends, at least whenever she could
escape her father's surveillance, which of late had been less strict,
for big changes were coming to their lives. Her da told her they
were moving from the old inn on Cockle Bay, and he'd bought a
fine hotel, the Maritime, down by the circular quay, where the
government had already reclaimed some of the land and started

to build new wharves and warehouses. It was not going to be a
lousy pothouse this time, but a grand place with two bars and an
upstairs private parlour and their own family living quarters, as well as plenty of bedrooms for guests. He said it was close to the
Customs House, and perfect for trade with crews coming off the clippers and cargo ships arriving almost every day. It was a
bustling port now, with big square-riggers from overseas, and lots
of river boats or coastal traders, so they were perfectly situated to
make a fortune. She wondered where he had got the money, but
it was not a question she felt able to ask him. No doubt he had
borrowed from one of the many new banks. People were saying
that there were nearly as many banks in the town now as there
were breweries.
A few days ago she had taken a walk across The Rocks and
down Essex Street to see the hotel. She had been impressed. It was
large arid square shaped, built like a big Georgian house, and
facing the new quay, crowded with the rigging of vessels at anchor.
The streets were full of sailors from these ships; some with broad
Yankee accents, others with strange voices in tongues that made no
sense to her. There were blacks and Chinese, Indians with turbans,
Maoris and Lascars, as well as deckhands she'd been told came
from the islands in the Pacific, all of them ashore for a few days
while cargoes were unloaded, all looking for a good time and a way
to spend their money. She felt their eyes glancing and assessing
her, and was unsure whether to be proud or nervous of her growing
breasts and long legs that made her tall for her age, so she looked
more like seventeen than fifteen. A group of men in convict grey
and yellow were hauling goods aboard an East India Company
merchantman. One gave a whistle as she passed, and another
winked at her, and then licked his lips.



Marie had hurried away from the busy waterfront, uncertain
how she felt about this sudden change in her life, but somewhere
within her there was a growing excitement. It would indeed be
different, and she doubted if it would be dull.

'I'll miss you,' she said, then carefully added, 'both of you.'
She felt she should add that, because she was not quite able to
decide which one she would miss the most. Or which one she liked
best. At times it was Daniel, because he had a way with him, but
most of his waking hours were spent with his blessed boats, and
often she found herself thinking more about Matthew; quieter,
like his pa, and clever with his studies, finishing at the top of his
school, and now that Jeremy Conway had at last got permission to
start his news sheet, Matthew was going to work there, and one day
soon he would help collect and write the news. Matthew was
gentler, Daniel more flamboyant, she thought, and though she
liked the sound of the word, she knew it meant he cut a dash and
might be less reliable. Not that they were anything more than
friends, but they were the closest she had the
only ones she
had and
she could talk to them both about almost anything.
Not quite anything. Not about the man who'd winked and
licked his lips in that special way which meant more than if he'd
said it out loud. But she could tell them all about the hotel, and
her thoughts on how much it must have cost, and wonder aloud
whether her Da had borrowed from a bank, or borrowed privately
to raise the money.
'It's simple,' Daniel told her. 'He didn't borrow from anyone.
He's a smuggler, your dad.'
'He is not,' she said indignantly.

'Marie, I've seen him do it.'
'You never have!'
'Truly. When the Packets or the Yankee clippers come in, they
toss a few barrels of spirits over the side, as soon as they're
through the Heads and past the semaphore station. Out near
Watson's Bay, long before they clear customs.'
'You're a liar, Dan Johnson.'
'It's true, Marie,' Matthew said.
She said it couldn't possibly be, but with less conviction this
time, because if Matt said so she was more likely to believe it.
'Doesn't he go out fishing some nights?' Daniel asked.
'Occasionally.'
'With a mate of his, old Jack Pearce, who owns a longboat?'
'Not often,' she insisted.
'I'm not saying he does it often. Only now and then. He's not
a real smuggler, stupid.'
'Don't you call me stupid.'
'He just brings in a barrel here, and one there, and he's been
doing it for years. Helps to buy you nice dresses, and now it's
helped to buy the Maritime Hotel.'
'You're saying he's a criminal.'
Daniel threw up his hands, and looked to heaven for help.
'Did I say anything of the sort? Hasn't grog been a currency
here ever since this place was a row of tents? Didn't Macarthur
and half the rich Exclusives make their fortunes from it? I never
said he's a criminal, so don't tell him I did. But he's as sharp as a
tack, your fine daddy is, and he don't miss too many chances if
they come his way.'
'Sometimes, Daniel,' she said angrily, 'I really hate you.'
'You look real pretty, when you get in a temper. You do.'

'Go to hell,' she retorted.
He made her laugh by pretending to be shocked at her
blasphemy, falling to his knees, clasping his hands in prayer, and
begging her to call for help on the Reverend Dunmore Lang, or His
Worship Reverend Grayson, or Father John Joseph Therry. In the
midst of her laughter, Marie exclaimed that she was surprised he
knew the names of so many clergy, and Daniel said of course
he knew the
place was full of parsons and priests. It was like a
missionaries' paradise the way they swarmed out to convert the
ungodly and stayed to make themselves a fortune. But sadly she
couldn't consult the Reverend Samuel Marsden, he said, because
he'd recently been called to his just reward, and was probably
waiting outside the Pearly Gates trying to persuade God he hadn't
meant to flog all those people it
was for their own good and God mustn't send him down to the other place, because they'd all
be there, waiting for him.
'You're a horrible heathen,' Marie told him.
'I s'pose I am.' Daniel grinned.
'But you still go to church on Sundays?'
'Yes.'
'I can't imagine why if
you're a heathen.'
Daniel knew why. He went because it pleased Bess Conway,
and for no other reason. Pleasing her mattered deeply to him.
The two other people who mattered most in his life were sitting
here alongside him on the jetty. And he hoped Marie's moving
wouldn't change that.
'Anyway, what do you mean miss
us? You'll only be one end
of town, and we'll be the other. Not as if you're going to Port
Phillip or Van Diemen's Land. We'll still see you.'
'But less often,' she said. 'Da wants me to help in the hotel.'

'Not in the bar?' Matthew thought uneasily of the kind of
customers there would be in that part of town.
'No, upstairs. I have to help, to save on wages.'
'I thought you were going to be an actress,' Daniel said.
'And so I am. When the new Royal Victoria Theatre's built in
Pitt Street, there'll be a real acting company. People will get paid
to go on the stage. And next year when I'm sixteen I'm going to
ask to join it.'
Matthew, from what he knew of her father's attitude,
wondered if it would be quite that simple.
'But how do you learn acting?'
'Mrs Winstanley teaches voice training and movement. I'll
save up and take lessons with her.'
They both knew of Ellen Winstanley, a leading lady with Mr
Barnett Levey's theatrical troupe. For years he had been putting
on plays at the colony's first theatre, but it had recently burnt
down and now the company performed wherever they could find
a stage, even in Hyde Park when the weather was suitable. It was a
brave but luckless venture, and most of the actors were amateurs
and unpaid. Mrs Winstanley would be grateful to have pupils. Matthew saw a distant figure outside the inn. It was
unmistakably Geraghty, signalling to Marie to come inside.
'Your father,' he said.
Marie shrugged and stood up. 'I'd better go.'
They both knew the landlord disapproved of her friendship
with them. Daniel, in particular, resented him.
He doesn't own you.'
He thinks he does, at least till I'm old enough to earn my
own living. What else can I do till then?'
They watched her walk away.

'He's a bastard,' Daniel said, seeing the distant figure of her
father.
'Yes, he is.'
'Treats her like a bloody servant. Has done ever since her
mother died. She'll be nothing but a skivvy in his fancy new hotel,
you see if I'm not right.'
'You shouldn't have told her about his smuggling.'
'I know. I didn't mean to. But out it came, and then it was too
late to take it back.'
Matthew smiled and shook his head. 'Just like you,' he said.

The bar was empty. The barrels of spirit and the bottles were all
packed ready for removal. The premises were to be sold, and
Geraghty would be glad to move to somewhere more salubrious.
Glad, what's more, to see less of those two, and he said as much
when Marie came in.
'They're no good. You waste too much time with 'em.'
'They're my friends, Da,' she protested.
'You kin do a lot better than that, girl,' he said. 'I don't like or
want you hangin' about with a pair of convicts' kids.'
'What's wrong with their parents being convicts? Nobody
cares about such things these days. Not any more.'
'Plenty do,' he insisted. 'The gentry and free settlers got no
time for the ex-cons or their brood. And the Exclusives look down
on the likes of Conway or anyone else with a ticket-of-leave.'
'The Exclusives! They're just a bunch of rich stuck-up toffee
noses. They look down on everyone.'
'You take my word for this. If yer seen with them two all the
time, you'll get a bad name. Get y'self talked about.'

'Why? What am I doing wrong? They're just friends.'
'Will you shut up and listen to what you're told. A girl of your
age can't jest be friends with boys. It don't stop at that. I've said
it to yer often enough. It don't ever stop at being' friends.'
She knew what he was intimating, and vehemently shook her
head. 'But that's all we are. And I won't stop seeing them.'
'You will if I say they're unsuitable. Which is what I do say.
I'm not having you tag around after the litter of convict scum.'
'They're currency lads, and proud of it. They both have
parents who were transported, and they don't care who knows it.
What's more, Mrs Conway's a lovely woman everyone
likes her.
Including me,' she said defiantly. 'She's just as good as we are.'
Geraghty slapped her across the face.
It was something he used to do when she was much younger,
but not for some years, and never with as much force. It came as
a jolt that almost knocked her off her feet. She could feel her
cheek flame, and the tears starting to run in her eyes, and she
wanted to lash out and hurt him, but knew it was inviting
trouble; all he would do was hit her again. She ran for the stairs,
and her bedroom. At the top of the narrow flight, she paused and
stared down.
'You can talk,' she said furiously, 'you and your so-called
fishing trips, smuggling stolen spirits off the ships. You'd go to
gaol if you were caught and
who'd be the convict then?'
She saw his shocked face, as he swung around and stared at
her. Stared, then started towards her. He took the steps two at a
time. She ran for the sanctuary of her room, but it was no defence
against his anger. She tried desperately to wedge her bed against
the door. He kicked it open, pushed the bed back so that it
trapped her against the wall, and began to hit her. She screamed,



but knew there was no one close enough to hear or
to prevent
what, with a sick feeling of horror, she knew was coming next.

Seagulls swooped and cried as they foraged and skirmished amid
the floating rubbish thrown from ships at anchor.
'I still wish you hadn't told her,' Matthew said, for the third
time, and Daniel told him for God's sake to shut up.
'I said it, and it can't be unsaid. When I see her, I'll warn her
not to mention it. What else can I do?'
'Don't forget.'
'I promise.'
'When?'
'For Christ's sakes, as soon as I see her. Now I've got
passengers to collect at Campbell's Wharf, to take upriver to
Parramatta for the races tomorrow. We're fully booked, but I can
make room if you feel like coming?'
'I'd like to, but I can't. There's printing to be delivered. And
tonight Pa's making up the dummy front page for the first
edition of the news sheet, and I promised I'd help him.'
'At last, eh? What's it going to be called?'
'God knows.'
'That's a good name. I can see all the clergymen on the
subscription list for that one.'
'Go to bloody Parramatta,' Matthew said, laughing.
Daniel boarded the ketch, while Matthew freed the mooring
ropes, and watched as the sails were expertly hoisted. He was to
pick up a deckhand at the Flour Mill jetty.
'When do I tell Ma you'll be back?'
'Late tomorrow. Bringing some of the race mob, unless


they've all lost their fare home on the horses. There's also a few
passengers to pick up from Homebush Bay. Tell her I might not
be in till late, but I'll be starving hungry as
usual.'
Matthew waved as the sails filled, and the boat slid away. He
turned for home, heading up towards Market Street. Behind him
the bay was empty, and the inn in the distance seemed
shuttered.

She had never known such pain. The bed was moist where she
had bled, but she didn't care. The pain was not only in her body
where he had violated her, it was inside her mind. She felt dirty
and ashamed. Degraded. She could scarcely believe what had
happened; she would never be able to tell anyone of this as long
as she lived. He had been possessed of a madness, and now she
knew why she had always been uneasy and secretly afraid of him.
She tried to curl her naked and bruised body into a tight ball,
vainly seeking oblivion.
A long while later, when she was alone when
she was quite
certain the premises were empty and he was no longer there she pumped water from the tank and boiled enough on the wood
stove to fill the tin bathtub. She washed herself, scrubbing her
body fiercely, sobbing with a disgusted feeling of humiliation
while she did so. Afterwards she put on clean clothing, then
collected what she had been wearing together with the sheet and
blanket from the bed. Outside the inn, she gathered driftwood
washed up on the shore, and set a fire. When it was blazing, she
threw her soiled clothes and the bed coverings onto it and
watched them burn.
She risked the fierce heat as she grasped two pieces of burning

driftwood, and carried them into the inn. On the empty bar were
the barrels of spirits stored and waiting for the carrier; she
opened the tap of one and watched the liquid gush out and
drench the counter and the floor. She started a blaze there, then
ran up the stairs with the remaining piece of flaming timber and
set the straw mattress of her bed alight. The heat was becoming
intense; she heard bottles shatter and knew time was short.
Hurrying downstairs, she saw the wattle walls, wooden floor and
the oak bar had already ignited. As the remaining casks of spirits
caught, one exploded. Buffeted by the blast, she backed out of the
inn to safety and watched the flimsy building become consumed
by flames.


Chapter 5

Matthew was on his way back from making a delivery to the
military barracks. There was to be a Regimental midsummer ball,
and the adjutant had chosen Conway & Son to print pamphlets
announcing the event, as well as the dance programmes for the
participants. It was a large order; Matthew took it in a handcart
they had constructed for heavy deliveries, and on his return
journey stopped to see Samuel Lyons at his massive Auction
House that straddled half a block in George Street. Sam emerged
from his cluttered premises to greet him.
'My boy, come in, come in. Mind out for that sundial. Rare,
that one, very rare, Matty.'
'And bound to be expensive.'
'Of course. A smart boy like you must know if
it's rare it's
expensive. Made by Edmund Culpeper, famed for microscopes,
sundials and ecclesiastical brass.' Sam beamed. 'Well, he might have made it. There ain't any profit in this business, being a
pessimist.'
They threaded their way through rooms of what appeared to
be complete disarray, but Matthew knew the wily Sam would be
able to identify every item. Not only that, but provide a colourful

history about each one, calculated to get people bidding to their
limit.
'See that oak dresser. Three drawer, mitred mouldings, luvly
piece of work, that is. Worth a small fortune, be the pride and joy
of any fine home. Charles the Second. Or even the Third.'
'Sam, there was no Charles the Third.'
They both laughed, and Sam Lyons nodded his
appreciation.
'Good point. Now there's the benefit of education. Like I tell
my sons, read your books, my dears, get the learning. Why else do
I work so hard? For the family, that's why. Strain me bleedin'
strawberry for 'em night an' day.'
'Your what?'
The strawberry strawberry
tart. Heart. Don't teach that in
school. Gotta grow up in the East End of London to know the
rhyming.'
They made their way into his tiny office with difficulty. It was
crammed with books and prints for sale, as well as containing a
desk, completely obscured by paper.
'Where the 'ell are we?' He searched the desk, and flung
documents aside. 'I swear I've got a list of printing work 'ere
somewhere. This place is snowed under by too much linen draper.'
'Linen draper?'
'Paper. Ahh, found it.' He produced a folder and gave it to Matthew. 'Eight auction sale notices. Twenty copies of each,
usual size. Two hundred catalogues, with all items listed. And six
land sales next Sunday. Invitations. Maps of sub-divisions. I need
it all by termorror.' He chuckled. 'See what a reasonable man I
am, Matty? I don't ask for it yesterday.'
It would mean working most of the night, but Matthew was

aware his father would want him to accept the order. Samuel
Lyons was their best customer, with his many furniture auctions
and land sales, and all the printing it entailed. It had been a lucky
day when they acquired him as a client. Matthew knew it was a lot
to do with Sam and his father being ex-convicts, for there was a
tacit, unspoken camaraderie among those who had been
transported here that few outsiders knew about. They all had
their stories, and Sam's was one of the most remarkable. He had
rebelled against the brutality of the work gangs and escaped
repeatedly, always being recaptured and flogged, and eventually
sentenced to two hundred lashes. He had somehow survived
what was virtually a death sentence, and finally been allowed to
open a small shop which, in fifteen years, had grown into this
auction empire.
'And how's that young Daniel? Bought a ketch, I hear?'
'You hear everything, Sam.'
Sam Lyons grinned, and tapped his nose.
'You don't grow up a Yiddish in Whitechapel without
knowing which end is up,' Sam said. 'Doing the good business
with it, they say. Making a few shekels. Tell him to come and talk
to me. Maybe him and me can do some deals.'
'On what?'
'On this and that. Him and me. I talk to you, Matty, about
printing. I talk to Danny about boats, and what they can carry.
Maybe it's cheaper to send furniture on the river to Windsor and
Parramatta and other places up the coast. Daniel and me, some
time, we'll have a quiet rabbit and pork.'
Matthew scratched his head and thought hard. He guessed.
'Rabbit and pork? Talk?'
'Bright boy. Good one.'

'I'll tell him.'
'My best to your Mama.'
'Thanks, Sam.'
The auctioneer accompanied Matthew out to the overcrowded
yard, where a newly arrived dray was unloading yet more
furniture. There hardly seemed the room to store it.
'And your Papa... soon the news sheet begins?'
'Very soon now.'
'Good. I put in notices of my sales. Tell him to send me a list
of how much he charges and
please to remember the ten
percent off for his good customers. Also, give him a special
message from me.'
'What message?'
'If he ever should feel homesick, ask him to think about what
happens to us, if we don't get brought out here in chains? He'd
be in Ireland trying to live on potatoes, and I'd still be a tailor's
apprentice in the Mile End Road.'
Matthew left smiling. Sam Lyons was irrepressible, and one
of his favourite calls. But there were some in the colony upset by
his success. He worked hard, enjoyed his wealth, and flaunted it, and to those who disliked Jews this was typical ostentation. They
called him Shylock or a Gonoph, which meant a thief in Hebrew.
Sam himself had told Matthew that.
When he reached home, his mother gave him news there had
been a fire. The smoke had been seen, and a water cart sent, but
too late to help. It was Geraghty's old pothouse down on the bay,
but there was no cause to worry about his friend Marie. The
carter said that although the place had been burnt to the ground,
nobody had been injured.

It had happened in a frenzy, like sudden lunacy, a mania that had
taken possession of him, the thing he had fought against for so
long, keeping it at bay since her mother's death by regular visits
to prostitutes, taking any woman who would have him, so that it
might never happen, might stay deep in his mind where it was
secret and safe.
Geraghty knew what he had done had been recklessly wanton,
wild and dangerous. He felt angered by his lapse, his frailty, the
uneasy and almost certain knowledge that the temptation would
come again. He had a fear that he might not be able to control it,
for he could remember every unrestrained moment; his brain
trembled and he felt aroused at the thought of the rampant
savagery he had used to subdue her.
He also felt guilt but
concern came before that and
safety
was his prime purpose. Measures must be taken to ensure
nothing would come of it. No police. No public denunciation. In
the meantime, he could not talk to her, could not even voice his
indignation at the way she had burnt the inn costing
him a
profitable sale of the building, as well as his furniture, and the
large amount of liquor she had destroyed. All his instincts, which
had served him well in past predicaments told him it would be
unwise to even raise the issue.
For her part, she had totally ignored him since it had
happened. The few inept attempts he had made to talk to her had
been met with a gaze filled with such cold hate and distaste that
he was unable to continue.
He knew he had to be very careful.
Today he was more hopeful. He had a feeling he
was unable
to say why that
she was not going to accuse him or complain to
the police. It was not something he would dare take for granted,

but the violence of her response in burning the place to the
ground, her refusal to speak and the dislike she showed suggested
a future of frozen silence and acrimony; it made him believe she
had considered the idea of a public complaint and realised the
humiliation it might bring. If he was hauled into court, she
would have to stand in the witness box to describe what had been
done. Her name would be in the newspapers; people would stare
and gossip if she ventured out. He began to suspect she was
smart enough to visualise the painful embarrassment of such a
course.
So there was really only one possible danger. Her two friends,
particularly the young bastard with the boat. That would have to
be attended to without delay.

Daniel walked in the ash, shocked by the destruction, even
though a fisherman had hailed him as he came around the
miller's point and given him the news. There was hardly a piece
of timber intact, and the ground was littered with broken glass.
It was an unexpected homecoming, after what had been a very
successful voyage. His ketch had carried a full complement of
racegoers, all paying the single fare to Parramatta of three
shillings, and most making the return journey, high spirited
because they had backed winners, slinging him a bob or two extra
when he had landed them at the quay. He wasn't too proud to
take their tips. He had pocketed nearly seven pounds for the two
days, and at this rate he could soon afford a second vessel. Maybe
even something larger, but that was for the future.
He studied the charred ruin, puzzling over how it had
happened. The place must have gone up like a blazing torch,

before most of the grog was moved, by the evidence of the
exploded glass. He was about to head home to ask Matt what he
knew about it, when he saw a distant and familiar figure
approaching. Geraghty was coming back to the remains of his
incinerated pub.
'Oy,' came a shout, and an imperious arm beckoned him.
Daniel made no attempt to respond. Since he had been seven
years old he had felt an animosity towards this man. Too many
times he had seen his father lurch out of the inn, raving drunk,
often with another bottle inside his shirt, and even at that tender
age he had understood the liquor was on credit. The rare
occasions there had been any money in their house, it had been
owed to Sean Geraghty. Small trinkets his mother owned had all
been stolen or stripped from her by his father, and sold to pay
this hulking Irishman. So Daniel stood immobile and made the
other walk the distance between them.
The publican stopped a few feet from him, his size an uneasy
reminder that the foreshore was deserted and they seemed to be
alone. Geraghty was strongly built; he had a dominating presence
developed from years he had served in the army not
on active
service against the French, but here in the barrack rooms of New
South Wales. On active service, Daniel thought grimly, against half of the citizens here.
'Been away upriver?'
'Yeah. See your old pub burned down.'
'Pretty obvious, ain't it?'
'How did it happen?' Daniel asked.
'Accident.'
'Marie alright?'
'Marie is fine,' Geraghty said quietly, 'and she'll be a hell of a

lot better now we've moved from this dump to the Maritime.
She's gunna be in charge of the upstairs lounge. She won't have
any time to see the likes of you.'
'I suppose she'll tell me that herself
'I'm tellin' yer, so just listen to me, yer young shit. My daughter
ain't wasting any more of her time with you or your friend. I've
explained to her about you convict spawn. She'll be too busy to
meet up like yer used to.'
'I'll still wait to hear it from her.'
'Well, yer may not,' Geraghty said carefully.
'Why's that? Why wouldn't she tell me?'
'Because this is something I decided, all by meself. See, it's
this way; it does my kid no good to mix with a bloody murderer.
A young bastard who pushed his own father in the harbour and
let him drown.'
Daniel felt nausea, as if hit by a violent and unexpected blow
in the stomach. He wanted to retch, but knew he must shrug and
smile, as if Geraghty had said something ridiculous. 'What are
you talking about?' he managed to say.
Tour father drowned. Remember?'
'He fell out of his boat. Drunk as usual.'
'A feller come into my bar a week later, and said that was all balls.
Johnno got shoved into the bay. By a young kid. Looked like you.'
'What feller said a thing like that?'
'One of my customers. I got his name.'
'All those years ago and
you tell me this now. Why?'
'I weren't sure if it were true. But I got to thinkin'. And the
more I thought, the more it seemed like it might be. So I come to
tell yer, stay away from Marie, or I look up this feller and we talk
to a magistrate.'


Daniel tried to think of what to say. He saw Geraghty look
beyond him, and heard a familiar voice. Matthew's voice.
'You do that, Mr Geraghty. Go and talk to a magistrate.' He
moved to stand alongside Daniel.
'This ain't nothing to do with you,' Geraghty said.
'You're wrong. I found the dinghy. Lie about Daniel and that
means you're lying about me as well. Try it and you'll learn there's
laws here, Mr Geraghty. Laws for damages against slander. If you
think we're a couple of kids to push around, think again.'
'Don't you try to threaten me, lad.'
'Threaten you? I'm not threatening, Mr Geraghty. I'm telling
you straight we'll
be down to see Mr William Wentworth so
fast, you won't know what's hit you. Likes this kind of case, Mr
Wentworth does. Sits in his chambers waiting for one like this.
Good for his reputation. A fat slob of an ex-trooper who sells
grog, not to mention smuggling it off ships Wentworth
would
love it. He'd go for the throat straight
for the jugular. By the
time he finished you'd have to sell your new hotel to pay the
costs, Mr Geraghty.'
Jesus, Daniel thought. Where did he learn to talk like this?
'There's no need for any of us to be stupid,' Geraghty said,
after a long pause. 'I was told a story and
I'll remember it. You
better be careful, with your talk about people smuggling. Watch
your mouth, yer young shits, or you'll end up with no teeth. The
fact remains, Marie will be busy, and if I see either of youse
around her, I don't give a fuck about Wentworth. I'll make you
wish yer'd never met my daughter.'
He was flushed and breathing hard by now. He stared at
them both, then finally turned and walked away.
'Struth,' Daniel said. 'You gave him a mouthful.'

'It was just talk,' Matthew said. 'Just bluff. We don't know
Wentworth, and we'd never get inside his door.'
'But that arsehole doesn't know that.'
'He'll realise, when he thinks about it. He wants to stop us
seeing Marie. That seems to be important.'
'He can't stop us,' Daniel said.
'Can't he? Someone saw you that day. If Geraghty has proof,
it could hang you.'
'I was ten years old.'
'That wouldn't stop them. You drowned the bastard.'
'He deserved it.'
'Danny, for Christ's sake, we're talking about the law, and
what happens in this place. They don't care if you were ten at the
time. You're old enough now. The judge with his black cap will
request you be taken to the place from whence you came, and
there hanged by the neck, and so on and so forth. And the Lord
have mercy on your soul.'
'Jesus Christ, thanks very much,' Daniel said, shaken.
'You know what I'm trying to say.'
'Yair.' There was a silence while they both thought about the
situation. 'You're saying we have to keep away from Marie.'
'I'm saying her father doesn't like us, and he scares me. He
could possibly put you on trial. I think I'm saying you ought to
be very careful not to tangle with him and
if that means not
seeing her for a time, then we have to consider it.'


Chapter 6

'So,' Sam Lyons said, 'you want to buy a new boat.'
'I want to buy a ship.'
'I see. The dinghy and the ketch are for kids, eh? Toys you
finished with? How old are you, Daniel?'
'Soon be eighteen.'
'And you need a ship. How will you pay for this object?'
'From the bank.'
'You mean a bank will lend a seventeen-year-old money?'
'Of course not,' Daniel said. 'I lend them money and
they
pay me interest.'
Sam Lyons' bulbous eyes gyrated.
'You have enough money in the bank to buy a ship?'
'Yes,' Daniel said.
Sam stared at his visitor, in his tiny overcrowded office. He
thought about his own sons, on whom he had lavished such
expensive educations, and tried to imagine them able to buy even
canoe. Seventeen, he thought, incredulously. And his friend, the
other one, starting to write articles for the news sheet. What is it about these
currency lads? What makes them so different? He looked at Daniel Johnson, and wished he had a son like this.

'You find your ship,' he said, 'and I'll help you haggle for the
best price. That's what I'm good at.'
'I've found one. She's moored off Cockatoo.'
'What kind of ship?'
'A schooner, but she's three masted.'
'Is that good or bad?'
'It's different. Most schooners have only two masts, but this
has a third with double topsails, and standing topgallants they're sails as well,' he said, sensing Sam's bewilderment, 'set on a
forward yard.'
'Daniel, Daniel, stop talking the double-dutch. What does it
mean, all these masts and gallant-yards?'
'It means schooners sail best on the wind, while bigger ships
like barquentines sail off the wind and
this can do both. With
the extra mast she's rigged with smaller sails, which means I need
less crew.'
'Ah,' Sam said, recognising something he understood at last,
amid this perplexity of nautical terms. 'So that means cheaper,
not so many sailors to pay and feed. Yes?'
'Yes,' Daniel nodded.
'Can you make a profit?'
I'd say so. She's only seventy-five tons, but big enough to
take me anywhere. She has a fairly shallow draught, so for a while
I can stick to the waters I know running
cargo to Eden or
Moreton Bay, as well as river work on the Hawkesbury or the
Hunter.'
'Seems good.' Sam had little idea about ships, and no wish to
go to sea again, since the day he was unloaded from a convict
transport. The boy's enthusiasm was infectious, but as a practised
dealer he knew of the pitfalls that lay in wait for enthusiastic

buyers. 'How about the wood? Like in furniture we get woodworms.
Any worms?'
Daniel smiled. 'No worms. All the timbers are sound. The canvas
is good, and there's plenty of storage. She could do with a scrape and
some paint, but I reckon that's only four days on the slip.'
'You mean on the dry dock in a shipyard? Now that I happen
to know about. That, I promise you, is expensive.'
'Three shillings a ton per day, but I know the owner of a yard
who needs the work and we agreed a price. It'll cost me under
fifty quid.'
'Is it possible?' Sam looked surprised. 'The ship-owners I
know say it costs a fortune. So they have to put their charges up.'
He thought about this. The robbing bastards,' he said. 'The sly
buggers.'
Daniel laughed. 'It's an old trick.'
'I thought I knew all the old tricks,' Sam said. 'Tell you what,
I'll give you their work if you buy this schooner.' His innate native
caution returned as he studied Daniel. 'You sure there's nothing
wrong with it?'
'It's exactly what I've been looking for.'
'So what's the catch?'
'The owner wants to sell, to go back to England. He's asking
eight hundred pounds.'
'We offer six.'
'No, Mr Lyons. That's the catch. There's other people keen to
buy it. They'll pay his price, or maybe more, it's such a bargain.'
'If it's a bargain, we offer seven.'
'No hope. He said he might even auction it.'
'Not an auction,' Sam said, dismayed. 'That's bad.'
'What do you mean, it's bad? You run an auction house.'


'That's how I know. Auctions are good for me, not for you.
Too many people want to buy this ship, next thing she costs a
thousand pounds. Everyone gets excited, puts up their hands,
shoves up the price.'
'Oh. I hoped you could run the auction, and arrange things
so you sell it to me.'
'My boy,' Sam said, 'about ships you may know plenty but about auctions you don't know bugger-all. I ,sell like that to you,
we both end up in the bucket.'
'The what?' asked Daniel, puzzled.
'The bucket and pail. The gaol.'
Daniel looked glum. Sam was thoughtful. A ship like this,
perhaps he and young Danny could do some useful business. He
had employed him many times since their first meeting, but there
were some shipments too large for his ketch to handle. A bigger
vessel could benefit them both.
'What's his name, this man? And where do we find him?'

The harbour was like glass, but his passenger was nervous.
'Row slowly, Daniel. Remember I get seasick.'
'Not today. It's so calm.'
'I get seasick if I stay too long in the bath.'
Daniel laughed. He'd first heard stories of this Samuel Lyons
from Matthew, and almost a year ago Matt had persuaded him to
go to the auction rooms which
had been a good move, for ever
since then he'd had steady work, taking furniture by ketch to
buyers in Homebush Bay and towns along the Hawkesbury River.
Now they were rowing out to the schooner Piccadilly, off Cockatoo
Island, to talk to its owner, Harrington Courtney.

'Is he a toff, this Mr Harrington Courtney?' Sam asked.
'Not like some. He came out as a free settler. His wife's
homesick. They're quite old, so they want to go home while they

can.'
'How old?'
'At least forty.'
'My life,' forty-five-year-old Sam said. 'That's really old.'
They reached the schooner and climbed aboard. It was the
first time the auctioneer had been aboard a vessel of this size
since his enforced travel as a guest of the government at the age
of sixteen, and his subsequent brief and unsuccessful attempts
to escape, and the shorter the period he spent on this moving
deck, the better. He found Mr Courtney very much as Daniel
had described him, a modest man with none of the pretension
he encountered so often among free and wealthy settlers.
'Decent of you to come out, Lyons. I was considering paying
you a visit, when Daniel brought your note.'
Sam smiled, thinking sadly how much safer and more at ease
he'd be in his tiny crowded office, than dodging masts and heavy
timber and things called booms that would give you a right
smack in the chops if you didn't duck in time. Not to mention so
many seagulls circling above, and liable to drop a shit on your
best suit when you least expected.
'My pleasure, sir,' he said.
'You've been told I want to sell the boat. I'm considering an
auction, and you're clearly the man for that.'
'Much as it hurts me to lose such a fine commission, I have
to advise against an auction, Mr Courtney.'
Really?' The ship owner was plainly surprised. 'Why?'
'My opinion would be to set the price you want, and sell by

private treaty. I gather you were calculating eight hundred
pounds?'
'I was, but a public auction could bring me more --'
'Or less,' Sam said.
'Less?'
'A great deal less. There are the costs of informing buyers, by
taking advertisements in the main newspapers; there's the
auctioneer's fee, the commission of sale, and always the slight
possibility you may not achieve the figure of eight hundred. In
which case you negotiate with the highest bidder, and since he
knows he's in a position of strength, you may have to accept his
offer.'
'But several fellows have indicated their interest.'
'I've taken the liberty, sir, of making some discreet enquiries.
Let me just say, it's easy to talk. It's often more difficult to raise
the dosh.'
'Unusual behaviour, Lyons.' Courtney frowned.
'Not for me, sir, not in large sales like this. An auctioneer
would end up looking like a right Charlie, if he took bids and the
buyer turns out to be skint. You could even slap a writ on me, and
I might end up being forced to own the boat meself. Not my style,
boats. So I thought it best not to take any unnecessary risks.'
'I see. Well then, are you able to tell me who among those
fellows interested are financially reliable, and who are not?'
'I'm sorry, Mr Courtney, that's wot's known in the trade as
privileged information. But I can tell you Daniel Johnson not
only has the money, but is ready to purchase.'
'I really can't take that seriously. He's a mere youth.'
'If you say so. But he's been earning a good living in boats
since he was ten years old. They mature young out here. There's

Robert Towns, owned a whaler at nineteen. Johnny Jones, he's a
young geezer who had three ships and tried to buy the South
Island of New Zealand, when he wasn't yet twenty. Bloody nearly
did so, too."
'Good God. Really?'
'Gospel truth, sir. But returning to the matter at hand, we
were discussing this lad. He's about to turn eighteen. And what's
more, he's got an order drawn on the Bank of New South Wales
sitting in his pocket for the sum of eight hundred pounds in the likelihood you might wish to sell the boat today.'
Courtney gazed at Daniel, who waited at a tactful distance in
the bow, then studied Sam, as if suspecting collusion. 'I should
sell to him? Is that what you're advising?'
'No. Not my place, sir. I would never be so bold.'
'Hmm,' said Harrington Courtney, doubting this.
Sam adopted his most innocent face. 'But I'd be remiss if I
failed to point out the pitfalls of an auction, sir. Lacking in my
duty, that would be. As you yourself selected eight hundred as a
fair price, here's a buyer who'll pay it without a haggle. Seems to
me that saves a 'ell of a lot of bother, sir, don't it?'

It was on parchment. He held it in his hands and read the
cherished words. Jeremy told him it was printed in Gothic face,
and between the standard words of the form, a clerk had filled in
the details in careful copperplate.

Registered De Novo at the Port of Sydney, New South
Wales. Dated this 25th day of march, 1841.
Vessel No. 85 of the year 1836

Name Piccadilly
Burthen 75 tons
Master Daniel Johnson
When and where built batavia
Surveying Officer jan de merde

It is herewith confirmed that the vessel comprises:
Decks Two
Masts Three
Length from the inner part of the main stem to the fore
part of the stern aloft is One hundred and thirty
feet her breadth amidships is nineteen feet and
that she is a schooner rigged with standing sails
AND DOUBLE TOP SAILS AND TOP-GALLANT ONE FORE
YARDS.

The Owner Harrington James Courtney Esquire
now of Reigate, Surrey, England hereby resiles all claim to ownership of this vessel and transfers the vessel to Daniel Johnson of Sydney, New South
Wales.

Daniel took the precious ship's register, the document of sale and
certificate of ownership to the bank, where Mr Tompkins
arranged for them to be kept in safe deposit, along with the
papers of conveyance for the ketch. It had been almost eight years
since the first day they had come here, and four years now since
Jeremy was no longer required to accompany him. Daniel had
become a familiar sight in the former home of Mrs Reibey. The
clerks were most respectful of a lad who invariably visited the

establishment only to add to his growing deposits, and who now
was the owner of two vessels.
'You'll need a crew,' Mr Tompkins said. 'And someone who
can take over and sail the ketch when you're not using it.' Mr
Tompkins was becoming quite possessive of his young protege,
as he liked to consider him, and had long forgotten his resistance
to accepting him as a client of the bank. In fact, Mr Tompkins
had heard it said his work had been noted, and that the
board among
them some of the most eminent men in the
colony had
marked him down as a possible future under-manager,
or, if they proceeded with a plan being considered to
have additional branches in Parramatta and other towns, perhaps
even a manager some day. Mr Tompkins had a considerable
interest in the unusual success of Daniel Johnson.
'I've got a crew,' Daniel told him.
'Already?'
'Had the ones I want in mind, ever since I first knew the Piccadilly was for sale. They've agreed to sign with me. Just a small
crew; a mate, a bosun and four deck-hands. I told 'em I'll pay well,
but it's on results and they have to work hard for it. They're all
older sailors; I don't want any kids who'll loaf about.'
Mr Tompkins nodded sagely at this youthful wisdom.

Three weeks later the schooner put to sea. She was bound for
Windsor with a cargo of furniture from the warehouses of
Samuel Lyons, and she headed out from Campbell's Wharf where
the goods had been loaded, with a light sou'-westerly behind her.
The ship was newly painted, and her sails were full to the wind.
In a harbour, which, as Governor Phillip had said, 'is the most

advantageous in the world, where a thousand sail of the line might ride in perfect security,' she had a swagger and a style to her that made
people on the shore, and in the warehouses by the harbour, smile
in admiration.

'It's young Daniel's boat,' an old salt said on the quay.
'She used to be called Piccadilly,' someone observed.
'He's changed the name,' another noticed.
Outside the Customs House, a group of watermen watched
and wished her young skipper luck. Most had known him since
he was a mere scrap of a tadpole they said, rowing the dinghy
when his dadda was too drunk to find his way out of bed. Even
though they were too far off to be seen, they nevertheless raised
their hands in a gesture that was an accolade and a salute. Despite
his age, he was one of their own, and while they were not the kind
of men to say so, they were all quietly proud of Daniel Johnson.
In the main bar of the Maritime Hotel, a group of drinkers
stood at the windows watching the schooner go past, outlined
against the red gums that forested the hillside of Milson's Point.
Geraghty came to collect their empty glasses. He saw what they
were admiring, and stopped to stare with a growing incredulity
and anger. The bastard, he thought. The bloody bastard.
Upstairs in the main parlour, Marie went through the daily
routine of dusting and cleaning. It was a tedious chore, a task she
performed with loathing. So much of her life, for so long now,
had been like that. Detestable. Odious. If there had been a place
to run, she would have gone. A corner to hide, she would have
found it. The only two friends on whom she could depend, the
two she loved, had been told she no longer wished to see them-Told
she had new friends. When she disbelieved it, he had been
blunt and brutal.

Did she want to do them harm, he'd asked? Want to make
them hate her? If she felt like that, go and spend her days with
them. But be careful and remember, Matthew's father still had a
ticket-of-leave. After all this time, he'd never been granted a
proper pardon. Never would be, was what he'd been told by
friends who knew about such things; on account of word being
spread by someone important years ago that he was unreliable. A
rabble-rouser. A rebel, Irish troublemakers were the dregs here,
and people were afraid of rebellion. Since young Johnson was as
good as adopted by them, he'd feel it as badly.
Feel what? she'd asked.
They talked this way now; just questions and answers, in
sharp resentful voices, as cold as ice.
Feel upset, he'd said. When they take away Jeremy Conway's
ticket, and put him on the treadmill. Even though she had heard
all about it before, tried not to listen to him, he'd proceeded to
describe it in vivid detail. How the narrow steps were geared to a
mill for grinding corn, and the convicts had to hold a rail and
tread steadily and endlessly, without a stop. How it was like
walking upstairs for hours, from sunrise to sunset, walking the
equal of twenty-eight miles up steps every single day unless
they
became tired and fell, when their legs would be trapped and
ground to pulp in the machinery. Hard and cruel, perhaps, but a
necessary system, he'd said, because each convict could grind half
a ton of corn per day, and corn was essential for the town's
survival. He added that Jeremy Conway was no longer a young
man, and might be punished for not fulfilling his quota. He was
also likely to fall.
She had no way of knowing if it was bluff, but was well aware
that tickets-of-leave were easily revoked, and he had friends in the

police and the army from his time as a trooper. Because she was
so afraid of him, and knew the depths to which he would sink,
she kept away from them. When the boys failed to appear, it was
one more ugly illustration of her father's ability to control her
life. She often wanted to die, but was fearful of trying, having
been brought up in the belief that self-destruction meant eternal
hell-fire and damnation.
She looked up from her cleaning and noticed a three-masted
ship passing by the quay, its sails so full it seemed to be almost
outside the window. Fresh paint sparkled in the sunlight. A
figure on the deck amidships could not be real; she stared in
disbelief, then ran to find her father's telescope, and looked
through it. For the first time in almost a year she laughed aloud
with pleasure. It was Daniel. The rumours she had heard were
true. He'd bought a schooner called the Piccadilly, and was said to
be well set up with a fine contract delivering goods for the
auctioneer Samuel Lyons, who everyone knew was one of the
ex-convicts who had become rich.
It looked wonderful, the ship. Most vessels came up this part
of the harbour at half sail, but trust Daniel to put on a show. And so brilliant and shining, the sails taut and taking the breeze, every
part of the schooner so neat and clean. That was his way.
And then she saw the name in fresh big lettering on the bow.
The MARIE G. It was there, bright and new, so large that no one
could miss it. The Marie G. She felt a sudden rush of joy and
wondered why a moment of such happiness as this could make her
face so wet with tears.


PAART TWO

A BRAND NEW DAY

'How strange to find, so far away,
another world, a brand new day.'
John Cross, convict printer, 1812


Chapter 7

It was the exciting new Victorian age. The accession of the young
Queen, marked by delirious crowds at her coronation in London,
had been celebrated by pealing church bells across the world
months later, when the news reached her more distant subjects.
Great change was in the air. Coins, currency and stamps were
altered to bear her likeness. The Empire, ruled by men exclusively
for so long, had to adapt to new customs, as those who ordained
and governed were now obliged to bend their knee to the young
woman who was the Queen Empress.
In 1842, the fifth year of her reign, at the furthermost corner
of this new monarch's empire, and by her official proclamation,
Sydney finally became a city. The clamorous and combative
Legislative Council, where the rich land-owning conservatives
who were known as the Exclusives, and their more liberal
opposition, the Emancipists, daily assailed and insulted each
other in
this cockpit of invective, both sides cheered as the civic
graduation was promulgated. For a brief time, this shared
attainment bonded the colony's widely disparate citizens. The
clergy invited their flock to give thanks in prayer, and while the
churches were sedately filled, the streets were thronged and wild

with dancing and celebration.
There were firework displays on the harbour shores as
exploding fountains, rockets and cascades of saltpetre stars
enlivened the night. Flotillas of ships arrived to join the festivities,
and whaleboat races saw crews from far away Boston and the
Pacific Islands, from the Solander ground and Bass Strait lined
up to compete for glory, while crowds congregated to cheer and
wager on the outcome. Daniel took Bess, Jeremy, and twelve-year-old
Lucy on the Marie G, for the best view of the races. They had
a picnic lunch aboard, bet on a Maori crew from Cloudy Bay, and
won ten shillings.
He brought them home, to the market wharf in Cockle Bay
as the sun was setting. Bess hugged him and said it had been a
lovely treat, the nicest day in years, and Jeremy agreed.
'A real pleasure,' he said. 'It's a fine boat, and your crew like
and respect you. As for us we're
proud of you, Daniel.' They
were all momentarily astonished. It was a considerable
declaration for Jeremy Conway. 'I mean it. Been wanting to tell
you. It was a good day for Bess and me when you became part
of the family. None of us thought you'd own a boat like this as well as the ketch. All from your own hard work sloggin' away in
that dinghy. We truly are proud of you. I'd just wanted you to
know that.'
'Thanks, Pa...' Daniel tried to find words to respond, but all
he could do was press Jeremy's arm.
Lucy, observing this moment of family sentiment, decided
she should have a last word of her own.
'Daniel?'
'Yes, Lucy?' He looked at her warily. When she adopted that
sweet smile, it was a warning of trouble. He and Matthew had

spent much of their boyhood escaping her telltale tongue, and
her antics.
'Is it true you like Eliza Sharp?'
'Who said I did?'
'She did. She said you and Matthew used to follow her
around, and she'd wiggle her bottom at you to make you both get
excited.'
'Lucy!' Bess rebuked her, in scandalised astonishment.
'Well, that's what she said, Ma. They'd both walk behind her
and watch her bum. Boys are awful like that. Only I told her she
must be imagining things, because Daniel is in love with Marie.
You are, aren't you.' It was more of an accusation than a
question.
'No ... I don't think so,' Daniel said, after a moment.
'You must be. I told all the girls at school you called your ship
the Marie G because Marie Geraghty is your sweetheart.'
Daniel pretended to laugh, although this sudden mention of
Marie's name caused him a familiar feeling of distress. Many
times had he walked around to the quay, hoping to see her, or else
wondering if he dared confront her father by entering the private
door of the hotel and asking for her. Often he had lain awake at
night, trying to persuade himself he had nothing to fear from
Geraghty, but suspecting any approach would cause trouble for
Marie. He wasn't sure why he felt so convinced of that, but he and Matthew had discussed it often, both coming to the same
conclusion, that unless her father was exerting pressure she
would have found a way to contact them.
Especially after he had named his ship for her. He was sure
she must have known, could hardly avoid being aware of it not with him sailing past their hotel on the quay so often. For weeks he had hoped there might be at least a message or a note of
acknowledgement. If there was, he vowed to Matthew, he'd go to
see her and
to hell with the Irish bastard and his intimidation.
But there had been no word at all, and in the end Matt had
convinced him that antagonising Geraghty by an appearance
there would probably cause a row and achieve nothing. It could
be dangerous; even if her father didn't fulfil his threat of long
ago, a visit might somehow rebound on Marie.
He was persuaded to stay away, although he missed her, and
the memory of her sailing on his ketch or standing slim and
wind-blown on the jetty to welcome him home could bring a
feeling of nostalgia and a lump to his throat. He could not tell
anyone that, particularly bright, sharp-eyed Lucy. Not even Matt
knew how he sometimes felt dejected by the recollection of those
lost days.
'Well, isn't she your sweetheart?' Lucy insisted.
'Silly,' he said. 'We used to play together as kids, that's all.
She's grown up, and so have we.'
'So why don't you change the name of the Marie G? Why
don't you call her something different like
the Luanda?'
Bess told her daughter to behave herself, and Jeremy sighed
at this lively, unpredictable child of theirs. But it was a strange
moment, for they had often wondered why Marie had so
completely vanished. She had moved only a mile away, yet entirely
out of both the boys' lives. Once she had been in and out of the
house regularly, always polite and such a friendly, pretty girl. Bess
had imagined one of them might marry her, probably Daniel. She
would not have minded if it had been Matthew, although from
her nodding acquaintance with the father, in the days when he
ran the pothouse in the bay below them, she did not care for him.

But the lack of Marie's presence since then was strange. Sometimes
she and Jeremy speculated why the move to the quay should have
made such a difference, but on this neither of the boys had
provided an answer. It was usually like
Daniel's evasive
reply that
they had grown up, lost interest in each other. Bess
did not believe it, and felt sure there must be another reason.

In this time of celebration, affluence grew. Trade boomed. The
old rich held tight to their money, but new fortunes were being
made. On the hillsides of the harbour, land sales thrived. Samuel
Lyons bought acres and subdivided, then built substantial homes
with water views for the free settlers flooding in. His cargoes of
timber for the houses were brought from the north coast by the Marie G and improved Daniel's bank balance. Families from
London, from the Midlands and Edinburgh, from villages with
unpronounceable names in Wales, moved into houses with vistas
from their verandahs that they had never imagined possible. Ever
since Their Lordships of the Colonial Office had confirmed the
end of convict transportation, emigration was flourishing. There
were to be new elections, a larger, more representative Legislature
with more power. A wider franchise; votes for more people. Not
all the people. Not those without sufficient money or land; not
convicts, not Aborigines, nor women.
But it was hailed as the cautious advent of a new democracy.
One day well,
perhaps the
land-owners, the wealthy squatters
and Exclusives, those pure merinos as the hoi polloi derisively
dubbed them, would have their fleeces clipped.
Meanwhile, there were other events. Other changes befitting
the new status of a city. Gas pipes were laid, street lamps erected,

and the inauguration timed to coincide with Queen Victoria's
birthday. A fitting occasion, as the Herald said in its rather staid
leading news story:



THE INTRODUCTION OF GAS
We have at last the pleasure of the application
of gas as an agent of light. Australia is the first
country, and Sydney the first city in the Asiatic
world (indeed in the Southern Hemisphere)
into which this beautiful art, one of the most
important inventions of modern times has
been introduced. We are proud of the honour,
and may reasonably boast of it as creditable to
our taste and our public spirit.

Jeremy Conway, whose modest sheet, the Weekly Journal, had an
editorial policy as careful as its name, and a tiny but loyal list of
subscribers, felt for once the event demanded more flourish. He
allowed himself the indulgence of a headline. He and Matthew
set the type, using a twenty-four point banner headline:

GASLIGHT
SYDNEY COMES OF AGE!
From camp fires to lanterns and finally to oil
lamps, Sydney is now on the verge of a new
era. This week we welcome the modern
miracle of gaslight. It is fitting that this
splendid innovation, which will enhance our
streets and make them safer, should eventuate
on the birthday of our beloved young Majesty,

Queen Victoria. God bless Sydney. God Save
the Queen.

Matthew protested bitterly. How could an Irishman, one
who'd stood up for his rights and who didn't believe in God
anyway, crawl in such a fashion to some far distant royalty?
It was merely a token phrase, Jeremy argued, a matter of
respect. And despite all the fine talk of better laws and different
ways here, it was better and safer to show respect. Matthew was not convinced. He already felt, like many of his
friends the
Currency Lads and Lasses, as the native born were
known that
far too much deference was paid to twenty-twoyear-old
Queen Victoria, whose marriage to her German cousin
Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg had been a topic of seeming endless
interest in the colony's newspapers. Matthew believed, and said
so whenever he was given the chance, that since Australia was a
convict state, most of whose people had been expelled in the
harshest way from English shores, the country belonged not to
any British monarch, but to the convicts who had built the
streets and homes and thus created the wealth here and
to their
sons and daughters.
It was an attitude becoming popular among the young who
prided themselves on being different, and defiantly wore
distinctive flowing shirts and loose trousers, sometimes topped
with plaited cabbage-tree hats. Their clothes were an aggressive
contrast to the conventional garb of older men, unsuitably
attired in fitted breeches, with frock coats or cutaways, designed
to reveal silk waistcoats and cravats. The Currency Lads scorned
such European apparel as fit only for the 'sterling' or British
born, and ignored the riposte that a sterling pound was of more

value than the local currency. Their style, their confidence and
even their manner of speech everything
about the Currency
Lads and Lasses infuriated the free settlers and the Exclusives.
While Jeremy had no such prejudices, he had other concerns.
He had no complaints about the quality of his son's work. Matthew, ever since he finished school, had been not only
assistant printer and reporter of news, he also trudged the streets
in pursuit of late subscriptions, and kept archival files with
details of prominent local figures. Governors who came and
went, rich merchants like Archibald Mosman, artists Conrad
Martens and Samuel Elyard, the Macarthur family and others of
equal fame, like William Charles Wentworth, were all stored in
his handwritten files. In this and other ways he contributed
enormously to their enterprise. When printing on the hand-press,
they worked in comfortable harmony. It was on the
contents they had their disagreements.
Jeremy had a firm policy. Nothing controversial. The Weekly
Journal would print announcements issued by the vice-regal
office, report proceedings in the Legislative Council, record social
events, the shipping news, and predict the weather. He had varied
from this policy just once, to his cost.
On discovering that Francis Greenway was dead, ending his
life penniless in a pauper's grave at East Maitland, Jeremy had
penned an article venting his shame that the architect who had
contributed so much to the city had been shunned and allowed
to-die
in poverty. The day following the publication of the
obituary, a sergeant-of-the-guard had arrived at his premises with
an order that he report at once to His Excellency's aide-de-camp
at Government House.
He was escorted there, left in a bleak anteroom, and made to

wait. It was routine tactics for this kind of situation, the length
of the wait designed to install maximum fear into the offender.
After an anxious two hours he was eventually taken before the
aide, who assured him that any future comment of this kind
would bring about the closure of his pathetic weekly rag. He
made no attempt to express it with any diplomacy. The Governor
was seriously displeased. The wretched Greenway had been a
distinct problem to him, a constant trouble-maker, and any
article like this deploring his treatment was in effect criticism of
action taken by His Excellency. They would not, on this occasion,
revoke his ticket-of-leave, but his future behaviour would be
closely watched.
The Governor in question was Major-General Sir Richard Bourke, of whom the Herald was to say: 'We hear from many sources
that the reign of Sir Richard Bourke is rapidly drawing to a close. We are
happy to hear it. The exit of this misguided Representative of Royalty will,
we trust, he speedy.'
Jeremy had laughed, and shown it to Bess and Matthew, but
dared not take such a line himself. He had no choice but to be
careful, and he had a son he loved who wanted to be bold and
take risks. It was a difficult, and at times almost impossible
situation.



The Masters and Servants Act, Matthew wrote by candlelight and in pencil, is an outmoded and unfair law, placed on the statute many years
&go. Under it, servants neglecting their work or causing loss or damage to
their master's property, are liable to imprisonment, or seven days on the
treadmill. We have been told of a servant charged with trying to form a
group to raise wages and increase rations. He has been sentenced to five

hundred lashes, and solitary confinement on bread and water. These
injustices are still possible, because the wealthy classes, once opposed to each
other on
one side the Exclusives with their land grants and their divine
opinion of themselves as the only people fit to govern and
on the other the
Emancipists, the native born and those of liberal stance have
ceased the
pretence of opposition and joined forces. The common aim is the suppression
of workers, and the importation of cheap labour. As a consequence the
Legislative Council has become a mockery, and those who fought for
change have abandoned their principles in favour of their bank balances.
He edited it with care, and later that night stood at the font
trays selecting the type, then set about the task of placing the
letters in the composing stick. He inserted wooden strips to form
the margins, then the wedges known as quoins to secure the
form, and carefully tapped it all with a mallet to ensure an even
print. After that he inked it, turned the handle to produce a
proof, and read what he had written. He deliberately left it on the
sturdy iron press, where his father could hardly fail to see it the
following morning.
Jeremy had read it silently, then torn the page in half. He
began to unlock the frame and replace the metal type in their
trays.
'I can't publish that, Matthew. You know I can't.'
'The Gazette used to, before it had to close down.'
'Perhaps that's why it did close down.'
'You know as well as I do, Pa, they ran short of money. But
they did have the guts to publish what they thought.'
'And it cost them. Let me explain something to you. The
people in this town who can afford to buy and read newspapers,
are not your downtrodden servants or working men. They're the what
did you call them the
Exclusives with their land grants

and their divine opinion of themselves, and the people like Mr
Wentworth who have abandoned their principles in favour of their bank balances. Very nicely put. You have a good flow of words, Matthew...'
'But you're not going to publish them?'
'No,' Jeremy said, 'I'm not.'
Matthew shrugged, unable to conceal his disappointment.
'Alright, Pa. There's a garden party at Government House
next week. Will I ask for a guest list, so we can tell our readers
who's important enough to dance attendance on the Governor
and His Lady?'
'Don't let's quarrel, Matt.'
'It's the last thing I want. But you talked for so many years of
this paper. Remember the excitement when we began? I had such
visions about what we'd say. And there's a lot to be said, Pa.
Remember last week at Darlinghurst Gaol? They hanged a man
on the public gallows?'
'I remember. John Knatchbull, for robbery and murder. We
reported his execution.'
'In two lines. What we didn't report was that ten thousand
men and women came to watch and cheer. Some brought their
children. Vendors sold pies and drinks. Ten thousand, to watch a
man dangle on a rope and choke to death. Cheering. Don't you
think that's disgusting?'
'Of course it's disgusting.' It was one of the few times he had
known his father to raise his voice in anger: 'I was just seventeen,
younger than you are now, when I was sentenced to be hanged.'
'What?'
Oh yes. And there was a crowd outside, jeering and waiting
to enjoy the fun of watching me, when they told me it was

transportation instead. At the very final moment, when I was
almost walking to the rope, sick to my guts and so afraid that I'd
already shit myself..,'
'Pa!' He was shocked beyond words, but Jeremy gave him no
chance to comment.
'It's what they wanted, the soldiers and the turnkeys. For me
to do that. They laughed. You think I wouldn't like to say how
barbaric it is, to kill a man or woman by a public hanging? Letting
a crowd watch and cheer, like a holiday treat? I wish I could print
what I think of the lash, or the stocks, 'cos I've known both; been
whipped, been leg-ironed and cuffed, mocked, spat on. I never
told you because I hoped there'd never be a time when you
needed to know. But you make me afraid, Matthew. You and your
idealism.'
'That shouldn't make you afraid, Pa.'
'Well, it does. Because I'm not so old I can't remember what
it was like to be your age, and to want the world to be a better
place; want to expose injustice, and the hypocrisy of the well-fed
bastards who batten on the misery of others, while they make a
profit from it. But when you're my age, Matt, you know it's
impossible, because they're the ones who have all the power.'
Not impossible, he wanted to say. Just difficult, Father. He put his arms around Jeremy. It was something he had never done before,
but nor had he heard him speak like this, with such candour and
pain. He had not known, until that moment, of his father's death
sentence. It was like an open wound.
'I'm sorry, Pa.'
'I really did like the flow of words.'
'No more of it. No more denunciations of public executions,
or anything sensitive. I promise.'

After a moment, as if they were unused to such intensely
personal contact, they moved apart.
'Let's print those catalogues for Sam Lyons,' Matthew said.
Jeremy seemed relieved to agree. They set to work on their
Albion press, with its heavy ink platen. Printing on this machine
was a job best done together; working as a team the quality and
speed was far superior to the old Stanhope press, which Jeremy
had first owned and been able to operate alone. The Albion,
bought second-hand from the government printing office, could produce two hundred copies an hour if they worked in tandem.
The tedious part, the work that took the longest, was the
compositing.
They worked for a time in silence, then Jeremy said: 'I wish it
could be different. Perhaps one day it will be.' Matthew did not want to say so, but he doubted it.

Chapter 8

There were two American warships in the harbour, and the bars
around the quay ran hot with hearsay. They were the advance
ships, one drinker insisted in The Whaler's Arms, and there was
a fleet out in the Tasman waiting word to attack. The Yanks
would invade both here and New Zealand, grab Norfolk Island,
then force surrender on the town of Melbourne, and Van
Diemen's Land. Another said they could have Norfolk and Van
Diemen's; the best of luck to 'em, and bloody good riddance.
It was not only debated amid the smell of smoke and spirits.
The Legislative Council met to frame a cautious welcome to the
visitors, and the Right Honourable, the Reverend Edward
Grayson, newly elected but already a considerable force in the
chamber, moved that as a matter of sense and security the rocky
island in the harbour known to Aborigines as Mat-te-wa-ye and to
settlers as Pinchgut because
the most recalcitrant convicts had
been held and starved there in the old days should
be fortified
with cannon to defend the approaches to the city.
There was some hesitation, in case this was construed by the
American skippers as provocative, but when Grayson said
the Council must state the fortification was in case of invasion

by the French, it not only raised laughter, but was passed
unanimously. For good measure it was agreed cannons also be
installed on the promontory known as Middle Head. The city
must mount its defences against possible predators, Grayson
declared in ringing tones.
Matthew regularly attended meetings of the Legislature, and
was intrigued by the Reverend Mr Grayson. A relatively recent
arrival, he was rarely out of the news; after being appointed a
magistrate, he was elected to the Council with a large majority.
While he wore a clerical collar, he seemed to have abandoned the
pulpit in favour of politics, and preached only by invitation in the
larger city churches. He was known to be wealthy, and a close
acquaintance of the editor of the Herald, which the next day
appeared with a story headed:

SYDNEY PREPARES FOR WAR
Lest some chance French frigate think fit to
pay a visit to Sydney, our active and spirited
officers, led by the vision of Mr Edward
Grayson have already made preparations for
giving them a warm reception. Our two grand
points of defence, Bradley's Head and Pinchgut
Island, will be, within a short time, very
strongly fortified, and will command the
entrance to Sydney. Heavy guns will be
employed to blow out of the water the largest
ship that may attempt to force a passage. We
are indebted to our legislators, led by Mr
Grayson.

This tossing down of the gauntlet in the city's most reputable
paper, was eagerly discussed throughout the day. The owners of
waterfront mansions like
William Wentworth at his palatial
Vaucluse House while
speculating about the power Mr Grayson
seemed to exert with the press, studied the frigates through their
telescopes, and pondered why these sleek, well-armed men-of-war
had strayed so far from home.
Daniel Johnson could have told him, but no one thought to ask.
He had taken the Marie G northward up the coast to the Clarence
River, carrying furniture for Sam Lyons, and picking up a valuable
return cargo of cedar. He sighted a small fleet of sealers on his way
home, with the two frigates escorting them, and watched the
hunting squadron head southward for Bass Strait as the warships
turned west into Sydney harbour. They were mere escort vessels for
the fishing boats, and their officers and crew were unaware they were
regarded as a possible threat to the town and its occupants.
They were greatly amused when Daniel broke the news to
them. He went aboard the largest of the frigates, spending time
with the captain and his officers who liked this lively twenty-year-old
skipper, already owner of a schooner and a ketch, and
with all sorts of plans for the future. By the time Daniel left,
they were firm friends, and he had arranged a deal to not only
supply them with fresh food, but told them he might soon have
access to some barrels of spirits gin
and rum which
the
officers could drink or resell to the crews on the sealers at a
profit. It was duty free and dirt cheap, only they weren't to talk
about it, or ask any questions where it came from. It was strictly
between themselves. That's if they were interested. The officers
assured him that they were.

He needed Matthew for his plan, but Matt was by no means
enthusiastic.
'Is it stolen liquor?'
'No, smuggled. Geraghty's been running it in. You know how
he used to bring in a barrel or two? Well, now it's ten or twenty
times that.'
'And you want us to get under his neck? Pinch his cargo?
You're barmy.'
'We can do it, Matt. It'll be a bit of fun. Profitable as
well as
one up the snout for the nasty sod. But it needs both of us. If you
can't if
you think it's a risk, then I'll get one of the crew to help.
Only it won't be the same.'
Matthew was decidedly dubious.
'Why stir things up? That ugly bastard could be very
dangerous. Don't forget what he knows about you.'
'What he claims he knows,' Daniel said. ' I've had time to
think about it since that day. He can't prove anything. All he'd do
is make a fool of himself.'
'That wouldn't stop Geraghty.'
'How can he go to the police now, and tell them I pushed my
father in the drink when I was ten? What are they going to ask?
I'll tell you what they'll ask. Why didn't you come to see us ten
years ago? And what's he going to say to that?' Matthew had to admit it was a fair point, but logic didn't
always come into it, not where Sean Geraghty was concerned. The
publican made him nervous, with his belligerence and
unpredictability.
'He could spread rumours. People'd talk.'
'Then I'd do what you said. Get a lawyer, sue the bastard.'
'I told you that was just a bluff. Remember?'

'It ain't now. I was a scared kid. I don't scare so easy these
days. I could even afford to have Mr Wentworth on my side.'
'Wentworth's too grand these days to appear in the courts.
Too full of himself.'
'I thought you liked him?'
'I used to.'
They walked down Flagstaff Hill past the small stone cottages,
beneath the two signal stations braced against the winds; one
flagstaff for internal messages, the other to receive news
semaphored from the station on South Head, announcing ship
arrivals. The nearby windmill clanked and turned a
lonely
sound, like the rattle of chains from long forgotten gangs of
convicts who had toiled here, carving streets from the mass of
rocks. There were goats, singly and in herds prowling the waste
ground for garbage. A soldier strolled, sweaty in his uniform,
hopeful as he eyed a loitering tart. They met, made a swift
transaction, and she led him into one of the adjacent whitewashed
houses.
'Daniel!'
They looked up to the flagstaff. A hand waved a warning, and
a small missile was dropped to land alongside them. Daniel
picked it up: it was a scrap of paper weighted by a pebble. A few
words were printed on it. He read it and waved his thanks to the
figure high above.
'I've got to hurry.'
'What is it?'
'A ship from London. The Sovereign Star. She's been sighted at
South Head.'
'Why are they telling you?'
'I'm meeting her in mid-harbour, before she berths.'



'For what?'
'Women's dress fashions.'
Matthew looked at him and laughed.
'Are you serious?'
'I'm serious. Come with me I'll
show you.'
'You mean you're an importer now? Not only a ship owner
and a would-be smuggler, but ladies' gowns and bonnets?'
'Not the real thing. Just the sketches.'
Daniel started to run down to the sheltered corner of Cockle
Bay, where his ketch was moored. Matthew knew he should be
making subscription rounds, but he was curious. They had the sails
aloft and the ketch was on its way in moments. Daniel grinned.
'You still handle a boat. Waste of a good skipper, I reckon.'
'What sketches? What dress fashions?'
'Don't you know the most important thing in this town for
the wives of the gentry is to be the first one seen with the new
Paris or London fashions?'
'I didn't know that.'
'There's a lot you don't know, Matthew.'
'There certainly seems to be.'
'I've been doing it for over a year.'
'But doing what exactly?'
'I sell the sketches to the seamstresses ...'
'How many seamstresses?'
'Dozens.'
'And then what happens?'
'They make the clothes for their rich ladies. All rich ladies
have their own seamstress. After that, the ladies make an entrance at the Governor's Ball, wearing the new style.'
'But don't they all look the same?'

'That doesn't seem to matter. In fact, those who look any
different are the ones who feel out of it. As if they're behind the
times. That's what fashion is.'
Matthew shook his head in mute disbelief. They came
alongside the Sovereign Star, a big East India merchantman, and
used a grappling hook to tie onto the moving ship. He waited
while Daniel climbed aboard. After a few minutes he returned,
swinging his way down a rope ladder, clutching a heavy portfolio.
An officer on deck gave a farewell wave, and they headed off in
the ketch, while the ship proceeded down harbour towards the
port authority, to be allotted an anchorage.
'Who was that on board?'
'The Second Officer. His mother makes the drawings.'
'How?'
'She goes to fashion shows, or copies them from magazines.'
'Trust you. How often does this happen?'
'Twice a year. Spring and autumn. Of course we're a whole
season behind London, but everyone knows that, and nobody
minds. As long as they're in vogue.'
'And tell me, is the ladies' bust line up or down? And what's
the news on waists this year?'
'Haven't the faintest.' Daniel laughed. 'I take the sketches to
this artist, who makes copies of them.'
'Then what?'
'Then I take them around town to the seamstresses.'
'You said dozens of them? How many dozen?'
'About four.'
'Four dozen?'
'Yes.'
'And each seamstress pays you?'

'Naturally.'
'Much?'
'Enough to put a few quid in the bank.'
'I can imagine.'
'Don't forget, their rich ladies pay them. But they all need
these designs ... or they'd be out of business.' Matthew grinned. 'So you're creating work? Doing good
deeds for the needy, not just making a profit?'
'We all make a profit. The seamstresses, the ship's officer, his
mum, the flagstaff men, not forgetting the artist. We all benefit
so that the wives of the gentry can look good. It makes everyone
happy. The rich wives feel they're in the height of style, as if they
were back in civilised London, and as their husbands have more
money than they can count, it seems only fair a bit of it should be
spread around.'
'You make it sound like a really admirable enterprise.'
'Don't be sarcastic,' Daniel said, amused.
'I'm envious. My life seems so ordinary compared to yours.'
'Ordinary? Get off. You're educated.'
'For what? Compiling lists of births, deaths and marriages.
And other lists arrests,
punishments. Sometimes I wish Pa had
never started the Journal, so I could work for a real newspaper.
But it's a family firm he
depends on me, and I can't let him
down. I'm shackled to it.'
Daniel felt for concern for him. 'It's not so bad, is it?'
'No, it's not so bad. It's just not as good as I hoped it would
be. I wanted to write and print articles that might change things.
Be able to say what I felt. But that isn't possible.' He shrugged.
'Whereas with you, there's always something new and different.
Like ladies' fashions!'

'Like this little jaunt, to put the kybosh on Geraghty. Are you
coming? You haven't given me an answer.' Matthew hesitated. 'I still think it's dangerous.'
'It's dangerous to cross the street, in case a horse and carriage
knocks you down. You've just been complaining about life being
dull'
Matthew nodded his wry agreement of this. 'When is it?'
'Who knows? Maybe weeks. We'll get word.'
'Will it really hurt Geraghty?'
'As Sam Lyons would say it'll
give him a right kick in the
orchestra stalls. The balls,' he translated, and they both
laughed.
'In that case,' Matthew said, 'I'm in it.'
'Good. Now I've got an appointment with the artist. She'll be
waiting for these designs.'
Matthew turned and looked at him.
'The artist's a girl?'
'A lady.'
'Ohh? Young or old?'
'Hard to say. Not young. Not really old, either.'
'How did you find her?'
'She found me,' Daniel said.

Her face was shaded and obscured by a ribboned bonnet, her
attention so carefully focussed on the canvas that he was able to
see the subject of her painting before anything else.
'That's my ship,' he said.
She turned, startled from her concentration, surprising him
with a vivacious smile. She had eyes so dark blue they seemed

almost violet, and trace's of brown curls escaped her bonnet. She
was astonishingly beautiful.
'Your ship? I expected someone much older. If you're really
Daniel Johnson, I'm Clarissa Wilberforce.'
For once Daniel was lost for words, and unsure of what to do.
Did he offer his hand, or bow, or bid her 'good morning' and ask
why she had sent a message requesting him to meet her in the
Botanic Gardens, and why she was painting a picture of the Marie
G which was moored below them in Farm Cove. She solved his
dilemma by putting out her hand, and he took it, with the
presence of mind to bow over it, instead of shaking it like a
man's, and she smiled again, as if impressed.
'Wilberforce,' he said, unable to think of anything brighter,
'there's a town called Wilberforce up
on the Hawkesbury.'
'No relation,' she said.
'Near Windsor, where they grow a lot of wheat. I've brought
shiploads of it down. You have to sail there by Barrenjoey Head
and into Broken Bay.' He felt sure she didn't want to hear this
prattle, but she kept her smile, as if interested in what he was
saying. 'I got a message from one of Sam Lyons' porters that
you'd like to meet me?'
'Mr Lyons was most complimentary. About you, I mean.'
'Sam and me go back a while. I do a lot of work for him.'
'He told me. I was there to buy this easel, and I happened to
ask if he knew anyone who could help?'
'Help with what?'
'Finding out when certain ships arrive, and meeting them.'
'For what?'

She smiled at the wary note in his voice.
'Nothing illegal. Well, not really.'

'You mean slightly illegal?'
'Hardly even that. I have a friend in London who'll send me
out copies of the latest fashions. It occurred to me I could have a
seamstress make up identical gowns, and sell them here
to perhaps
to someone like Mrs James Macarthur.'
'Do you know Mrs Macarthur?'
'Yes. I was the children's governess for a year.'
Governess, he thought. That would explain why she seemed so
much like a lady, but was obviously looking to make a quick
quid. He wondered how she had learned to paint.
'I hope you don't mind,' she indicated the canvas. 'I came
here early to do a watercolour of the banksias, but your ship was
so elegant down there. It tempted me.'
'Elegant?' He admired the almost completed painting. 'You
make it look elegant.'
'Thank you.'
'Would you like to see aboard?'
'I'd love to.'
She packed her box of watercolours, and folded the portable
easel. Daniel carried it down the path to where his dinghy was
moored. They rowed out to the ship, anchored just off-shore. She
admired the vessel, while his crew, mostly old salts and twice his
age, admired her and speculated on her presence. Daniel escorted
her to the stern, where they could talk in private, and fetched a
stool from his cabin for her to sit on. She was impressed by his
natural courtesy and thoughtfulness.
'Marie G? Is she named after a friend?'
'A girl I used to know. We sort of grew up together as kids,
but I ain't I
haven't seen her in a fair while.'
'Hasn't she been aboard her namesake?'



'No. I suppose you'd say we lost touch.' After a moment,
wanting to change the subject, he asked: 'How did you learn to

paint?'
'My father taught me.'
'He was an artist?'
'Yes.'
'Well known?'
'Not very.' She hesitated, then surprised him by adding:
'Unfortunately, like many others who didn't succeed in art, he
turned to forgery.'
'You mean he was a convict?'
'Caught and transported out here twenty years ago, when I
was a small child living in Sussex. My mother never told me. She
said he was dead. She was ashamed for it to be known. When I
was eighteen, a letter came. He'd been pardoned. He was working
here, painting portraits and employed as a secretary to Bishop
Broughton. I wrote back and said we were like impoverished
gentry and
much as I'd love to see him I had no money for the
fare. So he managed to send it, and I came to Sydney.' She turned
and looked at Daniel. 'I can't even begin to imagine why I'm
telling you this. No one else has any idea. I'm Miss Clarissa
Wilberforce, daughter of a London architect who came to see her
friend, Caroline Chisholm, and decided to stay in the colony.'
'Are you really a friend of Mrs Chisholm?'
'Yes, that part of it's true.'
'And what happened to your dad?'
'He was ill when I arrived. He never really recovered. We had
six months together, then he died.'
'I'm sorry,' Daniel said, unsure what to say.
'I'm not,' Clarissa said. 'I'm glad I came. He was kind and

nice, and he taught me all he knew. At least I was here to say
goodbye.'
'And afterwards, you stayed?'
'I couldn't afford to go home. And it began to occur to me
there was not much back there in England. No close friends. No
fiance. A mother who'd lied to me. So I stayed and became a
governess.'
'And still no fiance or
husband?'
She shook her head.
'They must all be mad or blind,' Daniel said.
'I think I'm fussy,' Clarissa replied, 'but it's sweet of you to say
that. Now, can "we talk about my fashions?'
It was sometimes difficult for Daniel to realise that first
meeting had been a year ago. A ship, carrying the sketches arrived
within weeks, and Clarissa had made the necessary copies. She
had also finished the painting of the Marie G and made him a gift
of it. He had taken it home, and when Bess admired it, he had
immediately given it to her as a present. Afterwards he apologised
to Clarissa and tried to explain why he had done it.
'There's no need to be sorry. It was yours, to do whatever you
wanted with it.'
'It's just, she means such a lot to me. More than a mother. I
don't think I can explain, but she's forty, and small and getting a
bit fat, and I love her. Her son's my best friend, and her husband
is kind, a really good man, but Bess Conway is the person who
gave me a new life.'
They had been in Clarissa's small studio, on the top floor of
a large house in Bridge Street. It had been built by Simeon Lord;
once the wealthiest man and this the finest mansion in the town.
Now Lord was dead, and the house divided into lodgings. Clarissa


rented the attic, into which was crowded a desk, her easel and a
narrow bed. She had reached out a hand and held his, while he
told her of his mother's death but
almost nothing of his
father's and
of how, for the first time in his ten-year existence,
he had found comfort and shelter in Bess's ample arms. Because it was such a long time since he had relived that day, and had
never openly spoken of it to anyone outside the family, he had
become emotional. Tears he'd kept unshed for years coursed
down his cheeks. She held tight to his hand, trying to console
him, and it seemed natural to put his arms around her, and then
to cling to each other and begin to kiss her soft warm lips, and
after that, when she responded, to take off their clothes and go to
bed together.
It was the first of many such times. They were in bed now.
Daniel was happily expended after their long, intense lovemaking,
while Clarissa sat in bed looking through the bulky folio
of sketches and designs he had brought her from the Sovereign
Star. Her right breast was just above his eyes. It was firm and
shapely, and he could hardly take his gaze from it. He had once,
in a moment offender affection, been on the verge of asking her
to marry him, but intuitively knew it would be a mistake. She was
at least eight years older than him, and he was worldly enough to
accept that this was enjoyment, it was intense pleasure and a
passionate companionship, but it was not love.
They had done well with the past year's spring and autumn
fashions. Clarissa's share had freed her from working as a
governess, and she had chosen to rent this studio and paint here,
as well as give art lessons to selected students. With the new
sketches from London, which she would have to begin replicating
tomorrow, they would do even better this time.
It had been Daniel's idea to gather the large roster of
seamstresses; as he had told her, why bother selling only to Mrs
James Macarthur when they could sell to the whole of Sydney
society? In this way it had grown from a small group, until they
now had over fifty dressmakers, each eagerly awaiting this
season's new vogue for their wealthy patrons.
'Skirts are fuller and wider, supported by more flounced
petticoats.' Clarissa said.
'Oh, good.' Daniel's hand fondled her breast, and as if
unaware of it she went on studying the designs.
'At least seven underskirts.'
'Seven? The suffering that goes on in the name of fashion. I
hate to imagine what might happen in a high wind.'
She appeared too absorbed to smile. His hand moved down to
her thigh. She seemed not to notice. He slid it between her legs.
'Ankle-length drawers with lace trimming are essential.'
'I'd love you in ankle-length drawers with lace trimming,' he
said. His hand moved, and her body began to respond. She went
on reading as if nothing whatever was happening.
'The day dress retains its high waistline. But the bust line is
lowered for evening wear. Now we come to the hair: high curls are
out, plaited coils and a centre parting to the hair is in.' She was
moving her body faster against his hand, and the speed of her
reading began to increase. 'Smaller bonnets of tulle, with roses
are in style. Veils may be worn in daytime. Fans are essential for
evenings. Daniel, for God's sake stop it. No, I didn't mean that.
Don't stop it. Don't you dare stop! Short gloves for day wear,
long white ones at night. Ladies should carry a small reticule of
velvet or silk, with bead or jewelled embroidery. Oh, my God!
Daniel!'

She tossed the folio aside, and rolled on top of him. She made
,ure he was firmly inside her, and began to ride him until they
climaxed in exhaustion and ecstasy.


Chapter 9

They walked down the lane, past the backyards of terraced
houses that leaned together like drunken companions bathed in
morning sunlight. It was one of those burnished days, the
combination of brilliant sparkle on the water and the sharp blue
of the sky almost painful to the eye.
'Is your artist pleased with the latest fashions?' Matthew asked.
Very. Quite excited about them.'
'Am I going to meet this mystery lady?'
'I doubt it,' Daniel replied. 'She's rather reserved. Keeps to
herself
'But who is she?'
'Her father was an English architect. She teaches art studies
and paints landscapes. She painted the picture I gave Ma.'
'The watercolour of the Marie G? But that was very good. It
was quite professional.'
'Don't sound so surprised, Matt. She is a real artist, not some
amateur. Ah,' he said expectantly, as a nursemaid approached
wheeling a baby in a pram. She was young and wore a long cotton
skirt, her fair hair capped by a bonnet from which curls escaped.
She smiled at Daniel.

'Is he down there?'
'Mending his nets,' she answered. 'Waiting for you.'
Her gaze encompassed Matthew, but they went past without
anything else being said.
'Was that Jack's daughter?' Matthew asked.
'Yes. Works for a family in Cumberland Place. She carries the
messages between Jack and me. It's safer that way.'
'You forgot to introduce me.'
Daniel turned and called to her. She looked back.
'Emily, I'm sorry. This is my friend Matthew.'
'Yes,' the girl said, now wheeling the pram back to where they
stood, 'I know all about Matthew Conway.'
'Do you?' Matthew asked, surprised and pleased.
'I've seen you in the town. You work for your dadda on the Weekly Journal.'
'That's right.'
'Some Currency Lasses are putting on a musical play. And
they want you to write about it for your paper.'
That's right,' he repeated, seeming oblivious of anyone else,
including Daniel standing there. 'Are you going to be in it?' 'I hope so. They've asked me if I want to try out for the
chorus.'
'Then I might see you?'
'Yes, if you're going to put it in your paper,' she said, 'I'm sure
you'll see me.'
'Then I will,' Matthew promised, and at last became aware of
Daniel trying to suppress a grin. 'As soon as they get it all settled
and arranged.'
'I hope it won't be long,' she said. 'It was nice to meet you, Matthew.'

She turned and pushed the pram up the hill, in the direction
of Cumberland Place.
'You gonna watch till she's out of sight?' Daniel asked.
'She's lovely. Fancy old Jack having a daughter like her.' He
reluctantly resumed their descent towards the bay.
'What's this play?' Daniel asked. 'I didn't know you were in
the theatrical business!'
'I'm not. I said I might be able to help, with a story. They're a
group who call themselves The Cabbage Tree Hat Company. I
knew some of them at school.'
'Who else is going to be in it?'
'Well, Marie Geraghty might be.'
Daniel stopped and stared at him. 'You've seen Marie?' Matthew nodded. 'Outside the Maritime Hotel. One day
about a week ago.'
'Why the hell didn't you tell me?'
'You were away up the coast. And also,' he hesitated, 'I
thought you might not be interested.'
'Why not?'
'Well, I had a feeling there could be someone else.'
'Even if that was true,' Daniel said, choosing his words, 'do you
think I wouldn't want to know you'd seen Marie? To hear her news,
what she's doing, how she looks? Does she look the same?'
'More or less,' Matthew said. 'Grown up.'
'Working in the hotel?'
'Apparently. She didn't say a lot about it.'
'Well, what did she say?'
'Told me I was taller, and hoped my parents were well. Asked
how you were, and said she sometimes saw your schooner in the
harbour.'

Daniel looked at him, puzzled.
'It doesn't sound like Marie to me.'
'It wasn't a bit like her. She's completely different.'
'How?'
'I don't know; she just is. I told her that seeing her was good
luck, because my friends had asked me if I thought she'd be
interested in taking a part in the show. They were even thinking
of her for the leading role. She just said, quick as you like, "Tell
them no thanks."'
'No thanks? Did she say why?'
'She wasn't interested in that kind of stuff any more.'
'That kind of stuff?' Daniel looked puzzled. 'But she used to
tell us she was going to take lessons, and be on the stage.
Remember?'
That's why I was surprised. I said they were hoping to hire
a theatre and it might be quite good. We were outside the hotel,
but Geraghty must've heard, because he came out and said no
daughter of his was going to make an exhibition of herself in
public, and told me to push off out, and stop bothering
them.'
'Hasn't changed a bit.'
'Except he's fatter and uglier. Then, as soon as he'd said it,
Marie changed her mind. Turned to me and said to tell my
friends that she'd love to take part.' .
'Just like that?' Daniel asked.
'Yes.'
'What did Geraghty say?'
'Not a word. Nor did she.'
'Really?'

'Just stared at each other, then she said to make sure I passed

on the message. She left us and went inside. He looked at me like
he could kill me. That horrible, snaky look of his. Peculiar, eh?'
'Very,' Daniel said.
They walked down towards the bay and the fishing boat.
'You haven't seen her?' Matthew asked after a moment.
'Not once. I've tried.'
'I used to think you were a bit in love with her.'
'I thought so, too. In a sort of a way. I suppose that's why I
named my ship after her. But I never even heard from her then,
and now I don't expect to.'
'We were all so close, the three of us until
that day.'
'The day the inn burnt down ...' Daniel said, remembering.
'Yes, that day.'
At a jetty down by Soldiers Point they found the old fisherman,
who was drying one net on the dock and mending another.
'Jack, this is Matthew Conway.'
'I remember you, laddie.' They shook hands, and Jack Pearce
said: 'It's tomorrow night, midnight. A barque from Cape Town.'
'How many barrels?'
'They're ten-gallon oak casks. Sixty of 'em.'
Daniel whistled softly. Matthew felt dismay, which must have
been reflected on his face. He realised Pearce was watching him.
'You up to this, Matthew?'
'He's up to it,' Daniel said. 'How did you get the news?' 'The usual way. They semaphored the weather station at
Twofold Bay. Same way Sean and me always did it. A rider came
up the coast this morning with the message.'
'For you or for him?'
'For me. Geraghty keeps well out of it. In the old days when
ships dropped off a barrel or two, he'd come along.'

'You and your fishing trips?'
'Yeah. It was a game then. Not any more. He got greedy. I'm
the silly fool takes all the risks; he just takes delivery and gets his
grog cheap. And sells it dear.'
'Sixty casks. Worth a fortune.'
'Biggest load ever. Half rum, the rest brandy. I'll retire. Me
daughter won't have to be a nursemaid no more. So this means a
lot to me, Daniel. It means a whole new life.'
'You'll get your proper share. You can trust me.'
'I do,' Jack Pearce said. 'Or we wouldn't be here, talkin' like
this.'

There was no moon. It was almost pitch dark, and cold. The
water was calm and sombrous. The gentle slap of the tide against
the piers was the only sound to be heard, and far off they could
glimpse a faint glow of gas lights in the town, like the flicker of
distant candles. They were waiting until the flagstaff and the
weather station on South Head shut down for the night, until
there was no chance of a stray ship to see them take the ketch out
to sea and up the coast fifteen nautical miles to the Barrenjoey
Headland. Even though it meant a delay, it was essential they left
the harbour and returned without anyone knowing.
High above them a velvet sky full of lustrous stars were
almost as bright as the lanterns and the chandeliers of the
harbourside homes. On the Vaucluse hillside behind them, the
brightest of all was William Wentworth's magnificent house.
They could see it from where they waited in the safe obscurity of
Watson's Bay, gazing up at the illuminated parapets. It was vital
to remain silent, or Matthew could have recounted a great deal

about the occupant of the house. The details were not only
recorded in his archival files, but he often encountered the
legendary Wentworth in the Legislative Council.
At first, despite what he knew of him, he had been reluctantly
impressed. The man was a bastard, of course, both in his lack of
loyalty and in the truest sense, since his father, the surgeon
D'Arcy Wentworth, had not felt obliged to marry his mother, the
convict Catherine Crowley. But whatever his origins, Mr
Wentworth had prospered. He had been a celebrity since the age
of twenty when, in company with two others, he had made the
first crossing of the Blue Mountains which opened the inland
path to the western plains. It had not only brought him fame, but
the grant of two thousand lush acres along the Nepean River.
After his mountain triumph, Wentworth had been sent to
England to study law. He was a success in London, but to
London's surprise chose to return to Australia, and once back
there astonished everyone by becoming the leader of the liberal
Emancipist group. He espoused popular causes, supported
reform, and began to be known as the champion of ex-convicts.
Trial by jury and an elected Assembly were two of the causes he
fought for. He even petitioned the House of Commons for self-government
for the colony, and was asked to draft a constitution
for New South Wales. In those days, as Matthew's father had told
him, Wentworth was a hero to the ordinary people, who at last
felt they had a voice.
Then it had all changed.
He had become rich, and with this sudden affluence had
come self-interest and deceit. He had inched his way up in the
social spectrum until he was firmly a member of the ruling
Exclusives, one of the pure merinos as they had become known. He

was now very pure merino indeed, Matthew reflected: not only
landed gentry, but a leading political figure, a member of the bar
council, and a publisher. At the age of forty-six, it was over a quarter of a century since his arduous crossing of the mountains.
These days, as Matthew himself could testify, he hardly walked
from his city office to the Council chambers. He preferred to be
conveyed by his handsome carriage or Sydney's one unique sedan
chair. Jeremy Conway, who had seen this strange sight in
Matthew's company, had privately shaken his head, and
commented that there went a man who might have been the
leader of an independent country, if he hadn't been so eager to
accept his thirty pieces of silver.
Daniel nudged him, disturbing the recollection, signalling it
was time to go. They carefully raised anchor, hoisted sail on the
ketch, then moved out of Watson's Bay. There was a slight swell
as they left the sheltered arm of the harbour and crossed the open
water. The bulky sentinel of North Head loomed above them,
small waves breaking onto its sharp jagged reef. They headed out
into the shadowy sea.
'How will we handle so many?' Matthew asked, now it was
safe to talk.
'I've got it worked out, I think. They'll be roped together and
floating. If the water's calm, we shouldn't have trouble. The main
thing is that Geraghty never latches on.'
'When did Pearce decide to dump him?'
'When Jack came and asked me to find out what each barrel
was worth, and he added up how much he'd been robbed all these
years.'
'Are you planning to do this again, Danny?'
'Depends.'


'On what? You don't need this. You're almost rich.'
'You reckon? I don't know if it's occurred to you, Matt, but
things are changing fast. There's a new ferry company operating
paddle steamers from Balmain. Decks big enough to take
carriages or ox-carts, as well as cattle and horses. Take 'em upriver
to Parramatta, or across to the North Shore in any weather. They
don't need calm seas and a prevailing wind like I do not
with
their steam engines and paddle wheels.'
'A lot of people say they won't last.'
'Believe me, they'll last. Up on the Hunter, there's a shipyard
building more. Bigger ones, two hundred tonners. There's a hell
of a lot of competition on the water and
now there's talk of
starting a railway. Transport'll change. The easy days, when I
made a living rowing people in a dinghy, or took passengers in
the ketch, them days are over. It'd be impossible now. I need big
cargoes and longer voyages to pay the crew. And if you hadn't
noticed, beef and mutton prices are down. So is wheat and wool.
Tough times are coming.'
'So you might need to do this again?'
'I hope not, but I'll do anything to stay afloat.'
'Danny, don't misunderstand; this is the only time for me.'
'I was expecting you to say that.'
'It's not that I'm scared.'
'I know you're not.'
'Pa's worked his guts out so I can take over one day. It'd just
about kill him and Ma, if I ended up on Norfolk Island.'
'I know.'
'They'd feel as bad if it happened to you.'
'Then there's only one way to avoid that. Make bloody sure
we don't get caught.'He laughed, and as if infected by this confidence and a
sudden feeling of adventure that overcame his nervousness, Matthew began to sing one of his favourite folk ballads.

O listen for a moment, lads, and hear me tell the tale.
How o'er the sea from England I was compelled to sail.
The jury says 'He's guilty,' and says the judge, says he,
For life, Jim Jones, I'm sending you across the stormy sea.

And take my tip before you ship to join the iron gang:
Don't get to stay at Botany Bay, or else you'll surely hang They'll
string you up and hang you, and after that, Jim Jones,
High upon the gallows tree the crows will pick your bones.

Daniel joined in, the clang of the rigging and flapping canvas
drowned by their rousing chorus.

You'll have no time for mischief then, remember what I say;
They'll flog the poaching out of you, out there in Botany Bay,
The waves were high upon the sea, the winds blew up in gales I'd
rather drown in misery than go to New South Wales.

And some dark night when everything is silent in the town,
I'll kill the tyrants one by one, I'll shoot the floggers down;
I'll give the law a little shock, remember what I say:
They'll yet regret they sent Jim Jones in chains to Botany Bay.

The ketch began to roll. The dark coastline was on their port Side, the distant silvered waves that foamed onto the beaches
were their only beacon in the stygian sea. Matthew had shrugged

off his nerves; he felt excited, ready to sing again, but Daniel was
more practical.
'We'll reach Barrenjoey in an hour,' he said. 'You get some
sleep. It'll be a long night.'

They heard the sound of the ship, the creak of rigging, then saw
the outline of its tall masts against the stars. It was deep inside
the calm of Pitt Water, where they had anchored and waited for
two hours. The area was deserted; the aboriginal tribe who had
once lived and hunted in this region had drifted away as settlers
attempted to colonise the wooded hillsides. The tribe had sadly
fragmented; some migrating inland, others tempted by the white
man's town, and now to be seen drunk and begging in the streets,
ragged victims in European clothes.
Daniel's ketch was tucked in the lee of a sheltered bay on the
far side of the inlet, sails furled, the white bowsprit covered, the
decks masked with mud and straw, the ketch carefully positioned
against a timbered and foliaged background, so they were almost
invisible in case of a naval cutter or a random customs patrol.
The first splash of a cask sent night-birds into startled flight.
The splashes continued, but less noisily now as if the oak barrels
were being lowered more carefully. They silently counted, not
daring to speak, well aware the sound of their voices would travel
and betray them if this was a trap. It could easily be one, for over
the years Broken Bay and Pitt Water had been extensively used for
smuggling, and if this was where Geraghty and Jack Pearce had
been regularly landing their cargoes, it needed only the slightest
rumour to reach the authorities and they'd have patrols set
around the clock. The position of Controller of the Customs

House was a lucrative sinecure, and the present incumbent would
be more than interested in six hundred gallons of grog that could
so easily be confiscated and disposed of later in a traditional
Sydney manner.
The Cape Town barque had been allowed to drift while
unloading the casks, avoiding the noise of lowering an anchor. So
there was no sound of a winch or clatter of chain to tell them
when she left just
the faint sound of sails shifting to windward
as the ropes ran on their blocks. They could barely make out the
tops of the mast heads receding against the starlight. Then she
was gone into the dark, lost against the charcoal scrub of
Barrenjoey. She would retrace her path down the coast, enter
harbour, stand off until dawn, then like any other lawful traveller,
go to Fort Macquarie to meet the port authority and the customs
boat.
Daniel knew the routine. Jack Pearce had explained it all in
careful detail. After the ship docked, one of its officers would go
to the Maritime Hotel for payment. As Geraghty had done
business with this South African crew several times, Jack hoped
they might not hurry, but it was not something they could count
on. When someone from the ship arrived to be paid, whether
early or late, that was the moment when Sean Geraghty would
begin to wonder why he had not been informed of the grog's
arrival in the usual way.
It could then become dangerous.
He would go looking for Pearce, and be unable to find him.
He would start to suspect, and as his suspicion grew, he would
check with porters and carriers at the quay, then ask questions around the rest of the waterfront, trying to discover which boats
had been out. He must not be underestimated, Jack insisted. The

Irish bastard had the tenacity and cunning of a shithouse rat. It
was vital they were back, moored in Sirius Cove at Archibald
Mosman's wharf by dawn to pick up the cargo they'd already
arranged to collect, which meant they must get back into the
harbour under the cover of dark. That way they couldn't be
spotted by the weather station or the signal men at the South
Head flagstaff. If they arrived back in Sydney Cove with a cargo
from old Archie Mosman, they would not be suspected. But if
Geraghty had even a hint they'd been outside with the ketch the
previous night, he was sharp enough to make the connection.
Which was all very well. It had sounded sensible, but plans
made in daylight on dry land took no account of tides and wind.
Or the difficulties of the pitch dark. Daniel knew time was
against them. They had no choice but to wait like this, silent,
inanimate, making sure there were no lurking runners or
constables ready to move the minute they lit their lanterns.
Because they would need lanterns to find the sixty floating casks
roped together; they would need time to tow them ashore, and
even more time to hide them, and they would need a miracle to
get this done and get back into harbour before the dawn.

Clarissa walked home across the bridge that spanned the Tank
Stream. It was so late that the last of the ale houses had shut, the
drunks had found their way to benches in Hyde Park or wherever
they called home, and the town was strangely, almost ominously,
quiet. She had stayed hours longer than she intended with Mrs
Chisholm, who had insisted two of her girls walk with her, and
now at the bridge, their escort duty done, they bade her goodnight
and waved as she went into her lodging house.

It had been a stimulating evening with Caroline, who was so
full of plans for her proposed trip to London, and her
correspondence with Mr Charles Dickens yes,
she had
confirmed, that Charles Dickens who
had not only promised to
help her raise money for her homes, but also to talk to the
Colonial Secretary about free passages to Australia for emigrant
girls. He was even proposing to dispatch some of the characters
in his future novels to Australia, where he had faithfully promised
they would all prosper and make their fortunes!
It was exciting, just sitting and talking to Caroline. She felt a
trace of regret she could not tell her about Daniel and the fashion
sketches they had sold. It really had been an amazing success this
time, and Clarissa had made a considerable amount from
reproducing the designs; certainly enough to support herself for
the next six months, so that she could continue painting, and be
even more selective with her students. But she doubted if Caroline
would approve of fashions for the wealthy merino ladies, or else
she might suggest it be put to better use supporting her hostels for
destitute girls. Caroline was a saint, her friend acknowledged, while
she herself was closer to a sinner. But she had no wish to return to
the genteel poverty she'd known before meeting Daniel, or to be
forced to resort again to the precarious position of a governess. It
was only the very rich who were able to offer such employments,
and, as she had discovered, their children were often spoiled and
rather arrogant, so it was not the easiest of lives. They were also, as
soon as they were of an age when she might have enjoyed teaching
them, sent to one of the new private colleges in Sydney, or else
consigned to more illustrious schools in England.
She walked upstairs to her attic studio. It was times like this
when she missed Daniel. Mostly now, he spent the night with her

when he was in port. Knowing how close he was to his adopted
family, she wondered what they thought, and gathered he had
given Mrs Conway a complex story about sleeping aboard his
schooner for security reasons when he had important cargo
stored. Apparently she had hugged him and said she hoped it was
someone nice, this cargo, but if Daniel felt this way about her,
then she was bound to be.
Clarissa smiled. She liked the sound of Bess Conway, who
had once stolen a scarf and survived the nightmare of a prison
hulk, and what must have been the odious experience of working
for the Reverend Samuel Marsden; although there were some
already saying he wasn't so bad after all; now that he was dead
they mustn't speak ill of him and
he had done a lot for
agriculture.
Clarissa wondered where Daniel was tonight. He had said he
and his friend Matthew were taking his ketch out, but if it ever
came to any awkward questions, could he insist he had spent the
night here?
'Of course you can, my darling,' she had said.
'I don't want to compromise you,' he'd insisted.
Compromise? At times he surprised her with such words, and
his touching sense of rectitude. It seemed to fit with his easy and
natural courtesy. Both were qualities which greatly attracted her.
He had been, since that first day in the Botanic Gardens, an
unexpected but delightful happening in Clarissa Wilberforce's
' life. There had been lovers before, although not many; two rather
furtive affairs in England, one with a married man, another, even
more furtive, with the eldest son of a duke, of whom great things
had been expected, in particular a practical marriage to a
daughter of city money, and Clarissa, who had been governess to

his younger sister, had been a suitable distraction while various
candidates were canvassed and
one finally chosen for her broad,
child-bearing hips, and her enormous dowry.
She had had one brief liaison with an artist here. With none
of them had she felt the enjoyment, the easy laughter and intense
sexual arousal she felt with Daniel. Although he was nine years
younger, the age difference bothered her not at all. She wished he
was here with her now, so he could well and truly 'compromise'
her. She felt moist with longing, though her fingers were no
substitute, and she fell asleep, dreaming about him being naked
beside her.

They could delay no longer. It had been an hour since the ship left;
if there were customs or constables, so be it. They lit lanterns and
began to hoist enough sail to go in search of the floating casks.
'Rising tide. They'll drift westward,' Daniel said, but knew it
would not be easy. There was a wide expanse of water. The
lanterns shed only a paltry light; he had to handle the sails, while Matthew perched in the bow and tried vainly to see beyond the
few feet of water ahead of him. They made one run towards the
opposite shore, but the casks had clearly drifted further.
'The bloody lanterns don't show enough light,' Matthew
complained. 'If we had even a trace of moon we could see them.'
But there was no moon. And no trace of the casks bobbing on
the pitch-black water.
Time was now a serious concern. The chance of them
returning to harbour before dawn was decreasing. With each
minute, Jack Pearce's carefully contrived plan was coming apart.

Earlier that night, Pearce had rowed his fishing boat out of
Cockle Bay, skirting ships at anchor, and with steady, fluent
strokes had gone like a shadow past Sydney Cove and the sentinel
at Fort Macquarie. He rowed past the lights glowing in 'Carthona',
Sir Thomas Mitchell's new house which was a replica of an
English mansion built at the water's edge, while high on the
hillside he could see Wentworth's fancy home lit up like a ship's
beacon.
He had carefully calculated the tide, and beached his longboat
in the shadow of the southern head, where he stepped ashore and
set it adrift. One oar he left hanging in a rollick, while tossing the
other into the water. It was a pity, but it had to look like an
accident, convincing enough to keep Geraghty unsure and
puzzled for a few days. After that it would no longer matter.
He had watched the boat drift into the dark, then made his
way up the steep slope in search of the South Head Road. It was
at least a two-hour walk back to town, and he was aware there was
still a danger of footpads along this track, but apart from a
carriage passing, forcing him to hide in the roadside bushes until
it was out of sight, the walk had proved uneventful.
Now he was back home, foot-sore from the long trek, while
trying to decide what to take and what to leave behind. He had
few things of value, so the choice would not be difficult, but it
was important to leave the tiny shed where he lived as if he would
soon return. It was a daub-and-wattle shack, with a palm roof, a
quaint reminder of the past allowed
to remain standing because
it was hidden by a profusion of wattle and silky oaks at the end
of Henry Guthrie's garden.
Guthrie had by far the largest tenure of land in Cumberland
Place. The property virtually was Cumberland Place, and the flour

miller and merchant had built it when he made his fortune forty
years earlier. Henry Guthrie was seventy-four when he married for
the second time, a twenty-six-year-old parson's daughter. The dirty
jokes about getting a young man to lift him on and off were
silenced when she produced two male children, both the image of
him. They hired Emily Pearce as the children's nurse, and offered
the shed as a home for her father. It suited the fisherman; accessible
to his boat moored near Soldiers Point below, he could bring his
nets home to mend them. He patched the old palm roof with
canvas and tar, and the shed became his home for several years.
Until now. In the early morning he would be gone, although
the shed would convey the impression he would return. So would
Emily, at least for several days, but then she would gradually
express growing alarm at his absence, particularly as his longboat
was missing from its usual place. She would ask Mr and Mrs
Guthrie to use their influence to arrange a search, and like a
dutiful daughter show signs of grief when the floating craft was
found without him.
Jack Pearce had planned this ever since the day he had found
out Geraghty had been cheating him for years, giving him a few
shillings when they smuggled in barrels of brandy, which Geraghty
then bottled and sold for thirty times as much. It was something
he had suspected for a while, but until he asked young Daniel to
do a few sums for him, he had no idea of the extent of his
erstwhile partner's duplicity. He had remained silent; it would
have been pointless to confront Geraghty, and instead had waited
for word of a really big delivery. This, at last, was it. He was going
to score tonight; Geraghty was going to find out to his cost Jack
Pearce was not such a gullible fool after all. The Irish bastard
would pay for thinking so.

After a time, Emily would bid a sad farewell to the Guthries,
and join him in Moreton Bay. There was good fishing up there,
and he'd have enough money to set up in business; buy a better
boat, something a bit lighter and easier to handle for his old age,
and make a few quid to give his only daughter a decent start in
life. It would all work out. He knew it would; he had the greatest
confidence in young Daniel.

It was Matthew who found the floating casks. When they made a
second crossing, and still failed to see them, Matt had stripped
off and said he'd have a better chance if he was down in the water
at their level, so he could sight anything bobbing on the surface.
'Don't be a bloody fool,' Daniel said. 'It's freezing in there.
And besides, there's sharks.'
'It's too cold for sharks,' Matthew told him, and dived in.
It was bitter in the water. He came up gasping. He swam
alongside the ketch, at times holding on when he felt so chilled
he was afraid of a cramp, then striking out as he went in pursuit
of shadows he thought were the casks. Once he was sure he'd
found them instead
it was a log of wood, and the disappointment
was so acute that he lay on it for a moment, resting and beginning
to despair. The only alternative seemed to be to climb back on
board, try to get warm and wait until the first dawn light then find the cargo, tow it ashore and leave it hidden. But if they did
that, it would raise all kinds of questions about where they had
been, and would leave Jack Pearce's scheme in tatters.
Fifteen minutes later, on the point of giving up because the
freezing water was making him lose all feeling in his arms and
legs and causing his head to ache, he finally did sight the casks.

He raised his arm to signal Daniel, who could not see him in the
dark. Rather than risk a shout, he swam towards the sound of the
flapping sails, and called softly. Just in time as
he was virtually
on the point of collapse he
felt Daniel hauling him aboard.

Emily slipped out of the house, waited for a few moments in case
Mrs Guthrie might still be awake, then hurried to meet her
father. He was waiting for her outside the shed, with only a small
bag of his belongings. He hugged her. She could tell he was very
nervous.
'I'll be off.' he said. They spoke in whispers.
'Take care, Papa.'
'You remember what you have to do?'
'Yes.'
'You know where I'll be. Don't visit unless it's urgent.'
'I won't. I'll be careful.'
'Get a message to one of the boys if you need help. Daniel will
be making contact with you about the money. If Sean Geraghty
comes round for me, don't be scared. Remember, you don't know
nothin'. Just behave like you're worried for me, and can't imagine
what's happened.'
"You think he'll suspect?'
'He'll suspect. But if I'm missing and
the boat's found
empty, what can he do? He can't go to the law and say I robbed
him of smuggled grog. I only wish you could scarper with me, but
then he'd set hounds on us for sure.'
'Don't worry about me, Papa. If he's difficult, I'll go to Mr
Guthrie. Say he's asking for you, making threats. Only if I have
to.'

'I wish there was an easier way, Emily.'
'Better go, Papa. I should get back to the house, before they
wonder where I am.'
He hugged her again, then said abruptly: 'G'bye, girl. Gawd
bless.'
He slipped over the back fence of the Guthrie estate, and
walked swiftly away, past the outline of St Phillip's Church.
Ahead of him were the lanes where there were no mansions, just
slums with the smell of sewerage from squalid back yards, where
there was no gaslight in the streets, and it was dark and safe.

It was a miracle, Matthew thought. No one but Daniel could have done it. Yet somehow they were back there in Sirius Cove, and it was
still not quite daybreak. Soon they would be able to make out the
huge jetty that convicts had built for Archibald Mosman, and see
his imposing home on the hill high above them.
They had come around North Head in the pitch dark, sailing
dangerously close to the reef to avoid any chance of being seen by
some nocturnal signal man at the flagstaff, or any scientist from
the weather station on the southern head. It had been a desperate
race against the dawn, ever since they had used boathooks to
grasp the ropes that bound all the casks together in a long line,
and towed them as near to the mangroved shore as the keel
would allow. Matthew was still frozen, his limbs stiff with cramp,
but he tried exercising vigorously to restore his circulation while
Daniel felt the markings on the lead line that sounded the depth
of water. Two leather strips they
were in two fathoms. He felt
the single notch, and when they were in less than one fathom
which allowed only inches of clearance, the anchor splashed

down, and they both went over the side up to their waists in the
freezing water.
'Shit,' Daniel gasped, realising now what Matt had endured.
They hauled on the ropes, dragging the line of floating casks
into the shallows behind a screen of mangroves. It was not the
original plan, which had been to cut them loose, drag each one
up the beach and hide them in thick bush way beyond the tidal
mark. This was something they had decided to improvise in order
to make up some lost time. It was riskier, but it would save an
hour, and the chances of anyone being out here in the mangroves
stumbling over the casks was unlikely. They roped them well. At
low tide the casks would sit on the mud; by belaying the rope
securely to the thick mangrove stems their precious cargo would
float each time the tide rose, but could not float away.
It took half an hour. They climbed back on board. Matthew
hauled up the anchor; Daniel set full sail, and they headed for the
Broken Bay entrance where Barrenjoey blocked out the eastern
starline.
In the open sea the breeze had freshened, but turned in their
favour, and they gathered speed past succeeding beaches where
the breaking waves seemed almost phosphorescent. There were at
least twelve crescent bays, and long stretches of sand where they
could hear the sound of the sea pounding the shore, audible over
the gusting wind in their sails. The stars were becoming pale as
they sighted the waves washing the rocky feet of the northern
headland, and Daniel hauled down most of the canvas to make
them less detectable as the ketch crept through the mammoth
entrance, hugged the shelter of the dark shore line, while they
found their way into Sirius Cove.

Chapter 10

Marie could hear him yelling abusively at the delivery men. as
they unloaded beer barrels from the brewery cart and rolled them
into the tap room. He had been in a foul temper all day, but she
had no intention of asking him why had
no wish to be told the
details of what had put him in such a rage, or to communicate
with him in any manner.
Her own plans were carefully made. It had taken a long time.
The tiny amount of money had been difficult to save, and even
harder to hide so he could not find it. Her life, since that terrible
day several years before, had been endurable only because so
much of her time had been spent devising a way to escape him,
and the frigid detachment in which they existed was the only way
she could bear being in the same premises with him, until that
time came.
But the temper was intriguing her. It was becoming worse.
No one seemed safe from his frenzy, which had begun in
midmorning, when the First Officer from the African Star had
come to the Maritime Hotel to talk with him. Geraghty she
had
ceased to think of him as her father had
been downstairs in the
cellar. The First Officer, whom she knew had a fancy for her, had

appeared pleased to have the chance to talk, and acquainted her
with the fact they'd had a good journey from Cape Town; only
one brief storm off Mauritius, and a big cargo to unload, which
meant they would be in the port for several days. They might even
chance to bump into each other, he suggested, which was his first
positive move in the direction towards which he had been slowly
navigating, but before she could respond to this she had heard
the cellar door being bolted.
That'll be him now,' she said. 'I'll leave you together.' As she
went upstairs she saw the disappointment on the officer's face.
She knew, of course, there had been a big increase in the
amount of spirits Geraghty smuggled, since that day when
Daniel had first told her. Then it had been a barrel here and there;
nowadays it was far more, although he was secretive and she
would not ask. She did know, because of the First Officer and
others like him, that the African Star was only one of several ships
with which he dealt. Which meant the cargo vessel had brought
in brandy or rum for him, and last night it had changed hands,
somewhere outside the harbour and beyond the surveillance of
the customs. It also meant the officer was here for the payment,
and over the next few days the grog would be brought in small
amounts at a time by longboat, hidden under Jack Pearce's
fishing nets. She had long ago realised the way it was done, but
lever the times it was to happen, or the amounts involved.
She heard shouting from downstairs. Geraghty's voice loud
and disbelieving, and then the First Officer's quieter answer. She
edged her way to the balustrade on the landing, able to catch
some of the words without being seen from below.
'He never said a single bluddy thing ter me. When was it?'
'Last night,' she heard the officer reply.

Where?'
'Same place. Inside Barrenjoey Head.'
'How many?'
The officer muttered a number which she could not hear. But
she did hear Geraghty's shocked reply.
'Jaysus,' he shouted. 'That's six hundred fuckin' gallons.'
Marie stepped back, in case her astonishment betrayed her. It
made it more difficult to hear, but she did manage to make out
the First Officer saying Mr Geraghty would no doubt receive his
goods, as he had always done for the past few years, and
meanwhile the captain had sent a notice of revenue owed, and
would prefer the sum in sterling notes, not the local currency. No
offence, he said, but sterling was safest. You knew where you were
with the Bank of England.
'You tell yer fuckin' captain I'll pay him as soon as I see the
grog.' It was obvious from his voice he was losing control.
She heard the door slammed shut behind the South African
as he went out, and Geraghty's shout.
'Marie? Get here! Where are yer?'
She made no attempt to answer, and was just in time to slip
inside the parlour and pick up a duster as the door was pushed
open.
'Didn't yer hear me call?'
She almost snapped back, almost returned his aggression
with her own invective, but reason told her to remain calm,
'preserve the icy hatred that had been her shield for over a year,
since the last time he had come into her room late at night, and
she had fought and scratched like a tigress, a silent struggle while
he tried to force her legs apart, and on the point of winning had
clamped his hand across her mouth to stop her scream, and her

teeth had crunched with all the force she could muster, and
almost shredded his finger to the bone.
He had been the one who screamed, and fallen off her bed
and onto the floor in agony, and it was then she said to him her voice as sharp as a stiletto that
if he ever tried it again, she
would go to the magistrate and lodge a declaration of every single
thing he had done to her since she was fifteen years old. If he
thought she didn't have the nerve to face up to a Beak, it would
happen after he was dead; it would be her confession when she'd
killed him, stabbed him as he was sleeping. She had even, she told
him, stolen and hidden the knife.
The big butcher's carver, the one missing from the scullery.
You won't find it. It's razor sharp, and you'll go to bed and
wonder if you dare close your eyes. Because I want to kill you,
don't ever forget that. It could happen any time perhaps
even in
the bar, when you're busy. That might be best in
front of
everyone. They might applaud before they hang me, for getting
rid of an evil, vicious rat.'
He'd looked at her as if she was mad, but since that night had
never tried to touch her again. Even though he had stayed away,
she had made certain she kept control by her distant and frosty
demeanour, and now was not the time for a retort that could lead
to any kind of brawl. Remain detached, that was best. She hoped
to be gone soon enough from here.
'I said, didn't yer bluddy hear me?'
She felt spray as he almost shouted the question in her face,
and she used the duster to wipe her cheek with disdain.
'I heard. I was working, and I don't run to do your bidding.
Please don't come so close your
breath's stale with beer, and
you spit when you talk.'

'You bloody bitch --' he began.
'Stop your abuse, and say what you want.'
'Was Jack Pearce here any time yesterday?'
'Not to see me. Jack Pearce is your business.'
'I said was he here?'
'If he was, I don't know of it. I didn't see him.'
'He never left any message for me?' he persisted.
'I didn't see him. So how could he leave a message?'
'Are you certain o' that? You bluddy sure you never forgot?'
He was in such a state of alarm and agitation, she thought he
might slap her from sheer frustration. She stepped away and
took up a broom, trying to look disinterested in what he had to
say.
'I didn't forget. I didn't see Pearce. I haven't seen him in a
long time. Now if there's nothing else, I'll get on with my work.'
He stood and stared at her for a moment, as she began to
sweep, then deciding there was no point in pursuing the
conversation, he hurried below. She could hear him ordering the
senior barman to take over the till, and she watched carefully
from the window as he almost ran out of the hotel. He began to
stride off, then changed his mind and crossed instead to a horse
cab. She could see that he gave an address before he climbed in.
The driver flicked the horse's rump, and drove off.
A horse cab! she thought, startled. And something gone wrong with
the delivery of six hundred gallons of spirits. She knew the prices he charged in the bar to the sailors who came into the port after the
whaling season with full wallets, and the exorbitant amount he
demanded from those Aborigines who sold their fish for the money
to buy gin. Six hundred gallons was worth a fortune. No wonder he
was in such a state and
so anxious to find Jack Pearce.

She watched as the cab disappeared from sight towards
Argyle Street which
was how she came to glimpse something
else at the window before she moved away. Amid the busy hub of
shipping vessels
arriving or departing, the two big American
men-of-war at anchor, the barque from the Cape, a dozen other
ships from Europe or the East India Company alongside wharves,
all taking on or unloading cargoes she
glimpsed the nostalgic
sight of Daniel's ketch, like a cheeky terrier threading its way past
greyhounds of the sea and dodging between the haughty
thoroughbreds.
At least that's what it looks like, she thought with a smile, seeing
him tie up at Campbell's Wharf, then realising with surprise that Matthew was also on board.
She went to get the telescope. She could see them both so
clearly. Daniel had a cargo. Crates of some sort, which they were
both starting to unload onto a porter's cart. He must have gone
out during the night or long before the dawn. He often did, she
knew, but there was something different about this.
Something odd.
Then she realised what was puzzling her. It was so exactly like
they were in the old days, when the three of them were children;
Daniel with his dinghy and the ketch, long before her
heart did
a silly flutter at the thought of it the Marie G. But it was
different now. At least it should have been. Because Matthew was
busy working with his father on their weekly news sheet and in
the printery. He would hardly be taking time off to go on jaunts
like this with Daniel. It was unusual, but she began to realise no
one else would know that, except her. She watched for a time,
then reluctantly put the telescope in its case.
But the thought remained. It was curious.

She tried to dismiss it, yet it stayed at the back of her mind.
It simply would not go away.


Geraghty told the driver of the horse cab to wait, knocked on the
imposing front door, and was confronted by a uniformed lackey,
who told him to go around to the servants' entry.
'Don't gimme none o' that shit,' Geraghty said, his anxiety by
this time making him almost incoherent with rage. 'Where's that
fuckin' Pearce?'
The servant, who had been Henry Guthrie's butler for many
years, had been chosen for his ability to deal with intrusions like
this. He did not approach it like his peers in England might have
done; he had a strictly local style.
'Git your smelly arse to the back door, you miserable prick,
which is where dirty sods like you belong,' he said, almost
cheerfully, as though it was a pleasure to vent his vernacular on
scum, instead of putting on an act for Mr Guthrie's posh
friends.
It had its effect on Geraghty, who expected politeness at such
a grand house, and certainly not this kind of welcome.
'I wanna see Jack Pearce,' he said.
'Well,' the butler told him, relishing this, 'you go round to the
back lane. You knock on the back gate, and if Mister Pearce
happens to be in residence, then he'll answer. If not, he won't.
Now fuck orf.'
'English turd,' Geraghty said, which was a serious mistake.
'On second thoughts,' the butler told him, 'Mister Guthrie
said we gotta be careful what sort of gits we get in the
neighbourhood. I better send the footman for a constable. 'E can




report what kind of person you are, and let the law decide what's
to be done.'
'For Christ's sake,' Geraghty began to shout, then realised it
would not help his cause. 'Beg pardon,' he said with as much
goodwill as he could manage, 'but Mr Pearce is a business
associate of mine. It would be a kindness if you could arrange for
me to see 'im.'
'The back fucking gate,' the butler said with relish. 'Or I'll
have the coppers round to well-and-truly sort you out.'
The back gate was locked. Geraghty contemplated kicking
out some fence palings, but climbed over and approached the
shed. It was tiny, almost hidden among the trees; like one of the
old huts people had lived in once, wattle-and-daub with a patched
roof. The grounds were huge but kept as neat and tidy as a
botanical garden. It was amazing here in The Rocks, but old
Guthrie had been one of the early ones to make a fortune, and
had owned this place for years. No doubt a few hundred convicts
had been assigned here once, to cart soil and plant the garden.
The shed had no window; he rapped on the door and found
it ajar. He looked inside. A straw mattress on a wooden frame
occupied most of the tiny space. A few old clothes hung on a nail.
Apart from fishing lines and a net half-mended lying in a corner,
there was little else. He thought of searching the place, but there
was clearly no point. If Pearce was not coming back, he had left
no clue to his whereabouts here.
Outside, he looked through the silky oaks towards the back
of the house, wondering if a call at the servants' door and the
offer of a few sovereigns would extract information from that uniformed clown, and deciding it would be a waste of time. As he
was about to leave, he saw a girl's face at the upstairs window. She

moved back out of sight, but he instantly remembered. Jack
Pearce was given this shed to live in by the Honourable Henry
Guthrie, because his daughter worked here as the nursemaid.
He'd seen her walking one of the children in a pram; she was
about seventeen, and quite a pretty little piece. She was the girl
upstairs watching him, and Sean Geraghty was so well versed in
the craft of deceit and treachery that he wondered what made her
so curious and
thought he knew why.

Emily realised the man had seen her. She already guessed from
the butler's description it was the landlord of the Maritime
Hotel. Her father had told her he was a brute, and to be careful of
him. Mr Tofler, the butler, had declared that he was 'not a
gentleman', which could mean almost anything.
Mr Tofler, when she first arrived here, had told her his
Christian name was Wellington, on account of his daddy had
been with the Iron Duke at Waterloo, only he'd deem it a privilege
if she would consider calling him Will.
'Of course,' she had agreed. 'Wellington is rather grand, but
Will is much more friendly.'
Mr Tofler had been most encouraged, and while showing her
around the house and explaining the rules, said he realised he
was a few years older well,
perhaps a bit more then a few but she seemed a nice girl with good manners and polite ways, and he
wouldn't mind sharing his comfortable butler's quarters and
engaging in a bit of 'ow'syer-father now it was winter, just to
keep them warm. If she knew what he meant.
'I know what you mean, you old bastard,' Emily said, and
gave him a sisterly kiss.

She thought she might have upset him, but the opposite was
true. She'd won his heart; he'd so often had his face slapped after
making similar suggestions, but this was the first time he'd
earned a kiss, and it gave him secret hope for the days to come.
He also managed a pat on her trim, rounded, and truly excellent
bottom. He rarely missed an opportunity for a close encounter,
so the moment Geraghty had been dispatched from the front
door, Mr Tofler hurried up to the nursery to inform her that a
person was enquiring for her father. Which was why she had
foolishly looked out the window, and was now explaining to Mr
Tofler Will
that
the man owned a hostelry at the Circular
Quay, and was a former fishing friend of her papa's, only they
had fallen out, had a row over who caught the biggest bream,
and, fishermen being what they were, they had become enemies
over this silly quarrel.
Mr Tofler said he knew fishermen, and could well believe it.
He had no liking for the person, and if he was to cause even the
slightest trouble, his instinct was to call the police. Emily declared
that in her opinion, Will was a man whose instinct she would
trust absolutely; if he felt this she would support him. Not only
support him, but perhaps to keep warm next winter they might
even consider ... She stopped there and smiled, saying he must
be kind and give her more time, since she was a virgin and little
more than a child.
Mr Tofler took her hand and pressed it to his lips; his heart
was pounding, and it appeared that his chances were on the rise.
Not only his chances. He could feel an alarming and embarrassing
monument to his emotions already beginning to swell between
his legs.

In Argyle Street, Sean Geraghty paid off the horse cab, and he
decided to make his way back to Guthrie's house. He had known
and cheated Jack Pearce for a good many years, and thus was well
aware of the way his former partner's mind worked. It was not a
complex mind. Jack would certainly have entrusted his only child
with what he planned to do; therefore the girl he had seen so
briefly at the upstairs window was the key to a very large amount
of money. It was essential for him to regain this money; not only
for its value, but because in the world of deceit which he
inhabited, the deceived were scorned. Geraghty had no wish to be
mocked for being cheated by an old fisherman and a nursemaid.
He found a shadowed spot where he could watch the house,
and was prepared to wait for as long as it took to find him.



After they unloaded the cargo from Sirius Cove, Daniel and Matthew sailed the ketch around to Cockle Bay. From her
window at the hotel, Marie Geraghty saw them go, put on a shawl
and a bonnet, and hurriedly left the premises.
On the short journey around the point, they both expressed
their concern. Sirius Cove had been essential, a cloak to cover
possible suspicion, but it had taken two hours and they were
aware there was a serious time factor now involved. As Jack Pearce
had explained, the South Africans would come for payment and
Geraghty would learn of the delivery for the first time. He would
protest he knew nothing of it; no doubt refuse to pay, which was
when the ship's officers would tell him where they had left the
contraband.
Geraghty would be bound to raise a search, but it might take
him a day or two. Or else the crew would try to retrieve the cargo,

once they had unloaded and were ready to put to sea again. If they
were not paid, they would be unlikely to leave without attempting
to recoup their loss. Pitt Water was a large uninhabited area, and
the chance of the casks being found was remote but
a search
would seal off any chance of their return to the vicinity. Urgency
was vital. They had, they estimated, perhaps twenty-four hours.
'What do we do?' Matthew asked, as they tied up at the jetty.
'It's a real bugger. If we'd had time to hide the grog properly,
the casks could have stayed there for months.'
Then what?'
'Then gradually been brought back by handcart, through the
bush and down to Middle Harbour. A few at a time, when we had
the buyers. Might take up to a year to sell it all. That wouldn't
matter.'
'But what about Jack Pearce he'll
need his money?'
'I'm not forgetting Jack,' Daniel said. 'It's best if he gets out
of Sydney as soon as possible. Safer for him. The deal was a quid
a gallon. That's six hundred pounds.'
'Well, don't look at me,' Matthew said.
'I've got it, Matt in
the bank. I'll pay his share in cash. I even
know a man with a handcart I can trust, to help us later on ...'
'Hang on,' Matthew said, 'if you can square up with Jack,
what's to stop us doing like you said? Hide the casks till it's
safer?'
'Time. Your pa's expecting you back to start work --'
'This is an emergency. Could we take the Marie G out just the two of us?'
'We might, if we didn't need much sail. But we'd be in big
trouble if we ran into weather. Besides, there's the crew. If we go
alone, there'd be talk.'

'Then we take the ketch. How long out there to hide those
casks properly? Two hours? Three?'
'Depends on the tide.' Daniel thought for a moment. 'It'll be
falling, but that'll help us. Two hours should be enough.'
'If we left soon, could we get it done and be back in by dark?'
'Just about.' Daniel began to feel interest. 'What's our story?
Where've we been?'
Matthew hardly hesitated. 'Looking for Jack Pearce. Emily's
worried ... his boat's out... he should be home. I persuaded
you because
I'm keen on her.'
'Let's do it. That's what I call quick thinking.' He looked at Matthew with a grin. 'And are you keen
on her?'
'Give me ten minutes,' Matthew replied, ignoring this. 'I've
got to explain to Pa that it's an urgent sea search for a friend. I'll
work all night to make up.'
They both knew Jeremy would not be pleased, for there was a
backlog of printing orders, as well as the time-consuming chore
of type setting for the next edition of the Journal to be
completed.
'Tell him I'll help you tonight.'
'Right.'
'And about Emily when
you don't answer a question, the
answer is usually yes.'
'Be back soon,' Matthew called as he ran off, 'with food.'
Daniel felt stimulated by the thought of what they were
going to do. It was all of a sudden like the old times; he and Matthew, with Matt providing the bright ideas. That was when
he turned and saw Marie Geraghty walking towards him.
'Hello, Daniel,' she said, as if it had been days and not years
since they were last here.



'Marie ...' He was startled to see her; pleased, but in view of
the circumstances, wary.
'How's my three-master?'
'She's beautiful'
'I often see her in the harbour. It was a nice thing you' did,
Daniel. I was really thrilled and proud when I saw that name on
the bow. I sometimes use the telescope to watch you sailing
past.'
'I'm glad,' he said. 'What brings you down this way?'
'Just out for a walk. Fresh air.'
'How's the pub?'
'Always busy. Stinks of ale. That's why I need fresh air.'
There was a slight pause, then she glanced at him.
'I wondered if you'd seen Jack Pearce?'
Daniel suddenly knew this was not a casual encounter.
'Jack? Why?'
'My father's looking for him,' she said.
'Is he?'
'What's more, he's in a vile temper, and Jack Pearce seems to
be the cause of it.'
'I can't imagine why,' Daniel said carefully.
'Perhaps not,' she shrugged.
They knew each other too well. She could already feel his
concern; he was certain beyond doubt she had an ulterior
purpose.
'I saw you unloading at Campbell's Wharf,' she told him.
'So you came round to say hello? Or to say what?'
'To tell you to be careful. Because he's on the track of Jack
Pearce, and there's sixty casks of spirits missing. That's all I wanted to say.'

'Marie,' he said, as she began to turn away. 'Not that I know
what you're talking about but
where's your father now?'
'I'd make a guess he's up around Guthrie's place. Isn't that
where the daughter works, and old Jack has a panny in the garden
there?'
Oh shit, he thought, hoping Emily stayed inside the house,
and Jack kept well away. He wished he could use Marie to
somehow alert the girl, but it was impossible. He was unsure,
after so long, if he could trust her. Once they had shared their
secrets, but now she was grown up; grown up a beauty as he had
expected, but Matthew had been right she
was different. There
was something elusive that puzzled him. An anger; it almost
seemed as if she carried some kind of grudge, some inner rage,
but he discarded the notion as fanciful.
'Marie ... listen ...' He thought it best, since she might see
the ketch heading out to sea again, to explain why. 'Emily Pearce
is a friend of Matt's. She's worried about her dad. We're going out
to look for his fishing boat. It's missing.'
'Like all those casks,' Marie said. And smiled.
She knew. She knew, somehow. But she couldn't know. He tried to remain casual, giving her a smile in return.
'Well, I better get the sails ready. Matthew will be back any
time. Or maybe you'd like to stay and say hello to him?'
She made no response to this. Almost deliberately seemed to
dismiss it, and instead looked intently at him.
'If ever I need a favour, Daniel, you will remember I came here
today, won't you? To warn you.'
'Warn me about what?' He did his best to look puzzled, but
she ignored the question, so he tried another. 'What sort of
favour?'

'I might need to borrow money. Would you help me?'
'If I can,' he said, after rather a long time. The realisation that
this was open blackmail repelled him. 'How much money?'
'I don't know yet. Enough to get me out of this godforsaken
bastard of a town,' she said with a violence that startled him. 'I've
been trying to save for two years, but how can I when he pays
nothing? Takes a long time, Danny, filching a few coppers here,
snitching a shilling there, to get enough for a passage to
Melbourne or Hobart.'
'What's so special about Melbourne or Hobart?'
'I couldn't tell you what's special. What's important is the
distance. They're both a long way from here.'
'Marie, for God's sake, what's happened?'
She seemed about to reply, then shrugged and smiled, and it
was obvious this was not what she had intended to say.
'I don't like my da, but that's no secret. I was never too struck
on him, any more than you were. I want to go on the stage, only
he'd put a stop to it. So the best thing for me is to make a new
life, a new start somewhere else. Melbourne, Hobart maybe after all they're not far enough. Perhaps London now there's a
place.'
'London,' he said, staring at her. She was different.
'How much would it cost to get to London, Daniel, and how
could I get there without him knowing? Just pack a bag, slip away
and go, and him left with never a notion where. Could you help
me do that? It's a big favour, but who else can I ask except you?'

Bess Conway couldn't stop worrying about Emily Pearce's father
being missing, perhaps drowned, and wondered what she could

do. She went down to the cellar where Jeremy was hard at work,
and told him to take five minutes rest for once, and give her some
advice. She made him a cup of tea, while they talked about
whether they could help.
'Not much we can do, love. Neither of us can sail or swim. It's
best left to the boys. They'll spend the day searching.'
'Poor girl, she'll be worried. Matthew was talking about her
yesterday. Quite a lot about her. He said she's pretty.'
'Not beautiful, like you? Just pretty?'
'Stop it, Jeremy,' she said, and when he started to remove his
arm from around her waist, she smiled and prevented him: 'I
didn't mean that, you daft man. Stop talking so soft. What can I
do?'
'Nothing, Bess. If anyone can find him, they will.'
Later in the day, she still felt concerned. Jeremy was right,
they could do nothing, but at least she could reassure Emily the
boys were out looking for her father. It was only a fifteen-minute
walk each way, and besides, it might give her a chance to see for
herself whether
Emily was pretty or not. So she put on her
bonnet, walked through the busy George Street Market where
she asked her favourite fruit monger to save her a bunch of his
best carrots and a cabbage, then made her way along York Street,
past the military barracks and the old windmill, and reached the
corner of Cumberland Place.
She paused for a moment to look at the wonderful view, the
ships at anchor, the tall masts and rigging in the crowded harbour.
Over there she could see Daniel's Marie G on her mooring. She and
Jeremy had been on board several times now, including the day of
the whaleboat races. The first time she had gone with slight
trepidation, but it was not a bit like the dirty convict transport



which had been her only sea voyage; it was newly painted and
shining clean, and Daniel himself was so pleased they had come to
see it, and had introduced them to the crew as his mother and
father. Bess had felt she might cry with pride, and even more so
when he showed her his neat ship's log, and the entries he kept for
the harbour officer, and had told his bosun how it was her, his ma,
who had taught him to read and write.
She smiled and went towards the house. More of a mansion
it was, with such fine grounds and gardens. Even grander than
Marsden's place, with all its acres. As her gaze took in the palatial
appearance of the property, she failed to notice a figure on the
slope above who was watching her intently from the cover of a
wattle bush.

Sean Geraghty saw a stout, middle-aged woman stop outside the
imposing front gates. He felt he knew her, but could not
remember from where. She walked along the side of the house to
the servants' entrance. She rang the bell, and Geraghty pulled
hurriedly back into even thicker bushes, as he saw it answered by
the pompous uniformed creep who had given him such short
shrift earlier.
The butler nodded and went away, and a few moments later
the girl appeared. They conversed only briefly; the woman seemed
to be doing most of the talking, and the girl smiled and nodded,
as if thanking her. The door closed as she went inside, and the
stout woman began to walk away.
Missus Conway, Geraghty suddenly remembered. Missus
Conway, mother of one of those convict kids down on the bay,
who were always hanging around Marie. Matthew Conway, and

that young cheeky bastard Daniel. What the hell was Ma Conway, the printer's wife, doing visiting Pearce's daughter? And bringing her a
message, by the look of it.

They were lucky with a light breeze, a winter westerly all the way
to Barrenjoey, lucky with the tide when they reached the
mangroves. It was on the rise, and they were able to use the
fishing knives Daniel kept on board to saw through the solid
hemp, and half-drag, half-float four casks at a time to the firm
ground where the mudflats ended, and the dense scrub began.
Then they rolled them into the thick bushes.
It was a mild July day, the sheltered calm of Pitt Water making
it easy for them to work, able to see what had been impenetrable
by night. They stripped off their shirts and shoes, working hard,
ignoring the chill of the water and the mangrove mud oozing
between their toes. They wasted no breath or time in talk, and in
under two hours, despite their fatigue from not having slept the
job was done, the cache of contraband completely hidden by
natural bushland. No search would ever uncover it.
Before leaving they made a map, taking careful sightings and
marking trees, so they would be able to find the spot no matter
how many weeks it was before they returned, and how much the
vegetation might grow with the onset of spring. They also carried
two casks back with them on the return trip, which Daniel
intended to sell to his Yankee officer friends on board the
American warship. They had come prepared for this with ropes
and weights to suspend the casks beneath the ketch once they
neared harbour, although the likelihood of a customs search was remote. Particularly as they had explained to the duty officer at
;rat

Fort Macquarie before leaving, that they were going out to look
for Jack Pearce, whose boat seemed to be missing. They sat on the
casks and hungrily ate the rest of the food Bess had given to Matthew, as they made their way out of Broken Bay.
'She was very concerned for old Jack and
even for Emily,' Matthew said. 'I felt guilty lying to her. Pa was worried, too. I
promised we'd both help him with the printing tonight.' He
yawned. 'I hope we can last the distance.'
'You better sleep for a while. I'll wake you later. You can take
over after I go around the long reef
Minutes later Matthew was asleep. Daniel trimmed the sails
and took the tiller. The westerly wind had eased, but they would
make harbour long before dark. They had been lucky this time in
contrast to last night's near disaster. He would stop alongside the
fort and advise the duty officer they had not been able to find the
longboat, or any sign of the occupant. There would be no alarm
raised, but it would be recorded as a probable drowning, and
might get two lines in the Herald, and a few more from weeklies
like Jeremy's. That must surely take some steam out of Geraghty's
charge around the city, although he would keep on, trying every avenue until Jack was well and truly beyond his reach.
Old Jack was fooling himself, if he thought he'd bamboozle
Geraghty. The only way to keep him safe was to draw the six
hundred from the bank tomorrow, get the money to him, and get
him on board a packet for Moreton Bay. In fact, Daniel thought,
the safest and best way would be to smuggle him aboard the Marie G, find a cargo, and sail there himself. He felt a responsibility
for the fisherman. He could imagine Bess being concerned. It was a pity they had to lie to her. Perhaps, when he'd found Jack a safe berth, they could tell her the truth. Or just a part of it.

He had only had a few minutes' sleep in the past twenty-four
hours, but felt alive and alert. The breeze refreshed him. The
distinctive smell of the sea, the plaintive cry of gulls, the flutter
of canvas overhead, these were the core elements of his life. The
harbour and this coastline had been like a well-loved playground
since he was a child, the ocean out here an adventure he cherished,
and at times he had to remind himself he was still only twenty
years old, and there were many more years left to live, and more
seas to sail.
He thought again about earlier today, and the encounter with
Marie. For some reason he
was unsure why he
had not told Matthew. It was one of the rare times in their life when he had
kept a secret like this to himself. The meeting had been curious;
it troubled him that
was the word it
troubled him a great
deal. Perhaps Matthew, who was better at these things, might
have been able to describe how she had appeared; for his own
part, he could only say she seemed strange, seemed both angry
and sad, as if something had gone completely wrong with her
life.
And the blackmail. He was no longer so sure it was exactly blackmail, which was a sneaky, malicious business and
not at all
like Marie, at least not like the Marie he knew, or the one he had
named his schooner after. So if it wasn't blackmail, what was it?
A plea? A cry for help?
He felt in a muddle, wishing he had told Matthew, but
knowing now that he wouldn't. Marie was in trouble, and wasn't
able to tell him the details, which seemed to convey a message she
would not want anyone else to be told.
But what kind of trouble?
It was a worry. She was not his girl, not in that way, because



for this past year he had Clarissa, who was clever and artistic, and
really beautiful. Clarissa aroused him, just the thought of the
fierce and tender way they made love in bed began to arouse him.
But, if you went all the way back to being just eight years old,
then Marie Geraghty was his first friend. In the terrifying days
when his drunken bastard of a father would stagger into their shack to rape and batter his ma, in those awful times he and Marie had found a kinship; they both had parents who frightened
them, and they forged a friendship and a sort of love, as they
wandered barefoot along the rocks and the mudflats of Cockle
Bay.
It was then that he remembered what she had said once; why
she was scared of her father.
Suddenly he felt he knew in
a moment of shocking
clarity what
had happened to her, and why she had come to ask
for help.

Chapter 11


Emily Pearce spent an anxious day. She had been confused by
Bess's well-meaning visit. Managing not to give herself away, she
had thanked Mrs Conway, but realised something had gone
wrong with her papa's scheme. What else would make the boys go
out again. Had the South African freighter not arrived? Had the
casks been left in the wrong place? She felt helpless, trying to
imagine what it could be. Her father would be expecting word
from Daniel, and he should be told of the delay. She must
therefore find a way to see him.
Ever since seeing Geraghty in the grounds, Emily knew it
would be foolish to venture out alone. While he was unlikely to
be there still, he might have left someone watching the house.
After the children were put to bed, she had tea in the kitchen
with the rest of the staff, and announced she'd had a slight
headache, but felt better. In fact, she really needed some fresh air,
and she thought a stroll would do her the world of good. If Mr
Tofler felt so inclined, they might perhaps take a turn around the
block, she said, ignoring a stifled snigger, and the swift and sly
exchange of glances between the cook and the upstairs maid.
Mr Tofler said he would be delighted. A turn in the early

evening air was an excellent suggestion, a perfect remedy for a
touch of the gripe, and since by sheer good fortune the family
were dining out, he could accompany her as soon as she was
ready. But she should dress warmly for there was a cool wind, and
the air, while therapeutic, could also be chilly. When they left
soon after dark, it was not only Mrs Marks the cook, and Ruby
the maid, but also the footman who watched Mr Tofler escort her
decorously along Cumberland Place until they passed the street's
solitary gas lamp.
'You think old Toffee might atchully get 'is end in at last?' the
upstairs maid speculated.
"E's been tryin' long enuff,' the cook said. 'Silly old codger
tried to bung the 'ard word on me th' other day, that's 'ow
desperate he is.'
They all laughed, and left the window before another figure
passed by the gas lamp, but none of them would have thought
anything of it, even if they had seen him. Mrs Marks was far too
busy giving her impersonation of the butler.
'You should make use of me comfertable quarters, Missus
Marks, to put yer feet up, so to speak ...' She grinned. 'The dirty
old bugger, him and me bleedin' feet. What 'e wanted was me legs
apart.'
'That Emily's a real h'innocent. Bleedin' Wellington Toffee,
he'd be up 'er like a rat up a drainpipe ...' said the footman.
'Don't tell me you wouldn't... if she give you 'alf a chance,'
Ruby the maid told him. 'I see old man Guthrie lookin' a
bit... you know... ow'syer-farver at her the other day. I can't
think of the right word, but I know the old bleeder had 'is eyes
fixed on 'er bum.'
"You means lecherous, that's what you means,' Mrs Marks

said. "E's a famous letcher, is our guv'nor. Well known for it
around the town. Yer know what they
reckon 'e's got a donger
on 'im the size of a copper's truncheon.'

Amid the laughter, they agreed the butler would be sure to
prolong his stroll as long as possible, especially with the new light
of his life on his arm, so they might as well take advantage of his
absence, and have a few gins and a game of cribbage.
Emily's first intention was to walk the block, as it was called,
around the local neighbourhood district, then tell Mr
Tofler Will
that she had to visit a friend of her father's, and
would make her own way home alone. The more she contemplated
this, the less she felt it was possible. For a start, he would argue it
was most unwise for her to be abroad and unaccompanied at this
hour, and that as he had escorted her from the house, it was his
obligation to return her safely. She could imagine him saying it, and
she'd have no real response. It was best to try a different tactic.
'Will,' she said, 'could I ask you for a special favour?'
Mr Tofler bent his head towards her, eager to hear and fulfil
any special request.
'I'm concerned about Papa. He always tells me if he plans to
stay out overnight. I'd like to call on a friend of his, to find out if
he's there. But it's a long walk.'
'The night is young,' Mr Tofler said. 'And so are we.'
'It's a lodging house in Watts Lane off Sussex Street.'
'My dear girl, that's a most unsalubrious part of town.'
'Is it? I only know the address from Papa.'
'A notorious area.' Mr Tofler seemed on the point of refusal.
'No street lights. Nothing but taverns, drunken sailors, women
offering themselves. Not suitable in the slightest.'
Emily took his arm.

'That's why I need you to escort and protect me.'
Mr Tofler hesitated, then he tucked her arm against his side.
Not in the conventional way. It was a firm hold; he almost
hugged it, as if he were already protecting her. They went from
Princes Street into Charlotte Place, then down the flight of
sandstone steps where they could hear the clank of the military
windmill above them. As they turned into Kent Street, she
managed a swift glance back. The steps and the gas-lit street
above them seemed empty. She felt safe.
It was a twenty-minute walk. They reached a squalid narrow
lane, lit only by the flicker of oil lanterns. The smell was sickening.
Open drains overflowed with effluent; the gutters were thick
with the contents of chamber pots thrown from the windows of
hovels that leaned onto the street. It was a place of threatening
shadows, as figures lurched past, and drunken cries could be
heard from the illicit grog shops and taverns; a district where
young slatterns loitered as bait for sailors off the whaling ships,
who would be set upon by lurking accomplices, kicked
unconscious then robbed. She shivered as she heard the distant
shriek of a woman's wild laughter. Mr Tofler had no further need
to press her arm, she fiercely clutched his.
They came to a tiny door in what was little more than a mud
and timber hut, in a row of such places.
'Is this it?' Mr Tofler was becoming increasingly alarmed.
'Just wait,' Emily said. 'I'll only be a minute.'
'I'll come in with you,' he said.
'No, Will. Please.'
She knocked on the door. Twice, then a third time, the way he
had instructed her. She knew it would be her father who
answered, since he was alone there, and it was essential the butler

did not see him. The only way to divert Will that sprang
immediately to mind was to kiss him which
she did hard
on
his mouth, and as his lips opened with astounded wonder, she
probed him with her tongue. Then the bolt was drawn, and the
door began to open. She left Tofler in his suspended state of
astonished bliss, and slipped quickly inside.
Her father had only the stub of a candle. He looked anxious,
and the room smelled stale and rancid. She hurriedly told him of
Geraghty's appearance at the house, then Bess Conway's visit,
and her concern that something had gone badly wrong. She had
to whisper it, for they could hear Mr Tofler outside, at first
clearing his throat nervously, then tapping urgently on the door
and calling her name.
'I'll see Matthew in the morning,' she whispered. 'I'll find out
and get word to you somehow.'
'Keep away,' he whispered. 'Bess and Jeremy Conway don't
know nothing, and they mustn't. You find Daniel. But don't
come here again at night. T'isn't safe.'
'How can you stand it, Papa?'
'It's not for long.' He kissed her, and she clung to him for a
moment, then he carefully opened the door for her, and stood
well back out of Tofler's sight. She slipped outside, and it shut
behind her. She heard the bolt.
'Who was in there?'
Mr Tofler was no longer astonished or blissful; he was clearly
very agitated. He had heard whispering on the other side of the
door while he had been so rudely locked out; not only that, but a
drunk had lurched past in the lane like a marauding footpad, and
frightened him. He began to feel he'd been used for some odd
and nefarious purpose.

'Who was it, Emily? I insist on being told.'
'A friend of Papa's. I said so, didn't I?'
'I must say, I'm not at all sure whether to believe you.'
'Well then, if that's how you feel, we'll walk home our separate
ways, shall we?'
'Now don't be foolish. This is no part of town for you to be
alone in. But there's more to this, my girl, than you've told me. I
may have a fancy for you, but I'm not a numbskull.'
'Of course you're not, Mr Tofler,' she said.
'Mr Tofler now, is it?'
'It is if we're quarrelling.'
'I have no intention of quarrelling. Kindly take my arm,
Emily.' She obediently took his arm. 'We will have to talk of this
again later on, but the sooner we're out of here, the better.'

'Six hundred pounds?' Mr Tompkins tried to restrain his eyebrows
which arched in a frown, as if this large sum of money was his
own. 'My dear Daniel, are we taking this money in paper
currency?'
'We're taking it in half and half, Mr Tompkins. Sovereigns and notes. We need it today, because we're making an
investment.'
'A careful one, I hope?'
'A private one,' Daniel said.
Mr Tompkins sighed. An audible demonstration of concern.
Daniel, who was now half a head taller than the ledger clerk,
laughed and patted him on the shoulder.
We still have over eight thousand in our account, Mr Tompkins. And the two ships, both earning well'

Indeed, he did, Mr Tompkins reflected. It was astonishing,
but this twenty-year-old, who had come here at such a tender age,
was now one of the bank's prosperous clients. Mr Tompkins
himself did not expect to save eight thousand pounds in his
lifetime, let alone possess two vessels. He earned a thoroughly
reliable three hundred pounds a year, and with Mrs Tompkins
and two children to provide for, saved fifty pounds after his
annual expenses.
He felt no envy towards this engaging young man. On the
contrary, he was extremely proud of Daniel Johnson. It was
considered quite a cachet to handle his finances, and in some
quarters there was an impression that Mr Tompkins had been in
part responsible for the bank acquiring this affluent account.
While he made no such claim, he never entirely refuted the
notion. Although no more had been said about advancement, no
summons as yet to the boardroom, Mr Tompkins knew that
within banking circles, the wheels of any motion but
most
particularly that of promotion ground
exceedingly slowly.
'I'll attend to the arrangements for the money, Daniel.'
He suggested his client sit at one of the special tables for
customers, and a young person would bring him biscuits and tea.
The 'young person' turned out to be older than the client.
Daniel sipped his tea, while surveying the splendid premises.
The counters were of polished mahogany, the floor tiled marble.
It was cool and quiet, in contrast to the busy, noisy street outside
with its proximity to the waterfront. People conversed in low
voices, as if sums of money should be discussed in hushed tones.
It always felt strange, whenever he visited this place, to be the
youngest there. Most of the clerks were even older than Mr
Tompkins, who once let slip he was thirty-six. Some of them

must have worked here at their counting desks, writing in their
books and ledgers for years and years. He thought it must be a
terrible life, to be hunched over figures like that day after day, no
fresh air, no salt sea breeze adding
up or subtracting sums of
other people's money. It was surely an existence dull enough to
send you batty, or blind.
He began to think again of what had kept plaguing him
much of the night, while they worked in the printery helping
Jeremy. What to do about Marie? He had to see her again, to talk;
it was vital, yet it was best he didn't attempt it until Jack Pearce
was safe. It would be foolish to run into Geraghty before the old
fisherman was hidden aboard his ship, where his own crew could
be trusted to keep him carefully guarded until they could load a
cargo and sail north to Moreton Bay.
But if what he suspected was true how
could it wait? And
how on earth could he find a way to discuss such a subject with
her? He really needed Matthew for this, but if she'd wanted Matthew to be involved she'd have said so and waited to see him
yesterday. It was an enigma, all right, and how to deal with it
perplexed him. He stood up as Mr Tompkins came back with the
sovereigns and the paper money, all secure in his own personal
satchel.
'I can supply a bank custodian if you wish, Daniel. He'll be most unobtrusive, and armed with a truncheon. He can follow
you at a discreet distance.'
Daniel thanked him, but said he was not anticipating any
bushrangers not
in a respectable part of town like this. Mr Tompkins chuckled, saw him to the entrance, and they shook
hands.

Daniel left the bank in Macquarie Place, and strode along

George Street, eager to dispose of the money and ensure Jack
Pearce was protected and out of harm's way. Then, and only then,
could he turn his mind to helping Marie. He was still hoping that
what he had guessed about her wasn't true, and if it was, then
what in the name of God would he do about it?

If later they felt guilty, no one could be entirely to blame.
At breakfast time, Bess Conway made mention of her visit to
Cumberland Place, to console Emily Pearce and assure her that a
search was under way for her father. She told Matthew that Emily
had seemed a trifle confused at first, but clearly she was under a
strain, so it was no wonder. She appeared to be a nice girl, and
very pretty indeed. Extremely so, Bess said, in her incurably
romantic way.
Matthew, although pleased his ma thought so, was concerned
she had believed the lie and gone to so much trouble. He hoped
her visit had not disturbed Emily, and debated whether he should
see her and explain, but felt that if she had another caller at the
Guthries' house, especially if Geraghty was on the prowl, might
be unwise.
Daniel was not there to hear this, or he would have been
alarmed. After working with Jeremy for most of the night, he left
the printery early, to visit Clarissa in Bridge Street. Barely
managing to resist the longing to remain with her the rest of the
day, he had then gone directly to see Mr Tompkins at the bank.
Marie had heard her father come home the previous night
and immediately locked her door. His voice in the downstairs bar
had been unexpectedly loud and coercive; abruptly the late
customers were turned out, the heavy main doors locked, and the

place was silent. She heard nothing more, but suspected he had
not spent the night in the hotel. This was confirmed when she
went downstairs early the next day, for the cellar man told her he
had come in soon after dawn in a right temper, and something
had gone badly wrong by the look of it.

Daniel walked through the town. Everywhere there was activity;
new buildings going up; the entire city seemed to be in a process
of frantic reconstruction. George Street, in particular, was
constantly changing; new imposing premises of merchants,
shipping companies, the post office with its fine Doric columns,
together with a variety of retail and wholesale stores, all seemingly
intent on outdoing each other with ornate porticoes and fluted
pillar entrances. Carriages stood outside the new shop of David
Jones on the corner of Barrack Street. Mr Jones himself had
become famous, not only for his linens, but for a publicised
skirmish with his former partner; he had physically ejected him
from the premises and been charged with assault. It seemed to
matter little to his patrons, who crowded his store and pronounced
it an admirable addition to what was becoming the most elegant
commercial section of the city.
At the markets, Daniel turned down towards Sussex Street
and Watts Lane. He would give Jack Pearce his money, and
explain to him what he planned to do; return after dark, row him
out to the Marie G, and hide him aboard while he went looking
for a cargo. He already knew that George Watson, the sawmiller,
had timber he wanted freighted to the Clarence River, and he
could probably fill the rest of his holds with furniture from Sam
Lyons for customers in Brisbane and Moreton Bay.

He was tired from lack of sleep, and his mind was so full of
the things that had to be done not
only looking after Jack, but
the casks beneath the ketch waiting to be taken out to the officers
on the Yankee man-of-war, the urgent necessity to talk to Marie
and try to find out the truth these
thoughts were occupying
him so completely that he hardly noticed the hospital cart and
the uniformed constables as he turned into the lane. He stopped
at the door, which had been kicked off its hinges, and saw bearers
carrying out a stretcher with Jack Pearce's bloodstained body on
it. The corpse was uncovered, his face almost unrecognisable
from the savage blows that had bludgeoned him to death.
Daniel froze with shock, and became aware of a constable
who was eyeing him. He did his best to assume the pose and
casual curiosity of a surprised bystander.
'Poor bugger. What happened?' he asked one of the bearers.
'What's it look like?' The man shrugged, used to death.
'Must've been an argument and I'd say he lost.'
Daniel turned away. He felt conflicting emotions of guilt and
grief. Old Jack, who had just wanted a payback for years of being
cheated, and a new start.
'What do you want?' The constable confronted him.
'Nothing round here,' Daniel replied. 'I'm on me way to see
Mr Watson, the sawmiller.'
But he knew, as he walked quickly up the lane, there would be
no trip north to Moreton Bay. Not now. He turned into George
Street, heading back towards the printery to tell Matthew, after
which they would have to go to Cumberland Place and break the
news to Emily.

Later that day a body was found floating in the creek beneath the
Turnpike Road, near John Dickson's steam mill. It was caught up
in the reeds and mud, and one of the mill workers who had gone down to urinate in the creek, had practically fallen in as he
realised that he was pissing on the face of a dead man. The chalk-white
features and open staring eyes were directly below him, and
as he wet himself he let out a yell that was heard above the sound
of the mill and brought a crowd of his fellow workers at the run.
The police were sent for, the body dispatched to the morgue,
where it joined three others collected that day; one a suicide,
another killed by a runaway horse and the third, the battered
corpse of Jack Pearce. The newly arrived dead man was known as
an ex-convict and petty thief, and the sergeant of the Watch
expressed an opinion he was not much loss to the community.
He had not drowned, but had been stabbed and thrown into
the creek after his death. No witnesses were forthcoming, and he
had no relatives to claim the body or pay for his burial. He was a
person of no importance, and there was little need to waste
unnecessary time in trying to investigate his death. 'Murdered by
a person or persons unknown' was the report, which received two
lines in the Herald, and was then forgotten.

Sean Geraghty was still livid. The wretched bloody man had
come recommended; instead, he had caused him all kinds of
bother. He had killed old Pearce, but far too soon, without first
being able to make him talk. The bastard had lost his rag,
battered Pearce to death, and run like a frightened fucking fox.
Fortunately he had not run far enough, and shortly before dawn
Geraghty had found him, and taken care there'd be no drunken

talk that could implicate him. The knife he used had been thrown
into the creek, where it would sink deep into the mud. He had
guessed, correctly, that the police would not bother to search for
it, and the investigation would be perfunctory.
But it did nothing to regain the missing sixty barrels of spirit,
for which he had been forced to pay. The South African First
Officer had returned the following day, bringing with him a
dozen burly members of the crew, and stating his captain was
now very upset. They were leaving earlier than expected, in fact on
the tide at noon, and if the payment for six hundred gallons was
not forthcoming there would have to be some compensation
sought. The burly crew all grinned in anticipation, and Geraghty
knew there would be a brawl that would wreck his premises,
smash the windows, and break every glass and bottle in the place.
The damage to his hotel would be considerably more than the
money due. The ship would sail before he could lodge a complaint
about the destruction; indeed to even think about making any
such complaint was dangerous. Because there was another risk.
The Cape Town skipper was a hard man. If denied payment, it
was not beyond him to semaphore the South Head station as he
left harbour, advising that he had smuggled in spirits for Sean
Geraghty, and leave him to face an enquiry. The ship, of course,
would be safely at sea, and unaccountable. The likelihood of a
charge without the main witness was remote, but the matter
would not be good for his reputation.
What infuriated him after
paying the money and seeing the
First Officer leave with his bunch of thugs was
that it had been
planned so differently. So cleverly. He had correctly guessed the
daughter would know where her father was hiding. All day he had
waited and watched the Guthrie house, and seen her leave with

the butler when it was dark. He had then followed at a careful
distance towards St Phillip's Church, where the man he had hired
was waiting with a good-looking young tart, paid for the night
and posing as a maid who worked in one of the posh houses of
the neighbourhood. In company with the doxy, the man had
done the first part of the job skilfully, following the butler and
the daughter without being glimpsed all the way to Watts Lane.
The tart had then returned to where Geraghty waited outside the church. She had given him the address, he had paid her; the
deal done in shadows without her seeing him clearly or knowing
his name. He had hurried to Watts Lane, to find complete
disaster. The stupid git had decided Pearce was going to do a
runner, and had started bashing him to prevent his escape by the
back alley. The fisherman was a bloody, unconscious mess by the
time Geraghty arrived. He died soon after, and with him had
gone any hope of recovering the cargo.
All that remained was Geraghty's suspicion that in some way Matthew Conway, because of his mother's visit to the house,
might be involved. But he had no boat. Whereas Daniel
Johnson...
As he ruminated on this, he became certain that here was a more likely candidate. He began to spend a great deal of time
considering what should be done about it.

Chapter 12

'For man is imperfect in the sight of God and is given to
transgression, yet he who repents shall be saved, and shall dwell
in my house forever,' the minister intoned.
Matthew stood by the open grave with Emily, thinking how
brutal the ritual of a funeral was on those who grieved, while the
clergy indulged themselves in rhetoric with pious promises of a
better life hereafter, challenging all to believe their dogma, or else
face the fires of eternity. The parson conducting the funeral
service of Jack Pearce spent much of the liturgy speaking of sin
and sinners, the evils of life, the misery of existence, as if living
was an ordeal to be endured as a prelude to registering for a set
of angel's wings. Matthew, who had always found the concept of
heaven difficult to imagine, kept these seditious thoughts on
religion strictly to himself, not wanting to offend his mother,
who was a devout believer.
Both his parents were here, with Daniel and himself; the only
mourners apart from Emily. Mr Tofler and some of the Guthrie
servants had asked to attend, but Emily had been firm; she had
thanked them, but said they had not really known her father. She
could hardly bear to face Mr Tofler, because of a dread sense of

guilt that her visit to Watts Lane might, in some way, have led to
the savage murder. She felt able to voice this thought only to Matthew, who had been quite angry in his demand that she stop
believing anything so stupid. He wanted to drive any such idea
away, before it took root in her mind, and intensified her grief.
He was also uncomfortably aware his mother's well-meaning visit
had apparently prompted Emily's action. It was an unpleasant
realisation that, in their own way, each had made their contribution
to Jack Pearce's murder.
He felt a personal sense of guilt, and knew Daniel did, because
the wretched contraband had brought this about, although it
had been old Jack himself who had made the initial approach.
Even Bess felt a puzzled concern, though she was unsure why,
that perhaps her call on Emily had been unwise. Only Jeremy had
no knowledge of anything at all, and therefore no feeling of guilt,
as he listened with mounting impatience to the ponce of a
parson, and wished the bloody man would stop pontificating
about hellfire and damnation, and have a bit of sympathy for this
sweet young girl, instead of threatening them all with his
everlasting purgatory.

'The money's yours,' Daniel said. 'It was your dad's, and it belongs
to you now. No arguments, Emily.'
'But it seems wrong,' she persisted.
'It'd seem very wrong to us if you won't take it.'
'All right.' Emily who had never seen more than a few shillings
in her life, could scarcely believe this huge amount of sovereigns
and paper money. 'But I'd pay every penny of it to prove that
man's guilty.'

'We can't prove it,' Matthew told her. 'It's even possible,' he
said carefully, 'that Geraghty may not have done it himself.'
'You mean, someone else? People can be hired?' The thought
of that was more shocking to her, and they both realised it.
'We don't know. I feel sick about it, so does Daniel, but
there's no scrap of evidence against him. We could turn over the
casks, tell the whole story, and there'd still be no proof.'
'Except we'd be the ones in the dock,' Daniel said.
'Don't you dare do that, either of you.' She was angry at the
thought of it. 'Papa would never forgive you for being so stupid.
And neither would I. Now, what am I going to do with all this
money?'
She looked at Daniel, but it was Matthew who answered.
'Depends on whether you want to go back to working for the
Guthrie family. That's the first thing to decide.'
Emily thought of Mr Tofler, and shook her head.
'They're kind enough, but I think I'd like a different kind of
job. Though I'm not sure what.'
'Well, you don't have to decide anything like that in a hurry.
You can wait and be choosy. After all, you can afford to.'
'I suppose I can.' Emily almost smiled at the idea of it. 'But if
I do leave Cumberland Place, I'll have to find somewhere to live.
That might not be so easy, not a reasonable place that's decent.'
'As a matter of fact,' Matthew said, 'I happen to know of a
nice, reasonable lodging in a house not very far from us. Just a
couple of streets away. Run by a friend of my mother's. Why don't
we go there and see if you like it?'
'Could we?'
'Of course.'
'What do you think, Daniel?'

'I think you should listen to Matthew. He seems to be making sense to me. For a change,' he added, unable to resist it.
'If you like the room,' Matthew continued, ignoring this, 'the
best thing is to pay a month's rent in advance. It's five shillings a
week, so that uses up one of your six hundred pounds.'
'One? For goodness sake, what do I do with all the rest?'
'You spend some. Buy new clothes. Bonnets, shawls, nice
dresses. I'll come with you to make sure you don't skimp yourself.
Buy one of those smart new fashions; you'll look wonderful.'
'I might be able to help in that regard.' Daniel smiled as he
realised Emily barely heard him; her rapt gaze was focussed so
exclusively on his friend.
'He has connections,' Matthew said. 'I'm told that being a bit
extravagant is sometimes good for you. It makes you feel happy,
and if your father had one wish, it'd be that you're happy.'
'That's true,' Emily said quietly.
'After that,' Matthew suggested, 'we'll go to a bank. You'll still
have over five hundred pounds. You can wear one of your new
dresses, and the doorman will bow, and half the clerks will look
up and stare and lose count because
they won't have seen a
prettier girl all year. And you can inform them that Miss Emily
Pearce is here, and wishes to open a savings account. How does
that sound to you?'
'It sounds absolutely lovely,' Emily said, wondering how she
could be this happy so soon after her father's funeral, and why
being with Matthew could make her feel such pleasure. She had
only one fear; that this sense of joy was so perfect it could not
possibly last.

Marie read the tiny paragraph in the Herald that reported the
brutal killing of a fisherman identified as Jack Pearce. She
thought of going to the police, to report that her father had
regularly smuggled liquor with the dead man, and he should be
brought in for questioning over his death. It was a momentary
notion, and one she soon discarded. He had far too many friends
among the Watch, and at least one of the police magistrates had
been a crony for years. In the newspaper she also noticed the two-line
report on the body found stabbed in the creek, but made no
connection between the items.
She felt a shiver that made her look up. Geraghty was at the
door of the parlour, watching her. It was a shock; she had not
heard him come up the stairs.
Ter got more to do than sit there readin' that rag,' he said.
She rose, and folded the paper, so the story of Jack Pearce's
murder was uppermost. She carefully placed it on the chair
beside him, saw his eyes glance down and recognise it, and with
it the realisation of her deliberate act of assertion. She walked
past him as calmly and purposefully as she could, down the hotel
stairs to the bar, to the safety of other people.
She was greeted with whistles and admiring comments from
a group of sailors, but gave them little encouragement as she
went to the tap and began to rinse glasses. Geraghty came in
moments later with a face like thunder, and she watched the
mariners who knew he could be a surly bastard at times settle to
their own dockside gossip. They were joined by two sailors off the
big American warship, grumbling that their officers had a cosy
arrangement with some local kid, buying up cheap casks of rum
and brandy. All of it for the goddamn Great Cabin, and none for
them down in the bilges.



Marie heard it, and knew Geraghty had, for he instantly
moved across and asked them for their orders.
'What local kid would that be?' he casually enquired, while he
poured their drinks.
'No idea of his name,' one of the sailors said.
'Young guy,' the other said.
Geraghty nodded. He gave them their change. He stood and
wished them luck as they sipped the drinks.
'Probably Daniel,' he said, in a manner suggesting that the
thought had just occurred to him.
'Who?'
'The kid who sold your officers the grog. Name of Daniel.'
'That I couldn't tell you,' the American said. 'I never heard a
name.'
'Sounds like Daniel,' Geraghty kept on. 'You know Daniel
Johnson,' he said to some of the regulars. 'He's a bad bugger. Bad
blood. His father was a mean cuss, used to belt his wife and
always pissed outa his mind. That Daniel's got a bit of the same
in him, if yer asks me.'
'Well, nobody did.'
Marie's voice brought every head in the bar around, to stare
at her. They'd hardly heard her speak in here before, and she
could see their puzzled faces, wondering why she'd snapped like
that. She was wondering it herself, because it was an unwise thing
to do. But his attack the
barbs against Daniel had
been more
correctly aimed straight at her, and she was not going to stand
there and take any more of it.
'You ought to shut your fat mouth,' she said, 'because
nobody asked you. If it comes to dealing in sly grog, there's not
many in this town who haven't had a dabble, one time or

another. And some not so far away from where I'm standing
this minute.'
She knew she was saying too much. It was madness, but she
could not stop. She could see the regulars, dock workers and the
men off the ferry boats all nudge each other, watching her open
mouthed; she saw Geraghty's flushed face that promised
punishment and retaliation for this; but someone else someone who sounded like her charged recklessly on into danger.
'Like you, the way you used to go out with Jack Pearce. Going
fishing, you'd say, only the fish you brought home wasn't
mackerel or cod, was it? You always netted a barrel or two of gin.
You fellers remember Jack, the poor devil who got bashed to
death and buried yesterday?'
There had been a few laughs when she mentioned the gin,
but now there was an uneasy and tense silence. The Americans
looked bemused; some of the other sailors, strangers to the
port, were puzzled, but the regulars all knew what she was
talking about.
'We all remember old Jack,' Geraghty said, and she could see
the sweat on his face, and the way he flexed his fingers, as if he
wanted to bunch them into fists and hit her. 'He was a good mate
o'mine, and he don't deserve ter have his name rubbished by a
slut like you.'
The silence, the disquiet in the bar became palpable.
'Fair go, Sean,' one of the dockside porters said. That ain't a
nice thing to call your own daughter.'
'Shut your fucking interfering face,' Geraghty said, the venom
in his voice chilling Marie. The porter put down his glass of beer
with a thump that spilled half of it.
'Stick your pub up your arse,' he said. 'I won't be back.'

'Good. 'Cos yer always sat the night over half a lousy pint, you
miserable skinflint bastard.'
'I'm off, too,' another of his group said.
'Suits me. 'Cos you're as mean as he is,' Geraghty told him,
then sensing the chance of a mass exodus, became calmer and
more conciliatory: 'Well, now we got rid of them pikers, drinks fer
the rest of youse are on the house.'
' 'Mine's a double scotch,' a sailor said.
'I'm shoutin' a half pint of mild,' Geraghty said, bringing a
moment of laughter, and cordiality was restored.
'What are you going to drink to? A toast to the memory of
poor Jack Pearce?' Marie asked, shattering the ambience.
'I apologise for her,' Geraghty said, as the silence descended
again. 'She has a bee in her bonnet. She was great mates with this
young Daniel but
I had to put a stop to it. There was talk, see.
His father got drowned, and some say he fell in, only there's a few
who know better, and reckon he might've got help like
a bit of
a push.'
'Don't talk nonsense.' Marie's voice cut like a knife. 'He was
ten years old.'
'And a strong little bugger. His da was drunk; all it needed was a
shove. That little prick was just the one to do it. And one day, if
there's any justice, he might end up swinging at the end of a rope.'
Marie could see some of them beginning to listen. Geraghty
could sense it, too, and took the advantage.
'You mob on the wharf, yer do a hard day's work and what's
at the end of it? A few lousy bob, and sod all else. This kid is
twenty years old yeah,
youse heard me twenty
and he owns
two bloody ships. So tell me how he done that honestly?
According to what I hear round town, he's supposed to be worth

fifty times any poor bugger at this bar. How, eh? How did he get
so stinkin' rich? C'mon, tell me how?'
She could see them calculating. Half their age, and worth so
much more. It was no use trying to explain to them how he rowed
the dinghy until his hands were raw, rowed at the age of ten till
he almost fell asleep; how he took passengers in all weathers and
all tides, and rested only a few hours at a time. These men, there
was no harm in them, but they worked for bosses, they would
never understand the kind of demons that drove Daniel Johnson.
They listened to her brute of a father, and were ready to believe
him, because a boy had more than they did and they were jealous.
Marie knew there was only one way to deal with that. It was the
last card left to play, but she felt past danger. 'Daniel never did a single person any harm,' she said. She only
had to speak quietly, because they were all waiting. All listening.
Knowing this wasn't the end of it. She could sense the expectation.
'A lot different to my father. He raped me.' She heard the sharp
indrawn breath of one of the regulars. 'He did it first when I was
just turned fifteen, and only stopped last year when
I finally
had the guts to tell him I'd kill him.'
The silence was absolute.
If Geraghty had scorned her, if he had protested it might not
have happened. But he was so shocked by her statement that for
a few seconds he was silent, which was long enough to suggest
guilt. One of the American sailors picked up his beer and flung
the glass at the wall. It smashed into fragments. The other
followed suit. Within moments, those who were left had all done
the same. Some aimed and hit the shelves carrying bottles of
spirits and port, shattering them. Then, almost as one, they
turned and walked out.


Marie felt satisfaction as the first of the glasses were thrown,
but then came panic, as she realised what had happened. Because
of her success, because they believed her, in a matter of moments
she would be alone with him except for one of the barmen. She
ran for the back door, before Geraghty had time to understand
what she intended. She abandoned all her careful plans, left her
clothes, the small sum of money she had saved, and ran for her
life. She knew she had to find Daniel, and quickly. For he was the
only one who could help her now.

They lay in bed, their limbs entwined. Daniel badly wanted to
share with her the events of the past few days. But his life had
endowed him with an innate caution, and instead he merely told
her a decent old fisherman he knew had been killed; a particularly
nasty murder by someone unknown. And because he and Matthew knew the man's daughter, they had tried to help.
'I think I read about him in the Herald,' Clarissa said.
Yes, it had been reported, and Jeremy Conway was also going
to do a paragraph in his weekly, because old Jack had been a well-known
character around the waterfront for many years. He told
her Emily was giving up her job as a nursemaid for Mr and Mrs
Henry Guthrie, and had come into a small inheritance left by her
father, and that she was in love with his friend Matthew.
Clarissa had never met Matthew, for she and Daniel had long
ago agreed on discretion and their affair was contained here
within her studio, but because they so frequently spoke of him,
she almost felt she knew this boyhood companion.
'And is your friend Matthew in love with her?' Clarissa asked,
snuggling against him.

'Barmy about her. Can't take his eyes off her. And if she's not
there, you know what he does? Stares into space with a silly-looking
smile on his face.'

Clarissa laughed. It always enchanted him, her laughter. He
could feel the warmth of her body against him, and her eyes were
inches away. He slid his arms around her.

'That sounds like love,' she said.

'He's hopeless.'

'But you seem pleased. You like her?'

'Yes, I do. She's really his first girl.'

'A bit slower off the mark than you, my darling.'

'I was lucky. I met you.'

'But I wasn't your first.' She gently nuzzled his ear with her
tongue, and he responded, and began stroking her back, and
running his hand over her buttocks. 'Was I?'

'Were you what?'

'Your first?'

'Well not
quite. But none of 'em were a patch on you.'

'That's nice,' she said.

'It's true.'

'The same in my case,' she replied, and meant it. She knew
one day this Would end, but meanwhile he fulfilled her in a way
no man ever had, bringing her to heights of passion she had not
realised she could experience. It was a very lucky day, Clarissa
thought, as she felt herself moistening and becoming aroused,
while he straddled her and slowly, tantalisingly entered her, a
truly lucky day when she had gone to buy an easel and Samuel
Lyons had told her about his young friend who owned a couple
of ships, and who might be of some use to her.

Of some use to me? she thought, torn between levity and erotic


ecstasy. Then surging pleasure took control, obliterated everything
else, as she cried out rapturously and achieved an orgasm with a
frenzy that left her weak and breathless.
Dear God, she thought. Oh, Daniel! Of some use indeed!

Marie was becoming desperate. She had gone first towards
Cockle Bay, running through the narrow passages of The Rocks,
down the hill of Cornwall Lane, crossing the rough ground where
a factory stood belching smoke near the quarry where goats still
foraged. His ketch was securely moored there, and the dinghy as
well, which meant it unlikely he was aboard the schooner. It was
not safe to wait here, for it would be one of the places her father
would look, if he was trying to find her. She had no doubt he
would already be in pursuit, desperate to somehow stop the talk
before it spread, and he'd attempt to make her retract by
one
means or another. At the very least persuade her to remain silent,
so that he could deny it, concoct a story, give an impression she
was a liar or else off her silly head.
She knew this would not be possible. She had gone beyond
the point where she could be restrained. It had been bottled up
inside her since that terrible first time, and nothing he could give
her, no bribe, no vow, would ever make her agree to retract or
absolve him, or live in that hateful unforgiving atmosphere
again. But she had no money or clothes, nor anywhere to stay.
With the afternoon already half over, she thought fearfully of the
approaching night.
She went anxiously to Bess Conway, to ask if she knew where
Daniel might be. Not even Matthew was there, and she had to
pretend nothing was amiss, while Bess related all about Emily

Pearce, and how much she and Jeremy both liked her, and how
she would not be the least bit surprised if there was eventually a
betrothal when they were both older. Dear, romantic Bess, she
thought, but could not remain there and throw herself on the
mercy of this family; she knew her father would make trouble if
he found that out. Long ago he had declared how simple it would
be to ruin Jeremy Conway, because he was still a ticket-of-leave
man. She liked them and could not endanger them, even though
aware that Bess, if she knew of her plight, would insist on her
staying here in safety. Kissing Bess goodbye, she went out of the
house. She saw someone she thought she recognised in the street,
then realised it was Matthew's sister Lucy, coming home from
school.
'Hello, Marie!'
'Lucy? I hardly knew you. You're quite grown up.'
'Do you think so? I'm fourteen well,
not quite. Nearly.
When I'm sixteen I can leave stupid school, and be famous.'
'What will you be famous at?'
'I haven't decided. But when I am, everyone will have to call
me Lucinda.'
'I'll call you Lucinda now.'
'Will you? Will you really?'
'Of course.'
She smiled. It had been a long time since they had last met,
when Lucy was still a child, trailing after the three of them
whenever they went hunting for oysters and crabs at the end of
the bay. The boys were forever playing tricks to get rid of her,
sending her on fake messages, hiding from her, or complaining
to Bess that she was a nuisance. And now she was Lucinda, and
soon to be famous!

'I'd love to stay and talk, but I must find Daniel,' Marie said,
and received a sidelong glance that made her ask: What's the
matter?'
'I expect he's with her,' Lucy said.
'With who?'
'His new sweetheart. I suppose I shouldn't tell you that.'
'Why not?'
'You might be jealous.'
Marie shook her head. 'I promise I'm not jealous. Can you tell
me where to find her?'
'It's rather difficult, Marie.'
'Why?'
'Because I'm not supposed to know.'
Marie felt a first moment of hope. 'But you do know?'
'Well,' Lucy studied her, then nodded, 'I do as a matter of fact.
But as I'm not supposed to, I'd better not say anything.'
'Please Lucy Lucinda
this
is really important.'
'I'm not supposed to know why he stays out all night. He
pretends he's on board his boat. So do Ma and Pa. Even Matthew
tells me that. They must all think I'm silly.'
Marie wanted to shake her. Instead, she stooped so they were
the same height, and said quietly: 'I don't think you're a bit silly.
But I need help, and I must find Daniel. Lucy darling, please. It's
urgent.'
'He might be angry I told. I followed him once. It was easy. He
never even noticed me. She's an artist, I think. Matthew said so.'
'If you know where she lives, for God's sake tell me.' The
desperation in her voice seemed to penetrate at last.
'You promise not to tell him how you found out?'
'I promise.'

'There's an old house in Bridge Street. Someone rich used to
own it, but he's dead now. You can't miss it. It's the biggest house
there, just beside the bridge.'
'I know it,' Marie said.

The urgent knocking on the door startled them. They were both
still naked in the rumpled bed. A visitor was the last thing they
anticipated, or wanted. Daniel looked at her, puzzled, but Clarissa
shook her head to his enquiring look and whispered question. She
was certainly not expecting a student today. When the knock was
repeated, she slipped out of bed and put on a peignoir.
'Who is it?' she asked, through the locked studio door.
'Is Daniel there?' It was a young female voice outside on the
attic landing; she saw Daniel sit up, startled, quite clearly
recognising whoever it was. Clarissa was about to deny all
knowledge of him, when the voice said, with unmistakable
anxiety: 'Please, I must talk to him.'
'Just a moment,' she said, and left the key unturned in the
lock, while she went to whisper to Daniel. He was already starting
to reach for his clothes. 'Who is it?'
'Marie Geraghty.'
'What?' She was disconcerted, realising at once it was the
same girl after whom he had named his ship.
'Marie,' he murmured again.
'Yes, I heard you. Your original Marie G. Whatever can she
want? And how did she know where to find you?' She was
shocked at this sudden and unexpected invasion of her privacy,
but Daniel was already reaching for his shirt and trousers, the
casual 'currency lad' garments he chose to wear.

'I'll talk to her outside.'
'Do you know why she's here?'
'I've got some sort of idea.'
'Would it be asking too much to tell me?'
She could feel annoyance starting to pervade her voice, even
though they were both whispering, and knew Daniel had noticed
it. She tried to restrain it. Jealousy was not a normal part of her
nature, and it would be foolish to start displaying it now. I think she's in some kind of trouble.'
'What kind of trouble?'
'I'm not sure. Look, it's only a guess, and not something I'd
like to even mention, unless she says it's true. Let me talk to her
alone.'
'Of course. Talk to her on the landing. It's private enough
there. While you do, I'll get dressed. And Daniel --'
'What?' He paused at the door.
'If there's any way I can help, bring her in here.'
'You wouldn't mind?'
'As long as she doesn't. I mean, we can hardly pretend I was
painting your portrait or giving you art lessons, not with the bed
looking like this, and the door locked.'
He smiled, and came back and kissed her lightly on the lips.
He gazed at her for a long moment, looking deep into her dark
blue eyes. 'As Sam would say, you've got the loveliest pair of
mince pies in the whole world.'

Geraghty headed directly for Cockle Bay, unknowingly following
the same path his daughter had taken earlier. He also saw that
Daniel's ketch and dinghy were on their customary mooring, and

made the assumption that neither Marie nor Daniel could
therefore be aboard the schooner. He was unsure what to do,
except that he had to find her and persuade her, by one means or
another, to keep her mouth shut. The damage could be contained
if she did. It had been heard only by a few drinkers and visiting
sailors, and if Marie was to appear as usual in the hotel, and to
hold her tongue, then any gossip about it would die down. He would offer her money, if necessary, but first he had to find her.
He went down the bay, past the spot where his pothouse had
stood. The charred remains had been cleared, but the land had
not been built on all this time; it remained like a scar disfiguring
the shore, the burnt stumps of the wooden footings crumbling
and almost devoured by termites. He hurried past, climbing the
hill towards the marketplace. He had not been in this part of the
town for four years, and much had changed. New buildings had
improved the once depressed neighbourhood. He had never
visited the Conway house, but knew it was amid a terrace on the
far side of the market, in George Street. Finding it was easy
because of a sign projecting from the brickwork above the front

door. JEREMY CONWAY & SON. PRINTERS. THE WEEKLY JOURNAL.

Bess was in the front parlour with Lucy. She was wearing her new
spectacles and trying to let out the waist on her best skirt, while
being plagued with questions by her daughter. Was Emily now
regarded as Matt's fiancee? Would they get married; was she nice?
Lucy reminded her mother she had been sent to school, and
therefore had missed the funeral and not met this girl who might
be her sister-in-law some day soon.
'For heaven's sake,' Bess shook her head, 'Matthew's taken

her to Mr Jones's drapery store to buy clothes. Can't you wait and
see her for yourself, when he brings her home?'
'Home, Ma? Is this going to be her home?' Before her mother
could reply, she asked, 'Which room will she sleep in? Mine or
Matthew's? Will they be in the same bed?' She startled to giggle,
and subsided only when Bess took off the spectacles and looked
sternly at her.
'That's enough from you,' she said, with unusual severity.
'Emily Pearce is a nice girl, who is taking lodgings at Mrs Rose's
house. You'll meet her later, when Matthew brings her to tea. And
when you do, mind your manners. Remember she's just been
bereaved, so behave yourself, and don't embarrass her with any of
your silly talk.'
As Lucy opened her mouth to promise she would be a model
of decorum, they heard a knock on the front door.
'I'll go,' she offered.
'You sit there and do your homework,' Bess said, and went to
the door. She didn't at first recognise the man who stood there,
although there was something familiar about him. He was large
and heavily built with a flushed face.
'Mrs Conway?'
'Yes,' she answered, and felt watchful when he nodded and
smiled. It was a forced smile; his eyes were as hard as flint.
'Jest lookin' for my daughter. Thought she might have called
in here. I'm Sean Geraghty.'
'Mr Geraghty,' she said, alerted by something in his manner,
and remembering why he seemed familiar; she knew him remotely
from seeing him outside his inn on Cockle Bay, before they'd
moved away. It was strange after
four years. Marie's unexpected
visit earlier had left her curious, and now less than an hour later,

here was her father enquiring for her. He seemed very tense, and
she didn't at all like the way he stared at her.
'Is she here?'
'No, she's not.'
'Been here?'
The man was abrasive, almost rude, but Bess was incapable of
any kind of falsehood.
'She visited us earlier. Came to see the boys, but neither of
them were home.'
'Where was Daniel? He's not on his boat. Can you tell me
where to find him?'
'I'm afraid not.' Bess, who rarely found fault with anyone, was
beginning to feel a steadily growing aversion for the man
'Then where did Marie go, when she left here?'
'I really don't know, Mr Geraghty. We had a cup of tea and a
bit of a chat, then she left.'
'I saw her.' Lucy's voice made them both turn, as she came to
the doorway beside her mother.
'Where?' Geraghty's eyes were sharp with anticipation.
'Leaving our house. We met outside.'
'And where was she going?'
Lucy hesitated, starting to sense her mother's disquiet, and to
regret her intervention. 'I'm not sure,' she said.
'Not sure? Which means you might have some idea.'
'No.' Lucy stared back at him. 'Not the faintest idea. She told
me how much I'd grown, and asked me about school, then said
to give her love to Matt and Danny and
she went.'
. 'Are you certain that's the truth?'
'I'm certain that's quite enough questions,' Bess said firmly,
making no attempt to conceal her displeasure. 'Go and finish

your work, Lucy.' She waited until the girl had gone, then turned
to Geraghty and measured her words carefully. 'I don't know why
you're here, or what the trouble is. Or even if there is any trouble.
But I'm not used to having my daughter's word doubted. Or
being asked so many questions like this. If you feel something's
happened to Marie, and you're worried, then you ought to go to
the police. That's what I'd do, Mr Geraghty.'
She shut the door in his face, and went back to the parlour.
She and Lucy remained silent, until they heard his footsteps
move away. Bess went to the window. His retreating figure was
headed westward, in the direction of the quay.
'Do you know where Marie is?'
'I think so, Ma.'
'Well, that's only one small lie. You'll confess it to Father
Casey at church on Sunday.'
'Yes, Ma. It'll cost me the usual ten Hail Marys.'
'Do you good,' her mother said, barely suppressing a smile,
and Lucy with sudden impulsive affection, rose and hugged her.
'I didn't like him,' Lucy said.
'Nor did I, love.'
'I'm glad I lied.'
'Just don't make a habit of it,' Bess said, then she frowned and
added thoughtfully, 'When she was here, Marie was very anxious
for some reason to find Daniel. Do you think she did find him?'
'I'd say it was quite likely, Ma.'
'You mean, you were able to help her?'
'In a sort of way, I suppose. But you don't want me to tell any
more lies, do you?'
'Certainly not.'
Then I better not continue with this conversation.'

'Right. In that case, we can both get back to our work. And let's hope it's all sorted out whatever
it is.'
'Marie was scared about something. Truly, she was quite
frightened. Do you think she was scared of him?'
'I've no idea. I thought we'd dropped the subject.'
'We have. But I'm glad I haven't got a father like that. I'd
never be scared of Pa not
even when I get into trouble at school,
and he says he's cross with me.'
'I suspect he knows that. But he would be pleased if you did
concentrate once in a while. So why don't we try to surprise him?'
Lucy nodded, and bent her head over the composition she
was supposed to write for the English lesson at school tomorrow.
Bess put on her spectacles and continued to unpick the stitching
at the waist of her skirt. She resolved to eat less, but in the
meantime an extra inch would make it more comfortable to wear.
It had been unexpectedly tight at Mr Pearce's funeral; the first
time she had worn it for months.
There was a brief silence, while each concentrated.
'Ma?'
'Yes, Lucy?'
'I think when I grow up, I might be an artist.'
'Might you, indeed?'
'I'll paint places I know, like the markets, and the harbour, and
views of Sydney. Landscapes, that's what they're called I'll
paint
lovely landscapes, and take them to London and exhibit them.
Dukes and rich people will buy them, and I'll become famous.' 'Lord love us,' Bess said fondly, 'I don't know where you get it
from. Not from my side. Now do your composition, or you'll be
kept in after school again.'

When Marie began to cry at first, they were silent tears that
coursed down her cheeks, but after Clarissa put her arms around
her and held her comfortingly, she started to sob stridently and
without restraint. Daniel felt paralysed with shock. He stood at
the studio window, looking down towards the polluted Tank
Stream, a strange image in his mind of his mother squatting
there, her hands red and raw as she scrubbed the washing, the
memory of it matching the despairing sobs racking Marie, while
Clarissa rocked her like a child, and tried to console her with kind
and sympathetic endearments that seemed only to increase her
anguish.
It was harsh and melancholic, a deeply disturbing sound, as
if she was mourning all the years she had kept the horror to
herself; grieving for the nights of torment, for the days of her
youth despoiled, for the suffering she had endured while having
to remain silent because
until now there was no one to tell. She
had been separated from the only two friends of her childhood,
and when she recounted Geraghty's open threats against Jeremy
Conway, Daniel felt a sense of pain and remorse, recalling how he
and Matthew had been blackmailed and scared into staying away
from her. Although he had speculated accurately on the suffering
she had endured, he could scarcely grasp the depths of the
distress and the bleak and joyless life to which she had been
subjected. He became filled with rage. He wanted to kill
Geraghty.
He had gone out to meet her on the tiny top landing outside
Clarissa's studio, wondering what to say, and how to broach the
awkward question he must ask, or else remain wondering. But
there had been no need. One look at her fearful and distraught
face had been enough.

'Was it Geraghty?' was all he had asked, and Marie simply
nodded, and had leaned against him. He could feel her body
trembling.
'The day the inn burned down,' she said in little more than a
whisper. 'I did that. I set fire to it. It was afterwards ... after
he... after what happened... I burnt my clothes, and the
blankets and the bed. Then I set fire to the grog and burnt the
pothouse. I'd have burned him alive with it, if I could've.'
'Jesus Christ,' was all Daniel could find to say, because
they'd been only four or five hundred yards away when Geraghty
had called her inside, and they must have left just before it took
place. Or even worse, they'd been within sight of the pothouse,
but with the wash of the tide and the sound of gulls, had heard
nothing.
'He promised it'd never happen again, but it did.' She told
him how she had been warned to keep away from them both, or
else he'd see to it Jeremy lost his ticket-of-leave. And the other
threats; how no one would believe her, not with all the friends he
had in the police, and a magistrate friend who'd soon label it a
pack of lies. Daniel said they'd been threatened, too.
'I know,' Marie had replied. 'I guessed there was a reason why
you never came near. But I didn't know what it was, until today,
when he said aloud in the pub you'd pushed your father in the
harbour. Told all the customers.' She went on to describe the
scene in the bar.
'He said that?' Daniel had felt a tremor of alarm, then knew
it was no time for dissembling. 'Well, I did but
he can't prove it,
and I'd never admit it to anyone except you and Matt. I'll sort
that out, but first of all we've got to look after you.'
'I can't go back there. I think he'll be looking for me.'

I'm bloody sure of it,' Daniel said. 'And his police narks will
cover the lodging houses and hotels. They'd easily find you.'
'I can't go to lodgings or a hotel. I've got no money, and no
clothes, except what I'm wearing. I didn't stop to think of where
I could spend the night. I was desperate to find you.'
'And how did you?'
'I'm not supposed to tell you.'
'Lucy,' he said with certainty. 'Mistress Lucy Conway.'
'I'm still not supposed to tell you. I promised.'
'Little bugger. I know she tried to follow me once, but she's
smarter than I realised.' He thought about it and smiled. 'Seems
like it's just as well.'
'It is if you'll help me, Daniel. Can you? Will you?'
'Of course I'm going to help. You don't have to ask that. Will
you come and talk to Clarissa?'
She nodded. Daniel tapped on the studio door. When Clarissa
opened it, she and Marie silently inspected each other, then
without a word Clarissa took her by the hand, and they went into
the attic room. Daniel followed and locked the door.
The bed had been tidied. They sat on it while Marie related all
the details. She talked in an emotionless, detached way, sparing
herself nothing, speaking as if it were something dreadful that
had occurred in some other place to some other person. She
spoke directly to Clarissa., who held her hands, and seemed to understand that Marie, now that she was speaking about it, had
to purge herself of every moment, every hideous memory even the last time he tried to attack her, and she had almost bitten his
finger off.
'Good,' Clarissa said, and smiled.
Marie smiled back at her, then without any warning, her face

had crumpled and almost drowned with tears. Now, after the
violence of her weeping, her sobs had subsided to sniffles, and
Clarissa moistened a cloth and wiped her face. Daniel watched
them, grateful that at least it had happened here, knowing he
could not have coped with this alone.
'We'll all sleep here tonight,' Clarissa said. 'Daniel can have
the chair, me on the settee, and Marie in the bed.' She saw Marie
about to protest, and forestalled her. 'No arguments. You can
borrow a nightgown of mine, and in the morning I'll give you one
of my dresses and some undergarments. Fortunately, we're about
the same size.'
'Why are you doing this, Clarissa?'
'Because you're a friend of Daniel's. And because we're both
going to help you. It's more than time someone did.'
Marie looked as if she might cry again, out of sheer gratitude.
Clarissa held her hand, and it seemed to calm her.
'What am I going to do?' she turned to ask Daniel. 'How do I
get out of this town?'
'Leave that to me,' Daniel promised.
'Danny, forget what I said about lending me money to go to
Melbourne or Hobart. I was feeling desperate that day. All I need
is a job in a small town. Parramatta's too close, but Windsor or Maitland, or even inland, that place called Bathurst. I don't care
where, or what sort of job I do, as long as he can't find me.'
'You said London.'
'A dream.' She smiled sadly. 'Just a silly fantasy.'
'Tomorrow I'll find out what ships are leaving for England.'
'Don't joke with me, Daniel. How could I afford it?'
'I can afford it.' He was conscious of Marie's astonished face.
'I'll pay your passage, and give you enough to live on for six

months. Do what you've always wanted try
to get a job in a
theatrical company. If you need more, write and I'll send more.'
The two women were both staring at him. 'You think I'd rather
keep money in a bank than help someone who's been a friend
since we were eight years old?'
'But Daniel '
'If Clarissa agrees, you stay here where it's safe until I can find
a vessel. I suppose you'll need some papers. We might be able to
arrange that.' He saw Clarissa nod, and turned again to Marie. 'If
there's one thing I promise you, it's this I
know what it's like to have a filthy pig for a father, and I swear you'll never have to see
yours again.'

'My dear Daniel, this is most unusual,' Mr Tompkins said. 'Six
hundred pounds withdrawn just days ago, and now a further
four hundred. Do we have a problem, that you and I should
discuss?'
'What we have, Mr Tompkins, is a friend who needs help.'
'Ahh.' Mr Tompkins felt relieved now that he understood
more clearly. 'It's a loan.'
'No. A gift.'
'Of so much money?'
'This friend is important,' Daniel said carefully, determined
that not even the trusted Mr Tompkins should know the details.
There might be talk. It could become gossip inside the bank, and
he was not about to underestimate the power of rumour in this
section of town. The Maritime Hotel was close enough for him to
see from the window of the bank, just beyond the Customs
House and near the quay. He had to get Marie safe aboard a ship,

out of reach, then he would find some way to deal with the
landlord.
It had been a long night. Disturbed by graphic visions of her
four years of torment, he had slept little. Clarissa had been
equally restless, and only Marie, exhausted by her emotional
stress, had woken refreshed. In the morning, after arranging hot
water for her bath, and lending her clean clothes, Clarissa
explained there was an associate of her late father who could
forge expert documents. She suggested to Marie it would be
unwise to use the name Geraghty.
'My mother's maiden name was Wilson,' Marie said, and
Clarissa left to make arrangements. Haste was imperative, but
Daniel, visiting the offices of the main shipping companies, was
disconcerted to find no berths on any of the East India passenger
ships leaving for England or Europe in the next month. He went
to several other major shipping firms, with an equal lack of
success. He was becoming concerned. Finally, at the offices of
Duncan Dunbar & Company, he learned that one of their
barques, the Duchess of Northumberland, had a vacancy and was
going to Southampton. Unfortunately it had sailed on the early
tide for Port Phillip Bay.
'Cleared the South Head signal station an hour ago,' the
assistant manager told a dismayed Daniel, and went on to explain
she was proceeding via the Cape of Good Hope, to the Old Dart.
Not only that, but there was a single first class starboard cabin on
the top deck, which as Daniel would know was very prestigious
accommodation indeed.
'But she's gone.'
'Taking on cargo and delaying in Port Phillip for victualling
there. Staying at least a week. Your passenger could travel



overland by coach and be there in time.' the assistant manager
said.
Daniel thought about it. The idea of Marie enjoying an upper
deck cabin appealed to him greatly. But she would require a
suitable wardrobe and smart luggage that would not arouse the
scorn of the purser or stewards, let alone disdain of other
travellers. She must stay safely in the studio, while Clarissa
purchased whatever was required.
'I'll take the cabin,' he said impulsively, left a deposit and
hurried to the bank.
Mr Tompkins made the necessary arrangements for the cash,
while trying not to show his mounting concern. Assisting a
friend with a gift was one thing, but this was a considerable sum
of money more
than his entire salary for the year, he
realised and
hoped Daniel was not becoming profligate.
'Don't look so worried, Tommo,' Daniel murmured to him,
as they shook hands. 'I'll be back in a few weeks, with a wad of
currency to deposit. Got lots of work and heaps of cargoes.' Tommo indeed! Mr Tompkins smiled as Daniel walked off,
leaving him reassured. After all, the young man was his favourite
client, and he hoped, if events worked out as planned, that their
futures would be inextricably linked. Especially when the board
gave him the expected promotion to a new branch. Mr Tompkins
had some extensive ambitions for himself and Daniel Johnson.

The gas lighter made his rounds, as twilight fell. By the time
night came, the streets were softly luminescent, and the arranged
horse cab had arrived. Daniel went down to tell the cabbie to
wait, while Clarissa and Marie said goodbye.

'I'll never forget you,' Marie said, determined not to shed
more tears. 'And I don't know how to thank you for your help.'
'Write to me, when you get to London.'
'I promise. Look after Daniel. I'm glad you're nice. Because he
deserves someone nice.'
They embraced, and despite her best intentions, Marie felt
her eyes moisten. She picked up the leather portmanteau Clarissa
had given her, packed with all the cloches bought for her that
afternoon. It had all been hastily arranged, as soon as Daniel
returned with the news of the ship and the purchased ticket.
'First class?' Marie had expected a berth in steerage shared
with others.
'First class, and why not? You'll be asked to dine with the
officers and the captain, so you have to look the part.'
Clarissa thought of her own grim third-class cabin on the
voyage out. But she was pleased; it was so typically Daniel, and
good for Marie's state of mind. She found a pamphlet she had
been given before leaving England, with advice on clothing
required for voyages, and they pored over it, amused by its
pedantry.
'One silk gown, evening wear. Several dresses: cotton for the
tropics, wool for cool weather. At least four petticoats, six
chemises, two nightdresses, two bonnets, a cloak, a shawl, one
pair of sound boots, two pairs of decorative shoes, and as many
pantaloons and stockings as possible.' They both dissolved into
laughter, on discovering the rigid and precise list was compiled
by a man.
'And luggage,' Daniel reminded them.
'She'll have mine.' Clarissa had produced the portmanteau,
and insisted.

They went downstairs. The cabbie stowed the bag. Marie felt
a moment of panic now it was time to go. She wished she could
stay in this warm friendly house, which had been such a haven;
have a room of her own here, visit Clarissa in her studio, instead
of a long journey to an alien land where she would know no one.
But it was impossible.
She entered the cab. It was dark inside. Clarissa, holding a
lantern at the front door, waved to her. Daniel climbed in
opposite her and the cab began to move. Away from the bridge,
down the slope, turning into George Street heading towards the
quay. She knew these streets so well she could tell every yard of
their progress. As they approached the Maritime Hotel she began
to feel tense and afraid. Realising this, Daniel leaned forward and
took her hands. He warned her to lean back in the dark interior,
so no one could glimpse her. Her fingers tightened on his as he
spoke quietly, intent on calming her.
'I can see the hotel now. Plenty of lights in the bar. Looks like
some sailors are in, keeping them busy. No lights upstairs.'
There wouldn't be. He's still out, searching for me.'
'He'd have given up the search last night.'
'And started again this morning. You can't even guess what
he's like. He'll never give up.'
'He'll have to.'
'I know the way his mind works. He'll want me back there, so
people won't talk. If I'm there, then what I said can't be true, can
it?'
'You're not going back.' He kept hold of her hands. 'We're in
Windmill Street. It's really quiet. No crowds tonight. Not even a
drunk to be seen. Five more minutes, we'll be at the jetty.'
'What if he's waiting there? If he's somehow found out?'

'Relax, Marie. Stay calm.'
'I'm trying, Danny. But he's cunning. He seems to be able to
guess what I might do. What if he is there, waiting?'
'Then he'll get a hell of a shock. What do you think I've been
doing all day, apart from raising a cargo? My bosun's waiting to
row us out. He's big and strong, is Mac the Bosun, and likes a
fight. He knows your da, and can't stand the bastard. His idea of
a suitable greeting would be to belt him, then chuck him in the
harbour to cool off.'
The bosun was waiting, immense and reassuring. While
Daniel paid the cab, he helped Marie aboard and loaded her
portmanteau in the dinghy. He took the oars and rowed them
out with long, steady strokes. Twenty minutes later they were on
the deck of the schooner, the dinghy left tied to the mooring,
while they winched up the anchor and hoisted short sail.
At Fort Macquarie, they showed their papers. The Marie G, with Captain Daniel Johnson, bound for Port Phillip carrying a
cargo of furniture and the usual crew. One passenger: a Miss
Marie Wilson. Daniel left a copy of the manifest with the harbour
master, as they headed out into the night, and the open sea.

'When did he go?' Emily asked.
'Two nights ago.'
'It sounds a long way,' she said.
She was wearing one of the new gowns she had bought, and
looked radiant and beautiful. Matthew's heart ached at the sight
of her.
'Doesn't he ever get frightened on long voyages, so far out at
sea?'

'Not Daniel.' he said. 'It's like a second home to him, the
ocean. He could sail anywhere. Cape Horn or round the world, if
he had to. Mind you, I think I'd be scared out there if I couldn't
swim.'
She showed her surprise. 'Daniel can't swim?'
'Not very well. When we were small, I tried to teach him, but
he never got the hang of it. He gave up, and said swimming was
for fish, not people, and he'd sooner trust a wooden deck. Typical
Danny.'
He smiled. Emily thought his smile transformed his face. She
knew Matthew was industrious and ambitious, and sometimes
felt that he was too serious for his age, but when he smiled she
wanted to sit and gaze at him, and be with him forever. She
wanted his arms around her, and be able to rest her body against
his, but so far they had been carefully decorous, meeting twice at
this small coffee shop in Liverpool Street, and he had been as
good as his word and helped her shop for her new clothes,
charming the rather snobbish sales ladies in the David Jones
drapery store. She had also been invited home to tea and supper
with his family.
But it was being alone with him, at times like this, that she
enjoyed the most. She was acutely aware that if he should ask to
come back and stay the night in her lodgings, she would agree
without the slightest compunction, and they would tiptoe up the
back stairs so that Mrs Rose, Bess Conway's friend, would not
hear them. And in the morning, to wake with him alongside her,
and be able to cradle his head with its thick mop of fair hair
against her breast...
'I'm sorry..'Matthew was saying and, carried away with her
dreaming, she had not the least idea what he was talking about.

'They've all lost interest now Marie Geraghty's gone, so it looks
like the Cabbage Tree Company will never happen. I hope you're
not disappointed.'
She realised he meant the proposed musical play; apparently
it was to be abandoned. Since the death of her father, and the
developing intensity of her feeling for Matthew, she had quite
forgotten about it.
'Where's she gone?'
'I don't know. Days ago she was looking for Daniel, my
mother and sister told me. There was a note sent to Ma by
someone we
didn't recognise the handwriting to
say she'd left
Sydney. All very mysterious, but she never got on with her father,
who's a real brute, and no one could blame her for clearing out.'
'Perhaps she sailed with Daniel?'
'I wondered about that. She was always fond of him.'
'You mean in love?'
'I'm not sure. They were good friends, that's all I meant.' He
didn't want to talk about love. Not tonight, not here with
Emily.
'A shame about the show.'
'Yes,' he said, 'but I wouldn't have been able to help them. Pa
and I have plans to expand the Journal, so I'm going to be busy. I
might have to spend some time away.'
'Where?'
'Places like Windsor and Parramatta. Perhaps even towns on
the Hunter or the Clarence. We want to print more pages, so we
have to find new advertisers. And extra subscribers.'
There was a short silence.
'Are you saying I won't see you so often?'
'Well, whenever I can,' Matthew said, and even to him it

sounded horribly weak and ineffectual. Emily seemed to think so,
too, for she studied him in silence. 'The main thing is, you're
settled now. Mrs Rose's house seems comfortable, and you could
always afford to move if you wanted somewhere grander. And
we'd keep in touch, of course when
I have any spare time.'
If she cries, Matthew thought, I won't be able to go through with
this.
But she didn't cry. She nodded and said that she'd look
forward to seeing him if
he had. any spare time and
as it was
late, perhaps they should leave and walk home, and if he would
be kind enough to escort her to the corner, she could walk the
rest of the way. Matthew said it was unsafe, and he would see her
to her lodgings, but Emily was firm about it. She felt perfectly
secure in the neighbourhood, and did not want to take up his
valuable time. The corner would be quite far enough. Matthew almost changed his mind. Instead he nodded, and
they left the warmth of the coffee house. At the corner they said
a brief goodnight, and Emily turned and walked briskly and
purposefully away.

Port Phillip was new territory. Daniel had sailed far to the north
beyond the Brisbane River, and southward to latitude thirty-eight,
to Twofold Bay, but never further south than that. He
knew the entrance to the inlet was narrow, and the fast tidal
water known as the Rip was tricky and perverse. Many ships had
found their graveyard here, and Mac the Bosun said plenty of his
mates were fish food down below.
Once inside, they found good conditions; a long, placid bay,
and at the end of it they sighted a busy harbour with the top

masts of a great many ships at anchor. Beyond the harbour lay
the streets and buildings of what was now called the municipality
of Melbourne. It had begun as a supply centre for whaling fleets,
and developed into a growing business town. From high in the
rigging they could see distant streets neatly laid out in straight
lines, and rows of cottages. They could also see that the Duchess of
Northumberland was tied up and taking on stores at the departure
dock. A porter told them they were a bit lucky; she had victualled
and loaded her cargo quicker than expected, and was to leave on
the early evening tide.
Marie's cabin delighted her. Although it was tiny and apparent to Daniel that the Dunbar Line had partitioned
spacious cabins into little more than cubicles to increase their
first class capability she
insisted it was perfect. There was a
single bunk, narrow locker, and equally cramped chest of drawers.
Somehow there was also room for a washstand, and a steward
who conducted them to the cabin said he would be the one
bringing Miss Wilson's hot water of a morning, and would see
that she retired with a nice warm drink at night, so Daniel did
what was clearly expected, and tipped him generously. The
steward gladly pocketed two sovereigns having
predicted only
one and
assured him the young lady would be looked after to
the very best of his ability.
She walked with him down to the dock, where the first lines
were starting to be cast off. Suddenly the dock was busy with
departure, and the onset of impending loss.
'I'll write,' she said.
'Make sure you do.' He felt about to make a fool of himself.
There was a bewildering sense of pain and heartache.
'I didn't have much schooling, but you know that. Neither

did you, but you were lucky. Bess Conway taught you. If I send a
letter, remember I never learned to spell so
don't laugh if I make
mistakes.'
'I won't laugh.'
'I just hope you can read my writing.'
'I'll read it. We mustn't lose touch, Marie.'
'I promise we won't.'
'I need to know you're all right. It's important to me.'
'I will be, thanks to you. And Clarissa.'
'But I need to know how things are. I'll worry.'
'Don't, Daniel. Please.'
'I can't help it. Don't you understand?'
'Yes,' she said softly, 'I understand.'
On board the captain was shouting. The purser was at the rail
beckoning and calling for her to please hurry, before the gangway
was removed. Men were waiting to slip the fore and aft lines.
'Isn't it mad,' she said suddenly. 'We grew up together, and I never knew until the past few days that I loved you. Didn't
imagine I could love anyone so much. I even think you could love
me, if we'd ever had the chance.' Marie smiled as she said this and
Daniel thought it the saddest smile he had ever seen. 'What a
terrible time to find out a thing like that.'
Before he could reply, she kissed him again, on the mouth
this time, her lips soft and yielding as they met his with a warmth
that was like a fierce glow. Someone was yelling, but he could not
make out the words. He could feel her heart beating against his
chest. He could hear the rhythmic sound of it. His blood raced,
and his thoughts were equally rampant.
It was wrong that she was leaving.
They'd go home, confront her father; he'd warn him he'd beat

the shit out of the fat Irish slob, if he ever came near her again. It
was unnecessary for her to go to the other side of the world, to a
foreign country where she knew no one, like a fugitive. An exile.
He'd find her somewhere to live, look after her, make sure she
was safe. He owed her that. For years as children they had shared
all their thoughts; he should have realised, should have guessed
about the terrible life she'd led since. He felt ashamed and
responsible for not knowing.
She was still clinging to him. His mind seemed in chaos.
There was no logic, just confusion and turmoil. He wanted to
protect and comfort her, not send her away like this, all alone, to
be a stranger in a strange place.
'Don't forget me,' she whispered, and left him.
This wasn't what should be happening.
He saw the gangway removed, and her hand was waving from
the top deck. The last lines were cast off, and the mizzen sails
filled with the nor'-easterly breeze. The gap between the dock and
the wooden hull of the Duchess became too wide to leap then too far to swim. Not that either were possible. He could hear the
captain's orders relayed, as they set the canvas and made their
way out into the bay. Her figure at the rail was becoming smaller
now, her hand still waving, then the vessel turned and the sails
obscured her. Daniel thought she ran to the stern; he was sure
that was her blue dress, her tiny arm waving. He stood there
feeling bereft, anguish choking him, waving back until the
barque was like a child's toy, far in the distance down the bay.
He wondered if he would ever see her again.

Chapter 13

Although Sean Geraghty's hotel was relatively empty for a day or
two after the alarming scene between the landlord and his
daughter, it was soon busy again. If it lost a few regulars, it gained
in curiosity, as other waterside workers stevedores,
storemen
and porters drawn
by the grapevine of gossip, came to drink
and found nothing untoward. In fact, they found the host more
cordial than usual, and the place lively with sailors off newly
docked ships, glad to drink at the nearest pub, with sea time to
make up, and money to spend. The sailors wanted two things
ashore; the first was to drown their thirst with a few ales followed
by some real liquor. After that, they'd satisfy their hunger for
something soft and feminine, and there were plenty on the stroll
for short shift or all night hire in this part of town.
The senior barman felt relieved; he had contemplated looking
for another job. To his surprise Geraghty had upped his wages by an Australian currency pound a week, and he was definitely in a
better mood than usual. There had been no sign of the daughter,
for which he and the other barmen were grateful. At least it
meant no more scenes. They did not ask her whereabouts, and
their employer did not tell them, although he now knew.

Geraghty had found out the morning after the schooner had
left port. He had let it be known there was half a sovereign for
anyone who could help him locate Daniel Johnson, and hinted it
was a matter of some missing casks of liquor he wanted to discuss
with the young bastard. All under the lap, and not to be talked
about, but there'd be a few free grogs in it, if the matter was kept
quiet. A few hours later a waterman came to the hotel, to say
Daniel's boat, the Marie G was gone from her berth, and his
dinghy was on the buoy. By midday the landlord had been to Fort
Macquarie, and bribed one of the junior clerks there to consult
the register of ships that had left the previous night. When he
had the details, including the presence of a lone passenger, he
then knew the schooner was bound for Port Phillip, and his
daughter was aboard, using his late wife's maiden name of
Wilson.
During the remainder of the day and late into the night, he
considered what to do. The more he thought about it, the more
he felt relief. If she was gone, then so was temptation. No longer
would he have to endure her cold reproach, her hatred, and the
occasional reckless surges of desire he could not control nor satisfy any longer. In Sydney she was a danger to him, in
Melbourne she was far enough away for him to feel safety. And
yet, was that true? Was he safe? If Daniel Johnson had taken her
there, it was possible, even likely that he knew. Which could make
him dangerous. It was one more score to settle with this brat. He
brooded over the missing six hundred gallons of spirits he had
paid for, and for which he wanted a reckoning. Long after the
bars closed that night, he sat upstairs with a bottle of brandy,
thinking about it.
Why Melbourne? Would she stay there? Was it possible she'd

gone there to lodge a complaint to the police? Port Phillip and
Melbourne were still a part of New South Wales, despite trying to
get legislation to form their own state. They had the same laws,
and same police jurisdiction. Could she be intending to revenge
herself from a place where she felt protected by distance?
He went to sleep confused, and woke with a dry mouth, a
furry tongue and a headache. Despite this, it was clear to him he
had to find out more, in order to safeguard himself against any
action she might take. There was no way for him to travel down
there by overland coach before the schooner reached Port Phillip
Bay. Nor would it be wise. It was an old instinct for leaving no
detail unexplored, which made him ask the clerk at the Fort what
passenger vessels were due to depart in the next few days from
Melbourne. The clerk was unable to supply a list, but he did
know the Dunbar Line's Duchess of Northumberland, which had
cleared Sydney, was loading in Port Phillip before proceeding to
the Cape and Southampton. An hour later, Sean Geraghty left
the George Street offices of Duncan Dunbar & Company, with
the information that a Miss Marie Wilson was travelling as a first
class passenger to Southampton, England, and would be
' embarking in Melbourne.
He felt exhilarated with relief. As he strolled in the direction
of the waterfront he wanted to laugh aloud, for it was a perfect
outcome. She was gone from his life. Not only too far away to
ever trouble him again, but it provided the ideal opportunity to
deal with a troublesome pest. First class, eh? Probably paid for by
the load of grog the young bastard had stolen.
He went to a police office beside the Customs House, where
the senior sergeant was a drinking companion from his army
days. After a quiet discussion between the two, Sean Geraghty

accompanied him to the rooms of a magistrate, where he swore
out a warrant, charging Daniel Johnson with the unlawful
abduction of his daughter.

On the second day of the voyage home, Daniel rigged up a rope
cradle, and had himself lowered over the side. On the bow and at
the stern he painted out the ship's name, removing the initial G, carefully repainting the remaining letters so that she was now
simply the Marie.
The crew speculated on the significance of this. Mac the
Bosun confided to the Welsh deckhand, Evans the Bread,
so-named because his parents in the village of Llanllywel near
Cwinbran in south Wales ran a bakery, that young Danny boy
had taken it surprising hard. They knew she was a close friend
from childhood, but wondered if she might be more, the way he
was mooning about. But if so, at least he had that fine, handsome-looking
artist lady, whose name they didn't know, for consolation.
Evans the Bread said, in his opinion, no man could have better
consolation than the artist, although after some second thoughts
he decided he could settle for either of them, because Geraghty's
daughter was a scrumptious little wench, even if she wasn't a
happy one.
'Well, how could you be,' Mac asked him, 'if you had a big
turd of a father like she has?'
'That's the trouble with the Irish,' Evans the Bread said. 'It's
one thing or the other. No half measures, boyo. There's some
lovely people, and then there's Geraghty. A fat ignorant bog-Irish
pisspot. The very worst kind of Paddy. It must have been the dead
mother who gave the girl her nice nature and
her looks.'

'It could hardly be that nasty swill-tub of lard.'
While they surmised and gossiped about this, they were fond
of Daniel. He was not only a generous captain, but a superb
sailor, and the fact he was so much younger than them, barely
half the age of most, gave them a special avuncular pride in his
success. They were well content to belong to this crew, and work
for this skipper.
After they entered harbour, and anchored at Fort Macquarie,
the duty officer and customs men came aboard. Daniel reported
a cargo of seal skins he had managed to acquire for delivery to
Robert Campbell. He went through the procedural port
formalities, and advised the officer of the change of the vessel's
name, and asked for it to be noted.
It was then that a police sergeant came aboard, accompanied
by two uniformed constables. He declared that they had a warrant,
sworn and executed before a magistrate of the Queen's bench, and
the accused Daniel Johnson was obliged to accompany them, and
to be held in custody. The serious crime of abduction of a woman
required that the prisoner be secured, and for this they had
brought manacles and leg-irons. He was told he would be marched
through the streets to the old gaol. The shocked crew watched in
bewilderment, and angrily protested as Daniel was chained. The
sergeant warned them to behave, and to take care not to engage in
abuse or rebellious conduct, for the question of guilt by association
had yet to be examined, and tomorrow might also find them in
the dock alongside the transgressor. He added he was accompanied
by armed guards waiting on the quay with loaded muskets for they had been warned that the offender might make an attempt
to escape, and was considered dangerous.

Matthew Conway was almost out of breath by the time he
reached the old George Street prison. He had run from their
home near the markets, past King and Barrack streets, past the
new Bank of New South Wales building and the General Post
Office; he had hardly paused ever since Mac the Bosun had
brought the news. The prison, the original lock-up of the town
when it was a penal colony, was cold and damp. Matthew knew
the turnkey, and asked to see Daniel.
'Sorry,' the warder told him. 'Got my orders on this one, I
have. It's a serious business, Matthew.'
'It's a bloody conspiracy,' Matthew retorted. 'It stinks. How
could Daniel Johnson abduct Marie Geraghty, when he's known
her nearly all his life and
there's a ship's crew who saw her leave
Australia on the Duchess of Northumberland, of her own free will?'
'You'll have to deal with her father. He's made the charge.'
'I wouldn't shit on her father,' said Matthew, surprised to
find he could use such words to an official, and feel no concern.
'I'm going to find another magistrate. If Daniel abducted her, he
had to realise some advantage. So you tell me what advantage he
achieved, when she stepped from his ship to another, going to
London to study drama?'
'I don't know what the hell you're talking about,' the gaoler
said uneasily. 'Her da says she was abducted. Taken against his
will and
hers abducted
from Sydney under an assumed name,
on a boat owned by the accused. That's the evidence. Her da
should know.'
Matthew realised that talking to the turnkey was a complete
waste of time. He hoped that Daniel might have heard his voice,
for the prison was tiny, its walls made of stone, and sound echoed
around the dank interior. He told the man he intended to see the

prominent member of the Legislative Council, His Worship, the
Reverend Edward Grayson. He would not only apply for Daniel's
release, but inform him Sean Geraghty seemed to have some
undue influence with the police station alongside the Customs
House. It might be free booze, or old acquaintance, but there was
reason to enquire closely at the issue of this warrant. The
magistrate who granted it had been a soldier in the same regiment
as Geraghty, and was a regular patron at the Maritime Hotel.
The warder told him he would be smarter to keep his nose
out of this little lot.
Matthew walked up Bridge Street. He had no knowledge of it
then, but he was passing the old Simeon Lord house, where in her
attic studio Clarissa Wilberforce was waiting for Daniel. At the
top of the town, Macquarie Street was impressive with Georgian
houses, the sturdy stone buildings of the hospital, and Francis
Greenway's barracks. In this most select of streets, within reach
of Government House and the open tranquillity of the Botanic
Gardens, were a terrace of elegant town houses, with colonnaded
upstairs balconies. Matthew knocked on the door of one, and a
liveried servant opened it.
'Mr Grayson, please?'
The servant looked disdainfully at his jaunty and informal
garb, categorising him instantly.
'Do you have an appointment?'
'No,' Matthew said. 'But please tell His Worship I have a matter
that may interest him. Or perhaps members of the Assembly are
not concerned with abuse of the law, and miscarriages of justice,
despite what Mr Grayson says in the council chambers.'
'I'm sorry,' the servant said, as stolid and immovable as a
portcullis. 'His Worship is not at home.'

Matthew was about to turn away, when he saw there was the
shadow of a figure at the top of the stairs.
'Let him in, Dalton,' a voice ordered.
'He's a currency lad, sir.' The servant invested it with a trace
of contempt, as he remained blocking Matthew's way.
'I dare say it's not contagious.' The voice was sharp with a note
of authority. The servant stepped aside, and Matthew entered. He
found himself in a spacious entrance hall, with a wide, curved
staircase. A mahogany handrail gleamed with polish. There were
paintings in the hall and all the way up the stairs. Lamps of etched
glass stood on delicate carved tables, and a huge crystal chandelier
hung from the ceiling. It was a rich man's house. The figure at the
head of the staircase made no attempt to descend. Matthew had
seen him often, at the Legislative Council, but doubted if the magistrate and clergyman had noticed him.
'A miscarriage of justice, did you say? Abuse of the law?'
'I believe so, sir. Unless it's prevented.'
'And who are you to decide on matters of law and justice?'
'We're not entirely without wits, Your Worship. If a case is
blatant enough, we can recognise corruption.'
He felt intimidated, being forced to stand in the hall, while
the fashionably gaitered figure wearing a black silk stock, cutaway
coat and clerical collar, looked down at him.
'I was told, when I first arrived in the colony, that you people
are often outspoken. At times to the point of insolence.' Grayson
said coldly. 'Apparently I was not misinformed.'
'I meant no insolence. My name is Matthew Conway, and my
father owns the Weekly Journal. You may know of it.'
'I've seen it,' the other said, conveying an impression that he
found it wanting.

'In the council chamber you often speak of law and order.'
'It's a matter I'm concerned with.'
'I wonder if you're concerned with the law being used in a manner that is out of order?'
Grayson frowned. It seemed for a moment he might direct Matthew to leave. His manservant hovered as if expecting this.
'Come up to the drawing room,' Grayson said, and Matthew
could not resist an amused glance at the servant's annoyed
discomfort.
He went up the wide staircase, and found himself in a vast
room. The size and opulence of it astounded him. He had never
seen such wealth. Another crystal chandelier hung from a figured
ceiling. There were rugs on the floor that could only have come
from Persia or the Orient. He was equally sure the furniture was
the work of English craftsmen, not the clever copies being made
by local cabinet-makers. Matthew was unqualified to judge, but
if the rest of the house was anything like this, the Reverend
Edward Grayson must have chartered an entire ship to transport
his belongings and his family. He wondered how a parson became
quite so wealthy. For that was how he had arrived, rich as Croesus
a little over two years ago, and in a remarkably short time had
become first a magistrate, and then an elected member of the
Council. He must remember to ask Sam Lyons, who made it his
business to find out about the rich and their assets in
case they
ever wished to sell any of those assets or buy more.
'So you report the news, do you, Conway?'
'In a modest way, sir.'
'Modesty is of little use in forming public opinion. How
many subscribers does your news sheet have?'
'About eight hundred now.'

'More than I imagined,' Grayson said, after a brief moment of
reflection. 'How long have you been established?'
'Almost three years. We began with a print run of fifty copies.'
'Then I don't think you need be quite so modest. No doubt
your father has plans for further expansion?'
'Gradual, sir. We've seen too many expand in a rush, and end
up in queer street.'
'I may be able to assist in some way.'
Matthew wondered where this was leading, and when he
would be able to start explaining the reason he was here. He
began to feel a slight uneasiness.
'Assist, sir?'
'I'm sure any venture could benefit from assistance.'
'My father is rather independent about financial matters.'
'So am I. I'm not speaking of money, Conway. What I might
be able to offer is influence. By talking to my friends and
supporters. Suggesting they become subscribers. I estimate I
could increase your eight hundred readers to at least double
that.'
'That would be very welcome,' Matthew said carefully, 'and
extremely kind and generous of you to offer.'
'I'm not in the generosity business,' Grayson said abruptly. 'I
could help you. In return, I would acquaint you with some of my
ideas for reform here.'
'Reform?'
'For a start, Sir George Gipps must soon be replaced as
Governor. I pray that day is not far off. The man's an absolute
fool. A disaster. He'd only been here a few months, I gather, when
he had seven white men hanged for killing a bunch of blacks.
Imagine that!'

'Yes, sir,' Matthew said.
'Back in England we were appalled to hear it. You'd have been
too young to know anything about it...'
'I was thirteen. It was called the Myall Creek massacre, and
those men killed a whole Aboriginal tribe.'
Grayson paused and looked at him, then went on as if he had
not spoken. 'His Excellency has made other foolish decisions.
Curtailed the use of convict labourers by private employers.
Opposed importation of coolies as a much-needed work force.
But you know these things.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do you have an opinion? I expect you're radically opposed to
progress.'
'No, sir. I'm in favour of progress, if it benefits us all.'
'Nothing can benefit everyone, Conway. You have to start at
the top. If you benefit those who own the land and the factories,
they will in time provide work for the less fortunate.' Matthew wanted to challenge him on this transparent lie, to
say his Exclusives wanted only convict and coolie labour, for
which they would not have to pay. He personally thought the
Governor a decent man fighting a flawed system that had seen
most of his predecessors fail, but he knew he had to be careful. So
he remained silent.
'I do realise your Journal can't print seditious matter about
the governor, Conway. But there are methods. Subtleties can
mould public perception. The wretched man has introduced land
sales, charging a pound an acre, and half the proceeds go to assist
immigration. That damned Chisholm woman has persuaded
him. Now the latest infamy. He's suggesting free, nondenominational
schools. I've denounced that in St James' Church.

If there's to be free education if
we must have it then
by
heaven well not allow it without religious instruction. God
before mathematics. And certainly God before Governor Gipps.' Matthew wondered how he could get out of this room, away
from the trappings of overcrowded furniture and the display of
wealth that now seemed garish. He felt almost afraid of what he
might say to this perspiring and flushed demagogue.
'Sir, I'll talk it over with my father. Although we are not
political. Our subscribers expect public notices, reports of social
events, the shipping news' he
could hear his father saying the
very words long ago 'and
of course, predictions of the
weather.'
'You tell your father he can be far more adventurous than
that. And he'll have twice as many readers in no time at all.'
'I'll try. But he's very fixed in his ways.' He wanted to leave,
but he owed it to Daniel to help. 'Now can I explain about Daniel
Johnson, who's been imprisoned on a false charge?'
'Briefly, then.'
'He's been committed by another magistrate, who is a friend
of the accuser. The entire charge is a complete fraud.'
'Just a moment,' Grayson said. 'I can't interfere, if a warrant
has already been granted. If the law has been manipulated, as you
claim, then it requires you to produce proof in writing. I might
then be able to approach the Chief Justice. But it would have to
be a case that showed extreme prejudice.'
And one that directs attention to you as a man of principle and conscience in the newspapers, Matthew thought, remembering the
many times this minister had been singled out for public
mention.
Grayson took a gold fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and

consulted it. 'Think about what I've said. Speak to your father. If
he needs advice, send him to see me.'
Matthew left the house with a sense of relief. A light breeze
from the harbour blew along Macquarie Street, and the chill as it
brushed his face made him realise he was sweating. He wiped his
brow and inhaled a deep breath, before he walked down Hunter
Street. He was troubled; there would be no help for Daniel from
the Reverend Mr Grayson.
But there was more to trouble him than that. He had been
afraid in there; frightened to speak his mind, aware of how much
harm that dangerous, wealthy man with his power and his
connections could cause them. Many times in the past, he had
resented his father's timidity; he had even reproached him for it.
Now he knew how his father felt.

It was night-time before the turnkey told Daniel to get to his feet.
Refusing to unlock his manacles or the leg irons, he used a cudgel
to prod him through the damp prison, into a tiny room where
Geraghty sat waiting. There was no other chair. The publican
stared at him, with the trace of a satisfied smile. Daniel, knowing
what this man had done, wanted to break the iron cuffs and
attack him, and as if Geraghty read that in his face, he gave a nod
to the turnkey, watched him leave them alone, then grinned with
open malice at Daniel.
'Fit you real good, them leg-irons. We might even get yer put
in the stocks, before they send yer down for ten years. Be good,
that. People hear there's a criminal in the stocks, they come from
all over the place, ter laugh and spit in yer face. They call yer
names, and chuck stones.' He came so close to him, that Daniel

could smell the stale rum on his breath, and was repelled by it.
'I'd like watching that.'
'You would,' Daniel said. 'From what I hear of you, it'd be
your idea of fun. Like raping your daughter.'
Geraghty stared at him with a bleak, cold stare. He bunched
his fist and hit Daniel in the mouth, then he started to grin again.
Daniel felt a chill of foreboding; the pain from the blow was
almost secondary.
'Silly bugger, believing what Marie told yer. She's a bit sick in
the head, is my Marie.' He remained close to Daniel, his triumph
as offensive as his breath. 'Seems yer friend Conway did no good
with Mr Grayson. 'Cos you're still here. And yer'll stay here, till
the magistrate calls the case and finds you guilty, then you'll
spend a long time in prison. That's what happens to you unless I get that grog.'
'What grog?'
'That bloody load of spirits off the bloody African Star. Six
hundred gallons of it. You know what grog.'
'Never heard of it.'
'Don't shit me. Just tell me where it is once
I get it back I'll
drop the charge of abduction.' As if he felt assured of the
situation, Geraghty moved back to sit on the chair.
'You will, eh?'
'That's right.'
'First of all,' Daniel said, 'I don't believe you. I'd never trust an
evil bugger like you, no matter what you promised. But now I'll
make you a promise, Geraghty. Drop this stupid charge, or I tell
the magistrate and everyone in the court what you been doin' all
these years to Marie. Don't think because the beak's in your
pocket, that he can stop me. They'll all hear it, loud and clear. And don't think you'll laugh it off, or I can't prove it, just because
she's on her way to the other side of the world. I've got a witness,
and a signed statement, and Matt Conway will make sure every
newspaper is there to hear the details. If they don't charge you, if
you worm your way out of that, at least I swear no one will ever want to drink in your pub again, you ugly, horrible, sick bastard.'
Geraghty rose in such a blind fury, that the chair tumbled
behind him against the wall. He lashed out and hit Daniel, who
tried to deflect the blows, but with both manacles and the leg-irons
restricting any movement, could not defend himself.
Geraghty kneed him in the groin; Daniel doubled up in pain and
the Irishman punched him repeatedly, then swung his fists like a
club, and knocked him sprawling to the floor. He began to use
his heavy boots to kick him, first in the ribs, then aiming at his
face. The turnkey came running. Geraghty took no notice of him,
as his foot grazed Daniel's eye, and drew back again.
'For Christ's sake,' the warder shouted. 'You can't do this.'
'Bloody watch me,' Geraghty said, and kicked Daniel again,
the tip of his boot catching his cheek and drawing blood. It
might have smashed the bone, but Daniel had seen it coming and
had managed to twist just in time to avoid more serious injury.
The gaoler took the cudgel attached to his belt, and raised it
threateningly. He moved between Geraghty and his victim, ready
to use the weapon if the landlord so much as moved. It was an act
born not of courage, but of sheer terror. This would be all over
the prison by the time the duty officer arrived. As it was, there
was a bloodied and bruised face to explain, and an unauthorised
visitor who'd kicked and injured a chained man, and who might
lose him his job.
'You fucking idiot,' the gaoler said. 'Are you bloody mad?'

'Of course he's mad,' Daniel managed to say, despite the pain
that racked him and made him want to vomit. 'What he did to his
daughter proves that he's mad.'
'Daughter? What'd he do? What're yer talkin' about?'
You'll know, soon enough. And there's the stolen rum and
gin he smuggled in. That means customs officers, as well as the
police.'
'Police? Ain't nothing to do with the police.' The man's voice
was becoming sharp and nervous.
'He was seen at Mr Guthrie's house, looking for Jack
Pearce before
Pearce was killed.' Daniel coughed and spat
blood. 'And you're in the shit, too. I'm chained up, and you let
him bash me.' As the waves of pain washed over him, Daniel
began to vomit.
'God Almighty,' the turnkey said, seeing a good post with all
its opportunities for bribes and easy money in jeopardy. 'Get out
of here,' he said to Geraghty. 'Tell that tame magistrate of yours
that the bloody charges are withdrawn.'
'Go to hell,' Geraghty blustered, but Daniel had said enough
to make him realise this was a path strewn with broken glass.
'We can't bring him into court looking like that. I don't care
if the bloody Beak's your mate or not. The Herald will be there,
and the Advocate, and every other bloody newspaper, and God
knows who else. Young Conway will make sure they are.'
'But I've got a case against the prisoner.'
'You've got fuck-all case, and you know it. Sounds like he's
got a hell of a lot more on you. Smuggling? And Jack Pearce he's the one got murdered.' He came to a decision. 'I'm turning this
man loose, and if you're smart you'll drop the charge.'
'And if I don't drop it?'

'Then you ain't smart.'
'I'm buggered if I'll drop it.'
'Then I'll have to confess that
I let you talk to the prisoner
alone, and left him chained. I get called away, an' when I come
back there's the poor devil bashed and kicked. Helpless, in chains.
Might've been killed, but for me. That's what I'll have to say.'
'Lousy lying bastard.'
'Am I? Yer could easily have killed him.'
'I bloody wish I had. If you frig me around, mate, this'll cost
you your job,' Geraghty promised him.
'Cost you a lot more than that, I'd reckon.'
There was a pause, while Daniel tried to watch them, and not
be sick again. He could taste warm blood running into his mouth
from the open wound across his cheek. He saw Geraghty stare
down at him, until the turnkey took a firm grip on the cudgel.
'Go home, Sean. If he decides to accuse you of assault, well
he's got the cuts and bruises to prove it, ain't he? So I'd have no
choice but to take his side.'
'You treacherous fucking sod,' Geraghty snapped, and
brushed heavily and deliberately against him on the way out.

Clarissa gently bathed and treated Daniel's cuts. She bandaged
his body, where it felt as if a rib was broken, and gazed appalled
at the mass of purpling bruises with concern.
'He could have killed you.'
'That's what the warder said. One very scared turnkey. Just as
well he got back in time.'
'Did you provoke it?'
'It was the only way. I had to take the chance. I know his

temper. If I could make him lose control, then he'd hit me. With
me chained and leg-ironed, he couldn't resist it. Otherwise his
magistrate friend was going to find me guilty.'
'It's appalling. The magistrate should be reported and
dismissed, and this Geraghty creature should face charges.'
They both knew this would not happen.
Clarissa made him undress and rest in bed. She sat beside
him, as he described their journey and how he had only just been
in time for Marie to catch the Duchess of Northumberland. He was
sure the ship would as easily have sailed without her. In his view
the Dunbar line specialised in quick profits, and the tiny cabin,
while it had pleased her, was an example of how they would offer
low-cost first class fares, and exploit the growing flood of
emigrants to Australia. He hoped she was being well looked after,
and that he had tipped the steward sufficiently. Clarissa listened
to all of this, and studied his face carefully.
'Do you miss her?'
'I suppose I do in
a way. I'm worried if she'll be all right, and
how she'll manage when she reaches England. But I expect it's
best she's far away from here, with the chance to start a different
life.'
'You're a sweet boy,' Clarissa said unexpectedly, and kissed
him on the forehead. He felt drowsy and too numbed by pain to
talk any further, although he wanted to ask why she'd said that,
and did being a 'sweet boy' mean to convey something in
particular? But before he could frame the question, he was fast
asleep.
Clarissa sat watching him. She wondered if Daniel knew the
extent of Marie's feeling for him, which had been apparent to her
from the instant they met. And if he did know, how did he feel?

Was his emotional distress a natural response to a childhood
friend's torment, or something deeper?
She was realistic enough to know that one day, inevitably,
there would be someone else for Daniel. Their age difference
would ensure that. She hoped it would not be soon, and although
she felt pity and liking for Marie, she rather hoped it would not
be her. She doubted if it could be, for the chances of them ever
meeting again were remote.
But a time must come, and he would make his own choice.
Clarissa hoped it would be the right one, that he would be happy,
but knew it would cause her pain, and not be a day she
welcomed.

Chapter 14

'You boys.' Samuel Lyons said, shaking his head in mock despair,
'you pair of cheeky young rapscallions. Illegal stolen spirits, eh?
Thirty cases of tom-thumb and another thirty of fine-and-dandy.
Very audacious,' he said with a chuckle. 'This place was built on
a currency of rum and brandy, but we're all supposed to be
respectable now. We're h'upright, 'onest citizens.'
'Are you interested in buying it, Sam?'
'My life I am. 'Specially if it's all been paid for by that Irish git.
I like the idea of buying it from you, selling to nobs like Grayson,
while it goes down to Geraghty as a dead financial loss.'
'I like that, too.' Daniel said, smiling. The cut on his face had
almost healed, and the bruises were fading. It was time to get rid
of this troublesome cache of liquor, and recoup the time they had
spent, and money he had paid to Emily. But his ribs were still
painful, and he could not face the long haul of bringing it
overland without help. Matt had suggested approaching Sam
Lyons, which was why they were with the auctioneer in his
cluttered office, surrounded by the usual turmoil.
'Would Grayson buy some?' Matthew was interested.
'His Worship the Reverend will buy anything, if he thinks he's

onto a bargain. I'll take London to a brick the brandy's Spanish,
but that's no problem. I 'ave a loft full of French cognac bottles
that will make it look the real thing. A fine, kosher purchase.
Some suitable-looking corks and wax seals, and we double the
price.' Both the boys were laughing. 'I keep telling you lads,
perception is everything. Taste don't come into it. I've seen people
drink some truly 'orrible concoctions, and swear that it's nectar,
because the label says so.'
'You ought to auction it,' Daniel said.
'Now that,' Sam said, 'is not 'alf as silly as it sounds.' He
disappeared to rummage inside a fake Jacobean sideboard, an
impeccable copy locally made by one of his skilled craftsmen.
They heard the clink of bottles, and he reappeared clutching four
of them. They were magnum size, and most ornately designed.
'Mr Guthrie might be a candidate for one of these. Or even the
'Onourable Willie Wentworth himself.'
'What are they?'
'Original Napoleon brandy bottles. I trust you educated
young gents have heard of the froggie who crowned himself the
Emperor of France?'
'He lost the battle of Waterloo,' Matthew said.
'This,' Sam said, 'was named while he was still winning a few.'
He read from a label. 'Brandy created in the cellars of the Croiset
Grande Reserve Compagnie for the Emperor Napoleon of France.
1804.'
'Where did you get them?'
'From a garbage tip.' When they laughed he assured them it
was true. 'Boys, in life I learned one big lesson don't
never
chuck nothing away. These bottles are the genuine article. Never
mind what muck we put inside. They'll be so expensive at auction,nobody in their right mind will open 'em. They'd be bleeding
barmy to drink such costly contents. Certain things are not for
using: they're for shoving in the glass display cabinet to make all your friends and neighbours jealous.'
Which was why they sailed the ketch up the coast four days
later, picking a high tide so that they could drop anchor close to
where the contraband was hidden. Sam had arranged for a team
of carters to take their bullock drays aboard the ferry the previous
day, then follow the bush road from St Leonards towards the
Hawkesbury River. Most of the track was still passable, although
at times the carters had to cut through sections of undergrowth,
and eventually sighted the water of Broken Bay, then found their
way to West Head, where the ketch was waiting. The casks were
loaded, securely covered, and made ready for their slow return
journey overland. Daniel and Matthew sailed back and were
safely moored before dark. Two days later the bullock drays were
taken across the harbour to Campbell's Wharf by paddle-ferry.
The kegs were all completely obscured by what appeared to be a
cargo of timber and building rubble, and no questions ever
arose.
Additional casks were sold to the officers on the American
man-of-war, while others were privately disposed of through an
intricate network known only to Samuel Lyons. Many prominent
people were pleased to acquire bottles of good quality French
brandy at a special price, with no questions asked. As well as this,
at an auction some weeks later, four unique magnums of Grande
Reserve Emperor Napoleon Brandy (1804) were listed for sale,
which resulted in a fierce bidding duel between agents of Henry
Guthrie and the Reverend Edward Grayson. The hammer
eventually fell on a bid of two hundred sovereigns per magnum

by Guthrie, who announced they would all be held in trust and
handed down to his sons in years to come, and their sons after
that. The unique brandy would be preserved for future
generations.
'Thank gawd,' Sam Lyons said. 'The right man got it. That
bloody parson likes a tipple. He might've opened one on the sly.'
When it was over and the amounts divided, Daniel had gone
to the bank with a share of eleven hundred pounds, which due to Sam's skill was
far more than he had anticipated. He was also
repaid the money he had given to Emily. Mr Tompkins was
suitably impressed.
'We must have been working very hard, Daniel.'
'Some good cargoes, Tommo. Even better days ahead.' But no
more illegal grog, he thought to himself, as he shook hands with
Mr Tompkins at the bank door. He'd done with that. Now it was
safely disposed of there was one final matter remaining. One last
settlement to be made.
Daniel made his way to the Maritime Hotel. He went inside,
timing it well, for the place was full. Business seemed to have
returned to normal. Geraghty was being jovial with some
customers, until he saw Daniel. He stopped in the middle of
recounting a story, and because most of them had been listening
to him, the hotel went quiet. Others, sailors off the ships in port,
wondering why the host was flushed and staring with such anger,
looked around. Daniel came to the bar.
'What do yer want?'
'A beer.' For a moment it seemed as if Geraghty might refuse
to serve him. 'A pint,' Daniel said firmly.
'Didn't know yer drank.' Geraghty filled the glass.
Daniel said nothing. He paid him.

'Like your pisspot dadda -takin'
to the grog now, are yer?'
'No. I bought this one for you.'
He flung the beer in Geraghty's bloated face. Long afterwards
he could still conjure up that particular moment the
whole pub
like a frozen tableau, the loud-mouth Irishman clutching at his
eyes while he shouted abuse, the sailors all starting to laugh.
That's from Marie,' Daniel said. 'This one's from me.' He
gave the man beside him a coin, took his ale from the counter,
and tossed it into Geraghty's enraged face. Then he smiled and
strolled out.

'You're a daft bugger,' Matthew said. 'Why antagonise him any
more than necessary?'
'It was necessary for me,' Daniel answered, knowing Matt was
classifying it as one of his impulsive, reckless gestures. He could
not tell him about Marie; they had shared secrets all their life, but
he had resolved no one except Clarissa should ever know. It was
better this way. If the gaol warder was to spread gossip, so be it.
He could not control that, but doubted if the man would risk
doing so.
Matthew had been given the story he had told his crew that she hated her father and wanted to try to get work in the theatre
and study drama in London. He admitted to Matthew and to
Bess that he had helped her financially, and felt they approved.
He also made a point of thanking Lucy for providing his
whereabouts, even if she had spied on him and followed him one
day. It was this sharp-eyed and alert thirteen-year-old who had
come closest to the truth.
'She was really scared of her father. So was I,' Lucy had said.

'Ma told him off for asking me so many questions. Mr Geraghty
was really angry, like a husband whose wife had run away with a
lover.'
'For God's sake,' Daniel had been startled, 'what sort of
nonsense are you talking?'
'You shouldn't say God like that,' she rebuked him. 'If you
were Catholic you'd have to do penance with lots of Hail Marys.'
'Where do you get such ideas?'
'I read grown-up books now, about love and passion. And we
talk of practically nothing else at school.'
Daniel laughed. 'You and your imagination. He's her dad,
that's all. A nasty bully and
it's true she was frightened of him.
Only now she's on her way to England, and safe from him.'
'You'll miss her,' Lucy said, and fixed knowing eyes on him,
'even if you do have another sweetheart.'
'If you spent as much time on schoolwork as you do making
up fanciful notions about people, you'd be the top of your class.'
'School is boring. I've decided to be an artist, so that means
I'll have to find a good teacher, won't I,' she said blithely, and gave
him a penetrating stare before she went upstairs to her room.
Daniel smiled, thinking about her. He'd known her since the
age of three. She was like a very young sister, with all its
disadvantages. They'd spent their boyhood trying to avoid her,
while she pestered and followed them and
she was still following
him! Despite everything, she was bright and funny, and usually
made him laugh.
'Why was it necessary?' Matthew asked, and Daniel realised
he was still talking about Geraghty.
'Because he rigged the charge of abduction, and then beat the
hell out of me when I was chained. Isn't that reason enough?'

'It's provoking him.'
'No, it's giving him a message. That I'm not scared of the ugly
bastard. And that he can kiss his grog goodbye.'
'I don't blame you, but I still think it's unwise.' 'You know me. Act first, think later,' Daniel said.
'And I'm getting timid?'
'Don't be stupid. You've got Bess and Jeremy to consider, so
you can't take risks.'
'I'm becoming like Pa. Careful,' Matthew said, and told
Daniel about his visit to the house of the Reverend Mr Grayson,
and how he had left there in a state of such anxiety.
'You mean he was saying publish what I tell you, and you'll
get more subscribers?'
'Virtually. Mention him and his policies and
we benefit.'
'What are his policies?'
'For a start, getting rid of the Governor. Replacing him with
someone who'll agree to cheap labour, freehold land grants for
those who already lease the land, and all the other objectives of
the pure merino Exclusives. He's filthy rich, and only concerned
with getting richer.'
'How did he make his money?'
'I've been meaning to ask Sam.'
'Why would he know?'
'Because Sam Lyons knows everything,' Matthew said.
'That's true enough.' Daniel smiled, and agreed they'd walk
up to the auction rooms and find out. On the way, Daniel asked
if he'd talked to Jeremy about Grayson's proposition.
'No. Pa would never dream of accepting it, so it's best if he
doesn't have to worry. This is one I'll keep to myself and
hope
his Royal Reverence forgets about it.'



They found Sam with one of his carpenters, inspecting an
item only just manufactured in the factory behind the premises.
'Commodes from the court of Louis XIV,' he told them.
'Look at the delicate panel, the French mouldings, the wide
comfortable seat, and the elegant piss pot with fleur-de-lis
design.'
'Too new,' Daniel said.
'Hang about. We play darts, add some signs of woodworm.
Then a few taps with a hammer, a thump here and there to
distress 'em. After all, Rome wasn't built in a day.'
'Sam, if anyone could build Rome in a day, you could.'
They all laughed, including the carpenter.
'Use your imagination. Think of Versailles. The dainty
backside of Marie Antoinette may well have sat on one of these.'
'Marie Antoinette?'
'I can see her now. What a luverly sight.'
'If you can see her on a commode at the court of Louis XIV,
you're in trouble,' Matthew said. 'Better if it's the court of Louis
XVI. That's who she was married to.'
'Thank God for the learning. Someone who went to school,
and listened to the teacher,' Sam said. 'That's the trouble with
making antiques. You need a historical adviser.'
They went into his office. Sam had a cargo for Daniel, and a
bundle of auction catalogues to be printed overnight. After they
had completed their business, Matthew asked him about
Grayson.
'How did a parson get so rich? Easy. He married the ugliest
woman in Yorkshire with the biggest dowry. Poor Mrs Grayson
looks like the back of a horse-bus. Goes to church in a heavy veil.
The pious bloody beak got his hands on her money, and now he

can't abide 'er. Gets his breeches off in half the whorehouses in
town.'
'Almost as often as he gets his name in the newspapers,' Matthew said, and Samuel Lyons looked at him and nodded.
'Noticed, have you? Very ambitious is 'is Worship. Has lots of
influence with the owners of the small papers. And he's good
friends with a few who do the reports for the Herald.'
'He wants to be friends with us.'
'Be careful of him, Matty. Wentworth is a mean, hard bastard,
but he says what he thinks, whether you like it or not. This one
comes with a Bible in one hand, and a bribe in the other. He'll
quote you anything from the scriptures except
the bit about a
rich man, and a camel passing through the eye of a needle. He's
got influence with the church and the law and
that's too
much influence for one man. He and his cronies will get rid of the
Governor, you wait and see. And they'll drag this place down if
they can.' They were both surprised to hear Sam Lyons so
vehement. 'He comes to my auctions, looking for bargains, and
calls me a yid or a jew-boy. Too ignorant to know it's offensive, or
too arrogant to care. He says the Aborigines should be kicked off
any land that belongs to the English forgetting,
or not caring,
it was theirs to begin with. What he really means is, drive 'em
inland and let 'em die there. Out of sight, and out of mind. No, I
don't like His Eminence Mister Grayson. He's only here to enrich
himself, and to hell with the country or its future. It scares me a
man like him has so much power. I think he's out to cause
trouble.'
Leaving the auction rooms later, Daniel said he'd never heard
old Sam lash into anyone like that. What was there about this
minister turned magistrate and councillor that was so worrying?

Matthew could only repeat what he said earlier; the man had
made him feel very uneasy. While it was unusual to hear such ill-will
from the normally congenial Sam, his own meeting with
Grayson had disturbed him. There was something quite calculated
and unpleasant about the minister turned politician. If you
added anti-Semitism, you could hardly blame Sam for his
personal animosity. It confirmed Matthew's own view Grayson
was dangerous. A man to be avoided.
They crossed the town. Matthew was taking the print order
back to begin type setting, and Daniel was on his way to make the
schooner ready to leave for Newcastle, once he had his cargo
loaded.
'How's Emily?' he asked, as they were about to take leave of
each other near the city market.
'Fine. Seems to be settled in at Mrs Rose's house.'
'Give her my love.'
'If I see her.'
Daniel glanced at him, puzzled by the answer.
'You mean you don't see her?'
'Occasionally,' Matthew said. 'Not often.'
'That's odd.'
'What do you mean odd?'
'You were seeing quite a lot of her.'
'She needed
support. To get over her loss.'
Daniel was unsure what to make of this. Before his voyage to
Melbourne, his friend had been spending every spare moment of
his day with Emily. Now he seemed evasive, and almost
truculent.
'What's wrong, Matt?'
'Nothing's wrong.'

'Sounds to me as if something is.'
There was a distinctly long pause.
'She's a nice girl.' Matthew said eventually. 'I liked her and I
felt sorry for her.'
'You certainly fooled me. I thought it was more than that.'
'Do we have to talk about this?' Matthew asked heatedly.
'Not if it upsets you. I can't help wondering what happened,
that's all. Maybe someday you'll explain.' He shrugged and gave a
half smile, about to leave. 'I even thought that you might marry
her.'
'I wish I could.'
Daniel turned back, startled by the reply. 'You wish you
could? So what's that matter? Think you're too young?'
'Age isn't the problem. I can't ask her.'
'Why the hell not?'
'If you must know because
what we did with that grog
caused her father's death.'
Daniel was silent for a moment. He knew this needed to be
treated with some care. 'You mean you feel guilty?'
'I know you're going to tell me it was Jack himself who made
the approach and
that you talked me into it. And Geraghty
either murdered him or else arranged it. But if Emily and I lived
together, there'd be this thought in the back of my mind, every
single day, that I was partly to blame. And it would ruin whatever
we feel for each other. Don't you see that?'
'No. What I see is a bloody fool, talking bollocks.'
'It's not bollocks.'
'Sounds like it to me. When did you come to this decision?'
'I've been thinking about it a lot while
you were away.'
'Are you in love with her?'

'Yes. Very much.'
'Then tell her.'
'It's because I love her that I won't tell her. What happened to
Jack would come between us in
time. It would wreck her life.'
'Instead you'll wreck her life by dropping her, just walking
away, leaving her wondering what went wrong. I think that's
cowardly and cruel.'
'Well, I can't help what you think, Danny. I happen to think
it's none of your bloody business.'
'If you say so,' Daniel replied.
'I do say so. I'll keep seeing her now and then, until she's
recovered from her loss, and starts to meet other people. I'll try to
stay friends. But I know chat Emily and I marrying would be wrong.'
'I always used to think you were smart. Matt. You might be
more educated than me and lots of people, but in other ways
you're as thick as two planks.'
'I wish to Christ I hadn't told you.'
'So do I,' Daniel said, and abruptly turned down the hill
towards Cockle Bay. He was deeply upset by the quarrel, and as a
result his speculation about Sam Lyons' hostility towards the
Reverend Grayson was pushed to the back of his mind.
Crossing the markets to his home, Matthew was equally
disturbed by the argument, and because of it Sam's tirade that
reinforced his own serious concerns about the minister were
forgotten.
It was something, that in the days to come, they would both
have particular cause to remember.

PART THREE

CHANGING
TIMES

'All things must change,
to something new, to something strange.'
Longfellow

Chapter 15

The huge private yacht was a dazzling sight, an object of
admiration the moment it entered harbour. From the terrace of
his house, William Wentworth saw it and speculated on who
could afford such a vessel. Before long the word of its arrival
spread along the foreshore, into shops and taverns, and by the
time it reached Fort Macquarie to hand the ship's papers to the
duty officer, a crowd had already gathered around the quay. The
yacht came with credentials hitherto unknown in the colony; she
flew the flag of the Royal Yacht Squadron, and was entitled to the
status of a British warship, being armed with port and starboard
naval cannon to repel pirates at sea. She boasted two immensely
tall, angled masts. The entire vessel was painted ebony black; with
its sleek lines and long bowsprit, it created an impression of
debonair luxury. Nothing like it had been seen before, and the
large crowd accorded it a most unusual accolade, by bursting
into spontaneous applause. By now those around Circular Quay
watching the debarkation numbered over two thousand. Matthew saw its approach from the first floor of the Customs
House, where he was checking details of new arrivals, and was in
the perfect place to view the event, and write a description that

outdid the best efforts of the Herald and all other local press. It
created a stir of approval, and some surprise that this young
currency lad could write so graphically. He had an invitation to
visit the offices of the Advocate, where he was offered a job and
declined it.
Jeremy said it was a fortuitous day. Perhaps the advent of this
rich man and his retinue was a sign of new prosperity; not only
that, but Matthew's report had been so widely read it had brought
a big increase in the number of their subscriptions. Bess hugged
him and said how proud she was of him, and that Emily Pearce
had called by to say she thought it was lovely. Bess then remarked
that it had seemed so long since they had seen Emily. Matthew
mumbled a vague reply, and left his parents speculating.
Daniel was sailing home from a long voyage, with a cargo of
sandalwood from the Pacific Islands. He passed by the yacht and
admired it, exchanging a friendly salute with a tall, striking-looking
man in his forties, whom he took to be the owner. There
seemed to be a very large crew, and a small group of well-dressed
and prosperous passengers. Daniel headed for Campbell's Wharf
to discharge his cargo. He had been away nearly two months,
trading in beche-de-mer and timber. It was the longest period he
had spent away from Clarissa, and had greatly missed her. He
would leave Mac the Bosun and Evans the Bread in charge of the
crew, and spend the afternoon and night at Bridge Street.
Clarissa caught a glimpse of the yacht from her attic window,
as it came down harbour, and she made a sketch of it. Later she
intended to use it as the basis for a full painting, for she was
putting together a folio of oils and watercolours, hoping to stage
an exhibition. She had made use of Daniel's protracted absence
to finish a number of canvases, and was awaiting a verdict on her



chances of a public showing at the popular new Standish Art
Gallery in College Street.
In his ornamental garden above the port, even the governor
came to look and sent his aide to fetch his telescope. Such an
unusual spectacle was a welcome diversion from the disputes and
disagreements that occurred daily with his opponents in the
Legislative Council. Sir George Gipps was only too well aware his
adversaries were winning, and that his remaining time here was
likely to be even more acrimonious.
'She's called the Wanderer, sir,' said the youthful aide, a first
lieutenant in the Royal Fusiliers.
'Who owns her?'
'His name is Boyd, Your Excellency. A Scotsman who had a
seat on the London Stock Exchange. Benjamin Boyd.'
'What do we know about him?'
'There were dispatches from the Colonial Office. He plans to
start a steamship company here, with the backing of Lord John
Russell'
'Does he, indeed. Yet another decision taken by Whitehall,
without the courtesy of consultation.'
The aide refrained from pointing out the dispatches had
been sent months ago, asking for vice-regal comments. The
governor, now in his fifties and exhausted by a continuing
conflict with the wealthy elite of squatters and Exclusives, was
becoming querulous.
'Should we invite him to dine, Your Excellency?'
'With a yacht like that, our self-styled local aristocracy will
already be sending him their visiting cards,' Sir George said. 'Yes,
arrange an invitation, before the social climbers smother him
with hospitality.'

'What about other guests?' It was a delicate subject. Some
figures of note would no longer accept invitations to Government
House, while there were others the Viceroy would not consider
because of his personal antipathy.
'Ask Sir Thomas Mitchell, and Mr Henry Guthrie and their
wives. Wentworth? No, perhaps not.'
'Bishop Broughton?'
'Most assuredly.'
'Mr Grayson?' the aide asked hesitantly.
'Under no circumstances. I'd sooner have a Catholic priest
than that avaricious Anglican. Though I'm hardly rash enough to
invite a Papist, and give our pure merinos another reason to
attack me.'
He went inside. The lieutenant sighed, and felt concern for
Lady Gipps who had to endure this distemper. The Governor was
a well-meaning man, without guile or the capacity for political
strategy, and he had become dispirited by the implacable
opposition of his Council. It was quite unfairly relentless. From
the start it had been so, ever since he had been vilified in the press
for allowing white station hands to be tried and executed for the
Myall Creek massacre.
The aide reflected that the lot of a colonial Governor of New
South Wales was not generally a comfortable one. Bligh had been
hated by the officers of the Rum Corps and overthrown; Governors
Brisbane and Darling both declared tyrants, Sir Richard Bourke
derided as a fool. For His Excellency's sake, he hoped his secret
longing to be allowed home would soon be granted, and wondered
what sort of man they would send out next. Meanwhile, there was
a select dinner party to arrange for this impressive new arrival.

'He's filthy rich,' Daniel said, while Clarissa lay against his naked
warmth, and reflected on their intensity after a two month
absence. They had made love twice before they slept, the first
time with complete abandon that brought them to a wild and
delirious climax within minutes, and then later with a slow and
sensuous delight, teasing each other and prolonging their orgasm
until she lost all control and smothered him with what seemed
like endless and joyous ecstasy.
Later they slept, curled up and content, and in the early light
of dawn woke and made love again. Afterwards, Daniel had
bathed and gone to the wharf to supervise the discharge of the
cargo, while she lay in bed and contemplated whether she would
begin work on her oil painting of the new yacht. Instead, she fell
asleep and woke in pleasure to find his body sliding beneath the
sheet beside hers, and his explanation that Evans the Bread had
taken one look at him, and said he looked exhausted, and what
he needed was a decent day's sleep.
'Darling Evans the Bread,' she said, 'the Welsh are so lovely.' Her
hands began to arouse him, and she slid on top of him, and felt his
hands explore and grip her buttocks, and they came together in a
tumult of uninhibited cries and the excited clamour of her heart.
And now, contentedly exhausted, he recounted the gossip
the crew had collected on the owner of the newly arrived yacht. 'Really stinking rich,' he emphasised. 'He's sent out four ships
laden with household goods and staff. It's said he did a deal with
landowners in Port Phillip and bought all their sheep thousands of 'em for a knockdown price often penc6 a head. And their land
goes with it; a couple of million acres from the Monaro down to
the Murray River.'
'Impossible.'

'Mac the Bosun swears it's gospel. And others say Boyd's
transferred a vast amount of sterling, to open a branch of his
Royal Bank.'
Before the week was out, it was all confirmed. Ben Boyd, the
rich Scottish stockbroker, with the looks of a buccaneer and an
ambition to become Australia's wealthiest man, had purchased
vast flocks of sheep, acquiring two and a half million acres of
pasture extending through the Riverina. He had been granted
additional land at Twofold Bay, to establish a whaling station
and a coal supply for his steamships. Meanwhile, an architect had
been appointed to design a residence for him across the water at
Neutral Bay, which would sit on the promontory and face the
city. It would be one of the great mansions of Sydney.
The building of this imposing house began immediately, and
its progress was rapid. Some weeks later, it was announced he
had leased a building on Church Hill, where he would open an
Australian branch of the Royal Bank, already incorporated in
London. He had even selected his senior staff. Mr Albert Tompkins,
formerly of the Bank of New South Wales in Macquarie Place,
would be the first manager.

Mr Tompkins felt like pinching himself. He could hardly believe
his incredibly good fortune. For so long he had been a lowly
ledger clerk, without particular ambition, glad of a steady
position which paid him three hundred pounds a year, knowing
his employment would last until the age of retirement. Upon
reaching that stage of his life, he would possess a modest but
reliable sum that would ensure an old age without penury. That
had been the extent of Mr Tompkins' aspiration.

Then, with the advent of Daniel Johnson, he had begun to
enjoy the power of patronage, and the excitement of expectation.
The prospect of promotion had also been hinted at. In his
imagination the post of an assistant or even a branch manager
had become the least of his objectives. Whatever fine future he
had read into the promise, it had not happened. Months, then
years, had gone by. The young client he nurtured had matured
into one of the bank's major account holders. The board were
known, in relaxed moments, to congratulate themselves on their
foresight, in taking him on as a ragged and barefoot ten-year-old.
They were inclined to say and
he had heard it himself, to his
indignation that
they had always seen the potential.
He had witnessed other, less qualified clerks promoted, and
felt envious and betrayed. Once, emboldened by the unfairness of
it all, he had sought an interview with Sir Moresby Latimer, one
of the senior directors of the bank, and tried to explain how
disappointed he felt by the broken promises. Sir Moresby pointed
out that he must have been mistaken; to his certain knowledge
no such hope of promotion had been proffered. He also reminded
him how fortunate he was to have a position with such a sound
employer as the bank, and that it was a time of recession and a
great many men would be glad to have his position if
he should
be considering resignation.
Mr Tompkins had not resigned. He was not a man for such
brave gestures. He had kept his disappointment to himself; even
in the privacy of the marital bed he had not wished to distress
Mrs Tompkins by explaining that he was being he
hesitated at
the word, the only truthful one that fitted overlooked.
But everything had changed the day a carriage had drawn up
outside the bank's premises, and a flamboyant figure had entered.

Mr Benjamin Boyd had an appointment with Sir Moresby Latimer, to arrange for his considerable fortune to be placed on
deposit, until such time as it would be required. Sir Moresby was
not congenial. He asked Mr Boyd if it was true he was proposing
to establish a rival bank, and on confirmation of this, declared
they were not in the business of assisting competitors. The raised
voices from the boardroom were heard by all the clerks, and
moments later a flushed and irate Boyd emerged.
He strode towards the door, but paused there, and returned
to the desk of the supervisor, where he asked a question. Mr
Tompkins saw the supervisor indicate him, and to his
astonishment Boyd approached.
'Are you Tompkins?' He had a clipped voice, the product of an
expensive English public school, with only a trace of Scottish burr.
'Yes, sir.'
'You were mentioned by a young man I met. Name of
Johnson. Just a boy really, but he owns two ships.'
'Daniel Johnson, sir. He owned those ships when he was
barely eighteen.'
'So I understand. Extraordinary! He said you've been an adviser
to him, and helped with investments. He thinks well of you.'
'It's kind of him, sir,' Mr Tompkins almost stammered, 'but
Daniel is well qualified in financial matters. He's an astute young
man.'
'So I gather. I told him I intend to start a bank, and he'd be a
welcome client, but he said he'd prefer to remain here. Because of you.'
Mr Tompkins was aware the rich newcomer was studying
him intently. 'That's very loyal of him.'
'And you, Tompkins? Are you loyal?'

'To Daniel?'
'I assume that. I meant to this bank. And the pompous
collection of nonentities who comprise its board. How do you
feel let
us say about
Sir Moresby Latimer?'
Mr Tompkins had a strange feeling his answer might be
important, and since he had been safe and dutiful all his life
and achieved little by it, he was prompted into being
uncharacteristically audacious.
'You mean the Baronet of Botany Bay, sir.'
Boyd looked amused. 'Is that what he's called?'
'Someone wrote a verse. Latimer bought his title.'
'Did he indeed? How?'
'I understand it was from making contributions to one of the
former governor's household finances.'
'And do you remember the verse?'
Mr Tompkins searched his memory, and quoted:

There's a brand new Knight been announced today,
Who helped the governor pay his way,
The Governor found him extremely kind,
And then found himself in rather a bind.
The money advanced he couldn't repay,
So he dubbed him the Baronet of Botany Bay.

Boyd laughed aloud. Several clerks and customers looked
across at them, and Mr Tompkins felt nervous. When this rich
visitor had gone, he might be in serious trouble. He realised Boyd
was again studying him carefully.
'You want to work for me, Tompkins?'
'Doing what?'

'My reception here has dictated a change of plan. I'm not a
man who cares to be treated like some supplicant. My plans for
opening the Royal Bank will be expedited. I've already looked at
some premises on Church Hill, adjacent to St Phillip's, which
seem satisfactory. Tomorrow I intend to sign the lease, and
tradesmen will begin the restoration of the place. Which means I
need staff. In particular I need someone to recruit the right
people. Someone who knows the colonial procedures, has given
his career to banking, and who can commence his duties at once.
And by that I mean today.'
'Today?' Mr Tompkins felt uneasy. He was being asked to
abandon a lifetime of caution.
Tm not a man who allows others to control my enterprises,
so when I offer you the provisional post of manager, I want to
make it quite clear that you'll be working under my daily
supervision. I hope to confirm the position as permanent after a
probationary period, but first of all I'd like you to bring as many
of the flourishing accounts from this bank as possible, including
that of your young friend Johnson. As for the matter of salary,
you'll have a thousand a year, and provision for an increase if I'm
satisfied after twelve months. If this appeals to you, then go to
your superior and tell him you resign as of now.'
'Sir ...' Mr Tompkins thought, for one awful moment, that it
might be a joke.
'Well, Tompkins? Yes or no? I like decisive people. Make up
your mind or
do I find someone else?'
'If you'll wait, sir, I'd like to give my resignation to the Baronet
of Botany Bay in
person.'
Ben Boyd smiled. 'Mr Tompkins, it seems to me we're going
to get along splendidly.'

They drove away from Mary Reibey's gracious house. Mr
Tompkins' last glimpse was of the downstairs windows filled with
the faces of his fellow clerks, and on the first floor, the purpled
and perplexed Sir Moresby and his board members watching
as
Boyd's coachman flicked the reins and was told to drive directly to
Church Hill.

The curator of the gallery was politely apologetic. While he
personally liked Miss Wilberforce's paintings, several of the
trustees had expressed misgivings. He had therefore taken the
liberty of asking for an independent view from a number of other
artists, who all felt that while the works showed promise, they
lacked maturity, and since the gallery was supported by public
patronage and thus under constant scrutiny, it was with regret
that he must reject her exhibition.
Clarissa thought she showed remarkable control, merely
asking the curator how other artists could possibly give
independent judgements, since they were also her competitors?
Had he, for instance, sought the opinion of the colony's leading
painters who might be more objective like
Mr Conrad Martens?
Or Mr Samuel Elyard? The curator regretted that Martens was
away on a sketching trip in the mountains, and Elyard was unwell
with acute depression, and unfit to do his own painting, let alone
judge anyone else's.
She walked home carrying the heavy folio seeming
heavier now than weeks ago when she had first hopefully taken it to the
gallery. She felt dejected, able to understand Mr Elyard's well-known
bouts of depression. Any creative work was a difficult
process; an act that required, before it could begin, a belief in

one's ability and the suspension of any doubts. It was so easy to
be defeated by uncertainty, the constant niggle of misgiving. Was
it good enough? Did it appeal? She knew how easily confidence
could be destroyed by
the lift of an eyebrow, the shake of a
head, a pause before venting an opinion. But this! It was more
than a year of constant effort rejected; it was the best work she
could do, and into it she had poured her heart. It was a huge and
savage blow.
Daniel was out. He had gone to see Mr Tompkins and
Benjamin Boyd at the bank's new premises on Church Hill, where
a large house had been transformed by an army of tradesmen,
just as another army were at work on the promontory where
Boyd's mansion, already half built, was the object of growing
excitement. There was also talk of expansive plans for a whaling
station to house his ships, and a town to provide for his crews
and shepherds, in the southern inlet of Twofold Bay.
He certainly had a way with him, this Mr Boyd, Clarissa thought, as she put the bulky folio out of sight, and sat staring out the
window, wanting to weep.
Daniel came in soon after, brimming with news. The new bank
was opening for business the following day. There was to be a
celebration tonight, to mark the occasion, and they were invited.
'Not me, surely.' There was nothing Clarissa wanted less than
a celebration, at which the elegant Mr Boyd would no doubt make
a long self-congratulatory speech, and she would know no one.
'I don't think I'd be a suitable guest for you to bring, Daniel'
'You're the only one I'd like to bring. Please.'
Unsure whether it was his eagerness to be seen in public with
her, or the hope it might take her mind off today's rebuff, she
allowed herself to be persuaded. They bathed and dressed, for

they were expected at six, and Daniel told her about his
appointment at the bank of New South Wales earlier in the day,
where he asked for his accounts to be closed and a cheque made
out for the entire balance in favour of the Royal Bank.
'It seems I was the fourteenth this week. Mr Tompkins has
been busy recruiting, and everyone's very upset at Macquarie
Place. I was asked if I'd wait, to see Sir Moresby Latimer.'
'And did you?'
'I thought I'd hear what the old goat had to say. My mistake.
I got a long lecture from him, on how the bank had always looked
after me, and how it was disloyal to abandon them for some
newcomer, considering the way they'd had my interests at heart
for so long.'
'I hope you advised him it was your money, not the bank's?'
'I did,' Daniel grinned, 'and reminded him we'd never met before and
that for twelve years Mr Tompkins had personally
looked after me. If he was moving on, so was I. Sir Moresby went
red in the face, and started to tell me I was nothing but an
ungrateful young currency lout --'
'He didn't!'
'He did. So I told him he was a rude old Exclusive, and had he
heard the verse about the Baronet of Botany Bay?'
Clarissa was laughing. 'You didn't.' She laughed even more
delightedly. 'Oh yes I
can just imagine it you
did!'
'You bet I did. And also, since I was a currency lout, I'd take
my money in cash, all twelve thousand, five hundred and eighty-six
pounds, three shillings and fourpence.'
'Daniel!'
'He said they would have to open the vault, and it would take
two clerks at least an hour to count it. "Fine with me," I said. "It

may even take longer, because I'll be there to double-check their
tally." He told me it was a stupid risk. I could be robbed.'
'You could've.'
'I said robbery was far more likely to happen inside the bank
than out. Then I took a horse cab to Church Hill, deposited the
money and
got a lecture from Mr Tompkins about the risks of
carrying so much in cash.' Daniel laughed, his face animated like
a mischievous child's. 'I've had a really wonderful day.'
His mood was infectious, and Clarissa was suddenly glad she
had agreed to accompany him. He promised her she'd be
impressed; the old building near St Phillip's Church had been
beautifully renovated. Mr Tompkins had a fine office not
as
fine as Mr Boyd's, but then Boyd owned the place. Owned every
share in it, lock, stock and barrel him
and his family. He had
capitalised it with a quarter of a million pounds sterling, and it
was incorporated in Threadneedle Street, London.
They walked along sedate Church Hill. Daniel was smart in a
casual white suit, more formal than his usual garb. Clarissa wore
a sky blue taffeta gown, with a cape and a ribboned satin bonnet.
She looked enchanting, and he felt proud to be seen with her.
'Any news about your paintings?' Daniel asked. 'Did you go
to see the art gallery yet?'
'No,' Clarissa said quickly, managing a smile. 'I thought I'd
wait. Give them more time to decide if they want my work or not.'
'They're mad if they don't,' he said, and she wished life was as
simple for her as it seemed to be for Daniel.
They stood and admired the building. It was a large Georgian
house on two floors. The name royal bank, with the letters carved
from seasoned English oak, was mounted above the entrance.
Carriages were drawing up as people arrived; Daniel and she

seemed to be the only couple who had walked. They were also by
far the youngest; at least he was, and perceptibly taller than most
other men. She noticed the eyes of many of the ladies linger on
him with interest.
The men wore traditional frockcoats or cutaways to flaunt
their elaborate waistcoats; most of the ladies were in crinolines,
which she thought a fussy and ill-suited fashion for this climate.
The guests were mostly owners of shops and businesses. Few were
as wealthy as Daniel, and would have been astonished as
she
had been to
realise he had over twelve thousand pounds, as well
as his ships.
Not only, she thought, am I being escorted by the youngest and best-looking
man, but also one of the richest here. Wouldn't those women give
him more than a casually interested glance if they knew! She felt amused by the thought, and glad now he had persuaded her to come.
Among the gowns, Clarissa recognised some styles from their
last batch of spring fashions, which she had sketched and copied
to all their seamstresses. The enterprise had grown there
were
many more dressmakers now eagerly awaiting the imminent
arrival of the autumn designs. With the flood of free settlers and
an increase in social occasions, there was a larger clientele keen to
be outfitted in the latest styles decreed by Paris and London. It
hardly mattered that the gowns were intended for other climates
and, like the crinoline, not functional for Sydney's heat and its
many dusty streets. It would be more sensible to have clothes
designed here, for local conditions, but she knew none of these
women would, for a moment, contemplate wearing them. The very
notion of Australia having its own fashions would be derided.
They went inside to meet Mr Tompkins, and be presented to
their host. That was when she saw the painting occupying pride

of place in the entrance hall of the bank. It looked familiar,
although it took her a moment to realise. It's mine, she thought
incredulously, and indeed it was hers the
painting of Boyd's
yacht she had begun the day of his arrival, intending it to be a
part of her submission to the gallery. It had not been included
because Daniel had admired the finished work and asked if he could show it to friends, and she had innocently agreed.
'Daniel,' she said, staring.
'Looks good, doesn't it?' He laughed, and took her across the
wide hallway to Mr Tompkins.
'Miss Wilberforce, this is indeed a pleasure.' Mr Tompkins had
stopped being astonished at his own good fortune, and had
acquired social graces. 'We're honoured to have the artist present,
and if I may be permitted to say so, one so young and charming.'
Clarissa felt like assuring him he could say so whenever he
wished, but merely smiled and thanked him. She was still startled
by the sight of the painting. A number of the guests were standing
in front of it, and seemed to be making admiring comments. She
wanted to ask Daniel more about how it came to be there, but
they were joined by a tall, elegantly dressed figure, whose face was
already familiar to her from the daguerreotype portraits taken of
him. In the flesh, Benjamin Boyd was far more striking. He had a
strong face with a patrician nose, alert brown eyes, and a neat and
immaculately trimmed brown beard.
'Delighted you came, Daniel, and very pleased indeed you
brought Miss Wilberforce.'. He bowed gracefully over her hand. 'I
do trust I've not been premature, hanging your fine painting of
the Wanderer. I'd like it to remain in its present place and enhance
the bank, if we can meet in due course to discuss a suitable
price.'

'No time like the present, Mr Boyd,' Daniel said. 'I've had
trouble persuading Clarissa to part with it, but she finally
promised me she'd accept four hundred guineas.'
Clarissa barely managed not to laugh. She felt her eyes had
betrayed her by widening at this quite preposterous effrontery,
but fortunately Boyd was gazing at Daniel.
'I was thinking of slightly less,' he said.
'Trouble is,' Daniel explained, 'it was to be the centrepiece of
her exhibition at the Standish Art Gallery. Miss Wilberforce is far
too modest to mention such matters, but there was talk it might
reach as high as... no, I'm not allowed to embarrass her by
saying how much. But I convinced her it would be more fitting to
hang here, where so many people are going to admire it.
Particularly as I think we should tell the press about your
purchase it's
good for her, and most important for the public
to realise that you're a patron of the arts.'
'Four hundred guineas,' Boyd promptly agreed, and went
into his office, while Clarissa stood trying to compose her
face to
appear as if this was real, and not some absurd make-believe.
The cheque he handed her upon his return was real. It could
be presented and cashed in the morning when the bank opened
for business, or if she wished, Mr Tompkins would arrange an
account in her name. He also hoped she might consider a
commission to do a painting of his new house on the headland
opposite the city when it was finished.
Later, in his speech welcoming those present and officially
declaring the bank open, he referred to the painting and the
artist, saying that Conrad Martens, Elyard and a great many
other Australian artists had begun to interest collectors in

London and
while this was splendid, he felt he had made a
sound investment in the new school of painting, the one
epitomised by Clarissa Wilberforce. As his guests could see, the
work was as striking and exceptional as the young lady who had
painted it.
'Not only a banker and a rich landowner,' Daniel said to her
in bed later, 'but a bit of a lad with a fairly sharp eye for beauty.
So you better watch it.'
'I'll watch it.' She clung to him and hugged his naked body
with affection. 'As for you, my darling love, my dearest Daniel I never knew a man so full of surprises.'
'I'll have another one any moment,' Daniel said, 'though if you
keep on doing that, it won't be a great surprise to either of us.'
Later she confessed about the rejection from the art gallery, and wondered what Boyd might say.
'Why should he say anything? We won't tell him.'
'But I feel like a fraud,' she said.
'Well, you mustn't. I loved the painting. And you saw all those
people admiring it.' Clarissa admitted she had. 'Don't worry
about Boyd,' Daniel insisted. 'He's got a bargain. The moment I
showed it to him, he wanted it. It'll suit him fine, his ship up
there on the wall of his bank. And the news that he's paid a record
price will be in all the papers. He's fond of big gestures, is our
Benjamin and
he enjoys being famous.'
'I can see that.' Clarissa smiled.
'You know what?' He laughed. 'He might've paid more.'
In the morning Daniel went out early and came back with the Herald, royal bank opens today said the heading above one story,
and on the following page was what they were looking for:

A NEW ARTIST
An astonishing 400 guineas was paid by Mr
Benjamin Boyd for a painting to welcome visitors
to his new bank on Church Hill. The seascape
by Miss Clarissa Wilberforce, daughter of a
London architect and a friend of Mrs Chisholm,
portrays the yacht Wanderer on its spectacular
arrival in Sydney Harbour last summer.

The story was also in several smaller papers, and Daniel waited
eagerly for the Weekly Journal to be published. He had sent the
details to Matthew with a note saying how important it was to him.
Any report would be a favour. But when he opened it with
anticipation, there was just a brief reference to the establishment of
the new bank, and no mention at all of Clarissa or her painting.

'What's wrong between you boys?' Bess asked.
Daniel shrugged and shook his head, the sudden question
taking him by surprise. 'I don't know, Bess.'
It was one of his rare visits to the house recently, for most of
his time was now spent at Bridge Street, when he was not aboard
either of the boats. He had come to see Matthew, but Matt was
out reporting a murder trial at the Darlinghurst courthouse, and
he sat in the parlour with Bess and she plied him with tea and
scones she had freshly baked.
'Have you had a row?'
'Not really.' But they had, and he could not tell her any of the
details, for it related to the death of Jack Pearce, and Matthew's
feeling of guilt that seemed to make it necessary to reject his

affection for Emily. An affection which Daniel knew was
reciprocated. It had been a silly quarrel, one that in the normal
course of events they might have shrugged off the next day, but
circumstances dictated otherwise. It was strange to realise they
had hardly met during the past year.
Matthew had been travelling to country towns, finding new
agents who would send items of local news and sell subscriptions,
for the Journal was expanding to compete with new publications.
By the time he returned, Daniel was at sea. He was also trying to
expand, to meet the challenge of faster paddle-boats and
steamships. His voyages had become more extensive, and his
attachment to Clarissa increasingly intense so
the house in George Street, once his home, was now a place to which he made
only occasional duty visits. He felt badly about this, for he loved
Bess and always would. He liked Jeremy, and enjoyed the amusing
antics of Lucy. But Matthew, since their quarrel, had become
unwelcoming and constrained creating a climate of detached
politeness between them. Which was absurd. The one thing they
had never been, until now, was polite. That was for strangers, not
brothers as they had been for so much of their lives.
So today was not a duty call. Today he'd come to ask Matt if
it was deliberate, leaving out mention of Clarissa, after he had
asked it as a special favour. He'd made up his mind he would not
leave until they had resolved whatever problem existed between
them. He had come intending to make peace with Matthew or war but
as luck would have it, Matthew was out.
Perhaps their lives were heading in different directions, and
now that their boyhood was over, so were the close ties of
friendship. He hoped not but
finding out would have to wait
until another day.

Chapter 16




The cabriolet travelled sedately through the gas-lit town, its
progress marked by the riding lanterns on each side, the sole
occupant obscured by the darkened carriage windows. It passed
by the Sydney Hospital, and stopped outside a house almost
opposite the Legislative and Executive Council chambers in
Macquarie Street. A liveried footman hurried to open the coach
door, providing a footstool for the visitor. The hour was late and
the street quiet; there were no observers as Benjamin Boyd
stepped out. From where he stood he could see the governor's
palatial residence above Farm Cove, ablaze with lights that
revealed the impressive Gothic Tudor design, crowned by
battlements and embellished by mullioned windows. Built in
stages over several years, it had finally been completed and was
the pride of Sydney, even if its resident was vastly unpopular.

Boyd had dined there twice since his arrival, the first time as
the guest of honour, and had assured His Excellency there was no
part of the British Empire with subjects more loyal to Her Majesty
the Queen than those he had met in New South Wales.

You surprise me,' the Governor had answered dryly.

'I'm the one who was surprised, Your Excellency,' Boyd had



said, ignoring the other's cynical disbelief. He had been well
briefed on the moods and declining morale of Sir George Gipps.
'Do you actually intend to make your home here, Mr Boyd?'
Lady Gipps had asked, giving him the opportunity for which he
had been maneuvering.
'Without question, Ma'am. I shall become a member of the
Australian community. Provided, of course, I can achieve the
aims that first drew me to this part of the world.'
'And what aims are those, pray? Apart from the clear aim of
increasing your already considerable fortune?' the Governor
asked.
'Had I wished to do that, Sir, I would have sat in my seat at
the Stock Exchange, and shuffled paper. Bought and sold shares
and metals, collected my commissions, made a handsome profit
and bored myself witless. My considerable fortune, as you choose
to put it, is to be used in the advancement of this country. If-and I stress the word if you will give us increased immigration to
help develop the place.'
'We already have difficult times and unemployment,' Gipps
said, aware his other guests were now intent on this exchange. 'I
hardly think more immigrants will find enough work here.'
'I'm talking of labour, Your Excellency. A pool of
labour skilled
and unskilled.'
'You're talking of convicts, Boyd.'
'If necessary. Convicts are often trained and well qualified,
working at a fraction of the cost of free men because they must
pay off their debt to society. In the process, that society benefits.'
He was aware he had the undivided attention of the entire table.
'Look at what has been created here from
a stream of fresh
water and an encampment of tents less than sixty years ago. This

magnificent house in which we dine. The equal of the best in
England. It would astonish my relatives in Parliament if they could see the splendour of this room, or Sir Thomas Mitchell's
grand house, or Mr Guthrie's. And in time, I hope, my own house.
But I need labour for my ventures at
least two hundred men.'
'Two hundred?' Bishop Broughton was impressed.
'Possibly more. I require carpenters, joiners, stonemasons,
men to cart and lay bricks but
I also need blacksmiths and
shepherds, as well as crews for my whaling ships. I see
unemployment here, as Your Excellency says, but I also see idle
men accustomed to the pleasures of city life, unwilling to remove
themselves to work on properties in the Eden Monaro or live and
work in Boyd Town at Twofold Bay.'
'Boyd Town, indeed? I didn't know your proposed village yet
had a name. But I daresay we'll approve Boyd Town, since it will
be your bricks and mortar.' The Governor's hint of derision made
several of the other guests smile. Boyd was unruffled by the
response.
'It won't be a pillage, Your Excellency. I intend building two
large towns. Boyd Town will be a port for exporting wool and
cattle. I plan to construct a road from the pastoral leases to the
coast, and Boyd Town will contain houses for workers, a church
for them to worship in, stores where they can make purchases, as
well as wharves for loading ships, and a lighthouse on the
headland. While on the other side of the river will be the town of
East Boyd, which is to be a whaling station. As you rightly said,
they will be my bricks and mortar, my expenditure and
as a
consequence both towns will bear my name.'
He had silenced the table. He saw the young and handsome
Mrs Guthrie looking at him admiringly; her elderly husband

quizzically. The bishop seemed to approve. The Surveyor-General,
Sir Thomas Mitchell's expression was difficult to interpret.
'But to accomplish this you need cheap labour?' It was old
Guthrie who posed the question.
'No, sir. I'll accomplish it anyway, but I would accomplish it
more easily, and a great deal more speedily, with convicts. Like
many who employ labour as
opposed to those who dabble in
idealism -I believe the country could only benefit by reintroducing transportation.'
'The country would not stand for it,' Sir George Gipps said.
'Select transportation, naturally. Artisans, skilled workers, a
better class of convict.'
'A better class of convict,' Gipps echoed sarcastically.
'It's a phrase that might make the idea more acceptable. I do
feel Your Excellency should not dismiss the notion. You would
certainly earn the approval of the Legislative Council if you were
to advise London of the idea, and allow it to be debated.'
The Governor had changed the subject.
On his second visit, Boyd had tried again to raise the matter,
and this time Gipps had taken him aside and told him if
he
wished to be invited again not
to disrupt his dinner table by any
more discussion of convict transportation. The practice had
ended; it was now time for free emigrants to populate the
country, and those who employed them must pay a proper wage.
There would be no more slaves in this territory. Boyd had smiled
and assured His Excellency it would not be mentioned again, and
he fully accepted the vice-regal position on the matter. But within
days he had set about arranging tonight's meeting.
He realised the liveried footman was waiting, and the door to
the house was open. His coat and hat were taken, and he was

conducted up a wide staircase and into a large drawing room. He
had already met the two men waiting for him, but only on formal
occasions. Despite this, he knew a great deal about them both,
for it was his practice to make a diligent study of those who
might be his opponents or
his friends.
William Wentworth, now aged fifty-three, was the leader of
the majority in the Legislative Council. A bluff, imposing figure,
native born and proud of his currency lad origins, Boyd knew
that Wentworth was a person who aroused intense equivocation;
there were very few in the colony with an impartial opinion of the
man who had crossed the mountains over thirty years earlier, and
crossed sides in the executive council chamber far more recently.
The Reverend Edward Grayson, on the other hand, had been
completely unknown in New South Wales on his arrival. Boyd
had spent time discovering his past, with interesting results. It
was amusing Co think how uncomfortable his host would be to
have such details of his life known, and doubtless he had done his
best to obscure them from anyone else in the colony.
As an impoverished parson, Grayson had applied for and
obtained the living at the tiny church of St Andrew's, in the
village of Swincliff, near Harrogate in Yorkshire. A remote place
that had little to recommend it, Swincliff's manor house was
occupied by a man who had made his fortune from coal. Sir
Charles Haughton was a middle-aged widower with one child, an
unmarried daughter in her late twenties. He enjoyed his status as
squire, as well as the attentions of a number of ladies in both
York and London. His only-problem was the dependence on him
of his far-from-comely daughter, Jane, who, by the tenets of the
time, would soon be likely to be considered unmarriageable. Not
wishing to be saddled with a spinster for the rest of his life, he

encouraged the vicar to call, and allowed it to be discreetly known
his daughter had a dowry of five thousand pounds.
Much of this information Boyd had received in a letter from
a cousin, a solicitor in Harrogate, who was not averse to confiding
to his relative the diverting details of-as
he put it the
parson's
nose for a rare bargain in the courting and capture of Jane
Haughton.
It seemed the Reverend Grayson had played his cards with
some finesse. He had shown enough interest to arouse the
expectations of the daughter, but then confided to her father that the dowry was a problem which would prevent his further
attendance at the manor house. The dowry, in plain parson's
terms, was not large enough. It was a pity, since Jane seemed to
find him companionable, and if they were to wed, he had
intentions of residing in London, and perhaps later, emigrating
to one of the colonies. But keeping a wife in the manner to which
she was accustomed demanded a great deal more than the offered
dowry. If asked, he would have to say three times as much would
be a minimum requirement.
Boyd's cousin had written to him:

And so I drew up the marriage contract over ten years ago now.
A very terse and tight-lipped father-in-law, and a rather pleased
prospective groom. I remember poor Jane Haughton, who was
ugly as sin, and I recall the couple moved to London, where
Grayson invested in property. His father-in-law died some years
later, and the estate went to his daughter, and doubtless to the
parson. After this I lost all track of them. How strange that he
chose to emigrate to Sydney, and you find yourself in the same
corner of the world. I would caution you; as a young vicar he


had a persuasive tongue, as a man of substance he might be
more formidable.

Formidable indeed, Boyd had to agree, for it had taken Edward
Grayson a very brief time to achieve a position of prominence
here. He was known to be one of the wealthiest members of the
Legislature and, as if determined to flaunt it, the large drawing
room was expensively furnished. To Benjamin Boyd's keen eye,
however, it had an air of pretension and little sign of taste.
'Your good health, Boyd.'
'And yours, Reverend. Mr Wentworth.'
They raised glasses to each other and sipped their drinks.
'Your house is ready for occupation, I hear,' Grayson said.
'Yes.' Boyd nodded. 'And work has begun on the wharves and
houses at Twofold Bay.'
'You have extensive interests,' Wentworth was thoughtful,
'and waste little time in progressing them.'
'It's just the start. The main town and East Boyd will be
completed within a year. There's a splendid inn being erected, for
I expect many visitors. Twofold Bay will be my trade centre. Apart
from my whaling fleet, we'll be provisioning steamships to
transport wool to England and trade in the Pacific'
'There seems no end to your ambition.'
'Why would I leave the comforts of London, if not to be rich
in the wilds of New South Wales?'
'Quite.' Wentworth smiled, although some sentiment of his
origin resented this glib assumption the country was here for
easy exploitation by well-heeled Londoners. As if perceiving this,
Boyd hastily made amends.
'I chose Australia instead of Canada or the Cape Colony, Mr

Wentworth. Whatever I own will be invested here. You surely
don't begrudge me a modest success?'
'Of course not.' Wentworth assured him. 'I wish you well. And
I daresay we all are in agreement on what should be done here, to
improve our futures.'
'It's why we're meeting,' Grayson said. 'I hear you've dined
twice with the Governor, Boyd. What do you think of him?'
'An obvious failure,' Boyd said, 'but not quite as unpopular as
one might believe from reading the local press. The Herald detests
him, but I think there are a lot of people in the colony who
approve of the fact that he has no liking for any of us.'
'Indeed there are.' Wentworth agreed. 'And the bloody man continues to please them by his provocative actions.'
'He secretly wishes to go home.' Boyd said, 'so we should try
to assist him in that regard.' Both men smiled.
Grayson refilled their glasses.
'We're doing our best. All the newspapers that matter are on
our side, and opposed to him. A few rags, and one insignificant
news sheet,' he frowned briefly, 'do not appear to concur. But
they have little influence. If necessary, we simply close them
down.'
'How?'
'Quite easily. They depend on subscriptions, but costs are
rising. Ink and newsprint is double its English price, because of
transport and import duty. So they need additional revenue from
advertisements. A few words in the right direction, you'd
be
surprised how simple it is to cut off that source of income, and
get rid of them.'
'The Colonial Office knows how we feel,' Wentworth wished
to steer the conversation back on course, 'but are determined not

to be dictated to. Gipps wants to go, we wish him gone. But
Gipps stays, because the warriors of Whitehall are so damned
intransigent.'
Which is where we thought you may be able to help,' the
minister said to Boyd. 'A new voice might be useful in influencing
London. I'm told you have a number of relatives in Parliament?'
'Several cousins, and many close friends,' Boyd said. 'In both
the House of Commons and the Lords.'
'Splendid. Even better than I hoped. Could you arrange to
dispatch letters, asking for their support?'
'Absolutely,' Boyd said. 'But if I do it from a more official
position one
of strength I'm
sure it will be far more
effective.'
'What exactly do you mean?' Wentworth was at once alert.
This was an ambitious and enterprising man.
'As my acquisitions have already made me by far the largest
landowner in the country, I intend standing for the position of
Chairman of the Pastoral Association.'
'Do you, by God?'
'You may have seen the new maps, which show huge areas
designated simply as "Boyd's territory".'
'I did see such a map,' Wentworth retorted. 'And thought it
absurd. I assumed you'd had it personally printed for a whim.'
Boyd chuckled as if the other had intended a joke, and with
determination held his temper. 'If you gentlemen provide support,
it would make me leader of the squatters. It may not bring joy to
your friend James Macarthur, my dear Wentworth, but I gain the
impression that might not upset you.'
'You certainly haven't wasted your time here.'
'I hope not. There's another matter. A vacancy is due on the.

Legislative Council. Old Sir Thomas Mitchell is resigning. I plan
to stand for election.'
'You're taking a lot for granted,' Wentworth said sharply.
'On the contrary, I'm well aware I'd need your help. I cot
not be elected without it. But you also need mine, and
remaining a close-knit group, we could do a lot for this place and for each other.'
'I say Amen to that.' Edward Grayson decided it was time to
smooth the old currency lad's ruffled feathers. Wentworth was
becoming decidedly tense, but they needed him. At least for
now.

Matthew sat alone in the printery, writing a story he knew his
father would not agree to publish. Nor was it meant for
publication. It seemed the best way of trying to explain what had

been happening over these past few months. If he wrote it down,
Jeremy could at least read it in the morning, and it might help
him understand. Each week they were gaining subscribers and
losing their advertising and
until this week he had not
understood why. From their earliest days as a four-page bulletin,
at least one full page had been devoted to a series of tiny single
column inch and half inch announcements. David Jones had
been just one of their early clients, and the revenue from the page
had always exceeded the amount earned from subscriptions. It
was vital to their existence.
As the Journal grew and became an eight-page paper, two were
always filled with larger advertisements. Samuel Lyons listed his
auction sales. Mace, the chemist, Keane's Straw Bonnet Warehouse
of King Street, and the Castlereagh Tea Shop were regulars. The

Steam Coffee shop, Robinson's Perfumes, Joseph Scott the whip-maker,
and the Royal Hotel were all occasional entries. Matthew
even called regularly on Mr Deane, Professor of Music, who took
a one inch space, as did Mrs Cousens with her Ladies School in
Elizabeth Street.
And today Mrs Cousens, for the first time in two years, had
declined to advertise. Scott the whip-maker, the Steam Coffee
shop and Robinson with his perfumes had already withdrawn
their patronage in the past few weeks, despite Matthew pointing
out that the weekly had greatly increased its number of subscribers.
All had replied there was a recession, business was quiet, and he
had no choice but to reluctantly accept their decision. Mrs
Cousens had seemed different.
I would not have questioned her right to cancel, Matthew wrote by
the flicker of lantern light, but it was so clearly a matter of acute
embarrassment to her. If I say she seemed frightened, it looks strange on the
page in front of me but
that was the impression she gave. I did point out
to her our expanded list of subscribers, and even offered a delayed
settlement of her account, but it seemed to create further distress.
She was actually on the point of tears. I was now the one embarrassed,
for she has been a good friend, a kind woman and her school for young
ladies struggles, as we know. I even offered her a free week's advertising, in
return for her support these past few years, but she declined. Quite
vehemently so. Which seemed strange and unlike her. And that was when
I began to wonder what had caused her such distress, and whether in some
strange way it was related to the other cancellations we have had, during
the past few months...
He heard a sound in the backyard outside the printery, and
stopped writing. There were careful footsteps on the iron stairs
that led down to the cellar, and a hand tapped on the window. He

unbolted and opened the door. It was Daniel, carrying a sea bag.
There was a brief, awkward moment. Surprise from Matthew at
this late and unexpected visit; hesitation and an uncharacteristic
uncertainty from Daniel.
"Can I come in?' Matthew nodded and stood aside. Daniel
saw the page and the quill pen, the last lines not yet dry.
'Interrupting?'
'Not really.'
'I was on my way back from the ship. Been to Penang.'
'I knew you were away a long time.'
'Nearly four months. Penang and Malacca. Took a cargo of
copra and hides, and brought back sandalwood. And picked up
some cedar on the Clarence.'
'Your artist friend must've missed you.'
'I'm on my way home to her now. Saw a light down here in the
cellar. Thought it might be you.'
Matthew looked at him thoughtfully. Daniel's staccato
replies, his oddly constrained manner was unlike him.
'If you saw the light, Danny, you came a roundabout way to
see it. This is hardly the quickest way from Cockle Bay to Bridge Street.'
'No, it's not. I came this way on purpose, hopin' to see you.'
'Ages ago Ma said you'd been here. It must've been not long
before you sailed. Asked me if we'd had a row.'
'She asked me that, too.'
'What did you tell her?'
'I said not really. What did you say?'
'A small misunderstanding.'
They looked at each other, and smiled.
'Bloody stupid it was,' Daniel said.

"You called me as thick as two planks.'
'I've called you worse. And you've done the same to me.'
'That's true,' Matthew admitted.
'Never mattered before. Only this time it seemed to. It's been
bothering me all the while I've been away. So I came straight off
the ship, to sort things out, if I can.' He hesitated. 'You never
printed a word about Clarissa's painting about
Boyd buying it.
The only paper that didn't. I felt as if it might be deliberate. Like
sending me a message to go to hell'
'It wasn't deliberate.'
'Why, then?'
'That was the first week we lost two of our advertisers. I spent
every spare minute running all over town, trying to replace them.
I got your note, and meant to write something, but with the crisis
I forgot.'
'Lost two advertisers?'
'The first of many. It's a long story.'
'Tell me.'
'Sit down,' Matthew said, and gave him the pages he had
written. 'It's for Pa. Today I worked out what's happening. Read
it.'
Daniel read to the unfinished last sentence.
... whether in some strange way it was related to the other
cancellations we have had, during the past few months ...
'Was it?'
'After I left Mrs Cousens, I had to go down to George Street,
and pick up some catalogues from Sam Lyons. I suppose it was
on my mind, and you know Sam. "What is it, Matty my boy? You
look like you lost a hundred quid, and found a tanner."' Daniel
grinned at the mimicry, but Matthew continued without smiling:

'I told him about Mrs Cousens. Trust Sam; he knew the answer.
She leases the premises for her school from Yorkshire Properties,
which is a company owned by the Reverend Mr Grayson.'
'Shit.'
'And most of the other cancellations were also tenants of
his.'
'The bastard. Can you prove it?'
'No. It would mean those people losing their leases.'
'But why would he do it?'
'To try to ruin us.'
'For what reason?'
'You remember the day I went to see him, and he asked me to
be a part of his campaign against the governor?'
Daniel remembered it. The day Matthew had tried to help
him get free of Geraghty's fake charges, and met this odious
magistrate-priest.
'The filthy bloody bastard,' Daniel said again, softly. 'But
even so, your articles don't threaten him. So why?'
'To coerce us. And to demonstrate to any other small
publications that he has the power to ruin them. So he can tell
them it's a simple choice: be on his side, or see what happened to
the Conways.'
'What does Jeremy say?'
'He doesn't realise. It was only today that I did. That's why I
wrote this, so he could read it and understand that it's not his
fault we're going slowly bankrupt.'
'But are you?'
'Slowly,' Matthew admitted. 'We lose a little every week. Pa
doesn't realise it yet but
I do.'
'Christ,' Daniel said. 'It's my fault.'



'Don't talk bollocks,' Matthew answered. 'Remember, you
told me that. Well, tonight it's my turn don't
you talk
bollocks.'
They tried to smile, but there was no real laughter in what
was happening.
'You can't allow this to go on, Matt.'
'I can't stop it.'
'I'll go and see the bastard. That reverend.'
'No. That would achieve nothing. It would hurt us, and bring
harm to the tenants.'
'What can I do?'
'Nothing, Danny.'
'Wait on. If you need money to keep the Journal afloat, how
about your share of the money for the grog?'
'I've put it in the savings bank,' Matthew said after a pause.
'It's in trust for Emily Pearce.'
'If Emily knew you needed it, she'd be the first to say take
it.'

'Emily's not going to know.'
'And you, you stupid bastard, are going to go down the drain.
Not only you, but Jeremy and Bess, and all they've worked for.
Well, I'm not letting it happen.'
'I won't take your money, Danny.'
'No, you're too bloody proud.'
'I'm not taking any handouts.'
'I'm not offering 'em. Not even talking about that. With all
the cancellations, you need advertisements, right?' Before Matthew could reply, he went on: 'So I'm taking over some of
that spare space. I'll remind people of the Daniel Johnson ships,
that carry passengers and cargoes from here to anywhere. I'll even

announce paintings, portraits or landscapes by Clarissa
Wilberforce, if she agrees. So that's settled.'
'No it's not,' Matthew said.
'As far as I'm concerned it is. I don't know if you realise, or
care, but the worst thing that's happened this past year is nearly
losing you as a friend. Even worse would be this paper going bust,
because Bess is not only my mother, she's the best person I've ever
known. So please
don't give me any shit tell
me how much it
costs in the Journal, one half page each issue. I'll take it for a year,
and pay you in advance.' He almost shouted as Matthew opened
his mouth to speak. 'And shut up. Don't tell me you won't accept
it, or I swear to Christ we'll have our first real fist fight since that
day near the old burial ground, when we was kids. Were kids,' he
corrected himself, and saw that Matthew's eyes were moist with
emotion. 'So it's all fixed and
don't bloody argue.'
'I'm not arguing,' Matthew said, and blew his nose loudly.

'How much is a half page for a year?'
'Twelve pounds an issue. But we'd give a discount, that's only
fair,' he said, anticipating a protest. 'So I'd say ten pounds a week.'
'Five hundred and twenty.' Daniel did a brisk calculation on
his fingers to check his addition. 'That right?'
'Yes. But Daniel '
'I said, no arguments. You'll have it in cash tomorrow but on one condition.'
'What?'
'Emily.'
'Emily's got nothing to do with this.'
'One condition, Matt. You won't approach her, so I'm going
to tell her why you treated her like that. I think it's only fair that
someone tells her she's not ugly or a doxy ...'

'Of course she's not a doxy,' Matthew shouted angrily. 'And
she's certainly not ugly.'
'Well, it's obvious you're never going to bother to tell her, so
I will,' Daniel shouted back at him, and they heard heavy
footsteps on the interior stairs from the living quarters of the
house. There was the approaching flicker of a candle, and Bess
appeared in a long nightgown.
'Daniel,' she said, and her face animated with pleasure at the
sight of him. 'Gawd love us, where have you been lately?'
'Penang,' he said, knowing she would have no idea where it
was, and he moved forward to embrace her. He towered above her now, but his arms could barely enfold her comfortable girth. In
his mind was a memory of being ten years old, and Bess's safe
arms enclosing him. It was one of the anchors of his life.
'I heard all kinds of shouting going on,' she said. 'Have you
two been quarrelling?'
'No,' Daniel said. 'We've been making friends again.'

The cabriolet drove Benjamin Boyd back to Lyons Terrace,
through the empty streets. It was past midnight, and in Liverpool
Street opposite Hyde Park, where Sam Lyons had built his row of
houses every
bit as elegant as the Nash terraces in Regent's
Park, many people said, but that was rather overdoing provincial
pride Boyd
entered the house he had rented while waiting for
his own waterfront mansion to be finished, and reflected with
satisfaction on the night's visit.
'I'll canvass support for you to chair the Pastoral Association,'
Grayson had said. 'And arrange your election to the Council.'
It mattered little that Wentworth had been far less enthusiastic.

Almost, in fact, opposed. He didn't care about Wentworth. He
needed Grayson, not the old bull. Wentworth was the past; his
mother had been a convict, and he belonged to an era that would
soon be gone and better forgotten. New people like himself and
Edward Grayson were the future here.
As Grayson had said before bidding him goodnight: 'We
must have a governor more sympathetic to the needs of this
place. Someone who can appreciate that wealthy men like
yourself-like
myself if I may be so bold can
only be attracted
here by conditions that suit us. Favourable excise and tariffs.
Cheap labour. More land grants. What's the purpose in allowing
someone to buy a miserable few hundred acres, when they have
no funds to properly stock the land or employ workers? It's just
a recipe for disaster.'
Benjamin Boyd agreed with this philosophy. He would
correspond with his many connections in the British Parliament,
and ask them to set about the business of getting rid of the
governor as quickly as possible. With the right man in power,
someone more amenable, they knew they could enrich themselves
beyond their wildest dreams.

The hay market was noisy with the arrival of ox carts and produce
being unloaded, as Daniel and Emily Pearce walked through. Her
lodgings were only two streets away. She looked pale and unsure
of herself, Daniel thought; not a scrap like the pretty, animated
girl who, even while mourning her father, had been so in love
with Matthew. It seemed so long ago.
'I was in this part of town,' Daniel said, the lie coming easily,
'and I thought I'd stop by and say hello.'

'That was nice of you, Daniel. It's been months.'
'It has. Even more than that. I went to Melbourne, then did a
couple of trips to the Pacific Islands, and I'm only just back from
Penang. It's been over a year.'
'I suppose it has,' Emily said. 'How's Matthew?'
'Busy. They've had some trouble, losing advertisers.'
Emily said she was sorry to hear it. And that she'd been busy
herself, and had taken a part-time job with Coleman & Piddington,
the booksellers and stationers opposite the Barrack Gate. It
wasn't a very special job, just replacing the books and keeping
them tidily arranged in order on the shelves, but it filled in a few
hours a day, and helped her to meet people. It was most
important, Emily said, making new acquaintances. Didn't Daniel
think so?
What Daniel thought was that any moment she might burst
into tears. He felt ill-equipped to handle this, and began to wonder
if, after all, he should interfere. He might be told to mind his own
business, but --
'He's in love with you,' he said abruptly, and Emily stopped in
mid-stride, and looked at him strangely. 'Matthew is. Silly bloody
Matt is barmy about you.'
'What?'
'I don't mean he's silly because he loves you,' he amended
hastily, 'I mean he's stupid because he thinks we're partly to
blame for your dad's death, and somehow it would always come
between you and
that's why he's been keeping away.' She was
silent, so he blundered on. 'He said he wished he could marry
you, but it was impossible, because of how Jack was killed. I'm
sorry if I've upset you, but I had to tell you.'
'Did he send you to say this?'

'No. I just decided --'
'You ... just decided?'
'I... yes. I thought someone had to say something.'
'You know what I think? I think you took a lot on yourself,
Daniel Johnson!'
'I did,' Daniel said, and knew it was not going at all well. 'But
we've been friends since we were knee-high, and I hate seeing him
look so miserable. And you don't exactly look full of joy yerself
'Well, that's where you're wrong.' Her chin rose, her eyes
challenged him angrily. For a moment he thought she might be
going to slap his face.
'If I'm wrong, I'm sorry.'
'You're completely wrong. And you needn't be sorry. Because
I've met a young chap he's
a clerk at the same bookshop, and we
have supper regularly, and he's taking me to see the new drama at
the Royal Victoria tomorrow night. We share the same interests.
What's more, he's on the point of asking me to marry him and when he does I'm going to say yes. So you be sure to tell Matthew
he won't have to worry in the slightest about me.'
She turned and walked swiftly away.
So that's what I get for sticking me beak in, he thought sadly, and wished she had slapped his face instead. Now he was left with the
unenviable task of explaining to Matthew that she was spoken
for, and no longer interested. Perhaps Matt would oblige by
punching him, so he could nurse a sore jaw instead of a guilty
conscience.

'But you were trying to help,' Clarissa said, while her hand drew
swift, fluent strokes, and Boyd's waterfront mansion began to

come alive on her sketch pad. She sat on the deck of the ketch,
anchored off the Neutral Bay point now dominated by the
palatial residence Benjamin Boyd had named 'Craignathan'.
Daniel was perched on the rail beside her, recounting the
morning's debacle as she made a series of sketches from which
she would compose her final oil painting of the house.
It had been commissioned. Boyd had offered her the use of
his luxurious yacht anchored nearby from which to sketch, but
she had declined with thanks now Daniel was home again.
Besides, she considered Mr Boyd a little too fond of allowing his
eyes to linger contemplatively on her body, as if imagining how
she might look without clothing. She had almost rejected the
commission, but could find no way to do so. The news of his first
purchase had brought a contrite curator of the gallery wishing to
reconsider her work, so to not accept this assignment would be
less than gracious.
'I thought I was trying to help them. Instead, I made a real
mess of it.' Daniel sounded so disconsolate that Clarissa tactfully
suppressed a smile.
'But if she's found someone else, darling, it's hardly your
fault. I'm sure Matthew will find someone he likes, in time.'

'I hope so.'
'I might even know the very girl'
'For Matt?'
'Perhaps. One of our seamstresses. She's nineteen, quite
pretty, and lots of fun. Who can tell about these things, but at least we could arrange for them to meet.'
'First you have to meet Matthew.'
'I'd like to. It's silly we don't know each other, after so long. I
know it was my idea to keep things private, but after all Mr

Tompkins knows me, and so does Mr Boyd, not forgetting the
clever young Miss Lucy Conway.' She smiled. 'So why not her
brother?'
'You don't mind people knowing about us?'
'No, I don't mind. Because it means I can be seen with you in
public provided
you don't mind.'
'How could I mind, when I'm proud to be seen with you?'
Clarissa smiled. 'You might have said all the wrong things to
Emily Pearce, but you say the right ones to me.'
There was a gleam of light from the direction of
Craignathan.
'What's that?' Daniel asked.
'Mr Boyd, with his spyglass.'
'A telescope? What's he doing?'
'Studying his artist, I imagine.' She looked at his expression
and smiled. 'Well, you did warn me.'
'The dirty old bugger!'
'Not so old. He's only forty-three.'
'That's old enough to keep his beady eyes to himself. Has he
said anything? Did he visit or
try anything while
I was away?'
'My darling, I do believe you're jealous.'
'Of course I'm jealous. I'd like to punch him on the nose.'
'I can't begin to tell you how complimented I am by that.'
Clarissa laughed. 'But he didn't say or try anything. Though he
was less than pleased when I turned down the luxury of his yacht
and said I'd rather be here with you.' After a moment she
continued thoughtfully: 'He's not a man used to rejection, our Mr Boyd.'
'You don't like him much, do you?'
'Not especially.'

'Why?'
'He's very arrogant. A trifle too fond of himself.'
'Do you think he'll stay in the colony for long?'
'For good, I'd say. Look at all the money he's investing.'
'Others have done the same. Built homes and bought land,
then sold at a profit and gone back to what they call
civilisation.'
'Not him. I think he wants to be King of Australia.'
'King Benjamin.'
'He wants to be powerful. He feels he's a cut above the rest of
us. I should be grateful look
what he paid for the painting but I get the strong feeling it's really for effect. You guessed that when
you talked him into paying twice what anyone else would have
thought reasonable. It's his way of saying "look how rich I am".
And it's very rude to stand there on his front verandah and study
me through his telescope. I hope he can't lip read.'
'I hope he can, and then he'll stop spying on us. Have you
nearly finished your sketches?'
'Enough for today, I think.'

Bess was waiting for them outside the lodging house when they
returned. Daniel recognised her the moment they turned into
Bridge Street, and he started to run up the slope and across the
bridge. He knew something had happened to bring her here, and
for a moment not
wanting to be told bad news he
put his
arms around her. To his further alarm, he realised her cheeks
were wet with tears.
'Bess, what is it?' he said, his heart feeling like lead.
'Emily,' she sobbed.

'What's happened to Emily?' He was vaguely aware that
Clarissa had joined them. 'Please, Bess, what's happened to
Emily?'
'She came to see Matthew, and ... and ...' she sobbed, and
then somehow Clarissa was also enclosed in their tearful
embrace.
'And what, Bess?'
'Asked him to marry her. And he's said yes ... and I love you,
Daniel. That's what I came to tell you. It's all your doing.'
'I thought something terrible had happened.'
'No, something really wonderful. Thanks to you.'
'But she was going to marry someone else,' he began to say, then realised. There was no one else. And after he'd told her, she'd gone straight to the printery. He felt a rush of joy. Matthew and Emily. It
was just perfect. 'When are they being married?'
'Soon. I'm not sure. Perhaps after Christmas, early in the New
Year. I just felt I had to tell you. So I asked Lucy whereabouts I
could find you. I felt sure that young Miss would know.' She became aware one of her arms was hugging Clarissa. 'You are
Clarissa?'
'Yes.'
'I hope you don't mind I've turned up here like this?'
'Mind? I've heard so much about you, I feel I know you.'
'From Daniel?'
'Yes, from Daniel. Right back to when he was ten years old,
and you became his mother, as well as his friend.'
'Did he say that?' Bess asked, gazing at Daniel.
Clarissa nodded. 'That's exactly what he said. And lots more.
May I call you Bess?'
'Of course you can, love.'

'Daniel's been so worried. He thought he'd made a mistake
and spoiled things. He's been brooding over it.'
'Trust him,' she said fondly.
The two women looked at each other for what seemed a
considerable time, then, as if liking what they saw, they both
smiled. Bess's tears still ran down her smeared face, and Clarissa
took out a handkerchief and carefully dried them for her.
'Come inside, Bess,' she said. 'Come in and tell us about it.'
They went into the house, and climbed the stairs to the
studio. Bess was puffing slightly by the time they reached the top
landing, but refused to sit in the only comfortable chair until she
had admired the view of the harbour from the window, and
inspected a half-finished painting on the easel and others stacked
against the walls. She told Clarissa how her painting of the Marie hung in her parlour, and how much she liked it. Finally, Daniel
settled her in the chair, and begged her to tell them exactly what
had happened.
She said Emily had come to the house, wearing her best dress,
and asked her if Matthew was home.
'And then what?' he asked, while Clarissa prepared tea.
'I said he was working in the printery with his father, so I'd go
down there with Jeremy, and send Matt upstairs. That way they
could speak in private. Only she told me what she had to say
wasn't the least bit private in
fact, she'd like Jeremy and me to
be there. We went down the steps, and she told Matthew that
you'd come to see her, and explained he felt guilty because of
something to do with her father and
that he really wanted to
marry her, but felt he couldn't ask. "Is that true?" she said, and Matthew sort of mumbled and nodded. "Well, if you can't ask
me, I'm asking you," she said. "That's why I'm here. Will you

marry me, or are you going to stand there like a fool and look
stupid as
well as spoiling my life?"'
'Emily said that?'
'Truly.'
'Then what happened?'
'Matthew just seemed a bit dazed, and me and Jeremy were
wondering if he'd even speak then
he smiled. And she smiled.
And the next thing they were both laughing the
pair of 'em
laughing out loud and
then hugging and kissing each other, as
if we weren't even there. So I grabbed Jeremy, and we sneaked out,
and about half an hour later they came upstairs and told us they
were in love. As if we didn't know that. Or did they think we'd
never been in love ourselves?'
Daniel smiled as he perched on the edge of the chair beside
her, and Clarissa brought a tea tray. It seemed to him a perfect
day, with Bess there in the studio, Matthew and Emily betrothed,
and Clarissa and Ma talking away like the best of friends. He was
riot to know it then, or for some time, but there would be very few
moments in his life as good as that again.

Chapter 17

The church at Twofold Bay was built of fine sandstone, and roofed
with timber shingles brought by a fleet of ships from Sydney. It
overlooked the harbour and the jetty, and was planned as a
spectacular monument on one side of the inlet, with the lighthouse
tower to stand guardian opposite. A feature of the church was a
magnificent stained glass window, perfectly positioned to allow
the sunlight to shine through and enhance it for morning service.
It lit the halo around the head of Christ, and like some incandescent
nimbus, also invested the head of the minister in the pulpit with a
lustre of his own. The Reverend Edward Grayson, invited to take
the pulpit at the official opening of the church, was fully conscious
of this flattering luminosity, even if disturbed by certain other
aspects, as he read from the Book of Psalms.
'Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor
standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful. But his
delimit is in the law of the Lord; and in his law he doth meditate day and
night
'And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth
forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he
doeth shall prosper.

'The ungodly are not so; but are like the chaff which the wind driveth
away. Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgement, nor sinners
in the congregation of the righteous.
'For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous; but the way of the
ungodly shall perish.'
It was intended to be a fitting tribute to his status, Grayson
reflected, to open this church which would soon compare in
grandeur with any other in the colony, but unfortunately that day
was not yet. While a team of skilled artisans had laboured for long
hours to ensure its completion before Christmas, shipping from
Britain had delayed the arrival of selected mahogany for the pews,
and the church, magnificent in so many respects, lacked any
seating. The heralded opening ceremony had been so widely
promulgated that it could not be cancelled, and the distinguished
congregation, most of them guests at Boyd's luxurious Elizabethan-style
Seahorse Inn, arrived in church to be confronted by the news
that they had to stand throughout the service. However, matting
had been provided for them to kneel for prayers. A somewhat
embarrassed Boyd had made an announcement promising the
finest house of worship in the colony would be able to seat its
parishioners before the first Sunday in Lent.
Grayson was annoyed, but gave no indication of it. A lack of
pews was hardly what he expected, but in every other aspect the
church promised to live up to its founder's prediction. Although
he despised all convicts, he had to admit among them there were
some fine craftsmen, and his former flock at St Andrew's would
have been dumbfounded by the carved woodwork of the lectern,
and the beauty of the casement windows. As for his invitation to
be the first to preach here, his name would duly be recorded on
the commemorative brass plate at the church door, which was no

less than he deserved, for he had used his considerable influence
to good effect, and Benjamin Boyd was now the elected
representative for Port Phillip in the Legislative Council of New
South Wales.
'Let us pray.'
The congregation knelt some
with creaking limbs having to
be assisted to the matting and
began their responses to the
liturgy. As he spoke the familiar phrases, he reflected on how
easily Boyd had been elected, with his help. He had been pleased
to assist. Boyd was a man who got things done; this colony
needed his enterprise. Already the wharves he had built here were
crowded with ships, for he had acquired three steamers and nine
whaling vessels. His wealth, his immense land-holdings and
aristocratic connections in England made him a valuable ally,
and Edward Grayson had, with careful calculation, set about
claiming him as a personal friend. Which he felt he had deftly
managed, and this invitation to preach was a confirmation of it.
The congregation stood to sing the final hymn. The church
was full with the invited guests from Sydney and Port Phillip,
while at the back were many of the men constructing the houses
and stores of Boyd Town and East Boyd. It had not been possible
to reintroduce transportation, but Boyd had taken advantage of
the prevailing financial crisis, with businesses failing and
employment difficult to find. He had held out the promise of
continuous work for a year, but had driven a hard bargain on
conditions and wages. Wanting two hundred builders, including
masons, carpenters and bricklayers, as well as common labourers,
he had been besieged by more than a thousand applicants, and
had thus been in a position to make the terms of employment
more stringent.

'At this rate,' he confided to Grayson, 'we won't need more
convicts,' although on reflection they had agreed a larger labour
force and a further reduction in wages could only assist the
economy.
At least they had progressed the matter of the governor, and
the intransigent Gipps would soon be leaving. Along with
Wentworth and a number of others, Grayson had met and drawn
up a list of names of the most suitable replacements, and Boyd
had discreetly submitted them to his friends and relatives in
London. They would be circulated there, to those with influence
in the Colonial Office.
It had been a satisfactory year, all in all. As he mouthed the
familiar words of the hymn, he could think of only one minor
irritant that had annoyed him. He had quietly arranged for the
demise of the Weekly Journal, by exerting pressure on a number of
their advertisers. It was intended as a useful lesson to any of the
other small publications which proved uncooperative. Despite
this, the Journal had not been forced to close as he intended, and
lately had even showed signs of a slight leaning towards
independent comment. There had been hints of criticism about
several decisions taken by the Council, and tacit support for the
governor in his opposition to the rich landowners.
He had made enquiries about how the Journal continued to
survive, and discovered that the business had been helped with
advertising taken out by young Daniel Johnson. Regularly, for
the past several months, Grayson had seen announcements of
that resourceful currency lad's cheap package voyages, and lists
of his cargo costs, which apparently infuriated other shipowners
because of their moderate prices. And Johnson, he had discovered,
was associated with the aspiring artist, Clarissa Wilberforce,

whom Boyd had commissioned to paint a landscape of his
Sydney home. Grayson felt aggrieved at this upstart's intervention,
but there was little he could do about it, for Benjamin Boyd
admired the youthful sailor, and it seemed he was one of the
prime clients of the Royal Bank. Quite a wealthy young man, by
local standards, he was told.

However, if Daniel Johnson was secure from any retaliation,
the enquiry had born other fruit. Jeremy Conway, the owner of
the printery, was a former convict. At the time of his provisional
release, his sentence had not been converted, as many were, to a
conditional pardon. This was surprising in view of the many
years that had passed, for in the normal course of events, he
would by now be a free man. He and his wife had been assigned
servants to Marsden, and because Grayson had heard a great deal
about his fellow cleric, now dead, he investigated further to discover that Marsden had warned the authorities Conway was a
possible troublemaker, a hot-headed Irishman, and someone to
be treated with extreme caution.
It was still there in the files of the Chief Inspector of Police,
and no doubt each year, when Jeremy Conway made his annual
renewal for his ticket-of-leave, it told against him and precluded
any likelihood of a pardon. The information could, if the Journal proved troublesome, or if he should need to shut them down as
a show of strength to convince others, be put to good use.
The organ played a concluding chord, and he realised the
hymn had finished. He smiled and raised his hand in a final
blessing, his face soft-hued by the light through the stained glass
as he looked down on the crowd standing in the new church. He
seemed compassionate and benign.
'The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and

the fellowship of the Holy Ghost, be with you now and
forevermore. Amen.'

The letter from London came early in the new year. It was
addressed to Daniel at the Conway house, and by chance it
arrived on the very same day as the wedding. Delivered while they
were attending the church, it was waiting when they returned.
Jeremy gave it to him, but Daniel, not recognising the handwriting,
put it in his pocket and they went to join the others. He had more
important things on his mind, like the dreaded prospect of a
speech he had to make as best man, for Matthew and Emily had
at last been married at St Saviour's local Catholic church.
It was a small but festive occasion. A private ceremony
with only family and very close friends, conducted by their
parish priest, Father Casey, followed by a wedding breakfast at
the house. Bess had sent a personal invitation to Clarissa, who
made her first acquaintance with Jeremy Conway, liking him
immediately. She also met Lucy, now fifteen, who made a
vivacious bridesmaid. It was Lucy, when it appeared there
might be no speeches after all, who tapped her glass with a
spoon, and said it wasn't a wedding without the traditional
speech from the best man, and would they all please be silent
for Daniel Johnson. Daniel, a mass of nerves and in terror at
the idea of making a spectacle of himself, speared her a
withering glance as he reluctantly stood. Trust her, he thought. I'd rather be on a burning deck than this, then saw Bess nod and smile encouragement, at which he seemed to relax and gather
confidence.
He said he could not think of a nicer addition to his life than

his new sister-in-law which
she was, since he had been raised by Bess and adopted by her and Jeremy, and that was the moment
his life had changed for the better. He treasured days such as this that were special to his family. He was proud of what Jeremy had
achieved through many hard years, both as a printer and then the
publisher of the Weekly Journal. He didn't think Jeremy could
have achieved all he did without Bess, but he didn't think any of
them could have made as much of their lives as they had so far,
without Bess's care and help and love. He was very glad his
brother and best friend was not only the lucky bridegroom, but
also becoming known as one of Sydney's best newspaper reporters,
and he could assure the Sydney MorningHerald they had absolutely
no chance of tempting him away. And as for Lucinda, looking
lovely and grown up in her bridesmaid's dress, it was hard to
remember exactly why they had spent much of their childhood
hiding from her fiendish pranks. On behalf of the groom and
himself, he apologised to her.
'Apology accepted,' Lucy said grandly, and drew laughter.
'It was a lovely speech,' Clarissa assured him later, as they
strolled home.
'Truly?'
'Of course truly. You want more compliments? You made
everyone laugh, and feel happy. That's what wedding speeches are
for.'
'I'm glad you were there.'
'So am I. It was such a nice day.'
She had enjoyed herself, but felt almost envious of the family
closeness; her own childhood had been lacking in that kind of
warmth.
'Emily looked beautiful, didn't she?'

'Yes. So did the fiendish prankster. Lucy told me she wants I
leave school just as soon as she turns sixteen, and have a career
But she isn't sure what, just yet.'
'What did you tell her?'
'That if Jeremy could afford it, and he says he can, she should
stay at school another year and get as much education as possible.
The more she has, the better the career whatever
it is.' She
tucked her arm in his as they reached Bridge Street. 'They're such
a lovely couple.'
'Matt and Emily?'
'Of course. That goes without saying. But I actually meant
Bess and Jeremy. It almost felt like it was their day.'
Daniel smiled and nodded. Clarissa had a gift of putting into
words some of his own thoughts. He had been acutely aware of
Bess and Jeremy, all through the wedding ceremony and
afterwards, and had glimpsed the way they surreptitiously held
hands, when Emily and Matt exchanged their vows. He had been
told their own marriage had not been in the church of their faith,
and had been conducted by their master, Samuel Marsden. They
rarely spoke of it, but he knew it had not been the joyous occasion
they'd hoped for. He had a feeling today had been some kind of
recompense for that.
The studio at the top of the house was littered with paintings,
many of them unfinished. The Standish gallery, after
reconsideration, had finally issued a formal invitation asking if
Miss Clarissa Wilberforce would care to exhibit some of her work.
As soon as she completed her commission for Ben Boyd, Clarissa
had eagerly begun a series of new landscapes in readiness.
It was when they reached home that Daniel remembered the
letter in his pocket. His name and address were written on the

envelope in a neat copperplate. He opened it and shook his head
with surprise and disbelief, as he saw the signature.
'It's from Marie.'
He had long since given up hope of expecting any letter from
her concerned
at first whether the money meant to last her at
least six months was sufficient, and then, when no letter was
forthcoming, he had assumed she was managing without his
help. There were occasions when he worried, but until she wrote
and gave an address there was no means of communicating with
her. It was something of a shock, reading her letter, to realise just
how much time had passed.

Dear Daniel,
I'm sorry it has taken so long for me to write, and by the
time this reaches Sydney, I suppose it will be over two years since
I left. I sent this care of Jeremy Conway, because I am not sure
whether you are still at the studio, but I hope you are, and that
you are also still with Clarissa. If so, give her my fond love and
thanks for all her sympathy and, help.

He stopped reading, puzzled.
'This isn't Marie's writing.'
Clarissa came to look, and showed surprise. 'You said she
could hardly spell, and had almost no schooling.'
'That's right. This is written by someone else.' He read the
rest aloud to her.

lam staying in lodgings in Bloomsbury, which is quite grand,
but sharing an attic with a friend called Sarah who is also an
actress in the same company, so we manage. It is a temporary

address, but when I have somewhere permanent I will write and
tell you where to send letters. We are both with the Shaftesbury
Players, and at present lam playing a small role and
understudying a bigger part in William Congreve's famous play
'The Way of the World'. It is a great success, and very popular
with audiences. Strangely enough it was not a bit famous or
popular when it was first performed, over a hundred years ago,
but if Mr Congreve were alive today, he would be very happy to
see the crowded theatre every night. There is talk we may take it
on tour after the London season, so by the time you read this I
may be somewhere else in England. Somewhere warmer, I hope.
London is quite cold and wet after the sunshine of Sydney.
I have often wanted to write, but I wanted to have some
good news to tell you before I put pen to paper. I managed to
start earning before your money ran out, for which I am still
grateful. Also, as you can see, I have been learning to spell and
practising my handwriting so that when you write you can tell
me how impressed you were. I will give you an address when
I've moved to my own place. Much love to you, and please
remember me to Matthew and all the family.
As always, Marie

'She's been taking lessons,' Clarissa said. 'That explains it.'
'This isn't her,' Daniel insisted. 'I swear it isn't. It doesn't even
sound like her.'
'Two years is a long time, Danny. We're all different. If she
didn't write it, someone wrote it for her. Perhaps her friend Sarah
took it down, while she spoke it. It's quite likely. Nothing wrong
with that.'
He nodded agreement. There was certainly nothing wrong

with that. Yet there was something about the letter; he felt
strangely uneasy, secretly worried, and could not explain why.

It was an unusual, even bizarre occasion; that was the opinion of
the curator. Extremely odd. While the art gallery was brilliantly
lit, and Clarissa's paintings illuminated by discreetly placed gas
lamps were to be seen at their best, the guests were a curious
mixture, a cross-section of a kind rarely seen at the opening of an
art exhibition. The curator himself, Thomas Campbell-Drummond,
resplendent in evening tail coat, satin stock and a
silk neckcloth, hoped his regular list of patrons, most of whom
were from the higher echelons of society, would not be offended
by the typically aberrant appearance of several currency lads and
lasses, as well as others whose plain apparel clearly identified
them as working class. People like Conway the
printer and
minor publisher arriving
without a neckcloth, accompanied by
his stout and plainly dressed wife. Not to mention the thoroughly
unwelcome presence of Samuel Lyons, garishly clad and as
vociferous as always.
The curator had been placed in the embarrassing position of
having to invite Mr Lyons, since he had somehow become an
agent for the artist, and had sold a number of her paintings to
wealthy families. Ever since Benjamin Boyd had bought her
seascape of the Wanderer, and commissioned 'Craignathan', her
work had been sought by others, and there was no one better
qualified than Lyons to assure the city's social aspirants that
without a Clarissa Wilberforce on their walls, not only were they
not keeping up with the trend but
they were not even keeping
up with their neighbours. In fact, to stage the exhibition

Campbell-Drummond was beholden to the detestable Lyons,
who had persuaded the owners of several paintings their value
could be enhanced by lending them to the gallery for this public
showing. It annoyed him because he disliked Jews; the successful
and ostentatious Sam Lyons in particular.
Sam, who was well aware of this antipathy, set out to irritate
the curator by enjoying the evening immensely.
'Nice one, me old cock,' he said, and for good measure patted
him on the arm. 'Got a lovely collection of Sydney nobs here
tonight. All the 'Onorables and their ladies togged up like a
bleedin' Lord Mayor's show. Plus some real people, of course. But
you and me, Drummer-lad, we need the nobs and the snobs; they
spend their cash trying to impress the other snobs, and keep us
both in business.' He chuckled, slapped him on the back this
time as if they were the very best of friends, and walked off.
Campbell-Drummond hoped that not too many of his
distinguished patrons had seen this, but feared they had.
'Odious creature,' he muttered to his assistant.
'Silly old fart. Supercilious double-barrelled git,' Sam said
from the side of his mouth as he joined Matthew, and was then
on his best behaviour as they were joined by Bess, Jeremy and a
radiant Emily. Sam beamed his congratulations, bowed and took
her hand, raising it to implant a kiss. Daniel joined them,
applauding this display of Sam-like gallantry, while across the
room the curator pursed his lips, shook his head and frowned
the sight.
'Altogether an odd and most peculiar opening. I do hope we
don't have to endure any more exhibitions like this one.'
'But it's highly successful, sir.' his assistant said. 'We
already sold a number of her new paintings. I doubt if there will

be any without a label on them by tomorrow. It certainly does no
harm to have such a good-looking artist.'
'Hmm,' said Campbell-Drummond, slightly mollified by the
thought of the gallery's commission on the sales, and went in
search of Mr and Mrs Wentworth, the Guthries and other
prominent guests more to his taste.
The artist herself had been cornered by Benjamin Boyd, who
was regaling her with the amazing progress of Boyd Town, and
expressing his disappointment she had been unable to accept his
personal invitation to the opening of the church, where the Right
Honourable Mr Grayson had preached a rousing sermon. Now
that the town was virtually complete, he hoped Clarissa would be
able to spend a week or two there in the near future, as he felt
certain her artistic talent would be stimulated by the splendid
bay, the charming church and the towering lighthouse not
to
mention the excitement of the prosperity accruing there. His
wagons bringing wool from his vast inland properties, and his
fleet of ships would provide a vista of activity to delight her, and
doubtless inspire a series of worthy landscapes.
'It sounds wonderful, but I'm swamped by work for the next
few months,' Clarissa said truthfully, for the freighter Sovereign
Star had arrived two days ago, with the newest fashions from
Paris, and she and Daniel were confronted by the army of
seamstresses they had created, all impatient for copies of the
designs. She would be busy for weeks, unless she could find an
assistant.
In the past few years their race to supply the latest in vogue
from Europe had been a profitable venture, especially for her,
freeing her from insecurity and teaching. Now this enterprise a la
mode had become something of a problem. But for the moment,

at least, it was a valid excuse to defer Ben Boyd's invitation, for
she was aware in recent months of his increasing persistence.
'You'd have your own private quarters,' Boyd said. 'We'd
merely dine together of an evening. The days could be spent
sketching or walking, or whatever you prefer. I'd make
arrangements for your travel there in my yacht, so you would
have the services of my crew and every possible convenience.'
'That's extremely kind, Mr Boyd --'
'My dear Clarissa, if you continue to prevaricate I'll wonder if
in some manner I've offended you. Especially since I keep vainly
asking you to call me Benjamin.'
'It's kind of you, Benjamin. And I would greatly enjoy seeing
Boyd Town and Twofold Bay.'
'Splendid. It shall be arranged. The moment you say. And
may I say the
sooner the better.'
'No, I think you misunderstood me. I meant I'd greatly enjoy
sailing there some time with Daniel. We could see your handsome
kingdom together.'
'Daniel has already been there. He brought several cargoes for ;
me. He knows the place.'
'Then he can be my guide.'
'I'd hoped to have that pleasure.'
She knew she was offending him, and secretly prayed that
someone would interrupt this conversation. But she could hard
look away from his intent gaze or beckon Daniel, although sr
could sense Boyd's eyes were becoming cold.
'Are you being deliberately obtuse?' he asked her.
'I don't believe so,' Clarissa said. 'You invited me to you
whaling town, and I said I'd prefer to visit it with Daniel. So if the
offer still stands, I'll be glad to accept when Daniel is free.'

She spoke as calmly and politely as she could, then attempted
to move away. He anticipated it, and made a manoeuvre that
stopped her. There was nothing that anyone else could see. From
the viewpoint of anyone who might be watching, he was simply
monopolising the artist, and displaying his renowned charm.
'Don't you think,' Boyd said softly, almost silkily, but there
was no mistaking the underlying venom, 'that you're making
something of a fool of yourself with that young man?'
'Don't you think,' Clarissa replied, also quietly, but clearly
provoked to anger, 'that's a very impertinent remark, Mr Boyd,
and my personal life is absolutely no concern of yours?'
Boyd stared at her. He was flushed with rage. For a moment
it seemed as if he might slap her face, in full view of everyone.
Then, as if aware of the spectacle this would provide, he managed
to control himself, although his expression was unforgiving.
'You must have known, when I bought your painting and
commissioned another, it wasn't for their excellence. There are
far better painters than you available to someone of my standing.
But the artists happen to have no sexual appeal.'
The cruelty of it drew a heated and a rash response.
'That's a very insensitive and stupid thing to say, Mr Boyd. If
you want to pay for a woman's favours, find a whore.'
She could feel his anger; but by now it was well controlled.
Apart from his steely eyes and a tightening of his lips, there was
little to alert anyone else to the extent of his fury. He gave a stiff
bow, for the sake of appearances, and moved away. Thoroughly shaken by the incident, she watched him bid farewell to the
Wentworths, seek out and spend some time speaking with the
curator's assistant, then leave the premises.
When the door closed behind him, she began to shiver, and

hoped that the glittering evening, which others seemed to
enjoying so much, would soon be over.

She decided not to tell Daniel. At least not the full extent of it. 'I'm
afraid I upset him,' was all she said, after relating his pressing
invitation to visit the port, but omitting his malignant comments.
It was late, but sleep eluded her. And Daniel, while annoyed
at Boyd's galling persistence, was excited by the evening's
undoubted success. They sat by the window, a sheet draped
around their naked bodies, as they looked down on the gaslights
of the sleeping town. Far across the water, on the north side of
the harbour, they could see the lights of Craignathan.
'Can't escape him. Even his house spoils our view.'
'You were right, long ago, when you warned me. But tonight
he was particularly objectionable, and I'm afraid I was probably
indiscreet.'
'To hell with him,' Daniel said, feeling the warmth of her
body against his. 'So we won't go to Twofold Bay. It's not much
of a place, anyway. A pretty harbour and
the inn is fine
enough but
behind the few nice buildings it's cheap worker's
huts and storage sheds.'
'Mostly front, like King Benjamin himself,' Clarissa said
feelingly.
'Not his own house, though. It's built of the finest cut and
polished sandstone. The interiors are fitted with moulded
mahogany, and the very best cedar I brought him from the
Clarence.'
'I'm sorry.' She took his hand. 'They were useful to you, those
cargoes. Now he might not hire you.'

'Don't worry about it,' Daniel said, although it might mean
longer trips to the Pacific and Asia, for along the coast
competition was intensifying, and the new steamships were
more of a threat than ever. 'I can do without Bennie Boyd and
his empire,' he insisted. The truth was the Scotsman's patronage
had been good for them both, but there was something about
the man that had always made him feel uneasy, and the incident
at the gallery did not surprise him. At least the exhibition was a
huge success, every painting sold, and Clarissa's future as an
artist assured.
'I wonder who bought the paintings,' she speculated, and he
laughed and said she was at it again reading
his thoughts.
'Did you see Campbell-Drummond, prancing around as if
you were his own special discovery.'
'He's not so bad,' she smiled.
'Sam reckons he's an old con-artist, a fraud about
as
counterfeit as a Spanish pound note.'
'Sam should talk,' she laughed. 'Him and his rare antiques,
made to order.' She put her arms around him, and gently kissed
him. The taste of her lingered in his mouth, exciting him.
'Come to bed,' he said, but long after they had made love and
Daniel slept, she lay awake, the memory of what should have
been a perfect night chilled by Boyd's malevolence.

It was well past midnight. The curator was watching while the
caterer he employed for these occasions carried out the last of the
plates and glasses. A group of cleaners had already tidied the
gallery. It had, after all, been a most extraordinary opening,
immensely successful, despite his reservations about many of the

guests. The entire exhibition had been sold. Every painting bore
a label, and his gallery for
he was both lessee and sole owner
although he used the title curator and invoked a mythical board
of trustees when rejecting works stood
to collect a considerable
commission. Even Conrad Martens, by far the colony's leading
artist, did not sell this rapidly. He was about to leave his assistant
to lock up, when he saw one of the guests had returned.
'Mr Boyd?'
'I'd like a few words with you, but in your office, Campbell-Drummond.'
'Of course.'
They went into the curator's office, and Boyd shut the door, 'A glass of sherry wine?'
'No thank you.'
'I understand you bought several of the paintings, sir?'
'I bought all of them,' Boyd said, allowing himself a moment
of satisfaction at the other's surprise. 'Talk to your assistant, who
can confirm it. I bought them under a number of different
names, including that of my bank manager Tompkins. I own
every one of these paintings, except the few Lyons persuaded his
clients to loan you.'

'Remarkable.' The startled curator had known nothing like
this, in his many years of art dealing. 'I must congratulate you,
sir. She is an undoubted new talent, and her work will most
certainly appreciate --'
'Be quiet. Sit down and listen,' Boyd said, interrupting icily.
He waited until Campbell-Drummond sat, then continued:
'What you will do is remove the paintings from the walls tonight,
and tomorrow you'll give the Herald a statement, that while the
works have been sold, you find them of quite inferior quality. As


a result, you have decided they are not worthy to leave on display,
since the public would be disappointed by them.'
'But, sir!' The curator was bewildered. 'I can't agree to do that.'
'You can and you will'
'I haven't the right. It would be an outrage!'
'Shut up, man, and listen to me. You have every right, both as
a connoisseur of art and the owner of the gallery.' He observed
the other's surprise with grim amusement. 'Yes, I do know you
own the place. I'm well informed on your background, as you will
discover. That an action such as arbitrarily closing an exhibition
is unusual will merely create a great deal of comment. You will
respond to this. You will say that, while not allowed legally to
identify any of the buyers and
be quite sure to use the
plural despite
having to preserve their anonymity you feel they
may well have been influenced by gossip promoting the person,
rather than her talent.'
'It would be most improper, and quite unfair to the artist.'
'The artist is of no consequence. Whereas I am. If you don't
do what you're told, I've arranged with Yorkshire Properties to
take over the ownership of this leasehold. Edward Grayson is
amenable to such a transfer, and as you know he is Yorkshire
Properties.'
'But, sir '
'Kindly don't interrupt me again. I saw him a half hour ago,
and here is his letter of agreement.' He flourished it in front of
the dazed and increasingly anxious art dealer. "Your sub-lease is
with his company; he also lent you money, and holds a mortgage
on this gallery. Both would be sold to me, and instantly cancelled.
In the plainest of plain words, Mr Campbell-Drummond, I would
bankrupt you.'

'Dear God '
'On the other hand, if you do what you're told, you will not
only continue to occupy these premises, you also benefit
financially from the commission on tonight's sales. You will send
the artist her cheque, and return the few borrowed landscapes to
Lyons or their owners. Do you understand? The rest, all twenty
paintings that now belong to me, you will burn.'
'No, sir.' In his agitation, Campbell-Drummond rose and his
chair clattered to the floor behind him. 'No, that's vandalism.'
'In your case it's self-preservation.' The dealer thought he had
never heard a voice so cold. 'You have an incinerator in the yard
behind the gallery. I'll be here at dawn tomorrow to supervise.
You will burn Miss Wilberforce's paintings, and I will count them
as they go into the flames. If you refuse, then you can crate them
up, and I will burn them myself. But in that case, you will be
dispossessed from here before the week is out. You'll have no
gallery, and no future. You may feel you'd like to return to
London, away from all this colonial barbarism, but you won't be
able to afford the fare.'
Boyd poured himself a glass of sherry, and sipped it, while he
looked with contempt at the stricken dealer.
'Be reasonable, Mr Boyd ..."
'I'm being extremely reasonable. I'm giving you your only
chance to remain here as the self-appointed aesthete of art. Our
fine local pundit, with your admiring coterie of disciples. Consider
the alternative. I'd turn you out. What then? The beggars in the
streets grovel or steal to survive in the cold and rain. But you
won't survive, my dear chap. You haven't the ability for survival.
Not unless you can find someone of your own sexual persuasion
who fancies you in his bed.'



His knowing smile was arctic, and Campbell-Drummond felt
terror. Boyd finished the sherry and went to the door.
'Strip the paintings from the wall. Have them ready before
sunrise. I don't expect to be kept waiting.'


The fire was white hot in the incinerator. Acting on Boyd's
demand, the art dealer had fed it with tallow. The twenty canvases
were laid alongside the bricks that were beginning to glow as hot
as a kiln, and with a feeling of revulsion and horror Campbell-Drummond
placed the first of them in the fire. He stepped back
as a gust of flame scorched his hair, the oil paint igniting with the
heat, and within seconds the painting, a portrait, was a charred
and unrecognisable scrap.
Benjamin Boyd said not a word. He stood there, his haughty
and aristocratic face unreadable, as Campbell-Drummond kept
thrusting canvases into the inferno. The flames consumed them,
reaching for them like a ravaging predator, each gust licking his
hand, and covering him with black fragments of ash. After a time
the art dealer began to sob, dry painful sobs that racked him like
the egestion of a man in violent gastric pain. The heat built to a
conflagration. It seemed as if the bricks must explode with the
searing intensity. Sparks danced in the air, and at any moment
the art dealer expected neighbours to arrive, or else send a runner
for the fire cart to put out the blaze.
But no one came.
He forced in the last of the paintings they
were the largest
and he had to smash the frames that held the canvas to plunge
them into the fire. He was hardly aware of the ferocity of the heat
now. His hands were burnt, his hair and eyebrows singed, but he

did not feel the pain. Instead, there was a numbness inside
as if he was brutally and methodically killing some living thing
that did not deserve to die.
When the devouring flames began to subside, and all the
paintings were gone, Benjamin Boyd moved forward and looked
down at the glowing mass of charred debris.
'Not so difficult, was it,' he said. 'So now you keep your art
gallery. But first you'll dispatch your statement to the Herald, then lock the doors and get rid of the ash and every single trace
of this fire. Needless to say, if word of what you've done ever gets
out, you'd be finished. Your assistant has been taken into my
employ, so there is no proof, and no possibility an accusation
against me would be believed. Do we understand each other?'
He stared at the dealer, until Campbell-Drummond nodded.
Boyd turned on his heel, and went out the rear gate of the
premises, down a lane to where his driver and carriage waited
some considerable distance away. The curator watched his tall
figure depart, then no longer felt capable of standing. He sat on
the hot ground beside the remains of the destruction, and was
noisily and violently sick.

Matthew and Emily had taken rooms near the corner of Park
Street, only a short walk from the printery, and two days after the
exhibition he woke, like he had since childhood, to the sound of
the market and the clatter of the carts arriving with fruit and
vegetables. But unlike childhood, he woke to the warmth and the
thrill of naked limbs entangled with his, and Emily's impish and
limpid eyes smiling expectantly at him. It was difficult for him
not to be aroused with Emily in his arms, and their lovemaking

was gentle and exploratory at first, then increasingly frantic.
They reached a rapturous climax, and he marvelled how, since
they were both virgins on their wedding night, they had learned so easily and perfectly how to excite each other to such heights of
ecstasy. Love, she told him laughingly, had a lot to do with it.'
To help with their savings, Emily had insisted she keep her
job with the booksellers, Coleman & Piddington, but her hours
began later. She dozed while Matthew bathed and dressed, and
after he kissed her goodbye he walked to George Street to buy the Herald on the way to work. As he opened it his trained eye was
instantly caught by the single column headline.

EXHIBITION CLOSED
The exhibition of paintings by the artist Miss
Wilberforce has closed, following a decision
by the owner of the Standish gallery that the
work was of insufficient quality to merit the
public's attention. Despite the fact that all the
paintings were sold to undisclosed buyers, Mr
Thomas Campbell-Drummond, the curator
and proprietor, yesterday told the Herald he
was dissatisfied with the calibre of the artistic
endeavour.

He read it with incredulity. He hurried to his old home and
showed it to Jeremy, who looked bewildered, and to Bess who felt
it must be a mistake, as the opening night had been such a
successful occasion. She had enjoyed herself and loved the
paintings, and so had everyone else. How could this be possible? Matthew ran six blocks of the town, where street sweepers

were cleaning yesterday's manure from the roadway, and early
deliveries were being made to the shops. He reached Bridge
Street, and hammered on the door until a lodger admitted him.
Without bothering to explain himself, he ran up the stairs.
Clarissa was in her studio at the top of the house, already
preparing to begin work, and greeted him with surprise. She told
him Daniel had left before dark the previous day, taking cargo to
Brisbane and would not be back for almost a month. Matthew
realised she had no idea of what had happened, and he could not
find the words to tell her; instead he handed her the newspaper,
and she read the brief and puzzling notice in silence.
'It has to be a mistake,' he said, and waited for her to reply.
But she said nothing; she stared at the paper, as if reading it over
and over. 'I'll go to the gallery.'
'It's too early,' she said at last.
'I'll go anyway. Does Campbell-Drummond live there?'
'I think he has rooms at the back.' Her voice sounded flat and
lifeless. She hardly raised her eyes, still gazing at the announcement,
as if it was written in some strange language she was trying to
translate.
'Please don't believe all you read in the newspapers,' Matthew
said, trying desperately to ease her pain, and failing dismally. 'I'll
go there and see him. I'll get an explanation. There must be one.'
She did not reply, but handed him the paper, as if she could
no longer bear to hold it.
He went down the stairs and made his way across the town
towards Hyde Park. The gallery was situated on the eastern side
of the park, in College Street. It was a small, compact building,
with a tailor's shop on one side, and a leather goods and saddler
on the other. Beyond that was Miss Vincent's School for Young

Ladies. A large sign on the gallery's front door announced the
exhibition was cancelled, and the place was closed until further
notice.
The door was locked; the shops on either side not yet open
for business. Matthew went down a narrow passageway between
the adjacent premises, and found a Janeway at the back of the
buildings. He could see the enclosed backyard of the art gallery
over a paling fence. There was an open shed where timber was
stacked; the wood looked as though it might be used for framing.
He tried the gate. It opened onto a tiny yard. There was a strange
aroma of burning, but no sign of any smoke. He passed by a brick
incinerator, the kind used to dispose of rubbish in many
backyards, and saw a neat annexe with a curtained window
attached to the back of the main gallery. About to rap on the
door, he realised it was ajar.
'Mr Campbell-Drummond,' he called, and when there was no
reply he carefully pushed the door open.
The room stank of liquor and vomit. A dishevelled figure was
lying sprawled on the bed fast asleep, fully clothed and still
wearing his shoes. There were empty bottles littered on a table;
one overturned on the floor had stained the carpet. It was clearly
the owner's bachelor quarters, the delicate furnishings sullied by
the smell, and the rasping breath of the drunkenly unconscious
occupant. There was little he could do here, Matthew realised, for
if he managed to wake the man, he was certain to be incoherent.
Campbell-Drummond had plainly set out to drink himself into
oblivion and had succeeded in what, judging by the absence of
other glasses, had been a solitary endeavour. The intriguing
question unless
he was excessively addicted to alcohol was why?

He backed out of the room, and shut the door, inhaling the
fresher air outside with relief. Even while he did so, he was still
aware of the faint odour of smoke.
"Ere, what are you up to? What do yer want?' a voice '
demanded, and Matthew turned to see a sturdy man in a leather
apron at the back door of the adjacent saddlery regarding him
with suspicion.
'I was looking for Mr Campbell-Drummond.'
'Who are yer?'
'Matthew Conway. I'm from the Weekly Journal. I wanted to
ask about the cancellation of the exhibition.'
'Ain't seen him this morning,' the saddler said. 'I was puzzled
meself. Thought he had a winner there, by all accounts.'
'We all thought so. I hoped to get an explanation.'
'I'll tell Thomas, if I see him.'
'He's in there.' Matthew pointed to the annexe. 'Passed out.
Looks like he had a drunken night. Is he a heavy drinker?'
'Not as far as I know,' the saddler said.
'Empty bottles everywhere. He's still wearing his clothes.'
'He definitely ain't that sort of a drinker.'
'He was last night. You didn't hear anything?'
'No. I don't live on the premises. Got a room in Oxford Street.
I shut up me shop around dark, and it all seemed quiet then.'
'Can you smell burning?' Matthew asked him.
'I could yesterday. Must've been a real blaze Thomas had
going. Getting rid of rubbish, I s'pose.'
'When was this?'
'Real early. Before I arrived, but the incinerator was still
smokin' when I got here to open the shop. I could even feel the
heat on my side of the fence. There was smoke for most of the

day, so it musta been a fair old fire.' A doorbell sounded distantly,
and he turned towards the sound. 'That's my front door. Time I
opened the shop. I'll tell Thomas if I see him later that you was
wanting to talk to him. What was it you said you wanted?'
'Just a statement. A lot of people are puzzled.'
'Not surprised. I saw them paintings. He was hangin' 'em up
after the lady artist delivered 'em, and he was real pleased. I'm no
expert, but they looked good to me and
he thought so, too.'
The bell rang again, and the saddler went inside. Matthew paused by the incinerator. To his surprise, it was almost empty of
ash except for a thin grey layer at the bottom. A shovel leaning
against the shed showed signs of the same grey-coloured residue.
Near it he saw a hole had been dug in the ground, and was newly
covered over with fresh earth. Matthew took the shovel and dug
beneath this top layer. After a moment he saw the debris from the
fire, the same fine grey ash buried there. It was a puzzle, but
perhaps Campbell-Drummond was fastidiously tidy, and after
all, incinerators had to be cleared out from time to time. He was
about to replace the earth, when he noticed tiny scraps that had
not been totally burnt. He knelt and retrieved them.
One was a corner of a wooden picture frame, with scorched
canvas stapled to it. Another was a fragment of canvas, with
blistered oil paint, making whatever it had formerly been
unrecognisable. Matthew rose and held them in his hand, staring
at them. It could be anything. Of course it could. Old discarded
frames, unsold pictures, anything.
He looked at the premises on either side. The saddler was still
in his shop, and nobody was in view at the back of the tailor's. He
thought about it, then went back into the annexe. Campbell-Drummond
had still not moved. He breathed stertorously.

There was a door at the far side of the room, that must lead,
into the picture gallery. Matthew carefully tried it, and found it
locked. On the table amid the empty bottles and the stains of
spilled alcohol was a set of keys. Taking them, he selected one
that seemed to match the lock. He inserted it, and as silently as
possible, eased open the door. It led, as he had surmised, into the
gallery. Everything was neat and tidy there, and the place seemed
far larger than he remembered. Then he knew why.
The walls were bare. Clarissa's paintings were gone. Matthew realised he was still clutching the two scraps of
scorched canvas he had retrieved from the buried remnants of
the fire. His mind filled with confusing thoughts. A fierce early
morning blaze in the backyard incinerator. Mr Campbell-Drummond
who
was not a heavy drinker, according to his
neighbour completely
comatose after a long and solitary
drunken binge. The strange and abrupt closure of the
exhibition.
He wondered about the buyers of the paintings, which had all
been sold at the exhibition two nights ago. Surely they would
complain about this brusque dismissal of the artist's work as a
failure, which not only devalued their purchases, but condemned
their judgement. They must certainly be very upset, and a
statement from one or more of them would be some kind of
response to the damage that had been done to Clarissa.
But where were they, these buyers? More importantly, who were they? Matthew resolved to find out.


Mr Tompkins was told by Benjamin Boyd to remove the painting
of the yacht, hanging in the front hallway of the Royal Bank.

'But, sir,' he made one of his rare protests, 'surely our clients
all admire the picture of the Wanderer. Whatever shall I say when
they ask why it's been taken down?'
'If you recall, Mr Tompkins, I own this bank and you work for
me.' Boyd was curt, and clearly in no mood to discuss the matter.
'But you no doubt read the papers, and know that her work has
been found wanting, and her exhibition was a failure?'
Mr Tompkins wanted to dispute this, for he had been a guest
at the gallery that night, and had gathered from the red stickers
that the paintings had all been sold and the curator was delighted
with the evening's success. But he decided to remain silent.
'I think we were all fooled by an amateur with a pretty face.
I've commissioned a proper artist to provide a new painting of
the yacht, which will replace it. Get rid of that. It does us no good
to exhibit a work by someone who's been discredited. I want it
taken down before the start of trading tomorrow.'
'You paid four hundred pounds for it, sir.'
'We all make mistakes, Tompkins. You're about to make a
serious one, if you continue to discuss this matter. But as I did
pay for it, it's mine to dispose of. So get it out of here. Burn the
damn thing.'
'I couldn't do that, sir.' Mr Tompkins was plainly shocked at
the thought of such vandalism.
'No, of course not,' Boyd said carefully. 'Just a figure of
speech, my dear fellow. Have it crated and sent to my house. I'll
store it there in
case her work ever comes back into fashion,' he
added with a smile that implied he thought this unlikely.
Mr Tompkins gave the necessary instructions, and went back
to his office, with its fine view down towards Soldiers Point and
the bay. He felt deeply disturbed. There was something wrong

with all this. He did not like to speculate on the matter, for Boyd had fostered his advance from underpaid obscurity in the
Bank of New South Wales to this eminent position, and he was
suitably grateful but
there were times when Benjamin Boyd
treated him as if he was still a ledger clerk, and this was one of
them. When the bank opened he had paid a record price and
expressed great enthusiasm for the picture of his yacht, and since
then had invited the artist to do a landscape of his house. Now,
all of a sudden, he talked of destroying the painting, and although
he had changed his mind and ordered it to be crated and sent to
him, his manager could not help wondering what its eventual
fate would be. He had a distinct feeling that the elegant and rich
Mr Boyd was lying, and there was something very personal
behind the day's events.
He wished now he had not protested. He might have at least
been able to save the painting of The Wanderer and secretly give it
to Daniel, so that it could be safe. He assumed it would be
considered illegal to return it to the artist, since she had been
handsomely paid for the work. It was while he was musing over
this, that he saw a figure leave the bank and step into a waiting
horse cab. He tried to signal to her from his upstairs window,
then hurried down to the front door but
by the time he reached
the street the cab and Clarissa Wilberforce had vanished.

If Mr Tompkins had managed to achieve his objective, which was
to try to apologise for the removal of her painting, it would have
been a further blow to Clarissa's esteem. Avoiding the main hall,
she had conducted her business without noticing the seascape was missing. She had noticed very little since Matthew's distraught

visit with the newspaper and the monstrous judgement of her
work the
cruel disparagement of her there in public print for
everyone to see.
She had sat for hours, her mind a depressing void when it
should have been trying to analyse why this had been done,
asking what had disposed Mr Campbell-Drummond to shut the
exhibition and denigrate her in such a vicious manner. It had
come as more of a blow than anything in her life before,
particularly since they had left the gallery after the opening show
with the understanding that all paintings had been sold, and
despite her unpleasant encounter with Benjamin Boyd, she had
woken the next morning full of plans to spend the time while
Daniel was away beginning a complete new set of landscapes. She
had even been sketching when he came from provisioning the
ship to say goodbye, and to tell her there was a chance of heading
north for a return cargo, so he might well be away for a month or
more. She had promised she'd miss him, but would devote her
time to paint and canvas, and remain faithful to him and her
easel. They went downstairs, laughing, and she waved as he
hoisted his sea bag and hurried down Bridge Street, pausing at
the corner to blow her a kiss.
She had spent the evening fondly picturing him heading out
to sea, with his friends Mac and Evans the Bread, almost hearing
the sound of the sails and rigging, and found herself sketching a
huge canvas of the schooner, working late, with the lantern light
throwing shadows and her eyes becoming tired. But despite this,
she had woken early, fresh and eager to work the next morning,
which was when Matthew had arrived with the horrifying newspaper. After he left, she had sat by the window gazing out,
seeing nothing, hoping no one would call to sympathise. The

thought of ever again holding a pencil or brush in her hand was
beyond her perception.
By midafternoon, she had worked out what she must do.
That was when she took a horse cab to the bank, withdrew a
modest sum of money, and returned to the studio. An hour later
when the driver of the cab returned as requested, she was ready.
She left the premises with a valise her
landlady was later to tell Matthew it was not a large one and
told the driver where to take
her. It was a relief to be doing something, even if her mind was
still numb. She was in such a state of tension and distress, that,
passing a familiar figure as the cab turned out of Bridge Street, it
was only later she realised it had been Matthew and
he was
almost certainly on his way to see her.

The wind was gusting off Point Lookout, as the Marie came out
of Moreton Bay through the channel and turned south. The
mercury was dropping, and the distant mangroves on the shore
of the island were bending in the wind. The sea was churning into
breakers, and the sun, which had been shining when they left the
small settlement of Brisbane, had first become hazed, and was
now an indistinct and faded blur as the clouds swirled and
shredded the sky.
The passengers below, who had each paid three pounds for a
sack of straw in the main hold, and who would have paid all they
had to escape the poverty and despair that had afflicted the
Brisbane settlement in the past year, were already frightened by
the deteriorating weather. Mac the Bosun tried to reassure them,
but secretly, for the first time since he had signed on to sail with
Daniel, he was worried, too.

It had been a terrible and disastrous trip.
The cargo they carried had been dispatched by the firm of
Nott & Edwards, the Household Warehouse of George Street.
Like many other shipments Daniel had carried for them in the
past few years, this was a payment on delivery consignment. It
was only after the goods were unloaded it was discovered the
consignee, a Moreton Bay trading store was bankrupt, and had
shut its doors several weeks earlier. By then it was late in the day,
and the prospect of taking the cargo aboard again, and making a
fruitless return journey with it did not appeal to any of them,
especially since the crew's wages were tied to a scheme that shared
in the profits. There would be little profit, by the look of it, on
this voyage.
Daniel decided to post a guard on the dock and see whether
the goods a
variety of household items like stoves, mattresses,
baths, toilet pails, linen and crockery, as well as saddles, percussion
guns and blasting powder could
be sold to other local traders
the following day. In this way he would be able to pay the &
Edwards Company their expected price, and avoid wasted weeks
on a futile venture.
It was barely dawn when he heard a hammering on his cabin
door, and an agitated first mate was shaking him awake.
'Captain, we got trouble.'
'What the hell's the matter?'
'Up top, sir. Quick. They say they're gonna kill Evans.'
'Evans? Who is?'
'A mad bunch on the dock they
got guns. Hurry.'
The mate ran up to the deck. Daniel pulled on a pair of
trousers and followed him, barefoot. In the vaporous dawn light
he saw the remainder of the crew emerging from their quarters to

join Mac the Bosun at the rail. On the dock were four men armed
with muskets. Evans the Bread, who had taken the shore watch
from midnight, was being forced to kneel while a fifth man held
a pistol against his neck. The ropes and tarpaulins protecting the
cargo had been cut and removed. At the back of the dock were
two bullock wagons, waiting to be loaded. A heavily bearded man
with a rifle, clearly the leader of the group, watched as the crew
gave way to Daniel. Then he walked forward, and spat
contemptuously.
'I said the cap'n not
the bloody cabin boy.'
Tm the captain,' Daniel said.
'You are, eh? Well, you're gonna lose yer cargo, sonny.'
'Wait a minute. Let's talk about this.'
'We ain't talking. I never talk an'
jest to show yer we mean
it, you're losin' one of yer crew as well' He nodded to the man
with the pistol.
'No,' Daniel shouted. 'Take the cargo, whatever you want.
Take the lot but
he's a decent man who's done no harm ...' His
voice was drowned by the pistol shot into Evans' neck, and the
Welshman's death cry as he toppled forward, blood gushing from
his artery.
'Jesus Christ,' Mac the Bosun whispered, and two of the crew
crossed themselves. They all looked down at the still body and
the blood spreading and covering his shirt.
You filthy murdering bastard.' Daniel started to climb the
rail, to jump onto the dock. Several things happened
simultaneously. The bearded man swung his rifle and
Mac the
Bosun grabbed his young skipper and flung him to the deck. A
split second later the musket fired, and the shot passed very close
above their heads.

'We killed one jest to show we ain't standin' for no bother.
The next one who gets the chop is yer fuckin' captain. So you
mob of bastards lie down there on deck, the lot of yer, and
nobody even move a finger, or we shoot him. Lie down and stay
still while we load these wagons, the flamin' lot of yer.'
Mac had held the struggling Daniel, until he finally subsided.
The others lay alongside them, listening to the men grunting,
and the noise of crates being hoisted into the wagons. After the
cargo was loaded and the wagons were filled, came the crack of
whips, the sound of the wheels and the creak of harness as the
bullocks were driven away. When they finally felt it safe to rise,
they saw the bearded leader of the group still there, a motionless
figure mounted on a horse, his musket pointed at them. He
showed a gap-toothed mouth in a derisive grin at their
expressions.
'Stay on board. No sense any of youse gettin' killed, tryin' to
raise the alarm. The troopers up here don't care for southerners.'
He remained there while the wagons drove off to safety, then
without another word had spurred his horse and cantered away
in the same direction.
They had taken Evans the Bread out to sea, shrouded him in
canvas along with a love letter from a Welsh girl which he kept in
his locker, and buried him the way they imagined he would have
chosen. Daniel had no Bible aboard; he tried to say a few fitting
words, doing his best to remember the church services he had
attended with Bess.
'Dear Lord, take this thy servant Hu Evans, of the town of Llanllywel, Cwinbran in Wales --' He knew he had not got the pronunciation
correct, but hoped Evans would understand. 'Forgive him any trespasses, for he was a good man and he trespassed against no one. Take

him into your Kingdom, O God, and look after him, as we commit his body
to the deep. Our Father, which art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name, for
ever and ever. Amen.'
Daniel saw the huge figure of Mac the Bosun wipe his eyes,
then hurriedly glance around to make sure no one had noticed.
He felt close to tears himself. It had been so savage and senseless
a slaughter; of all his crew, Evans the Bread, son of a Welsh baker,
had been the gentlest.
Afterwards, they had come ashore and reported the murder
and the theft of the cargo to the local police, and from the lack of
interest shown, Daniel had known the case was unlikely to be
solved. It was in South Brisbane he realised the extent of failure
and despair in this part of the colony. The drought that had ruined
the farms in the Darling Downs, had brought poverty to the
settlements on the Brisbane River. Acutely aware he had lost a
valuable cargo and rather than return empty-handed, he settled on
the idea of finding passengers eager to migrate to Sydney, and
knowing that few people had enough money for a proper passage,
he spread the word they were offering a cheap fare of three pounds.
There would be no luxury or cabins available at this price; intending
travellers would have to bring their own bedroll or straw sacking
and sleep in the cargo holds. One meal a day would be provided.
They should bring bread and fruit for the other meals. The
response was overwhelming. Almost sixty people came to the ship
eager to accept the offer, and before dark they were having to turn
others away. Mac and the first mate had been alarmed.
'We can't take so many. We're way too heavy, Daniel.'
'And there'd be hell to pay at Fort Macquarie, for carrying
nearly three times the number you're allowed. You get the wrong
Port Officer, you could be fined, or even lose your ship.'

'We could take thirty or forty,' Daniel insisted.
'You'll still be in trouble at the Fort.'
'Not if we land them inside the harbour at night. Run them
ashore at Watson's Bay. They'll have to walk the South Head
Road into Sydney.'
'Half this mob won't agree to that.'
'Then half can stay behind.'
In fact, fewer than twenty had rejected the proposal. Forty
others, men, women and families with children, had embarked at
dawn. The day seemed placid, the sun rose across a quiet sea, but
by the time they were settled into the main hold and the forward
cargo hatch, it was then the barometer began to fall and the
weather started to decline. Daniel had had to make an instant
decision. It was the period of the year when typhoons could hover
around the coast, and threaten for days. He could not afford to
keep so many people aboard, feed them, and wait perhaps a week
until it was safe to put to sea. By then the passengers would be
mutinous, the ship filthy, and the crew exhausted. Whereas, if he
left at once, it should be possible to outrun the weather and hope
it was no more than a squall bound for the tropics.
So the Marie had weighed anchor. As they crossed Moreton
Bay the seas became agitated and the wind rose, and by the time
they rounded Point Lookout, Daniel knew he had made the
wrong decision. All trace of the sun was now obscured by the
fiercely scudding clouds. The sea was boiling and sheets of
breaking water foamed over the bow. The wind was becoming
vicious, and the first mate was staring at the barometer in disbelief.
All the hatches had to remain secured until the waves
stopped sweeping the deck, even though the seasick and terrified
passengers below were stifling in the heat.

'Put back, Danny,' the first mate said. 'For Christ's sake, it's a
hurricane. Make a run for Moreton Bay.'
'Back into the eye? We'll ride our way through. There's no
shelter in Moreton Bay or anywhere from a blow like this.' The
thunder and the alarming creak of the masts and timbers
drowned further argument.
All day the wind was relentless. The Marie pitched and rolled.
The deck cabins were awash, and one of the topsails ripped and
fluttered like a flag of distress. Daniel managed to stay on deck
by roping himself to the helm, but could do little more than try
to keep the vessel into the violent wind. On a calm day, the Marie with her three masts and all sail hoisted gave the impression of
being large, almost a square rigger; here in the immensity of the
churning ocean, with mountainous waves breaking on her deck,
she looked diminutive and fragile.
When night fell it grew bitterly cold. Mac the Bosun crawled
along the deck, wrapped in heavy chain to prevent himself being
swept overboard, and relieved Daniel at the helm. They needed
lanterns in the pitch dark, but Daniel decided the wildly swinging
oil lamps were too great a hazard, and ordered them doused. The
crew spent the night in black misery, soaking wet, kept wide
awake by the fury of the storm and the fear of capsizing. Mac,
Daniel and the first mate all took the watches in turn, making
the perilous journey to the tiller which was possible only with
their chain ballast on the tilting and sea-swept deck.
The passengers below were in terror and distress, the
frightened children screaming until their throats were raw, while
their parents and other adults cursed the captain for risking their
lives. They were sure the ship was sinking, for water was pouring
through gaps in the stretched timbers. It swirled threateningly

around their ankles, black and odorous with their vomit and
bodily discharges; in their wild nightmare it was like being
entombed in a swaying sewer.
Sometime after the second watch, in the middle of the night,
came disaster. With almost no warning, the main mast splintered
and came crashing down with all its canvas. It fell with the force
of a heavy tree, bringing down sheets, lines and the cross-yards
from the foremast. The ship shuddered and almost overturned as
it felt the impact. A spar hit the tiller where Mac the Bosun stood,
killing him instantly.


Chapter 18

Sam Lyons confessed himself perplexed.
'I hate to admit it, Matty, but it's got me baffled. I've had me ear
close to the ground; I've had all the lads out doin' the rounds and
takin' a butcher's 'ook, and there's not a single bleeding sign of any
buyers of them paintings. Bloody old Campbell-the-Drummer won't
say a word. Got right up on his 'orse and reckons it's artistic
policy and buyer's privilege not to have their names disclosed. Buyer's
bullshit, my son. There's somethin' very peculiar about all this.'
'And then, on top of everything, there's the fire,' Matthew
reminded him. 'A big blaze, his neighbour said, started before
anyone was up and about.'
'I asked him. Straight up. Says he was havin' a burn off, getting
rid of some framing off-cuts, and clearing up the usual rubbish.'
'Do you believe him?'
'Buggered if I know. Nothing suspicious about a backyard
, incinerator. We all have to get rid of our junk.' Sam sighed and
shook his head. 'I can't believe he burnt 'em. Not even a poncing
poseur like the Drummer could do such a thing. And think of the
buyers. Imagine the stink they'd kick up.'
'I am thinking of the buyers, Sam. Where are they, if you can't

find them? Why no complaint by anyone, about the exhibition
being closed and called a failure? I'd be upset, wouldn't you?'
'Bleedin' livid.'
' 'But no one has said a single word. It's almost as if there are
no buyers at all.'
'Now you be very careful, Matty. It's a right puzzler, this one.
But don't you go and print nothing rash in your newspaper.'
'I won't print my suspicions but
I can ask questions. And
let's see if Mr Campbell-Drummond can answer them.'
'You watch out. Just remember, you're a married man now,
with responsibilities. How's the missus?'
'She's beautiful. I love her.'
'We know that. But 'ow is she? Any littlies on the way?'
'Give us time,' Matthew laughed.
'Fair enuff but
don't you risk your future, or hers.'
'You sound just like my pa,' Matthew said.
'Your pa is a smart man. Some parents are quite smart, very
much to their children's surprise.'
Matthew left smiling, but he hurried back to George Street,
his mind full of what Sam had told him. He sat down at his table
in the printery, and wrote vigorously. A little later, Jeremy came
downstairs to find his son busily engrossed, but said nothing,
and began to print some pamphlets. Finally Matthew gave him
the pages, distinct with his sharp and legible style of handwriting.
He stood waiting while Jeremy carefully read it.
'Well, Pa? Is it too risky? Too controversial?'
Jeremy looked at his son and shook his head.
'We'll set the type exactly as you've written it. I wouldn't want
to change a single word.'

The town of Port Macquarie was a picturesque place of over five
hundred residents, anxious to shed its unsavoury past as a scene
of punishment. In days long gone it was feared almost as much
as the gaols of Port Arthur and Norfolk Island, where recidivists
were sent, not for rehabilitation, but for retribution and to be
forgotten. With its abolition as a penal colony, it became a remote
but prosperous town with a sheltered harbour at the mouth of
the fertile Hastings River, and in recent years Daniel had often
sailed there to load cargoes of precious cedar, as well as sugar
cane from the country's first cane fields.
Now he was limping into its quiet harbour, his ship battered
and taking water, most of the sails ripped and only the battered
fore and aft masts remaining. Two members of the crew were
dead from the storm; Mac the Bosun and a deck hand swept
overboard on the second night. Of the forty passengers, at least a
dozen had been injured. Most of the children were suffering from
shock, and their parents were bitter and angry. Resentful of their
nightmare journey, they blamed the captain and were not aware,
nor willing to be told, that he had certainly saved their lives.
The Marie had almost founded, for it was not until the third
morning that the sea was calm enough for him to climb aloft and
make temporary repairs to the yards and the shredded canvas.
With the helm smashed, Daniel rigged an improvised tiller, and
under short sail, with reluctant volunteers bailing water below,
he skilfully tacked and crept southward. He had to keep far out,
because of the running tide and churning surf; it was fortunate
he knew the coast so well, for all the navigation instruments had
been lost or broken.
The harbourmaster was new; a fussy government shipping clerk,
formerly occupying a junior position at Fort Macquarie in Sydney,

and now endowed with dictatorial powers in this isolated port. It
was instantly apparent there was going to be trouble. He came on
board, refused anyone permission to disembark, and lined up the
disgruntled passengers on deck while ordering his associate to count
them. After a tedious few minutes, Daniel tried to intervene.
'There's no need for this,' he said. 'I'm prepared to admit
we're carrying forty passengers.'
The harbourmaster told him to be silent, and gestured for
the count to continue.
'Forty passengers, sir,' the associate finally confirmed.
'You realise, do you, Captain Johnson, that you're in breach
of coastal maritime regulations?'
'Yes,' Daniel said, and shrugged.
His surviving crew looked at this air of resignation with
astonished concern. The death of Mac the Bosun two nights ago
had devastated him; to their eyes he seemed defeated.
'The details will be reported to the authorities in Sydney, and
further action considered,' the official proclaimed. 'Meanwhile
the ship remains here.'
'The ship's got no choice,' Daniel retorted, with a fleeting
show of spirit. 'She can't sail without a new mast, new rigging,
and a complete refit that will take weeks.'
'There'll be no repairs of any kind, until decisions are made
on its future, and yours, Master. There are serious charges to
answer. The vessel is impounded, and no one is allowed to remain
on board.'
'Don't be unreasonable,' Daniel protested. 'What happens to
my men? Where do they stay?'
'That's your problem,' the harbourmaster said. 'I want
everyone off the vessel within an hour.'

'What about us?' a passenger demanded. 'He can't dump us
here.'
'Answer that, Johnson.' The port officer was relishing his
power. 'What about the passengers?'
'Since I'm unable to deliver them as promised, they get their
money back,' Daniel answered. 'There's a weekly coach service to
Sydney,' he told them. 'It's the best I can do.'
Even the most belligerent of them began to realise they were
halfway to their destination, without having to pay.
'Right, I'll have my three quid,' one said eagerly.
'And ours,' declared another, who had a family.
'Get your belongings, form a line on the dock and I'll pay
you,' Daniel answered, but before they could do this the
harbourmaster again intervened, continuing to make his presence
felt.
'Now wait on. It's not as simple as that.'
'I said I'm returning their fares. That's simple enough, even
for you to understand.' His crew, who knew the signs, started to
watch with interest, as Daniel confronted the flushed and
bombastic officer. 'They paid me to sail them to Port Jackson. It
was a private transaction, and none of your bloody business.'
'It was an illegal transaction, and therefore very much my
business. Also, I'll remind you that swearing at a government
official is an offence, and could be dealt with by the local
magistrate.'
'And who would that be?' Daniel asked, looming over him.
The,' the harbourmaster told him, barely managing to
suppress a smile.
You? Well, it doesn't say much for this town, if you're the
best they could find,' Daniel said rashly.

'I'd be extremely careful, young man. As for the illegal fares,
we'll have an investigation into the matter, and the money will be
held by me until enquiries are complete.'
'Sorry,' Daniel said, choosing his words with deliberate care,
'the money belongs to these people so
I'm returning it to them.
And as far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell.'
There were cheers from the passengers, followed by angry
shouts at the intransigence of the uniformed man. Some of the
more aggressive male passengers converged on him and his
associate, jostling them and threatening to shove them over the
side. For a moment it seemed they might do so, until Daniel
loudly ordered them to leave the pair alone.
The two men hastily left the ship. Far from being relieved
at the intervention, the harbourmaster paused to renew his
threat that the Marie was impounded, and if anyone was on
board in an hour, he would return with the constable and have
such persons arrested. He would also be taking out a warrant
against the Master, for violation of sea safety laws, common
abuse, and allowing disorderly conduct on a vessel under his
command against a servant of the Crown while carrying out
his duty.
Daniel vaulted the rail, jumped down onto the wharf, where
he grabbed the official by the arm, swinging him so they were face
to face.
I've got women on that ship, you pompous little turd,' he
said quietly but ferociously, 'or else I'd have told you loud and
clear to fuck off and stop chucking your weight around.'
'You're a witness to this tirade of insulting language, Foster,'
the harbourmaster said to his associate.
'Yes, Mr Armitage.'

'Armitage? Well, I've got witnesses, too, Mr Armitage. My
crew will make statements about your uncooperative and hostile
attitude.'
'Quite futile,' Armitage replied, jerking free of Daniel's grip
'since I'll be hearing the case.'

The Weekly Journal devoted its entire front page to the story, and
Jeremy hired extra delivery boys to make sure all subscribers
received their copies that day. While they were considered a
modest weekly, certainly without the power or circulation of the Sydney Morning Herald, they now had a regular 2500 people who
subscribed a
list that had more than trebled in the past few
years. Despite the attempt by Edward Grayson to suppress it, the Journal was growing and becoming profitable. New advertisers
had been found. Costs were far lower than other publications;
their competitors' main expenses were the wages bills for printers,
compositors and journalists. These functions they performed
themselves; Matthew, as virtual editor, wrote all the news and
articles now, and helped with the type setting and printing when
Jeremy required it. With no need for other staff their profits had begun to exceed £1000 a year. More importantly, they were
becoming a voice, and were being quoted.
'Every week we gain more subscribers,' Jeremy said to Bess,
one night when they were alone. 'You know why? It's Matthew. People are starting to like what they read.'
'He had good training,' she said. 'You taught him.'
He shook his head and smiled. Bess was as dear to him as she
had been since he was the head mule, leading a team that pulled
heavy carts past Marsden's house, and as loyal as she had been in

those troubled years while they fought for the right to marry. But
it was time to give credit where credit was due.
'I taught him the use of the composing stick, and how to set
and print pages. The writing, that came from inside him. That's
his own gift, Bess. Or perhaps it's handed down from you.'
'Don't be daft,' she said, and felt of rush of tenderness
towards him. She realised this was Jeremy's own quiet way of
bestowing a tribute. People had begun to notice their son's skill
with words. He was developing a distinctive style. Reading his
articles had now become a weekly expectation, and he rarely
disappointed those who admired him. Sometimes it was a witty
article, other times a guarded criticism of the ruling Legislative
Council. In this week's edition he posed a puzzle.

the success that was called a
failure: an art gallery mystery
One of Sydney's strangest events occurred this
week with the startling closure of the highly
successful exhibition of paintings by Clarissa
Wilberforce. If success is measured by works
that are alive and bring pleasure to those who
view them, then her work was a success. If
success is measured by sales, her exhibition
was a triumph, for all her landscapes and
portraits were sold on the opening night. But
the owner of the Standish Gallery, Mr
Campbell-Drummond, apparently has
different standards. He banned any further
viewing, closed the gallery, and labelled the
work unfit for public gaze.

Why he would do this is just one of the
mysteries that puzzles the citizens of Sydney.
Another mystery is the whereabouts of the
twenty canvases that were sold, and the identity
of those who bought them. They have so far
made no protest at this strange action by the
curator. Despite our best endeavours, they have-not
come forward to identify themselves. Mr
Campbell-Drummond was somewhat comatose
when your correspondent called to see him,
and since recovering from that state, has
declined to comment.
Known for his strident opinions on all
matters artistic, this time the curator has
responded to our questions with a blank look
and utter silence. We wish him a speedy
recovery of his senses, so that Sydney's
curiosity over this strange affair of the success
that has been defined a failure may be speedily
solved, and our bewilderment laid to rest.

Before the day was out, it was being discussed all over the
town. At Vaucluse House the Wentworths read it with interest,
for they had been present, and Sarah Wentworth had wished to
acquire one of the landscapes, but had been told it had already
been bought. She had tried, without success, to discover the
name of the buyer.
In his Macquarie Street house, Edward Grayson studied the
article with care, wondering if Boyd's agitated late night call and
request for an option to take over the art gallery lease had any

connection with this mystery. He knew the story had been
compiled by young Conway, and realised this currency lad was
beginning to have some sort of impact with the subscribers of his
father's weekly rag. Matthew Conway would need to be watched,
he decided.
Ben Boyd read it with an inner rage, sitting on the terrace of
Craignathan. He had travelled from Twofold Bay in his luxury
yacht, for there were matters urgently requiring his attention in
Sydney. The most pressing was a scheme to reduce labour costs
on his two and a half million acres in the Monaro, by importing
a shipload of Pacific Islanders to be employed as shepherds. He
had an imminent meeting with William Wentworth on the
matter, and did not welcome this intrusion into the Wilberforce
affair. Unless he took quick action, it might develop into a
scandal, and although he would scornfully deny it, this report
had delved deeper than he expected. It would mean a visit to the
Standish Gallery, and he could ill afford the time. But it was
essential. A story circulated like this could easily panic Campbell-Drummond,
who had little enough spine at the best of times. It
was important to impress on the curator that, if he should adopt
the unwise option of telling the truth, it would not be believed,
and would cost him his livelihood. While the threat had been
made the night of the exhibition, he would have to make it more
forcefully this time. Perhaps it was time to offer the art dealer a
small annuity, and pay his fare home.
He called for his waterman and was rowed across the harbour.
His cabriolet was waiting on the other side, and he was driven to
College Street, where he told the driver to wait. The front door of
the gallery was locked; the sign cancelling the exhibition still in
place. He went down the Janeway between the premises, and

entered by the back gate. A figure stood knocking on the door of
the annexe where the curator had his lodgings. He recognised the
casual garb of a currency lad.
'What the devil are you doing here?' Benjamin Boyd asked,
and Matthew turned to him with surprise.
'Mr Boyd?'
Boyd instantly realised he had made a mistake, both with the
tone and the manner of his question.
'I beg your pardon. It's -er'
he
pretended to fumble for the
name 'Daniel's
friend. Matthew. Matthew Conway, correct?'
'Correct,' Matthew answered. 'What I'm doing here is trying
to follow up my report and question the curator. A great many
people feel Miss Wilberforce has been shabbily treated.'
'I agree with them. I'm here because I read your story,' Boyd
said promptly. 'As you must know, I'm an admirer of Clarissa's
work. I bought her first painting and commissioned another.'
'Perhaps I can quote you,' Matthew suggested. 'As a patron of
the arts, you feel Miss Wilberforce has been treated appallingly
and discriminated against, for some unknown reason.'
'I expect we'd best have a care, my dear chap.' Boyd smiled,
and Matthew felt a deep and sudden distrust of him. If pressed
he could not say why, but he was all at once intensely curious to
know the reason for Benjamin Boyd's visit.
'You'd prefer I didn't quote you, sir?'
I'd prefer we were more tactful, Matthew.' 'Tactful?'
'That's a rather strong statement you wanted to put in my
mouth. This is a litigious place, and I'm sure we don't want to
find ourselves in court defending a charge of defamation.'
'So how would you suggest I quote you?''Well, let's see. Perhaps as
one of Miss Wilberforce's clients,
I'm disappointed at the outcome of her exhibition.'
'Disappointed?'
'I think so yes.'
'That makes it sound as if you're in agreement with Mr
Campbell-Drummond's action.'
'He's an art expert. I'm not.'
'So we should bow to his judgement?'
'Every man has a right to his opinion,' Boyd said, with a trace
of a frown. 'So if that's the view of a prevailing authority, I can
hardly denounce him.'
'Very careful of you, Mr Boyd,' Matthew was starting to feel a
dislike for the wealthy aristocrat. 'So if you have no argument
with his opinion, why are you here? Social visit?'
Boyd hesitated. He was resenting this interrogation, but it
was better not to show it. There were other ways of dealing with
this upstart.
CI came to suggest he was being a trifle harsh on Clarissa, and
to ask if he might reconsider. It's unlikely I would have succeeded,
since he has made his assessment, but I felt I should try.'
'So you're on her side?'
'I'm a sympathiser.'
'Yet you had her painting of the Wanderer that was hanging in
your bank taken down?'
'Who told you that?'
'Nobody told me. I saw it had been removed.'
'A temporary measure,' Benjamin Boyd said, deciding this
had gone quite far enough. 'My manager, Tompkins, pointed out it might not help our image to continue to display it. That people
flight feel we'd been fooled by an amateur with a pretty face.'

'Mr Tompkins said that? Rather a cruel comment. Perhaps I
ought to ask him why he feels so strongly?'
'You won't do that, Matthew.'
'I won't? You mean I can't talk to him?'
'I mean he's a busy man, who has more to occupy his time
than answering unimportant questions. So kindly don't bother
him.' He took a gold watch from his pocket and consulted it, as
if enough of his own time had been wasted on this matter. 'As
Campbell-Drummond is apparently not here, there seems little
point in either of us remaining.'
'He's there,' a voice said, 'leastways 'e was.' It was the saddler,
who had come out of his shop in time to hear this. 'Saw him not
half an hour ago.'
'He's not answering the door,' Matthew said.
'Obviously gone out.' Boyd tried to suppress his relief.
'Not 'im.' The saddler was certain. 'He was readin' your
newspaper,' he said to Matthew, remembering him. 'I read it
meself. Certainly got old Thomas in a state. Bloody near
cryin' and
he had a few grogs under his belt. Never knew he was
such a pisspot, till lately.'
Boyd was eager to be gone. 'If he's drunk in there, I suggest
we return when he's sober.'
'I'll try again.' Matthew vainly hammered on the door.
'There's a spare key under that flower pot,' the saddler said.
'This is trespass,' Boyd said anxiously. 'An illegal intrusion.
Either he doesn't wish to answer, or he's sleeping it off...' but by
then Matthew had extracted the key and had fitted it in the
lock.
The saddler climbed the fence to join him, and they went into
the annexe where the art dealer lived. Again it reeked with the

stale smell of spew and spirits. The room was more chaotic than on Matthew's last visit, and there were additional empty bottles.
Several had broken on the floor, and they trod carefully over the
splinters of glass. The place was empty. Matthew pushed open
the connecting door to the gallery, and almost stepped into the
pool of blood.
'Jesus Christ,' the saddler said, and when they heard a gasp it
seemed for an astonishing moment Campbell-Drummond was
still alive. Then they realised the sound was from Boyd, who had
followed closely behind them.
The curator's throat was slit; the wound had severed his
carotid artery and still oozed blood. His staring eyes and fixed
facial rictus conveyed the impression of a final moment of agony.
The knife was still clutched in his hand.
'I'll send my carriage to inform Captain Innes,' Boyd said, as
if aware they would recognise the name of the superintendent of
police. He hurried out, leaving them in the gallery with the
mutilated corpse.
Once out of their sight he allowed the relief to show on his
face. With Campbell-Drummond dead, he was safe. No matter
what young Conway might suspect. And if Conway even tried to
air those suspicions, he would face an action that would
impoverish their business and ruin it. He might even buy the
wretched publication, and then shut it down.
Thank God, he thought, as he strode towards his cabriolet, the bloody man had the nerve to do the job properly. Thank Christ he killed
himself, and there was no chance to take any dying depositions. As he savoured this moment of reprieve, a sickening thought crossed his mind; what if the curator had left a note?

It was the saddler who found the note. He studied it with a frown,
then shrugged and passed it to Matthew.
'Don't make sense,' the man said.
But it did, to Matthew. He had just finished reading it, when
Boyd came hurrying back. With a sense of foreboding and shock,
he saw the paper in Matthew's hand.
'What is it?'
'An apology,' Matthew said. The curator left it. I thought you
were fetching the police?'
'I sent my carriage. They'll be here shortly. What apology?
What do you mean? If that's a suicide note, then I think you'd
better let me take it.'
'It's not addressed to you, Mr Boyd.'
'Then who? The authorities?'
'No. It's a drunken scrawl, addressed to Clarissa Wilberforce.
And if you wish, I'll read it for you.'
'Please,' Boyd said, barely able to conceal his anger.
'Dear Miss Wilberforce,' Matthew read aloud, 'forgive me. I
was made to do it. He made me burn the paintings. I liked them.
Forgive me.' He carefully folded the note and put it in his own
pocket, acutely aware of Boyd's eyes watching this. Matthew
stared back at him.
'What else does it say?'
'That's all. No signature. But it explains a lot, doesn't it?'
'I don't know what it explains, Matthew.'
'It explains why this poor bastard drank himself stupid, then cut
his own throat. Someone made him shut that exhibition, and burn
her paintings. Can you think of anything more disgusting, more
obscene, than some person using their power and their money to do
this? I think it's a filthy act by someone who must be quite mad.'

The saddler could feel a strange sense of chill and bitterness
in the gallery; this rich man and the currency lad, on either side
of the dead body of poor old Thomas, their eyes locked in some kind of duel. He was not exactly sure what had caused this silent
anger, but the dislike between them was deep and unmistakable.
'You'd better give me that note,' Benjamin Boyd said.
'I'll keep it, thanks.'
'The police will demand it.'
'I'll show it to the police then
give it to Clarissa. After all, it
is an apology to her. She may even happen to know the name of
the creature who caused this. Or Daniel might, when he returns
from Moreton Bay'
'The drunken scrawl of a dead man is hardly something that
deserves much attention.'
'I disagree. It's an admission that helps explain the gallery
mystery. And if Clarissa approves, I intend to publish it.'
'I think you should be rather careful,' Boyd said quietly.
'Do you, Mr Boyd? Why do you think that?'
'No one has been named. Not by the dead man. Naming
anyone now would be conjecture. Gossip and speculation without
a shred of evidence. If you try to reflect on the integrity of anyone,
you'll find yourself without a press to print your pathetic,
scurrilous sheet.'
'Pathetic is a matter of personal opinion. What we've never
been is scurrilous,' Matthew said, trying to keep his temper.
'Perhaps to our disadvantage, but my father takes seriously the
responsibility of being a publisher.'
'Your father is a convict who never received a pardon,' said
Boyd, and there was no longer any pretence of civility between
them. 'Your mother, too. I expect she was a poor innocent who

stole a loaf of bread,' he said sardonically. 'It's always a trinket or
a loaf of bread to feed a starving family. If we were to believe that
myth, New South Wales would be a mass of innocent felons,
transported for no apparent reason by a brutal mother country.
The truth is, your parents are criminals, and in any decent society
they would not be tolerated.'
'That's a crude and offensive thing to say.' He could hardly
believe the other's arrogance. 'I'm proud of my parents. Their
sentences were unjust, but they served their time, and they and
people like them are the backbone of this place. Someone like
you wouldn't know what I'm talking about.' He tried to quell a
growing rage. 'If you consider this an indecent society, is that why
you came here to
profit from it?'
The saddler wondered what might be coming next, for the
anger in this room was almost out of control. The rich Benjamin
Boyd was white-faced with rage, and the young currency lad
could certainly hold his own when it came to an argument. They
both seemed to have forgotten poor old Thomas, dead on the
floor in his own blood. It was with relief the saddler heard the
clatter of horses. He looked out the gallery window and saw a cart
with police constables arriving.

'I find you guilty of all the charges. On the matter of common
abuse and allowing disorderly conduct against a servant of the
Crown aboard your vessel, you will serve one month in prison.
On the far more serious charge of endangering the lives of people
at sea --'
Daniel felt a deep foreboding. The tiny Port Macquarie
courthouse was almost empty. His Worship Mr Armitage was on

the bench, and two constables stood on guard. The three
surviving crew were in the public seats; they had remained in the
town to give evidence, but the magistrate had declared their
testimony to be prejudicial and influenced by their captain, and
had instructed the clerk of the court not to write it in the trial
record. The passengers had pooled their money, and hired a
bullock cart that would take them to Maitland. After Daniel had
refunded their fares and paid off his crew, he had no money. Not
until he could communicate with Mr Tompkins at the bank, if
this despot on the bench would allow it.
He had been in custody for over a week. The magistrate had
arraigned him on the charges and refused to allow bail. He had
not been allowed to shave a
regulation for his own protection
the turnkey told him, because prisoners in as much shit as him
sometimes tried to harm themselves to escape justice. Daniel said
he would not do this, but was still refused a razor. By the time he
came to trial he was unkempt with a thick stubble, looking older
than his years.
'On the far more serious charge, a flagrant violation of the
laws of sea safety, I impose a fine of five hundred pounds, and a
prison term of six months.' There was a gasp from the public
seats. Daniel felt dismayed. He had expected a heavy fine, but not
this. Not prison. 'And I am sending a recommendation to the
chief of the maritime services in Sydney that your license to
command a vessel should be withdrawn, or at least suspended for
a considerable time.'
'That's ridiculous! We'd all be drowned if it weren't for 'im!'
One of the crew jumped to his feet to shout this protest, and was
promptly fined five pounds or twenty lashes for contempt of
court. He was led out, while the magistrate completed his ruling.


The prisoner was to be confined in the town gaol. His ship would
remain impounded, and a harbour charge of one pound daily
levied until the master arranged for the ship to be towed away, or
removed under its own sail from the port. If he was unable to pay
the fine imposed or these additional charges, his ship would be
forfeit or his term of imprisonment increased accordingly.
'Case concluded,' Armitage said.
'All rise,' the clerk intoned.
No one did, for the remaining crew members were too
stunned by the severity, and the impending loss of their livelihood
to do more than sit and stare, as the harbourmaster, in his
magisterial robes, gathered his papers and left the court.

It was strange about Clarissa, Matthew thought.
Gone to stay with friends, her landlady said. Paid her rent,
locked her studio, and said she'd be back.
But when, Matthew wanted to know?
I told you the last time, said the landlady. The day when you
just missed her.
But that was weeks ago, he told her. Almost a month. Is there
no news since then?
The landlady repeated she had no idea when Clarissa would
return. She felt sure it would not be long; since her tenant had
paid advance rent and was most reliable and precise about such
matters. The poor girl had been distressed, and suffered
shamefully at the public humiliation. So disappointing, after all
her hopes. Didn't Matthew Conway agree?
Matthew agreed. Wondering how to treat this, he had already
composed a story, printed it, and given it to Jeremy for comment.

FORGIVE ME: HE MADE ME BURN
THE PAINTINGS
These were the poignant last words of a
suicide note left by the late Mr Campbell-Drummond
of the Standish Gallery, in which
he confessed he admired the work of the
artist Clarissa Wilberforce, and had cancelled
the show, informing the public the paintings
were unworthy, and then in an act of savage
barbarism, burned them at the instigation of
a person unknown. Who is this person? It
could only have been someone of influence,
who harboured a grudge against the artist.
Your correspondent visited the scene,
moments after the curator's death, and was
surprised to be joined by Mr Benjamin Boyd,
the wealthy banker and pastoralist. Mr Boyd,
who paid a record price for her seascape of his
yacht the Wanderer, admitted he had already
ordered this painting to be removed from his
bank. It was, he said, the wish of patrons, and
his manager, Mr Albert Tompkins. We have
not yet asked Mr Tompkins for confirmation
of this statement.

'We can't run this,' Jeremy said. Matthew said he knew that. He simply wanted to put it down,
the way he felt, all the anger and suspicion and
a copy on the
spike for Daniel to show Clarissa, when he returned.
'You sub it, Pa,' he said, and Jeremy, wishing it could be


otherwise, but knowing the story would leave them open to an
action for defamation, undid the frame and began to reassemble
the type and edit it using the old printer's method. It was the way
he had always worked. His revised edition appeared the following
week.


TRAGEDY AT THE ART GALLERY A suicide note left by Mr Campbell-Drummond
of the Standish Art Gallery
confessed his admiration for the work of
artist Clarissa Wilberforce, despite cancelling
her exhibition as 'unworthy'. The curator also
admitted that, in an act of extraordinary
vandalism, he burned the paintings at the
request of a person unknown. Who is
responsible for this outrage? Unfortunately,
this will never be revealed, for the note gave no
name, and there is no proof to link anyone to
this dreadful act. Our sympathy goes to the
defamed artist, and we hope to enjoy a new
display of her work as soon as possible.

Matthew studied it. It occupied the centre of the front page.
Jeremy had set it with a wide border, to create the maximum
attention.
'That's good, Pa. Keeps the substance, but removes the
innuendo,' he said. 'I'm certain he did it, but we'll never be able
to prove it. And he'd ruin us if we gave him the chance to sue.'
'Take a copy to Clarissa, when you're in that part of town.'
'She's still not back.'



'Leave one with Daniel.'
'He's not back either. Probably gone north after more cargo.'
He looked at the story again, pleased with what his father had
done; it would help to re-establish Clarissa's reputation after the
shock of the Herald story. Daniel would be pleased, too. It was
then that he realised Daniel did not even know of the cancelled
exhibition; he had left for Brisbane the night before it happened.
When he returned, there would be a great deal to tell him.

The prison was a mile inland from any trace of a sea breeze, a
remote building without shade and enclosed by high strands of barbed wire. It was constructed of brick walls and an iron roof
that absorbed the summer heat, and turned the tiny cells into a
furnace. There were three cells, each of them just six feet square,
so there was no space to exercise, just room for a bedroll on the
floor and a slop bucket alongside it, not emptied until the
gaoler decided it smelled so badly that the stink drifted through
to his own guardroom. It was emptied only twice the first week
Daniel was imprisoned, and the odour of the bucket began to
prey on his mind, and cause him sleeplessness and constant
nausea.
In his cell a tiny barred window faced the west, and bore the
glare of the afternoon sun, so that there was no relief when night
fell. It was a grim, forbidding place, built cheaply by a government
contractor and designed for maximum discomfort. In this the
builder had succeeded with cruel perfection. Daniel was the only
occupant. For a brief half an hour each day, he was taken out into
the hot sun, and left to wander around the dusty compound,
while the warder stood with a loaded musket and idly watched

him. There was no hope of escape, for the barbed wire enclosed
the prison like a razor-sharp cage. At night, fretful and sickened
by the slop pail, he tried to escape in his thoughts; wondering what Clarissa was doing, and if there were good crowds attending
the gallery to see her paintings.
He thought about Marie; went over in his mind, line by line
to the best of his recollection, the letter he had received from her
in London, and tried to work out why he felt concerned about it. I have often wanted to write, but wanted to have some good news to tell
you before I put pen to paper. I have been learning to spell and practising my handwriting. Even if she had lied and had someone else do the
writing, the letter didn't feel real. It wasn't from the same girl
who had stood on the dock in Port Phillip when they could
hardly bear to say goodbye. He could even recall what she had said: 'Isn't it mad? We grew up together, and I never knew until the past
few days that I loved you. What a terrible time to find out a thing like that.' She had smiled, and he remembered how he had thought it the
saddest smile he had ever seen.
Other memories plagued him in these fitful, sleepless hours.
The cold-blooded murder of Evans the Bread. The shocking
suddenness of the death of Mac the Bosun. He mourned them
both; they had been with him from the start, and were his friends.
He fretted about the massive damage to the Marie, and how he
Could arrange to repair it while chained and incarcerated here.
His mind even harked back to a time he hated to remember;
nights when he was hiding from his drunken father, while his mother whom
he could hardly recall now, except for the bruises
On her face cried
and tried to escape the fists and drunken rage
as she was raped. And the day when, at last, he had pushed his
father into the harbour, and waited for him to surface. Waited,

then ran away, and for years thought that only he and Matthew knew about it.
He shied away from the misery of that early childhood, and instead sought refuge in the time that followed, when his life
began anew because Bess Conway had taken him into her home;
brought him up, taught him to read and write; loved him like her
son. In the blackest hours he savoured the day that Bess told him
he would stay with them, and had enfolded him in her arms. It
was, despite all the success and excitement since, the abiding
moment of his life.
In the second week he began to wonder if Matthew had yet
heard of his predicament. The letters he had sent should be there,
and would hopefully bring not only financial help, but a lawyer
with advice on how to have his punishment modified. If not, he
didn't know how he'd stand another half year of this; without an
appeal against the harsh sentence of this malicious magistrate,
he wondered if he would emerge from this bleak place in his right
mind. At times, mercifully, exhaustion overtook him, and he
slept.

The mate hated the long journey south. The coach was
uncomfortable, overcrowded with passengers, and it jolted and
bounced constantly on the rough, rutted roads. It was a sorry
ending to a voyage that had promised rich rewards, and he
blamed Daniel's recklessness in taking so many on board. He
could hardly blame him for the storm, and no one could fault his
seamanship, but the trip had ended in a bloody mess, and the
start of it had been the rash overloading of the vessel. That most of the crew had agreed to it, as a chance to recoup money lost on

the stolen cargo, was something on which he did not dwell. He
and the Bosun had rightly protested, and been overruled, and
now Mac was dead and the captain in the shit, and likely to be
there for some time.
The first mate had accepted what little Daniel had left after
repaying the passengers and settling wages with the rest of the
crew. It was enough for his fare on this endless coast road; long
days of discomfort and boredom and no scenery except the
monotony of eucalyptus trees. When he finally reached Sydney, it
would perhaps keep him for a week or two until he could find a
new berth. In the meantime, he was entrusted with the letter.
He took it out, and looked at the envelope. Her name was
written on it, and the address: 19 Bridge Street. The top floor,
Daniel had said; that was her studio. She'd be the artist, the one
he'd been living with for near to five years that was according to
Mac, who had met her. Older than him, but a nice-looking
woman. Clarissa Wilberforce. English. It sounded a bit posh.
Funny, Daniel ending up with someone like that. He hoped she'd
be able to find a way to help him out of this jam, for while the
mate was disappointed at the loss of an expected bonus and a
good berth, he thought Daniel's sentence was harsh and unfair.
The coach arrived late in the afternoon of the fifth day. The
terminus was alongside the Customs House at Circular Quay,
and directly opposite was the Maritime Hotel. His two shipmates
started to head across the street, but the mate thought he ought
to get the letter delivered before dark. Then he could forget about
it. He left his kit with them, and headed towards Bridge Street,
only a few minutes' walk away. The big house by the bridge,
Daniel had told him.
lodgings a sign said, and he made his way up to the top floor,



where the studio door was locked, and nobody answered his
knock. Downstairs he encountered the landlady.
'Miss Wilberforce? She's away, and we're not sure when she'll
be back,' he was told.
He was in a quandary. The letter was important; it was vital for
Daniel's sake that someone knew of his predicament. Without
going into details, he explained the ship had been damaged, and
Daniel was delayed in Port Macquarie. The landlady suggested he
take the letter to Matthew Conway, who was Daniel's oldest friend
and was also looking for Miss Wilberforce. She said the Weekly
Journal offices were in West George Street, down near the markets.
The first mate went back to quench his thirst, before trudging
the length of town. There was a big, beefy man behind the bar,
whom he remembered was the landlord, Sean Geraghty. He
hadn't been in here for years; he preferred the Windmill or the
Whaler's Arms, but this time it turned out to be a lucky choice,
for there was a captain of a square rigger in the bar recruiting for
a long voyage to New Zealand, and his shipmates had already
signed. The mate agreed he'd take a couple of steps down the
ladder, and sail as a bosun, but first he had to go the other end of
town and deliver an urgent letter to Matthew Conway.
Geraghty, who had overheard the crew members find their
new jobs, and realised from the conversation that they were the
remnants of Daniel Johnson's crew, kept renewing their glasses
while he hovered and listened. There'd been some trouble up
north, although the sailors were close-mouthed about it, but
when he heard the mate mention the letter and Matthew
Conway's name, he beckoned him aside.
'Lookin' for young Matt?' he asked, friendly and casual. 'He
should be in 'ere later on.'

'What time?' the mate asked.
'Later on, before closin',' Geraghty said, knowing they were
due on board their new ship long before then. 'He'll drop in for a
pint, when he delivers his paper. The journal,' he added. 'I wasn't
meanin' ter listen, but was you sayin' yer got a letter for 'im from
Danny?'
'Well, not exactly,' the mate said, trying to remember what
he'd heard about Geraghty; it was something Mac the Bosun had
told him, some incident that happened before he joined the Marie but
Mac had his likes and dislikes, and this Irish publican
seemed to be friendly enough. 'It's addressed to his ladyfriend,
but she's away. Daniel's in a bit of a spot, and he needs help, so
this friend of his, Matthew, seemed to be the answer.'
'Well, you better git started. It's a fair walk down past the
markets to the other end of town. Or else,' he offered, as though
it had just occurred to him, 'I could give it to Matt when he turns
up later on.' He called across to the captain of the square rigger,
as if the mate's answer was of no consequence: 'One last pint for
the ocean wave, Skipper?'
'Can't, Sean,' the whaling captain replied. 'Got to catch the
tide, and I ain't sailing with any half-pissed crew.'
Geraghty grinned as the captain drained his glass and told
his new recruits to shift their arses. Out of the corner of his eye,
he could see the first mate deliberating.
'Could you give it to him, then?' He handed the landlord the
letter addressed to Clarissa. 'Say it's from Daniel, and it's
important.'
'Of course,' Sean Geraghty said obligingly.
He watched them leave. Raised a genial farewell hand, and
told his barman he'd be in the cellar taking an inventory of the

stock. He went down the steps, lit a candle in the gloomy cellar,
and sat on one of the kegs while he ripped open and read Daniel's
account of his misfortunes. The stolen cargo; the overloaded ship; the storm, and the loss of three of his crew; then the
officious Mr Armitage and the savage sentence.
The letter asked her to go to Mr Tompkins at the Royal Bank
on Church Hill, and arrange that two thousand pounds in cash
be sent to him by whatever means possible; if necessary to be
conveyed by special armed messenger for which he would pay the
cost. Would she also talk to Matthew and Jeremy, or else use her
own connections to find a lawyer who would take his case to the
chief magistrate, and present the facts to him for an appeal
against the excessive punishment.
Geraghty sat engrossed, reading it. The bastard was hundreds
of miles away, imprisoned and penniless. If this letter did not
reach either the recipient or young Conway, then Daniel Johnson
would suffer the next six months in helpless despair with no one
knowing of his predicament which
meant that there was a
divine providence after all.
He put the paper to the candle flame, and watched it burn.


Chapter 19


Matthew and Emily had found and furnished their ideal first
home; two rooms above a clothing store in Liverpool Street, with
a view of Hyde Park. They made love most mornings, before he left
for work, and had a very private debate about whether they were
at their most passionate late at night, when they could hardly wait
to go to bed or
if it was more exciting to drowsily wake and
fumble to find each other, and sometimes, almost while still
sleeping he was inside her and they were moving in the slow and
sensuous motion that led them to such heights of pleasure. In the
dawn light, breathless after these encounters, Emily was given to
declare that mornings were absolutely the best, although she
often changed her mind in the blissful evening dark.
The modest lodging was a place of enchantment and love. Matthew frequently wondered how he could have been so
stupid, so pompously high-principled for all that time as
thick as
two planks had been Daniel's apt indictment and
the memory of
that brought him back to what had been worrying him for weeks.
Where the hell was Daniel?
Where was Clarissa, come to that, for she had not returned?
Her landlady was beginning to mutter that the room was locked,

the rent overdue declaring
that while Miss Wilberforce was a
lady and most exemplary in her conduct, it was a matter of some
puzzlement and concern. She didn't wish to cause any further
hurt or loose talk that might create a scandal, she told Matthew,
but the accommodation in Bridge Street was her livelihood, and '
times were difficult enough without the tenant of her attic her studio she hastily corrected herself, with the finest view in the
house without
this resident decamping. Not that she was
accusing Miss Wilberforce of such a thing yet, but without proper
communication what was one to think?
Matthew, as usual, fled from her garrulous tongue, though
he was deeply concerned. He had witnessed Clarissa's great
distress when she read the bleak statement of her exhibition's
closure in the Herald, and he was unsure if she knew of their
published report of the curator's note the following week, which
had seen her damaged reputation restored to some extent. But to
what extent? Were reputations ever fully restored after such
denigration?
He and Emily wondered where she might have gone, and if she
was still in the colony. He had visited several of her friends, who
were equally troubled, and speculated whether she might have left
Sydney with her friend, Caroline Chisholm. Mrs Chisholm had
sailed for London only two weeks earlier, to promote her migrant
scheme for single women, and to raise money for families who
wanted a passage and a new life in Australia. But Matthew had
soon discovered that Mrs Chisholm had left with only her husband
and children, and, as far as he could establish, Clarissa was not on
the passenger list of any vessel that had departed from Sydney.
Meanwhile, there was no word of Daniel. No sign of his ship,
or any of his crew, although by now Matthew was spending hours

scouring the waterfront for news. It was why he was still at home
on this particular morning, when most days he would be bathed,
dressed and on his way to the Journal office, or else down at the
fort to get the shipping lists, for even with the new editorial
freedom Jeremy had given him, the arrivals and departures of
ships was something no publication would dare neglect. Shipping
kept the colony in touch with the rest of the world. In this past
year several hundred vessels had sailed in and out of Sydney
Harbour, which made it one of the world's busiest ports. It also
gave Matthew a chance to ask, each day when he visited the fort
for the lists, whether any mariner had heard news of Daniel and the Marie.

No one had. There was talk of a fierce hurricane a month ago,
along the coast outside of Moreton Bay, and it was said that a
schooner had unwisely put out into it, but no one was sure. There
was certainly no report of it being lost, or any wreckage found. So Matthew had come to a decision, but first he wanted to discuss it
with his wife, which was why he was not yet at work.
'You want to go to Moreton Bay?'

'I think I must. He might've gone north to anywhere in the Pacific, knowing Daniel. Or on his way to China, or San Francisco.
He's gone off to distant places before if
a cargo is offered to
him. I don't know why, but this time it feels different.'
'Yes, it does.'
'I can get a berth on a steamship tomorrow. Three days I'm
told it takes. The ship turns around in forty-eight hours, which
should be time enough. I'll hardly be away longer than a week.'
'Find Daniel,' Emily said. 'Make sure he's safe, and give him
my love.'


In the restricted barbed-wire compound, Daniel was trying to
exercise, so that he would not keep getting nightly cramps. He
looked up to see a familiar figure outside the prison. It seemed
unreal; he was about to wave, but the figure seemed to glance
briefly at and then beyond him, and he realised that not being
allowed to shave his beard had grown and transformed his
appearance. Before he could call to attract attention, he saw Ben
Boyd meet with Armitage, and he watched them have an animated
conversation.
Neither betrayed any awareness of his presence, as the magistrate
walked away. Boyd had a horse and cart waiting, and for a moment
it seemed as if he would leave without an attempt to acknowledge
Daniel. Which was when Daniel shouted, and Benjamin Boyd
turned, giving the appearance of genuine surprise.
'Daniel?' He came closer, studying him. 'My God, it is.'
'Ben, for Christ's sake what
are you doing here?'
'I own the Port Macquarie land. Eighty thousand acres along the
coast. I've been on a tour all over the state, visiting my properties.'
'You know that bastard Armitage?'
'My dear chap, he's the harbourmaster and local magistrate.
It must be quite obvious I know him. I have to meet and deal with
him in the course of my inspections.'
'I need help, Ben.'
'I imagine so. And I wish I could supply it, Daniel. But Mr
Armitage seems to feel you deserve a more severe sentence. He
wants to bring you back to court, and increase the punishment to
two years.'
'What?' Daniel stared at him. He wondered why Boyd was not
infuriated at this suggestion; he seemed almost amused by it.
'I did say to him I thought that was oppressive. Overdoing it

somewhat. I admitted that you'd been culpable and stupid,
infringing the maritime laws, and risking people's lives. But after
all...'
'After all, what?'
'You hadn't meant to harm anyone, or kill your bosun and
deck hand. It was simply greed. Overcrowding your ship to make
a few pounds.'
Daniel clenched his hands so hard that the nails drew blood.
He stared at the bleeding skin, and studied Boyd's composed
face. The turnkey came out, ordering him to hold up his wrists,
while he secured the handcuffs. Boyd watched this impassively.
'I'm sorry I can't help, Daniel'
'Of course you could help if
you wanted to,' Daniel said,
with such anger that his voice was hoarse and his throat felt
constricted.
'On the contrary, I'm merely a pastoralist and a banker. And,
if you insist, a political figure. But I have no authority over the
law of the land. You abused safety rules abused
the magistrate,
and apparently allowed your passengers to start a riot that
endangered public officials. These are serious charges, Daniel,
and I could not intervene. If we wish to be civilised in this
country, then we must obey the rules of law.'
Daniel had stood handcuffed and helpless, watching him
climb in the cart to be driven away. That had been a week ago,
and ever since he had spent wakeful nights puzzling over Boyd's
attitude. While he had never entirely liked the rich banker, the
man had always been cordial enough, and Daniel had not only
carried many cargoes for him but was considered a valued client
of his bank. If he felt uneasy about Boyd's attitude to Clarissa,
she was capable of handling that. Although he remembered

Clarissa saying to him after the exhibition and before his
departure, that Boyd had been unusually persistent, and her
response had upset him. Could that be why he had behaved in
such a manner? For he had not only shown a callous indifference;
he had actually seemed to relish the situation.
Daniel had managed to establish from the taciturn warder
that Mr Boyd had arrived by his famous yacht, Wanderer, and that
he was here to buy more land and increase his holdings. He already
owned thousands of acres from the Macleay River to the Clarence,
and it was said he hoped to lease all the land from here to Brisbane.
Which explained Ben Boyd's presence, but not his conduct. Not
the impression of quiet pleasure at seeing Daniel caged. It was one
more frustrating torment, like the stench of his slop pail, and the
passing days that brought no response to his letter.
What in God's name was being done? Had Clarissa been to
the bank yet to see Mr Tompkins? She must have, by now. Had
she spoken to Matthew? Bound to. Then what was Matt doing to
help? And why was it taking so long? The questions were
incessant; they assaulted and disturbed him.
He felt a surprise akin to anger that Matthew had not arrived
by now, for if the situation had been reversed, he would certainly
have done so. He'd have taken the first coach or ship. And the
money when
would it come? He had expected it long ago. Had
it been stolen or intercepted? Something was strange, because Mr
Tompkins was so reliable. At least if that arrived he could pay his
fine, have a shipwright begin repairs on the schooner, even bribe
the surly warder to bring him food that was fit to eat.
He grew fretful, chafing at the lack of a reply, and could not
dispel the feeling that he had somehow been abandoned.

Matthew returned from Moreton Bay in a state of depression and
anxiety. The brief visit had achieved so little, except to convince
him that Daniel must surely be dead. He had learned what few
facts there were; that the Marie's cargo had been stolen and one of
the crew killed. That Daniel had reported the matter to the local
police, but no culprits were found. He also knew the schooner had
taken a lot of passengers on board for the return voyage nobody seemed sure how many, but some said too many and
had sailed
for Sydney on the morning of the hurricane. There had been three
days of wild weather, that caused great damage in the bay and
even demolished houses in South Brisbane.
The Brisbane Port Officer confirmed there had been no
traces of any wreckage, but neither had there been reports of the Marie taking shelter in the New England river estuaries. Nothing
from Cape Byron, or Evans Head or from the Clarence. He had
assumed the schooner arrived in Sydney. If it hadn't, then the
prospects of survival did not look good. Not good at all. As for
the ship being overloaded with passengers, he couldn't really say.
People up here were more relaxed about minor infringements like
that than they were down south. He knew young Daniel was a
good sailor and could handle most weather, but this was as bad a
blow as he'd ever seen, and the sea inside was big enough to
drown any ship, let alone the waves outside. They must have
looked like mountains. A shame, the official said. Nice young
feller.
He never learned to swim properly, Matthew told him. The
Port Officer thought it was a peculiar thing to say; the way the
sea was, nobody could've swum anywhere, except down to Davy
Jones' locker.








Mr Tompkins waited until all the staff had gone, then he locked
the doors of the bank and went back to study the figures again.
It was safe to sit in Mr Boyd's own office and peruse the
documents, for the chairman was away surveying his vast land
holdings, and making plans to increase his estates. Lately, it had
begun to seem to Mr Tompkins these land acquisitions were so
extensive, so immense, that no single person could afford them.
He had been continually aware of the enormous costs of
Craignathan, both the building of the harbour mansion and its
upkeep, as well as the massive amounts of money that had been
poured into the whaling port and Boyd Town. Twofold Bay was
not a success; the whalers were expensive to maintain, and the
demand for whale oil and bone was in decline. In addition, one of
his paddle-steamers brought from England had been damaged,
and a huge insurance claim was lodged. The insurers had refused
to pay; Boyd had sued and lost in a court case and
lost again on
appeal. The legal fees were almost a legend. Far from alarming
people, such incidents seemed to enhance his status as an
aristocrat of limitless wealth.
But Mr Tompkins was alarmed. What concerned him most
was Boyd's air of disdainful indifference to these setbacks, and
the reckless disregard with which he continued to live in lavish
splendour. No man spent more than Benjamin Boyd, no banker
showed less interest in his balance sheets. Tompkins could not
pinpoint the exact moment when the feeling of suspicion began.
He wondered, uneasily, if there had always been a degree of doubt
in his mind, way back to the astonishing day he was plucked from
obscurity at the Bank of New South Wales, and promoted to such
heights. Did Boyd want someone who would be overawed by the
distinction, flattered by the position and easy to control?

It began to seem so.
The figures had been kept from him, until an official letter
arrived from London, and since it was banking business and
Boyd was absent, he had opened it. The letter demanded to know
why two years of dividends had not been paid to English
shareholders. Since the local accounts showed that sixty thousand
pounds had in fact been paid, Mr Tompkins began to study all
the private correspondence, and found a set of books that did not
tally with those he kept for official purposes. He discovered there
were many debenture holders in England whose notes were
overdue, and that the Royal Bank owed in excess of a further
£100000 sterling.
Nearly half this sum had been drawn by cheque and paid
to Boyd & Company. There were other cheques drawn for the
costs of all the houses, the upkeep of the Wanderer and its
crew, the land purchases, the costs incurred by his fleet of
ships, his army of servants, and his lavish style of living. For a
long time Mr Tompkins had felt increasingly certain that no
man could have access to such endless funds. He'd been
wrong. Mr Boyd had all the money he required to run his
empire, by robbing his shareholders and delaying debenture
notes. There were copies of letters showing how he did this, by
a series of promises that pledged payments, not this year but
next, when whale oil rose in price, and the wool clip was sold,
and land values rose.
This, Mr Tompkins knew, would not happen.
Prices were down and the economy in deep recession. Any
promise of increased profits could only be a delaying tactic, made
to those gullible investors far enough away not to be aware of the
truth.

The bank was insolvent. All its assets had been carefully
transferred, converted into property in Boyd's name.
Mr Tompkins went over it, again and again. He kept hoping
he had made a mistake, but instinctively knew he hadn't. The
Royal Bank was a fraud.
Benjamin Boyd was a charlatan and a thief.

Chapter 20



Harold Armitage, the Port Macquarie harbourmaster and
magistrate, had relished his display of power, but now he was
tired of the game. He had taught the young upstart currency brat
a lesson he'd never forget, and the damaged schooner would
remain here until the fine was paid, as well as the marine dockage
charges which were increasing each week. There was little point
in continuing his detention beyond the six months already
served. Soon, if there was no payment forthcoming, then Armitage
stood to collect a handsome commission. He already had a buyer
eager to acquire the vessel.

'Thirty days,' he said to Daniel, who was unkempt, his beard
ragged and his clothes filthy. He had not been allowed to wash
before being paraded in front of the magistrate. 'In thirty days,
unless you return here with the sum of 760, pounds being the 500 pounds fine
and the remainder in accumulated wharf costs, your vessel will be
sold by private contract. The hull, masts, sails, rigging, anchors,
cables and stores, will be advertised for sale with all faults as they
lie. Do we understand each other?'

I understand you, Daniel wanted to tell him. You've had your
sadistic fun making me suffer, and now you want to turn it to a profit. Only



he didn't say this. The past months of suffering, and the degradation
of being chained like an animal had taught him caution. He had
learned the hard way, that a remote district official had powers
which would not have gone unchallenged in Sydney. Although
quite certain Armitage had exceeded his authority, without a legal'
representative he had been unable to contest the sentence or
establish an abuse of the law. He had certainly not forgotten that if
there was an abuse, Benjamin Boyd was a witness to it, and his
blood boiled again at the memory of the day, months ago now,
when the rich banker had totally disregarded his plight. Had, in
fact, seemed to secretly enjoy it. There would be some plain speaking
when they met again in Sydney, Daniel promised himself.
But more than anything else, he was still bewildered at the
lack of response to his letter. Money should have been sent, a
lawyer engaged to argue on his behalf. He felt confused and a
great deal more; he felt bitter and betrayed.

It was cold and quiet in the church, and Bess tried to overcome a
deep sense of despondency. Could her prayers really help? She had
come here so often, lit so many candles, arranged for so many
private masses to be said for Daniel, yet the months went by and
there was no word. Despite her faith, she began to feel that no one
was listening. If God could allow this to happen, then surely He
was not the God she had been brought up to worship. It was no use
Father Casey saying that He worked in mysterious ways. This past
half year it seemed that God had turned His face away.
She trudged home from St Saviour's, feeling tired and sad.
Soon it would be Daniel's twenty-third birthday; she had intended
to plan a surprise party for him, with all the family, Mac the

Bosun and that nice Welshman in the crew, as well as Clarissa,
Now Clarissa was goodness knows where, and Daniel...
I must lose weight, she thought, aware that she was puffing
more than usual from the incline that led towards her terrace
home. It was one more sign she was getting older, and, she had to
admit, fatter. Last week she had let her skirts out another inch at
the waist, and there was no more slack left. Jeremy said he liked
her plump, but only a few days ago she had passed a shop one of the new stores whose windows were panels of glass and
seen
the reflection of a stout and apparently elderly woman trudging
by. Old and fat, she had thought, and with a sense of shock she
realised it was herself. If only God was honest if
He listened to
her prayers and Daniel was saved, then she would give up cakes
and scones and cream, and all those things she loved eating that
people declared made you fat.
She heard a shout, and saw Lucy running and waving to her.
'What?' she called, and hadn't the faintest idea what the silly
child was saying. She seemed to be crying. 'What?' she shouted.
'Daniel,' Lucy shouted.
Bess tried to run up the street. Her heart was pounding. She
could hardly get the words out for her feeling of panic.
'What what
about Daniel?'
'Ma he's
alive,' Lucy sobbed. 'He's been in goal. And now
he's back.'
They met and hugged, tears of joy mingling, oblivious of the
looks of people passing.
Forgive me, Bess said silently. Forgive me for my lack of faith. Her Lord did work in mysterious ways. Daniel was alive. She would
willingly give up cakes and cream.



There was so much to celebrate, but also a great deal that was
inexplicable. None of them could understand the missing letter, but
it now seemed as though the mate, being unable to find Clarissa,
had signed on another ship and forgotten it. Daniel blamed himself
for not sending it direct to Matthew, but the prospect of Clarissa
being missing had not even crossed his mind. Her whereabouts was
another enigma without an answer, for it seemed she could no
longer possibly be in the colony. The landlady in Bridge Street had
had no further news of her. The top floor studio had been re-let; the
remainder of her belongings and those of Daniel were stored and awaiting collection. It was something he would try to resolve tomorrow, Daniel thought. Like the missing letter, it was part of a conundrum
he could not understand. He was simply grateful to be back, sitting
at a table with Emily and Matthew, with Bess and Jeremy and Lucy.
There had been many despairing times when he thought he might
not see any of them again.
They had a special dinner that night; after the joyful reunion
Bess had hurried to the market and bought a prime fowl. An
excited Lucy helped her prepare the meal, and they sat around the
table long into the night, while Daniel told them the disastrous
events of the past six months. The initial gaiety of the evening,
the exhilaration felt by them all at his return began to change to
sombre realisation of the way he had suffered, and the injustice
that had been meted out to him.
Later on, in turn, Matthew related the strange circumstance
of the gallery, the curator's curt published statement in the Herald that had so distressed Clarissa, and his own belief-his certainty that Benjamin Boyd was involved. Jeremy expressed his
opinion Matthew was correct, but it was not possible to expose
Boyd without the risk of a massive suit for damages.

It was almost midnight when Emily and Matthew left for
their own lodgings. Daniel went to sleep in his old room, his head
spinning with puzzles and perplexities that seemed to have no
explanation. He dreamed he was enmeshed in a spider's web,
then the strands of the web became strings attached to his arms
and legs, jerking and manipulating him like a puppet. The
puppet-master was Benjamin Boyd. He found himself sitting bolt
upright and sweating, wondering if he had cried out, but the
house was quiet. He tiptoed downstairs, feeling his way in the
dark, to get a drink of water. On his return he saw a glow of
candlelight and Lucy's figure in a nightdress at the door of her
bedroom.
'Can't you sleep?' she whispered.
'Had a bad dream,' Daniel said.
'Just a dream, or do you mean a nightmare?'
'Well, Ben Boyd was in it...'
'Definitely a nightmare.' Lucy smiled, and he realised with
surprise that she had grown up. She was taller, and he could see
the rounded outline of her breasts beneath the calico gown. Her
hair seemed to be different, longer than he remembered. It had
always been silky and dark, but was no longer braided tightly
around her head; instead, it fell in soft waves that framed her face. She might even turn out to be pretty some day, he thought.
'What is it?' she said, aware of his intent gaze. 'Something
wrong with me? Have I got spots?'
'I can't see any.'
'Well, what then?'
'Just realising you'll be seventeen next birthday.'
'Of course. I'm nearly a woman. About time you noticed.'
'Goodnight, Lucy.'



'Sure you don't want to talk some more till you feel better?'
'I feel better now. Ready for a good night's sleep.'
'I could sit on your bed on
the edge, I mean and
hold your
hand until you settle down.'
'I'm settling down. You settle down.'
'At least you realised my breasts are growing. Don't deny it, I
saw you looking at them. So, what do you think?'
'What do you mean what
do I think?'
'About them?' She smiled at his expression. 'I think they're
coming along quite nicely, don't you?'
'Goodnight, Lucy,' he said firmly. 'It's wonderful to know
nothing has changed here especially
you.'
She stopped smiling, and gave him a smouldering look at least she hoped it was smouldering like
the ardent looks in
novels she had read, that drove the hero to realise his true love at
last, and made his mad passion get the better of him so that his
fevered lips sought possession of hers. Fevered lips sounded a bit
stupid, she decided. I might become a famous writer, but I won't
use an expression like that, she resolved, and blew out the
candle.
'Goodnight,' she whispered, into the dark. 'I'm really glad
you're not dead.'
Daniel heard her bedroom door shut. He felt his way back into
his bed, but it was an hour or more before he shed the effects of the
dream or
was it the capricious occupant of the adjoining room
that kept him wakeful? but
finally he did sleep again, and this
time peacefully.
He woke to the early morning sound of the markets, and the
clatter of hooves as the carts arrived with their produce. He lay
there for a time, comfortable with the familiar noises of his

childhood. He began to wonder what to do; how to find out what
had happened to Clarissa, and whether to confront Boyd about
the events at the gallery.
But first of all, he had to go to the bank on Church Hill, and
make arrangements with Mr Tompkins.

'He's been discharged,' the new manager said, and told him there
was an enquiry pending, and Mr Tompkins had been stripped of
his position and placed under an order not to leave the colony. It
seemed that there were vast amounts of money missing, and Mr
Boyd had sent urgent letters to his shareholders in London that
the bank could not be allowed to legally transact until the matter
was cleared up.
'What do you mean legally
transact?' Daniel asked.
Gordon Forsythe, the new manager his
name was already
on the office door ignored
the question. He was dressed in a
formal black suit with sombre waistcoat and a dark cravat, so
that he looked to Daniel like an undertaker. He gave the
impression he was doing this young man the most enormous
favour by granting him time to even discuss the matter. It was
extremely fortunate, he said, that two of Mr Boyd's cousins had
arrived by the Boyd company's own vessel British Sovereign, and
had been appointed as auditors to give a true and accurate
picture of any fiscal misconduct that had taken place.
'Fiscal misconduct?' Daniel queried.
'Stealing.'
'Mr Tompkins wouldn't steal.'
That,' Forsythe said, 'is a matter to be determined. And I repeat,
until the issue is resolved, the bank cannot legally transact.'

'I've already asked you what that means?'
'It means our funds are temporarily encumbered. We are unable
to trade. All accounts and monies held by the bank are frozen.'
'Hold on a moment,' Daniel started to feel anxious, 'I've come
here to withdraw two thousand pounds.'
'Impossible,' Mr Forsythe replied.
'I need this money. I've got fines and wharf charges to pay,
then a complete refit and a new crew to hire.' He realised the
other was barely listening. 'Or else I lose my ship.'
'We would be in breach of fiduciary trust,' Forsythe said. He
seemed to enjoy Daniel's bewildered look: 'We're prevented by law.'
'Are you trying to tell me, there's a law stops me taking out my
own money from
my own account when
I desperately need it?'
'Until the financial disorder has been mandated.'
Daniel frowned. It was a strangely different atmosphere in
this building today. There was almost no staff, and he noticed
Clarissa's painting in the hall was missing. He had been forced to
wait over an hour to see this individual, who seemed so determined
to use phrases that confused him. In his growing alarm, he
thought with nostalgia and
a certain regret of
the stuffy but
secure Bank of New South Wales.
'This can't be right,' Daniel said.
'It will doubtless be sorted out in due course.'
'But I need the money urgently. Today.'
'You don't listen, do you? I've explained the matter is beyond
my control. It's been placed in the hands of auditors.'
'Who just happen to be two of Boyd's cousins appointed
by
him. If you ask me, it stinks to high heaven.'
'Nobody did ask,' Forsythe said testily. 'Now do me the kindness
of leaving. I have work which requires my urgent attention.'

'I'll get myself a lawyer,' Daniel said.
'By all means. He'll confirm we are acting entirely properly
and within the law, safeguarding the interests of our British
shareholders and the investors in the London debentures. If there
are funds missing, as the analysis indicates, theirs is the initial
pecuniary position.'
Daniel stared at him. He sensed superiority in the man's
expression, and began to dislike him intensely. 'You mean if
there's not enough to go round they get paid, and the rest of us
can go to buggery?'
'Hardly how I would have expressed it, but that's precisely
what I mean.'




He went to see Sam Lyons, who advised against the lawyer.
'Bleedin' bloodsuckers, Daniel. Leeches. Don't go near 'em.
But on the other hand, there's somethin' very dodgy about
Bennie's bank. I bought shares, since it seemed on the up, looked
like a nice, easy earner. I think I stand to lose a bundle, like a lot
of others.'
Daniel, who was about to ask him for a loan of two thousand
pounds, giving the confiscated Marie as surety, decided against it.
Instead he rowed out to the ketch, and sailed across the harbour.
He moored at the great stone jetty below the mansion on the
promontory. A uniformed butler told him Mr Boyd was not at
home.
'I'll wait,' Daniel said.
'You won't,' the butler said.
He went inside the house, and returned with several burly
men. They stood on either side of him, as the butler explained

that not at home meant that Mr Boyd had more important
business, and if he didn't haul up his anchor and piss orf, he
might find his boat adrift without any sails, because some
horrible bastard would have cut the rigging. Or used an axe to
smash a hole in the hull.
'Nothing personal,' he said, and the large men all chuckled
and agreed it wouldn't be at all personal. But Mr Boyd was a busy
and important man, and they had to protect his privacy. It was
what they were employed for, to keep away nuisances like him.
They all stood on the stone front steps and watched him, as
he walked down to the jetty, and stepped aboard the ketch. Before
leaving he looked back. Alongside the butler and framed in the
front doorway of the house, he saw the tall figure of Ben Boyd.
He had the impression the banker was smiling.

The closure of the Royal Bank until further notice was duly
reported in the Herald, and all other publications. There had been
bank scandals before, causing great financial hardship, like the
1843 collapse of the Bank of Australia, that had meant a near
failure of the colonial currency. This time the newspapers were
more carefully circumspect, not wanting to start another panic.
Most carried Mr Boyd's personal assurance that it was a temporary
measure, that the activities of a former member of the staff were
under investigation; while auditors were working day and night
to determine the extent of the problem, and in a few weeks it was
expected the matter would be resolved, corrective methods
adopted, and there was absolutely no cause for concern.
'Bloody garbage,' Matthew said. 'A string of cliches. Does he
think people are gullible enough to swallow all this?'

The Weekly Journal was not due to publish for three more
days, and Matthew insisted they should not print the same bland
statement issued by Benjamin Boyd. He wanted to delve more
deeply into this. Odd rumours had been circulating for some
time in
fact for more than a year that
some of Boyd's ventures
were less than sound. Though he deferred on editorial matters
now, Jeremy was not certain they should take the risk, even
though he had heard what Daniel had to say about his visits to
the premises on Church Hill, and then to Craignathan, and the
rather alarming threats that were made there.
'Nobody would believe it,' he said.
'I believe it,' Matthew insisted.
'I'm not saying that I don't,' Jeremy replied. 'I'm saying our
readers might find it fanciful. Despite the rumours, Boyd has
established himself well here. Ever since that day his yacht sailed
in, and half the town came to watch, remember?' Matthew remembered very well. He'd written a report that had
really been the start of his career; it had not only brought him offers
from other newspapers, but had boosted their subscriptions. Clarissa
had painted the seascape Boyd eventually bought, and that had been
the start of something else. The aristocrat who
never contradicted
the story that, as a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron Queen
Victoria and Prince Albert had taken tea on his deck had
made
Clarissa Wilberforce his private discovery as a painter. And then
ruthlessly destroyed her reputation. It was something he would
never be able to prove, but of which he felt certain.
'Let me talk to Mr Tompkins, Pa. Daniel's finding out where
he lives.'
'Talk to him, then. But keep in mind, Matt, we simply can't
afford a court case.'
'I know we can't. Nor can most of our competitors. The
Exclusives and pure merinos who run this place count on it.
Which is why the press is muzzled, and they get away with
anything they want.'
An hour later he and Daniel went to a modest but neat cottage in Liverpool Street where Mr Tompkins introduced them
to his wife. After the couple expressed their relief at Daniel's
survival Mrs Tompkins gave them tea, and watched in a sad,
bewildered way while her husband explained what he had
discovered from the private letters and documents in the Royal
Bank.
Looking at her, Matthew gained the impression she had
never really been comfortable with the good fortune of the past
years, ever since her Albert had been plucked from obscurity in
the ledger department of his former employment that
she had,
in her own mind, always categorised him as a bank clerk, which
was not really to denigrate him, but to accept his limitations, and
her own as a bank clerk's wife and
the astonishing rise to
Church Hill had unnerved her. Distressing as the fall was, he had
the strange feeling she could cope with it far better than the
unreal life his promotion had thrust upon her.
'He's taken every penny,' Mr Tompkins was explaining, and Matthew was making notes; he already had a page of them. 'The
bank's no more than a shell, empty and bled dry. It's all gone into
his own company. I should have known, but he was doing it
carefully and in private ...' He hesitated, looked at his wife, and
then said quietly: 'I think he set out to find someone like me as a
token manager, someone he could manipulate...' They could
see how painful the admission was for him to make, and Mrs
Tompkins leaned forward and put a consoling hand on his arm.

'I'm terribly sorry all your savings have gone, Daniel. I can hardly
bear to think of it.'
'I'll manage,' Daniel said, who could hardly bear to think of
it either, but not wanting to add to Mr Tompkins' distress by
revealing it would mean the loss of his schooner, and a possible
warrant for his arrest on non-payment of the fine. 'I'll soon put a few quid together again.'
'When I first began to suspect something might be wrong,
you were away. Then Mr Boyd found out what I knew, and it was
too late. He got rid of me immediately, and spread all these
rumours.
'He's determined to blame you,' Matthew said. 'I doubt if he'll
ever dare bring charges. But he's managed to make it seem as if
you're at fault he'll
keep working to make you the scapegoat.
It's just like his debenture payments and the share dividends he
promised to pay his London creditors next year a
delaying
tactic while he bluffs and tries to sell off assets to stay afloat.'
'He'll never do it,' Mr Tompkins said. 'His sheep and cattle
have been badly looked after, and the stocks are depleted. Boyd
Town has proved to be a costly failure; half the houses need
repair, and few people are willing to stay in such a remote place
working for the wages he offers. All his other properties are
mortgaged, like his whaling ships. They sail on borrowed money,
and earn less than the costs of the interest. My own assessment is that he owes over half a million pounds, and his assets are not
worth a fraction of that.'
Matthew shook his head, perplexed by the enormity of the
figures, and the astonishing facade this man still seemed able to
preserve.
'But surely people must realise ...?'

'A few might be starting to wonder. But he has such powerful
friends in England; he got rid of Sir George Gipps and is closely
acquainted with the new Governor Fitz Roy and
while he sails
in his big yacht, and lives in luxury across there at Craignathan,
who is brave enough to stand up and say he's a thief?'
Not me, Matthew thought, and knew his father would not
dare take the risk either. As if deducing this, Mr Tompkins gave a
shrug and a smile that conveyed understanding and sympathy.
Having told Matthew all he could, and implying little could be
done about it, his main concern seemed the loss of Daniel's
money.
'I feel sick about it, Daniel. You worked so hard, and saved for
so many years. It was my fault you transferred to the Royal
Bank.'
'It was mine,' Daniel said, remembering how his enthusiasm
had impressed Boyd, 'that you ever met the man.'
'No, I blame myself. It may be of little consolation to you, but
at least I was able to warn Miss Wilberforce.'
They were on the point of leaving. Daniel had actually risen, Matthew was about to thank Mrs Tompkins for the tea; they
both sat down again, and there was a moment of startled
silence.
'You warned Clarissa?'
'Fortunately, yes. Quite improper, but I felt I must do it. She
had a
moderately large account. I took it upon myself to
suggest she withdraw it all, and I'm glad to say, she did.'
'When?'
'About three weeks ago,' Mr Tompkins said.


Chapter 21


On the northern side of the harbour, beyond the village known
as the Crows Nest, he at last found the house. Far away and deep
in the bushland, Rockleigh Grange was built of stone with a
gabled attic and mullioned windows, a substantial family home
that resembled an English rectory. It had a large studio in the
garden, and five acres of land.

The young woman who answered the door wore a long dress
and had a ready smile. A child joined her, clutching her hand and
shyly sneaking a glance at the visitor. She wore a dress of the same
material, and looked like a tiny replica of her mother. Both were
barefoot, clearly by choice in this rustic and idyllic setting. Daniel
introduced himself, but she appeared not to recognise his name.
'Conrad's working. I'm Jane Martens. Can I help you?'
'I came to see Miss Wilberforce.' Daniel felt this formality
called for, as Conrad Martens was the best known and most
successful artist in the country, and his wife had been a member
of Sydney society.

'Clarissa?' Jane Martens said. 'She's no longer here.'

'Can you tell me where to find her?'

'I'm sorry. I'm afraid not. She left a few weeks ago.'


He stared at her, hopes evaporating. Sailing across the
harbour to the north jetty, finding this isolated house, he had
been filled with such expectation; the prospect of being about to
see Clarissa dispelling the anxiety brought by the loss of his
savings, the wreckage of the schooner and the bleak future
confronting him. He had felt an urgent need of her; as a lover,
adviser and a friend. She was the haven he lacked; illogically, he
had convinced himself Clarissa could help him find a solution. In
the bitterness of his disappointment he did not do what was
expected, which was to thank Jane Martens and return to his
ketch. Needing to know more, he lingered there.
'Someone told me he wrote to her at this address, care of you
and your husband, not long ago.'
'That's right. She had a letter. I think she said it was from a
bank manager.'
'Yes, it was. A Mr Tompkins.'
'She didn't tell me his name.'
'When exactly did she leave?'
'The next day. She took the ferry to see this man, and stayed
in town overnight. When she came back, she said she was
leaving.'
'Just like that?'
'I'm afraid it was just
like that.'
'No forwarding address?'
She shook her head. The child sneaked another look at him
from the shelter of her mother's skirt, and Daniel realised he was
wearing out his welcome.
'I'm sorry to be a bother,' he said. 'I'm a friend of hers. I've
been away. Did she ever mention my name?'
'I don't recall her doing so,' Jane Martens said. 'She may have

mentioned it to my husband although
how it would help fin
her when she departed so abruptly, I really don't know.'
'It was abrupt?'
'Extremely.'
'Does that mean inconsiderate?'
'Put it this way, Mr ... er ...'
'Johnson,' he reminded her.
'... Mr Johnson. She came to visit us after her exhibition had
been cancelled. She was very distressed, and asked if we could
help her to find somewhere to stay in the village, as it's rather
remote, and she wanted to hide. That was how she phrased it.'
'She'd been badly treated.'
'I agree. Very shabbily, from what she told us. As we were
friends, I invited her to stay. She was here more than five months.'
'You mean she overstayed?'
Jane Martens considered this for a moment, then shook her
head, saying that Clarissa had been a most welcome guest. She
had not only helped with the children, but also assisted with
teaching Conrad's pupils. It was simply her decision to leave so
hastily that had caused surprise.
'After being with us for so long, I would have expected some
warning. There were student lessons arranged; I had no time to
even engage a new nanny for Rebecca and Elizabeth.'
Daniel, although he did not say so, was left with the feeling
Clarissa had been more than useful to this household, in her
search for a place to hide. Instead, he changed the subject.
'How did she feel, about the curator's suicide note?'
'What note?'
'You did know Mr Campbell-Drummond killed himself?'
'Yes, we were told of his death. But it was long ago.'



'He left a note, saying that he liked Clarissa's work, and that
someone had forced him to close her exhibition and burn the
paintings.'
'Burn them?' Her shocked expression was evidence that this was the first she had heard of it. 'How dreadful.'
'He asked her to forgive him.'
'How could anyone forgive such an appalling act? What an
odious man. We most certainly never heard of that.'
'It was published in the Weekly Journal'
'I'm afraid we rarely bother with newspapers. We live here in
the countryside, Mr Johnson, so that Conrad will not be distracted
by idle gossip from the town. His work is sacrosanct.' She said
this in a way that left him unsure if she meant it, or was being
slyly sarcastic.
'So Clarissa wouldn't have known, either?'
'No. The one time they discussed Campbell-Drummond,
Conrad said he was a posturing buffoon, self-opinionated,
dogmatic and totally without talent or taste. My husband, as you
can gather from that, had little time for him or his gallery. He
refused to exhibit there.'
'If you have the slightest idea, you or Mr Martens, where she
might have gone, I'd be very grateful.'
Tm sure Conrad hasn't. We could ask, but it's not possible to
interrupt him while he's working. I doubt if he'll finish until dark.'
'Ohh.' Daniel could sense her growing impatience. It was
time to go; he had outstayed his welcome. 'If he does know, if you
ever hear from her, you could send me a message. Just give it to
one of Billy Blue's sons, who run the ferry they'd
know where to
find me.'
'If we do hear, I'll send word. But I don't hold out any hope.

Conrad was as surprised as I, when she departed at such short
notice.'
Daniel thanked her, and made his way down from the house,
along a winding track in the direction of the harbour. She stood
at the doorway watching him for a moment, her daughter
tugging at her skirt.
'Who was that, Mummy?'
'A friend of Clarissa's, darling. Wait here for me. I want to talk
to Daddy.'
The friend, she wondered? She walked through her garden
towards the studio, where native banksias and grevilleas
flourished, and English roses struggled to survive in a soil lacking
moisture. She knew there was a friend, a special one, although
Clarissa had given no details. But Daniel Johnson was
younger -twenty-three
or thereabouts whereas
Clarissa, despite
her youthful good looks, was in her mid-thirties.
She quietly opened the studio door, knowing full well that if
she knocked Conrad would shout at her to go away. He did not
hear her at first, totally engrossed, his brush swiftly adding
colour to a large canvas that seemed to fill the studio with light
and warmth. It had the lustrous glow of a Turner, and she
marvelled at his skill. As she coughed a warning he turned, brush
in hand, already beginning to frown.
'Conrad?'
'You're interrupting me.'
'Do you think we'll hear from Clarissa?'
'No.'
'Do you know where she is?'

'No.'
'Did you sleep with her?'
'Of course not.'
'Did you ask her?'
He was silent.
'Did you try?'
'You know me, my darling.'
'Did she turn you down?'
'Yes, she did.'
'Most women don't. Why did she?'
'She said she had this chap. Daniel... someone-or-other.'
'Daniel Johnson,' Jane said quietly.
'That he was missing she
didn't know where. She became
rather emotional.'
'So you tried to take advantage?' When he gave a weak smile,
she asked again, 'Are you sure we don't know where she is?'
'I swear I don't know.'
'If you hadn't tried to sleep with her, she might still be here.'
'Yes ... I suppose she might.'
'You're a bastard, you know that?'
'I'm afraid I am.'
'A beautiful painter, but a dreadful bastard.'
'Sorry, old girl.'
'What exactly did you do?'
'Well, not a lot, really. The usual... told her you didn't
understand me ... how beautiful she was ... how I'd like to
paint her in the nude... then we could relax and enjoy each
other ... that sort of thing.'
'You're an oversexed fool, Conrad.'
'My darling heart --'
'She knew, as well as I do, you can't paint nudes. You just wanted to get her clothes off.'

'I expect you're right. You know me too well.'
'I know you were making yourself look a randy old goat,' she
said with exasperated affection. 'For God's sake, from now on stick to what you do best landscapes.'

Soon after midnight they had the first 1500 copies printed, and
the delivery boys with loaded billy-carts had set off on their
routes. Except for the district around the quay with its late
roisterers, the city was quiet, poised placidly between sleep and
the clatter of the early wagons that would come before the
dawn, bringing produce from the farms, followed by the
domestic carriers; water carters, milkmen, bakers' vans, then the
drays to sweep up the manure and pump water to freshen the
streets.
By then the printing run would be long finished, the cellar
dark, and the story disbursed all over the town, the riddle of the
bank it was headed. Matthew liked to use this style, suggesting
mystery, intimating something sly and surreptitious, creating
expectation that within the carefully crafted report no
names
or accusations, so no public outrage or private defamation there was a covert element, something not quite right. It was the style
he had used with the Standish Gallery article. It caught the eye,
and people read what he wrote with a feeling created by the
headline that suggested there was a lot more in the story than he
was allowed to say.

THE RIDDLE OF THE BANK
It opened with such a fanfare several years ago,
and was to be the largest and most prosperous

bank in Australia. Today, a reduced staff and
new manager preside over the apparently
empty coffers of the Royal Bank on Church
Hill. Two auditors, cousins of Benjamin Boyd,
Chairman of the company, are at work
counting and calculating, assessing if the bank
is solvent. The new manager, yet another
cousin of the Chairman, advised a client he
was unable to withdraw money from his
account until matters had been clarified.
Meanwhile, the former manager, Mr Albert
Tompkins, in a private discussion with your
correspondent, spoke of certain letters and
urgent requests from the shareholders in
London. While we are not able to print details
of this correspondence, Mr Tompkins admits
he has copies now safely lodged with a
solicitor, and has already responded to the
London directors, giving certain details he felt
they were entitled to know. Mr Tompkins,
formerly a valued employee of the Bank of
New South Wales, expressed his regret at the
action taken to sequester funds of depositors,
and expects his letter to the British directors
will hopefully clarify the matter. The Journal, while agreeing with this, must point out that,
because of the time taken by mail, no resolution
of this vexed matter can possibly be expected
within the next twelve months.

Edward Grayson, Wentworth, Samuel Lyons, even the new
Governor, Sir Charles Fitz Roy, and his wife, Lady Mary, daughter
of the Duke of Richmond, had all read it by breakfast time. The
delivery to the north shore was later by
ferry and
Benjamin
Boyd fumed over it before his luncheon with his cousins, William
and Archibald Boyd. He thrust the article at them the moment
they arrived.
'I'm going to sue,' he raged. 'I'm going to ruin Conway in the
courts. I'll make him rue the day he sired that impertinent
whelp.'
'This merely alludes it
doesn't assert,' Archibald said. You
may not have grounds.'
'You're not a lawyer, so don't tell me what I can or can't do,'
Boyd snapped. Both cousins glanced at each other; they had
experienced a great deal of Benjamin's temper of late, and often
wished they had not been persuaded into this Australian
adventure.
William, in particular, had left the security of a job with the
British merchants and successful opium traders, Jardine,
Matheson & Co. in Canton, and pined for the abundant life of a
European in China. Instead, he was becoming painfully aware,
despite his cousin's outward show of affluence and lavish parties,
as well as his intimate acquaintance with the Fitz Roys, that the
financial empire he had come to join was showing signs of
corrosive stress. In his judgement, Benjamin himself was daily
becoming more irrational and unpredictable.
'It's carefully non-defamatory,' he concluded of the offending
article. 'At least in my considered opinion which
you will
doubtless ignore. However, if Tompkins does have copies of those
letters from London, then you have a real concern.'

'Tompkins is a liar. He'll be advised to retract, or face a charge
of theft for stealing private mail.'
'He didn't steal it, Ben. He says he copied it.'
'That's theft. He secretly purloined personal letters and
documents my property, dispatched exclusively to me and held
in my office. He's either a liar or a thief-let
him declare which!'
He called for his hat and coat, ordered a private yawl to take
him across the harbour, and left his worried cousins to lunch
alone.

'You would be well advised not to pursue the matter. Such an
action merely brings it to public attention,' William Wentworth
said, which was not what his visitor wished to hear at all.
'It suggests my bank is insolvent. It hints at dishonesty. I have
to defend my good name,' Boyd insisted angrily.
'You have a number of alternatives that need not take you to
court. For a start, you could even open the bank for your clients
who wish to withdraw their money...'
'Impossible. After this scurrilous story, there'd be a rush on
us. We may not have the currency to meet such a demand.'
Wentworth sat back in his upholstered chair and studied the
man opposite. He had never been impressed by Benjamin Boyd,
whose presence here in his chambers was an unwelcome intrusion,
but Boyd had convinced his clerk he had urgent need of counsel.
Now, having been given advice, he seemed reluctant to accept it.
'If you read the article again, you will see you have no case.'
'I won't accept that. It's a vicious attempt to defame me.'
'Then, my dear fellow,' Wentworth said, trying to suppress
his dislike, 'you must find a barrister who agrees with you.

daresay someone will take your brief as
well as your money and do his best for you. He may even get you a verdict and a farthing
or two in damages, and the case will be extensively reported in every newspaper. Which will certainly not do your reputation,
nor your bank's the slightest good.'
'So you opine this disparaging article is not prompted by
personal animosity?'
'I know young Conway has a sharp pen, and an astute mind.
He's widely read, for there are few his equal. But I'm not aware of
any vindictiveness towards you, nor does the story seem to
display it. If you can prove specific malice, that may shed a
different light on the matter.'
Ben Boyd hesitated. He could hardly explain the clash with Matthew Conway at the gallery, when the curator's body was
discovered. His name had never been mentioned in that regard,
and he had no wish to offer such a morsel to a man whom he
distrusted in politics, and who envied him his background and
British lineage. Besides, the Wentworths moved in circles where
local gossip seemed the staple interest, and idle dinner party
chatter could do considerable damage. There were enough
rumours in the colony to contend with already.
'He's attacked me several times in his vulgar sheet. For my part,
I find the article damaging and offensive, but the law seems of little
benefit in this place to anyone but lawyers. I bid you good-day.'
Wentworth appeared unconcerned by the curtness. He rang
for a servant: Boyd accepted his hat and coat, and took an abrupt
leave. He decided to walk, and told his driver to follow with the
carriage. It was only a short distance along Macquarie Street, but
he needed time to think. Blast the ageing, overweight old fool. He
wondered how the devil such a man had managed to becomeeminent in the colony, when everyone knew he was illegitimate,
and his mother a convict whore. In most decent societies such
information could be used to advantage. Here it hardly seemed to
matter. Half the wretched progeny of former convicts trumpeted
the fact like some accolade, even these days claiming it as a
distinction. Damn Wentworth, and his lofty indifference!
There were other lawyers, but having William Charles
Wentworth represent him would have given far more standing to
a legal action. A terse letter to Jeremy Conway might easily have
brought a withdrawal and an apology, which would have sufficed
if printed prominently. It was imperative to stop the rumours
before they gained credence; meanwhile he could borrow to make
partial payments to the English creditors, enough to keep them
calm for another year. Whatever happened, confidence in the
Boyd company must not be allowed to decline. He had dealt with
several such crises before, predicaments in England which had
persuaded him to emigrate but
in this instance the distance
between the two countries worked to his benefit.
By the time it was fully realised that nothing remained in the
bank, the long delay would have obscured most details, and no
court could sheet the blame or untangle the intricate transfer of
funds into his own companies. Although there was still the
matter of Tompkins. If he actually had copies of the London
letters with demands for repayments of the interest and
debentures, then something would have to be done. Tompkins
must be bought off-or
frightened off.
Meanwhile he needed allies, and who better than the man who had so assiduously sought him out as a friend, in the days
before local rumours and threats from England began to undermine his high status. He reached the house, rang the bell,

and told the footman to announce that Mr Boyd was here to the Honourable Edward Grayson.

'I fear we have to insist,' Alfred Nott said, and his partner Hugh
Edwards regretted that he was forced to agree. Much as they liked
Daniel, and had always been glad to do business with him, they
simply could not absorb such a loss. Surely he had adequate
insurance and could make a claim against this appalling incident
that had taken place at Moreton Bay?
'No,' Daniel said, and explained that his insurance covered
loss of cargoes at sea, but not the theft of a shipment once it was
on the dock. He had already had meetings with the loss assessors
of the Colonial and General Assurance Limited, and the fine
print had been pointed out to him. If the Marie had sunk with all
the cargo, they would have been obliged to pay, but once
unloaded from the ship, their indemnity no longer applied. The policy was quite clear. Cargoes while aboard the vessel, at sea.
Daniel admitted liability. The cargo had been stolen, despite
his best efforts to mount a guard, and that guard, his friend
Seaman Evans, had been murdered. He sat with Messrs Nott and
Edwards in their office above the ironmongery warehouse in
George Street, where they had compiled their losses from the
manifest. It came to an alarming eight hundred pounds.
They were not avaricious men; they wanted to be lenient, but
times were difficult. If he was unable to recompense them at
present, because of the current problem with the Royal Bank,
they proposed an interest rate of 5.5 percent and an extended
period in which to repay the money, by which time they hoped he
would be in a position to arrange his financial affairs. Daniel

accepted the offer and thanked them for their forbearance; he
was aware there were other shippers who would not be so
tolerant, who might force him into bankruptcy or even debtors'
prison, and then lay claim to the schooner.
He left the premises wondering what he could do to avoid
ruin. Since his childhood he had earned his livelihood, paid his
way, and accumulated what had been a substantial bank account.
Now, because of one disastrous voyage, and Boyd's misuse of the
bank's funds, he was in a hopeless situation. The Marie was
impounded, and could not be released to him until the fine was
paid; the fine could not be paid because the bank was insolvent;
meanwhile the harbour fees were rising daily, and the eventual
cost of repairs in far off Port Macquarie would be far more than
in a Sydney shipyard. And now the most savage blow of all the shock that the cargo was uninsured ashore, and even if the bank
did reopen, all his savings would be used to pay his debts, repair
his ship, and try to begin again. (His mind shied from Armitage's
threat to have his master's licence suspended or withdrawn; if
that happened he might as well join the crew of a whaler, or try for a job on a coastal lugger.)
Deep in this sombre introspection, he did not turn in the
direction of the Conway house where he was staying, but
instead almost
by force of habit headed
towards Bridge Street.
When he realised this, he stood on the corner, gazing at the
familiar stagnant trickle of the Tank Stream with
its own
disturbing childhood memories then
glancing at the large old
lodging house by the bridge, and up at the top floor studio.
Someone else lived there now. Some unknown person enjoyed
the view, and slept in the bed where they had known such bliss. It was a strange, uncomfortable thought.

He had gone back there twice since his return, in the vain
hope that there had been some word of Clarissa, but the landlady
had no news; she had shrugged and reminded him there were
belongings still stored, and the time was fast approaching when
she would have to get rid of them or have a jumble sale,
'I really can't understand it,' she had said. 'A well brought-up
lady like her. Not even bothering to collect her paints and easel.
I'm sure it was very upsetting, all that business, but the man at
the gallery did leave a suicide note saying he'd lied about her
work, and asked her to forgive him.'
'I don't think she ever knew that,' Daniel had replied, but did
not explain how he came by the knowledge. On an impulse which
he could not really afford, he had used ten shillings of the money
Jeremy had lent him, and purchased the paints and easel so they would not be sold in a jumble sale. He had also left a note
for Clarissa to say he could be found at Bess Conway's, although
he had a feeling she would not return to receive it. There was little
point in bothering the landlady again, to ask the same futile
question. Entering the house was too painful, too full of nostalgia
and of melancholy.
Even after he turned away, perplexing thoughts of Clarissa
followed him. They had been together for so long for
most of
his adult years in fact that
he felt lost without her. Where was
she? Did she even know he was alive? Or care?
He could understand her seeking sanctuary with Martens
and his wife; the shocking events that day after the exhibition
when he was already at sea, must have been dreadful for her. But
she had expected him to return within weeks, a month at the
latest, so why hadn't she left some kind of message for him at the
studio? Or even made the journey across the harbour to ask new

of him from Matthew or Bess? Why had she so completely
disappeared, remaining there in the bush on the north shore,
never once venturing to enquire about him? Or had he become a
part of her life she now wished to forget? Had being older made
her finally decide they had no future together? But then she had
always been older, and it had never mattered. Age had nothing to
do with it not
when you looked like she did.
The troubling questions plagued him. He even speculated on
their former partnership in overseas fashions. That would have
already come to an abrupt end. The rich and pampered ladies of
Sydney society would have to make do with last year's ball gowns.
Serve them right, he thought, although he felt sorry for the many
seamstresses they had recruited, and he could certainly have used
some of the proceeds from the lucrative enterprise. Once he
would have attempted to resuscitate the venture. But the time in
prison seemed to be having its effect; a feeling of apathy pervaded
and exhausted him; indifference replaced his former drive, and he
seemed unable to kindle any ambition.
When he reached home, Bess was cooking, and the aroma of burning wood mingling with the flavour of a gently bubbling
stew on the iron stove pleasantly enveloped the whole house. He
summoned a smile, and kissed her cheek. He had never been able
to deceive Bess, who saw at once the extent of his dejection. She
hugged him, and said there might be news. A messenger had
arrived. There was a letter on the parlour table, waiting for him.

Charles Fitz Roy and his wife, Lady Mary, had a light lunch, and
then, as was their practice, retired to their private apartments for an afternoon nap. At least, that was what the Government House

servants were first led to understand, but now, informed by the
rhythmic sound of bedsprings which sometimes shook the
candelabra in the drawing room below, and by the eagerness of
His Excellency and the faintly resigned look on Lady Mary's face,
they knew exactly what took place in the vice-regal bed each
afternoon.
'He loves it,' the senior footman confided to the very pretty
upstairs maid, on whom he had similar designs.
'She don't,' the maid observed.
'No, I can't say she looks too eager,' he reluctantly agreed. If
Her Ladyship found it distasteful it would not help his cause
with the upstairs maid, he realised, so he added: 'Or perhaps it's
an act, on account of being a Lady, and she's really as randy as
'im.'
'Nah, not her. Does her duty an' thinks of home, I reckon.
But he's a stallion, sure enuff. Every day, just like clockwork.'
In this way Sir Charles Augustus Fitz Roy, Lieutenant in the
Guards at Waterloo and Governor-in-Chief of the territory of
New South Wales, became secretly known to his staff as 'the
stallion'. He was a tall man with arresting good looks, alert eyes,
a rather sensual mouth, and a liking for creature comforts and
good living. Highly attracted to women, the afternoon ritual had
been a part of their marriage in its early years, but following the
birth of their three children, and Mary's growing disinterest in
the kind of lusty sex he so enjoyed, London had offered him a
series of discreet and voluptuous mistresses. Mary had been
equally discreet about them, and rather relieved, he often thought.
But London was far away, and Sydney, while it was an appointment
he had sought, was a great deal smaller and prone to gossip, and
so she had dutifully resumed her place in the post-lunch sojourn




to the nuptial bed. After all, as he explained to her, it was a habit
that had kept him in health and humour for many years, and
now in his middle age and the prime of his life, it would be
upsetting to relinquish such a tradition.
Usually, afterwards, he dozed, but today he was restless. He
wrapped himself in a dressing gown, and went to the window.
There was a pleasing breeze off the water, and he stood looking'
out at the busy port, the forest of tall masts and rigging, the
paddle steam ferries, and the many tiny crafts with sprit sails. His
predecessor, the original governor, had aptly described this
harbour and Fitz Roy never failed to find enjoyment in the view
from the upper floor of his splendid palatial house a
mansion
far exceeding his or Mary's expectations.
He was restless, because he was wondering what on earth to
do about Benjamin Boyd. The article in today's Weekly Journal, little more than a news sheet by English standards, but well read
and highly regarded here, had been very pointed. Ever since his
arrival, he had realised Boyd used his aristocratic
connections quite
minor ones, but impressive from this long
distance to
good account. His membership of the Royal
Squadron, his opulent style of living, the sheer size of his land
holdings all created an impression of immense wealth. And yet
there were these recurring rumours. Nothing spoken aloud, but
after resigning from the army Charles Fitz Roy had served a term
in the House of Commons, and had a political instinct for such
matters. If a modest publication could virtually speculate on the
credibility of Ben Boyd, then he, the governor, would have to take
great care. In this place, he had soon found out, judgements were
made on the company one kept.

He had already had Boyd to a private luncheon soon aftertheir arrival, as well as a more formal dinner, because he was
obliged to him. His English and Scottish associates had lobbied
the Colonial Office, and he had been chosen, his appointment in
some respects due to their support. But he must warn Mary she
had better remove him from the list, until this bank matter
settled down. He was certainly among the notables who would
customarily expect to receive invitations for gala events, like the
Queen's birthday, and the celebration of the founding of the
colony each 26th of January. Mary had considered pairing him at
their next state dinner with her recently rediscovered friend,
Clarissa. But perhaps not.
'Are you awake, my dear?'
'Just,' his wife murmured drowsily.

'Did you enjoy it as much as I did?'
'Of course, Charles.' It was an easy answer, always pleasing
him. In their marriage, she had learned that small lies made for a
fond relationship, which she far preferred to passion.
'I'm worried about this fellow Boyd.'
Yes, I read the article. I thought you might be.'
'Does your friend Miss Wilberforce know much about him?'
'I haven't asked. We've been so busy reminiscing about former
days in Holland Park. Should I ask?'
'It mightn't hurt. After all, she's been in the colony for some
years, hasn't she? I expect she was here when Boyd first arrived.
See if she has an opinion.'
'I'll talk to her later, after I've slept. You've utterly exhausted
me.' She knew this would please him, too. He kissed her on the
cheek, and went to bathe. She smiled and fell asleep.



Bess watched as Daniel read the letter. She had returned to the
stew simmering gently on the stove, but she could see into the
parlour, and studied his face as he opened the envelope and read
what appeared to be a short note. She hoped for good news, but
it hardly seemed to be that, as she observed his frown of curiosity
and surprise. No lovely smile of joy, she thought, no excitement.
She was deeply troubled for Daniel.
In the past months, so much had gone badly for him. Each
day since his return, she had seen him sink into a deeper
depression. And this letter, which she hoped would be from
Clarissa, clearly wasn't that at all. She tried to tell herself not to
be such a busybody, but was dying to know had
been ever since
it had been delivered to the house. It had to be urgent, to be sent
by a special messenger instead of by the ordinary post.
'Important?' she asked, trying to appear unconcerned.
'I don't know, Ma,' was all he replied, which left her more
puzzled than ever. 'I'll have to go out later.'
He put the letter away in his pocket as if it was not something
he wished to talk about, and went up the cramped stairs to his
room on the floor above. She shook her head. Once, if she'd
shown a sign of interest, he would have simply handed it to her
to read for herself. It was not that she wanted to be inquisitive;
just that she desperately wished for some good news that would
restore him to his old self.

She doesn't like the man, or trust him,' Mary Fitz Roy told her
husband, after she had strolled in the Government House garden
and talked to Clarissa. 'It's nothing positive, or based on fact. Just
her own personal feeling.'

'Any particular reason for it?' Fitz Roy asked. They were
sitting on the northern terrace, with the spectacular view of the
harbour below them, as a maid served afternoon tea. Lady Mary
waited until the girl had bobbed what passed for a curtsy, and
moved away from them.
'Purely her intuition, and she finds it difficult to explain, as
Boyd has actually been something of a patron towards her. He
bought a painting for a considerable sum four
hundred pounds,
I gather and
then later commissioned her to paint a landscape
of his house.'

'Rather a fancy price. I doubt if noted English artists get as
much. I imagine the commissioned work would have exceeded
that.'
'I believe it did.'
'Something of a patron indeed,' the governor observed.
'I gather there was another problem.'
'Is it one we can discuss?'
'I'd prefer we didn't. Clarissa did ask me to keep the matter
confidential, but I am allowed to say Mr Boyd became
rather persistent.'
'Ahh.' Fitz Roy glanced down towards the Botanic Gardens,
where the graceful figure of Clarissa Wilberforce could be seen,
teaching their young niece the names of native flowers. She was
very knowledgeable on the subject. 'Well, after all -fine-looking woman, good style. See what you mean, m'dear.'
'I hope you do, Charles. For two reasons. Firstly, I intend to
ask Clarissa to join the household.' She gestured in time to
prevent him from commenting on this: 'Before you even mention
the matter, I mean to pay her a salary from my own income.'
'It would avoid a scene with our treasurer. The most

parsimonious creature it's been my misfortune to encounter.
And what's the second reason?'
'She is, as you said, a fine-looking woman,' his wife replied
calmly, her clear eyes appraising him. 'She is also a friend, and has
been since she was a young governess to my cousins at home. I'
know your propensity for nice-looking ladies, Charles dear, and
your weakness for what you like to call "style". On the matter of
Clarissa, shall we agree here and now, that you do not follow Mr
Boyd's example and
make a pest of yourself?'
'As if I would, Mary? What an outrageous suggestion!'
'You would but
in this case, you won't. Or we will indeed
have outrage. Do I make myself clear?'
'Abundantly,' Fitz Roy said.

Chapter 22

'Ask him to come up.'
Edward Grayson ignored his footman's look of surprise, and
turned again to the window of his drawing room, gazing out
towards the castellated turrets on the roof line of Government
House. It was late, and dusk was beginning to fall over the
harbour and the Botanic Gardens. In Governor Fitz Roy's private
apartments the curtains were being drawn, and the huge
chandeliers lowered for the gas jets to be lit. A lamplighter moved
methodically along the street below, and the city began to take on
a softer rosier hue.
The end of an interesting day, he thought, although it was not
quite the end. Earlier that afternoon, he had sat and listened to
his friend Ben Boyd fulminate against the absurd and inaccurate
rumours that beset him; the lack of gratitude for all he had done
to improve the colony, the petty malice in the place, the disgraceful
and spiteful attack on him by young Matthew Conway, and his
remembrance that Edward had once confided he knew how to
deal with these wretched Conways, if ever they became
troublesome.
Grayson sat and listened to his friend Benjamin, who seemed

unaware that he was no longer his friend. The man had arrived
without an appointment, expected an instant audience, and
spent the entire time vituperating. No one seemed immune from
his raging resentment. Sir Charles Fitz Roy was a disappointment,
far too interested in hunting and sporting events, as well as extramarital
matters, and did Grayson know his staff called him 'The
Stallion'? Wentworth was a pompous oaf, who had been allowed
to lead the Council majority and manipulate events here for far
too long, while his former manager Tompkins was a thief, whose
criminal behaviour had forced the temporary closure of the Royal Bank, purely for the protection of its depositors and shareholders.
As for the damned Journal, he proposed to do what they had done
two years ago to the Weekly Register, whose owner had been rash
enough to support Governor Gipps. The man had been carefully
and systematically ruined, his newspaper forced to close. In the
case of these Irish-Catholic Conways, he wanted more than this,
and with the help of his good friend Edward, he would make the
entire family suffer.
Grayson smiled at the memory. He turned as the servant
cleared his throat to gain attention, and showed in his visitor.
'Mr Daniel Johnson, sir,' the footman said, subtly managing to convey disapproval as he bowed and backed out. Grayson
greeted the tall, well-built currency lad, noting his appraising
glance at the opulence of the large drawing room.
'Please sit down, Mr Johnson.' He waited until Daniel took a
chair. 'May I offer you some refreshment?'
'No, thanks,' Daniel said.
It was clear he was nervous and on the defensive; obviously
puzzled by the invitation, Grayson reflected, but at least he was
here.

'Did you do as I requested, and keep the matter of your visit
strictly confidential?'
'If you mean by that, does anyone else know we're meeting,
then the answer's no.'
'Good.'
'Now I'll ask why.'
'All in good time.'
'No, sir. We'll start with why. Why the meeting? Why all the
secrecy? What could you and I possibly have to talk about?'
Grayson corrected his first impression. The young man was
not in the least nervous. Rather blunt, yes; even belligerent. The
matter would have to be handled with a little more tact and
diplomacy than he had imagined.
'I understand you've had some difficulty recently?'
'You talk and I'll sit and listen, Mr Grayson. That way we
might get to whatever you want with a lot less bullshit.'
Grayson forced a smile. I must keep my temper, he thought, and
said: 'Why are you so hostile, Mr Johnson? I'm trying to broach
the matter of how I can help you.'
'You help
we?'
'Is that so extraordinary?'
Td call it surprising.
Unlikely. Yes, and highly extraordinary.'
'And if I said that I can help you, but I want something in
return, would you find that so implausible?'
'Sounds more like what I've heard of you. Like I said before,
you talk, and I'll listen.'
'Very well. Armitage, the harbourmaster at Port Macquarie.
Shall we begin with Mr Armitage? You know who I mean.'
'Yes. I know who you mean.'
'He sent his report of your case to the Chief Magistrate, who

requested I look at it and give an opinion. Six months and five
hundred pounds fine.'
'That's right,' Daniel said.
'Armitage has also requested the Maritime Board suspend
your Master's licence for at least two years.'
Daniel felt a chill. Vainly he had hoped the harbourmaster had
been making an empty threat. He held his hands on his lap, fingers
clenched tight to prevent them from shaking. He said nothing.
'Do you find that unexpected?' Edward Grayson asked, when
the silence had extended and become uncomfortable.
'I find it unfair,' Daniel said.
'So do I.' Grayson saw the first hint of response, as his visitor's
eyes momentarily widened. 'I've already sent a note to the Port
Authority, saying as much.' He did not feel it necessary to add the
note had been dispatched only this afternoon, after Benjamin
Boyd had regaled him with his pleasure at finding the young
upstart Johnson in prison, his boat impounded and a buyer, one
of Boyd's associates, waiting to swoop on a bargain. It was then,
while the fool had rambled on, that the whole idea of this scheme
had come to him in a flash. He had disposed of his friend
Benjamin in
a manner that left little doubt friendship was no
longer possible or desirable, and warned the startled Mr Boyd
that if he should attempt any action against the Weekly Journal, or Matthew Conway or his family, then he, Edward Grayson, would
let the events of a certain night many months ago be known.
When Boyd demanded to know what events, he had reminded
him of a late night visit to acquire the Standish Gallery head
lease, an odd visit that was followed by the cancellation of the
Wilberforce exhibition, the mysterious loss of her paintings, and
the suicide of the gallery owner.

It had provoked more than a response. Boyd had been livid,
bitterly calling him an opportunist parson who had married
plain Jane, the Yorkshire spinster, for her money, and was
surprisingly well informed on details of her dowry. Telling him
two could play at that game, Grayson had revealed his knowledge
of financial tangles Boyd had left behind him in London, and the
Squire of Twofold Bay had departed in a rage, mouthing bitter
obscenities about ungrateful bastards who uttered pious
platitudes, while wenching and whoring their way through the
harlots of Sydney's dockside.
'Just remember,' Grayson had warned him as he followed him
into the street, 'you could embarrass me, but I'm quite indifferent
to such threats. Whereas I could ruin you.'
'Rubbish,' Boyd had snapped. 'Try to insinuate anything
about the Standish Gallery, and you'd receive a writ.'
'I'm not talking about the gallery. Oh, I'd let that be known,
and you'd soon find people crossing the street to avoid you. No,
I'm talking about the Royal Bank.'
'Don't try to bluff me, you poisonous priest. The bank is a
private company, and there is absolutely nothing you can do
about it.'
'It's a private company that has accepted investment from the
public, whose money is at risk. I can move in the Legislature that
the Treasurer be asked to investigate its financial dealings, on the
grounds that you have chosen to appoint your relatives as
auditors. It would be a popular motion, and certain to be voted
in by a large majority.'
'Fuck you,' Ben Boyd had shouted at him, a remark which a
well-dressed lady walking her dog pretended not to hear. The dog
barked.

Boyd yelled at his driver, and the cabriolet had sped off. As
soon as it did, Grayson had summoned his own carriage and had
gone to call on Wentworth in his chambers. The old boy had been
amused and
impressed with the idea. So the remainder of the
day had been busily spent preparing for this meeting, dispatching
the note to the Port Officer, then convincing the Chief Magistrate the fine should be quashed and
now, with darkness mellowing
the city outside his windows, came the moment to which all that
activity had been directed. At least, he thought, he's no longer so belligerent. We've taken the first step.
'You said you sent a note to the Port Officer?' Daniel asked
him. 'Any reply?'
'Not yet. But you can count on there being no suspension of
your certificate. I also believe the sentence was unjustifiably
harsh. As you've already served the time, little can be done about
that, but I have advised the Chief Magistrate the fine is excessive.
In view of your term of imprisonment, I've proposed the fine be
revoked.'
Daniel had a moment of incredulity, then profound relief. He
wondered what kind of bargain was to be struck, but his
paramount feeling was one of freedom from the fear that had
plagued him. If there was no fine, he might be able to borrow
£300 from Sam Lyons, sail the ketch up the coast, pay the jetty
fees, and tow the schooner home to a local shipyard. Then, when
he could afford to start making repairs ...
'I'm sorry...' he said, realising Grayson was still speaking,
and he had not listened.
'I said I will also provide funds for your ship to be freed from
any port charges that Armitage has imposed, and pay costs for
her to be towed back to a port you designate.'

'If you're prepared to do all this,' Daniel said, 'I think it
about time you told me what I have to do in return.'
Grayson wondered if he should offer his visitor a drink, but
the suggestion had already been made, and refused. Now the
moment was at hand, he felt in need of one himself.
'You sail to England. There you take command of a ship and
bring her back.'
'I do what?'
'Is it beyond your capacity as a seaman?'
'Why me? What kind of ship?'
'I asked if you felt it beyond you?'
'Why would I feel that? It's a well-charted route. I've sailed
most of the Pacific Ocean, as well as all over the South China Sea.
Come to that, you won't get much worse than the gales in the
Tasman, off New Zealand. Wind and stars, Mr Grayson, that's all
we need to sail any ship by. Now tell me just what kind of
ship and
why you've put yourself to such trouble? And most
particularly of all, why me?'
'I don't know what kind of vessel it will be. I'm no expert on
ships. It will certainly be a transport, a British merchantman. I'm
told it will be a square-rigger, capable of carrying two to three
hundred people.'
'What sort of people?'
'I believe the correct term is exiles. British people, of course,
or perhaps Irish. I'm not asking you to transport coolies from
China, or Melanesian Islanders like Boyd and other squatters
employ as shepherds. I don't propose some sort of slave trade.
These are people who have been convicted, found worthy of
another chance, and are being given one.'
Daniel stared at him, throughout this halting explanation.

'Convicts?'
Ticket-of-leave men and women looking
for a new life.'
'Bloody convicts. You want me to bring a transport from
England loaded with convicts?'
'I can't seem to get through to you, Mr Johnson. These are
not felons. These are emigrants forced
emigrants, if you
insist but
chosen for their capabilities. They're no more real
convicts than is... well, your friend Matthew's father, Jeremy
Conway, for instance.'
There was a brief silence. Daniel was immediately wary;
something was being conveyed to him here, some message, some
plot by this conniving and devious man.
"Why did you mention Jeremy Conway?'
'He is a ticket-of-leave man, isn't he?'
'Yes, he is. Though it's not right, since he served his time, and
it's been about twenty-five years --'
'You're forgetting, his original sentence was life. There are
certain people, for whatsoever reason, who never get pardons.
It's unjust, I accept that. It's difficult for them, because it leaves
them threatened and uncertain. You do follow what I'm
saying?'
'I'm trying to.'
'Mr Conway is vulnerable.'
'He's done nothing wrong. How can he be vulnerable?'
'I didn't suggest he'd done anything wrong. That's where
People like him are at risk. I had Benjamin Boyd here today, the
Squire of Twofold Bay himself-furious
at the front page in the Journal. He wanted to sue for defamation, and talked to Wentworth
who advised him against it. You can easily check the truth of this;
go and have a word to Mr Wentworth's clerk.'

Daniel shook his head. 'I don't give a damn about Mr
Wentworth's clerk. Or that bastard Boyd.'
'Well, you should.'
'I can't see what this has to do with you wanting me for whatever reason to
bring back a cargo of convicts. You call
them exiles, but we both know they're convicts. I don't think I
want to listen to any more, Mr Grayson. Much as I want to save
my ship, I'll have to take my chance without your help.'
He rose to leave. Grayson tried to contain his anger. A loss of
control now would be fatal.
'And what about Jeremy Conway's chance?' he said, and saw
Daniel hesitate, and turn back to look at him.
'Is that meant to be some kind of a threat to him?'
'Not my threat. Boyd's. If he can't go to law, he'll consider other
means of retaliation. He's a vindictive man, is Ben Boyd, or perhaps
you already know that.' The closer to the truth he came, the more
convincing he knew he appeared. 'Are you aware he had a great deal
to do with the closure of Miss Wilberforce's exhibition? An unhappy
business, I gather.'
Daniel asked: 'What retaliation against Jeremy Conway?'
'He and his wife worked for the Reverend Marsden. On his
papers Mr Marsden noted he was an Irish troublemaker, to be
watched.'
'It's a bloody lie, whatever the man wrote.'
'I'm telling you what Boyd told me. It's on his police file. Any
minor accusation would bring him instantly before the courts,
with the chance of having his ticket cancelled. Boyd intended to
create an incident that would lose him his freedom. I warned him
not to do it. In fact, I threatened him with a quite serious reprisal,
if he went ahead.'

'Why?' Daniel asked abruptly. 'You're no friend of that family.
I happen to know, so do they, that you tried to force them out of
business yourself. Persuaded people to stop advertising with

them.'
'That took place several years ago.' He was startled by the
assertion, but remained calm. He kept underestimating this
young man. 'At the time I was concerned at the direction the Weekly Journal was taking. I tried to talk to your friend, proposing
he be more cooperative. He promised to think about it, but failed to do so.' The truth, he thought. They obviously discussed it, so the truth is the best response. 'But I've made no attempt since then. I think
that can be verified. And as I need your cooperation now, I'll keep
the family protected if I get it. If not...' He shrugged and allowed
Daniel a moment to consider the implications, as he moved
towards a display of drinks on a polished table. 'Perhaps you'd
care for a sherry after all?'
'No.'
It was a curt, ungracious refusal. Grayson decided on a malt
whisky. He poured himself a generous amount and savoured the
aroma of it in the crystal glass, before he sipped.
'Think about it, Daniel. Look at both sides of the ledger,
that's what I ask you to do. You keep your maritime licence. You
don't lose your ship. Your friends are safe. In return I arrange for
you to be paid as first officer on a cargo vessel leaving soon, and
as master to bring another ship from England.'
'A bloody convict ship. I thought that transportation was
abolished long ago, way back in 1840?'
'It was. But the Colonial Office had a change of mind, and
slightly amended the regulations. Which is why they are sending
exiles, and certainly not felons.'

'You and I, Mr Grayson, both know that's just twisting words.
They're still convicts and
they're cheap labour for the squatters
and the Exclusives. And you still haven't answered the real
question which
is why me?'
'Surely a bright young man like you should have it worked out
by now. There's bound to be commotion. The anti-transportation
committee will protest as
that damned group of radicals protests
about everything. But the furore should be a great deal less, if the
vessel is skippered by an Australian, a native-born currency lad.
And while there are several others we could approach, you appear
to be the youngest, the most popular, and by far the best sailor.'
'And I'm conveniently in the shit,' Daniel said abrasively.
Grayson sipped his malt and smiled.

The George Street market was as busy and clamorous as ever,
butchers keeping their meat cool and protected from flies with
sacking dampened by the water pump, fishmongers declaring their
bream and snapper was only just landed and fresh enough to swim
uphill from Cockle Bay, the poultry shops abundant with crowded
cages, offering live or plucked ducks and chickens, while the
costermongers shouted their multitudinous wares, and fruit and
vegetable merchants chalked up their prices, adjusting them to
undercut their nearest competitors. Bess knew them all, and
smiled at their greetings and persuasive calls. She had lived in the
district so long that she had her own special favourites, who saved
her the best cuts of meat and whose fruit and vegetables were the
freshest. She would gravitate to them in due course, but today she
was in no particular hurry to fill her basket, for Daniel had
surprised her by asking if he could come and help her shop.

It was a good sign, she felt. Better than sitting, staring into
the distance like he had been so much lately, although she knew
him too well not to sense the smile was forced, and something
troubled him. He was known here, too, for he and Matthew had
made this part of town their playground, and many a familiar
face greeted him, wishing him well, glad he was safe and back
home again.
'We used to play hide-and-seek beneath their barrows and
carts,' he said, as if reading her mind, and Bess smiled.
'Scallywags. And Lucy in tears, forever trying to find you.'
'Dreadful larrikins, we were. She's growing up, our Lucy.'
Bess stifled an impulse to glance at him. 'I often have the
feeling she's been grown up for years,' she said, and Daniel
laughed, and tucked his arm into hers. It felt strong and
comfortable there. People she knew passed, smiling approval at
the sight of her being escorted so protectively by the tall young man. My adopted son, she thought, but as close to me as my own, and for some reason she had a vivid memory of that first day; his
pinched and frightened childish face, the poor battered mother,
barely more than a girl. She still took flowers on the anniversary
of Betsy Johnson's death, and cleaned the tiny granite headstone
Daniel had purchased for her. Even after so many years, Bess
never failed to pay her respects, and to sometimes talk to the
long-dead Betsy, to share her pride and joy in Daniel, and even
speak of her secret hope never confided to anyone else, even to
Jeremy, that one day ...
'Will she stay at school?'
She came out of her reverie with a start, realising that Daniel
was talking about Lucy.
'A little longer. We've persuaded her to finish her studies, at

least until after her seventeenth birthday. Jeremy is determined
she should have a good education; he dislikes the notion that
boys should be the only ones to be properly educated, while girls are mainly taught things like sewing and cooking, and prepared
for marriage.'
'I agree with him. But she will marry. Bound to.'
'Goodness me, not yet,' Bess said.
'No, but one day, before she's much older. She's too pretty
not to catch someone's eye.'
I sometimes wish you'd open yours, she thought, and then chided herself for being sentimental and foolish.
'Ma...'
'What, Daniel?'
'Why don't you and Jeremy protest, about the way they've
kept you both on tickets-of-leave all these years?'
She stopped abruptly, in the middle of the busy marketplace,
and stared at him.
'Now whatever put that into your mind?'
'Well, it's unjust. It's wrong,' Daniel said. 'I know people who've
given conditional pardons almost as soon as they land here.'
'They've got influential friends or
money,' Bess replied.
'You've got money now. A thriving business. You're both
respected and liked. The Journal is a success. I can't think of
anyone who deserves a pardon more than you and Jeremy.'
'I'll ask again, Danny what
put it in your mind?'
'Nothing special. I've often thought about it,' he said, and
Bess knew at once he was avoiding a direct answer. This was why
he had accompanied her to the market; this was the reason they
were here. After making conversation he had steered their talk to
this. But why?

'We've given up bothering about it,' she said. 'In the early days,
when we were starting out, it seemed important. We had fears a
rival printer, or someone who took against us, might make some sort of trouble. In those days you could soon have your ticket
cancelled, and be put back into service or on a chain gang.'
'Could something like that still happen?'
'Who's been talking to you, Daniel?'
'Nobody. But there are people like
Boyd, for instance who can't be happy about what the Journal writes about them.'
'Has Mr Boyd said anything?'
'Not to me. It was just an
example.' He hated lying to her,
and knew he was not making a very good job of it.
'I was proud of what Matthew wrote about Boyd and his
bank,' Bess said quietly. 'When Jeremy first began the paper, he
was so careful not to offend anyone. It was no more than a news
sheet with reports on the weather and the shipping. It used to
upset Matthew that we weren't a real newspaper.'
'I remember.'
'But it's different now. Jeremy's changed. Matt is allowed to
write the way he wants. His article about the Royal Bank was as
good as anything he's done. It wasn't so long ago that the Sydney
Record said Mr Benjamin Boyd deserved a knighthood. That
nobody had ever done as much for the colony, and we needed
more men like him.'
'Forget Boyd. Couldn't someone anyone
make
trouble, if
they wanted? With a ticket you could still be in some sort of
danger?'
'Someone must have said something.'
'Ma, it's just me. I don't want any trouble to come to this
family. Can't you apply for a pardon? They could hardly refuse.'

'Bless you, Daniel love,' she said, still unsure of why he had so
suddenly raised it, but warmed by his concern. 'But they could
easily refuse. They'd look up the files, to see why we'd been on
tickets for so long. They have a way of asking questions that
makes people like us upset and angry, and when Jeremy gets
angry he makes me afraid. We've managed all these years, and we
feel free and nobody can make trouble for us, 'cos we've done
nothing wrong. It's best left the way it is.'
'If you think so, Ma,' he said, and knew he could not pursue
the subject further. Not without frightening her. When they went
to buy meat, he told her there was a chance of a job, and he'd be
away a while, but with luck he might be able to get his schooner
back.

After a further day and a restless night of indecision, Daniel
realised he had no other choice. Any disclosure of the offer would
be met by a bland, official denial; his maritime licence would
certainly be suspended, and his prison record used to damage his
story as a wild fabrication. Quite simply, no one would believe
him.
His conscience at the thought of what it involved troubled
him deeply, but there was no alternative. In the end it came down
to the threat against Jeremy and Bess. Although he did not trust
Grayson, the man's words about Boyd rang uncomfortably true.
(How vividly he remembered their meeting in Port Macquarie; a
man capable of such malevolence would be eager to exact
retribution on Matthew, who had twice made him the subject of
front page articles.) Daniel could face the loss of his ship, even his
permit to sail, though it would cause havoc to his future, but he

could not risk the damage that would almost certainly destroy
the family that had taken him into their home and their hearts.
He returned to Grayson's house to signify his acceptance. He
signed a contract that employed him as First Officer on the Indian Queen, sailing from Sydney to Portsmouth with wool and
kangaroo hides; after that, in front of a notary, he attached his
name to another and more formal agreement to captain a vessel
chosen by the British Admiralty, that would sail via the Cape of
Good Hope to Sydney, with a cargo of 'selected passengers'.
While he was certain that there were others involved in this
subterfuge, he did not meet them. Bound by the documents to
absolute confidentiality, he told no one.
He explained to Matthew he had been given an advance
payment on a job. He was going north to retrieve the Marie from
Port Macquarie, and would have it towed to a private mooring
where he had arranged to leave it, in a secluded bay north of
Newcastle harbour. After that he had agreed to take employment
as first mate on a cargo trader. He hoped to be working for the
next year or probably longer around the Pacific Islands.
He had a farewell dinner with them all. The close-knit group
of people he loved. Jeremy, Bess, Lucy, Matthew and Emily. Lucy
tried to make a speech, started to get the giggles, and Bess cried.

William Charles Wentworth drove into town along the South
Head Road from Vaucluse House. It was a glistening April day,
the sun shining out of a cloudless sky. Sydney was at its most
radiant, the dazzling reflection of the rippling harbour so full of
lucid brilliance that it was painful to the eye.
He had committed himself to Grayson's strategy. He had his

reservations, but cheaper labour was essential. In his youth, in
the great days when he, Blaxland and Lawson had found their
way through the mountains, and opened up the western plains,
New South Wales had been a strict but progressive society. The
brilliant Governor Macquarie had ruled, the best and brightest of
the convicts had lived and thrived then; Redfern the doctor,
Greenway the architect, so many others, talented people whose
lives had gone awry; builders, merchants, artists, men and women
who had been transported against their will, but who, like his
own mother, had survived to enrich the place, and consider it
their natural home.
Those days had gone. There was a sense of ennui, a malaise
that now infected the colony. Emigrants arrived, but only if they
were given a promise of aid, and many expected the fares for their
voyage to be paid by charitable organisers, people like Mrs
Chisholm and others. Well meaning, perhaps, but contributing
to a lack of enterprise. The energy, the pure strength and vigour
that had converted a shanty town into a thriving city seemed to
be gone. Sydney had all the advantages to be one of the great
trading centres of the world. More ships entered and left its
majestic harbour than most of the seaports of Europe or the
Americas, and the future was so full of expectation, that
Wentworth, in his fifty-fifth year, felt a sense of deprivation that
he would not live to see the full extent of this bright tomorrow.
It would come; he knew that. If it meant turning back the
clock for some years, reintroducing the transports that brought
convicts although
the word they must all remember to use was exiles then
so be it. They needed to regain that intensity and
drive of yesterday. Seize the spirit that had created a vibrant heart
down here at the farthest end of the earth. It could only be done

with a new wave of men and women to replace those who had
first forged a fabric from the forest, who had established a
whaling centre, a wool industry, had begun to trade with China
and the countries of the Pacific, had even, he permitted himself
the personal conceit, gone to English universities and emerged
with high honours. He could not help feeling, when dealing with
people like Grayson and Boyd, a certain resentment that they
were the extreme rich, drawn to the colony because of the bounty
it might bring, whereas he rich
enough had
earned every
penny from those first exploratory steps towards the mountain
barrier.
He looked out towards the harbour, and called to his driver
to stop. He studied the scene. Below him a barque was passing,
sails set for a nor'-easterly run past Middle Head, towards the
distant sandstone portals. Her name, he knew, was the Indian
Queen, and the First Officer on board was the currency lad
Grayson had picked to bring home the British transport ship
with its cargo that would in
a year or more set
this port
alight.
But whether with excitement or outrage, only time could
tell.

Clarissa watched the graceful square-rigged sails, as the vessel
went past the grounds of Government House and Farm Cove,
and headed out beyond the windmills and the hillside houses of Point Piper. For some strange reason, the sturdy rigging, the
breeze ruffling the skysails and the topgallants, made her think
of Daniel. So many times, since that terrible day when she had
read the report in the newspaper the
death sentence she called it,

for that's what it was; the cold statement of the cancellation of
the exhibition, the contemptuous dismissal of her work, almost
since that dreadful moment of accusation as an untalented
fraud she
had waited for Daniel's return, and the consolation
he would bring her.
At first, knowing he might be away for at least a month, she
had only wanted to escape. The idea of remaining at the studio,
people coming to sympathise even Matthew seemed
more
than she could tolerate. The thought of Conrad Martens and his
wife Jane had seemed a perfect solution. Jane was a friend, Conrad
a rather self-obsessed genius; their home across the water in the
bushland a remote refuge, cut off from society, from daily news,
from the knowing looks, nudges and glances that would humiliate
her beyond measure.
She had packed, just enough clothes, paid a month's advance
rent, and left. Jane had been wonderful; she had run down the hill
from Rockleigh Grange to hug her in welcome, refused to accept
apologies for her tearful and unexpected appearance, insisted on
giving her the best spare room, and told Conrad to be quiet and
give her time when he plagued her with questions. Eventually she
told them, about the exhibition, about Campbell-Drummond's
action, and they had both been appalled, Conrad calling the
curator a posturing buffoon, without talent or taste. For a time
they had not even known of his suicide, and when they did hear,
Conrad had been unrepentant or forgiving saying
it was a
merciful release for the artists of Sydney, from the dogmatic
opinions of the self-appointed high priest.
A month had passed before she felt able to contemplate
making the journey back to the studio, to see if Daniel had
returned. In the intervening time she had kept herself busy,

helping Jane with the two children. That day she'd walked down
the bush road to the ferry wharf, and found it deserted, except for
one of Billy Blue's sons working there. He said his brother should
arrive with the ferry in an hour, though it depended on whether
he could get enough passengers. It might be two hours, and why
didn't she sit over there in the shade?
When the ferry still hadn't arrived after three hours, he said
there must be trouble with the paddlewheel. They were a bit of a
bastard, the paddlewheels, he said begging
her pardon which was when she said her friend Daniel always said he preferred sail
to steam.
Daniel who, he asked, and she told him.
'Gawd struth,' he said, 'I know Danny. Knew him when he
was a young scrap of ten, rowing people round the harbour. Me
old pa even knew 'im, before 'e died. Pa was Billy Blue, the water
bailiff, and I'm a bit chocolate-lookin', 'cos Pa was Jamaican,
from the West Indies.'
Clarissa said indeed she had heard of the famous Billy Blue,
the giant ferryman, one of the waterfront's great characters. It
was then she confided she was on her way to meet Daniel.
'He ain't back yet.'
'Are you sure?' she had asked.
'Positive,' he'd replied. 'His ketch is on the mooring, but there
ain't no sign of the Marie. Me brother was sayin' only yesterday,
Daniel might've gone north to pick up a cargo or two.'
'In that case,' she had realised, not wanting to leave this
sanctuary unless Daniel was home, 'I don't need to take a ferry.'
'You mean I've talked meself out of a fare, and the pleasant
company?' He had an engaging smile, Ritchie Blue, with dark
olive skin and crinkly, greying hair. 'Tell you what,' he suggested,

'I'll know when he gets back. I could send a message up to there
to the Grange save
you the long trek up and down. Soon as I
hear, you'll get word.'
She had thanked him, only there was no word. Worse than
that, there was talk of a violent storm, and that a schooner had
put out into it, and not been heard of since. Ritchie Blue said he
didn't know where the news had come from, but he'd heard it
around the waterfront, and it didn't sound good.
She knew she should visit Matthew, but still felt paralysed
with indecision, and reluctant to meet people who knew her.
Weeks became months, while she delayed and waited for Ritchie
to bring news. She kept her hopes alive by her belief in Daniel's
seamanship, and his impetuous nature that might have taken
him anywhere in the Pacific. But it was becoming more difficult
to believe. Once in a while she walked to the wharf and the
ferryman tried to cheer her up with other news.
Ben Boyd was having a few troubles. No longer everyone's
favourite bloke. In fact, about as popular as a tick on a pet dog,
he told her. There was a new Governor. Sir Charles Fitz-someoneor-other...'
'Fitz Roy?' she asked. 'Sir Charles Fitz Roy?'
'Sounds like him. Do yer know 'im?'
'No, but I know his wife. Lady Mary, the daughter of the
Duke of Richmond. I knew her in England.'
'Struth,' he said, his brown face crinkling in a grin. 'Have to
doff me lid. You got some famous friends, what with him up
there, Connie the artist, and duke's daughters. Probably a
countess y'self
She tried to respond to his good humour, but she had begun
to feel a sense of loss; had begun to accept that Daniel was dead.

Then as
if she needed more trouble there
was Conrad, up
to his old tricks. Showing her a sketch he'd done of her naked, or
at least how he imagined her naked, so why not strip off and he'd
do a real painting and
then afterwards he
invited her to
imagine afterwards.
'Jane's my friend,' she had said.
He agreed she was her friend. And if Jane didn't know, it'd be
doing her an enormous favour. Spice up their marriage a bit.
It was when she was trying to decide how best to discourage
Conrad, without upsetting Jane, that Ritchie Blue brought a
letter for her. Mr Tompkins at the bank, to whom she had sent
her address only a few days ago, would very much like to see her
as soon as she was able to visit.
She went the following morning. It was the first time she
realised her painting had been removed, and Mr Tompkins said
how much he regretted it, but the chairman had insisted. He tried
to be tactful about his fears for Daniel but
was more blunt
about his concern for Daniel's bank account and
hinted at the
perilous state of the Royal Bank's financial situation.
'It would not be loyal of me to discuss it in detail,' he said,
'but I do beg you, Miss Wilberforce, to think carefully. It was such
a relief to receive your letter, because I had no way of contacting
you. You have almost two thousand pounds in your account, and
it would greatly relieve my mind if you were to request it be
withdrawn and deposited with dare
I suggest my previous
employers?'
She had signed the documents he prepared, and her life
savings were transferred to the security of the Bank of New South
Wales. She realised she was modestly wealthy now; with the
money earned from painting, plus her share of the fashion

sketches they had sold. Two days later Mr Tompkins was
discharged from his job, and Benjamin Boyd announced a
moratorium on all transactions, while his auditors held an
inquiry.
It was while in Sydney, on an impulse, that she had gone to
Government House, and asked for Lady Mary Fitz Roy. After a
series of servants had asked her business, and told her she would
be required to wait, she had heard footsteps in the cloistered
annexe where she had been ordered to remain.
'Clary?' The governor's wife ran to hug her.
Mary Fitz Roy hardly looked a day older, although it had
been fourteen years. Clarissa had been only eighteen, a new and
nervous governess to her younger cousins, and Mary, already
married to Fitz Roy, had become her friend. They had continued
the acquaintance, though it diminished to an exchange of letters
over the years, but by the end of that afternoon visit, two months
ago, they were again close friends. By then Mary knew a great deal
about the events of the past few years; about Daniel, Ben Boyd,
and even the current problem of the amorous Conrad. She
proposed that Clarissa come and stay at Government House, and
reflect on the idea of a post there. Mary had said it would be
doing her a considerable favour. She had need of a confidant who
could even occupy the unfulfilled post of lady-in-waiting, and the
prospect of it being someone who was a real friend was a rare
piece of good fortune.
Clarissa was uncertain, and asked for time to consider the
idea. She had returned by the ferry, and to her dismay found
Conrad on the prowl, waiting for her return. Seeing her disembark
from the ferry and approach the Grange, he had removed his
breeches in readiness and
confronted her like a randy Romeo at

stud. Bare from the waist down, he proudly raised his shirt to
display a promethean erection, and said he'd been saving it for
her, and afterwards he would be a reformed person and
a far
better husband for Jane. Or else he suggested they elope together,
and spend the rest of their lives locked in pelvic passion and hot-blooded
bliss.
'Do put that thing away,' Clarissa said, raising her parasol as
if to behead it, which brought about an instant decline in his
demeanour. 'Go and find your breeches, or else find Jane and
show it to her,' she told him, and went upstairs to pack.
She smiled at the memory. Conrad, all at once as limp as an
unwatered flower. It was a pity Jane had been upset at her sudden
departure, but Conrad's antics had left her little choice.
The square-rigger out on the harbour was tiny now, a distant
miniature, dwarfed by the headlands to the open sea. Clarissa
thought she would like to sketch it, but told herself that that part
of her life was over. She had a modest talent; she could copy
fashions, paint pretty pictures, be flattered by men like Benjamin
Boyd, whose eyes had undressed her, and in the pursuit of a more
physical liaison had lavishly spent money that led her to believe
she was a real artist.
Well, no more humiliation of that sort. Whatever the future
held, she had no intention of allowing herself to be ridiculed or
made an object of scorn again. She went towards the governor's
Gothic Tudor mansion. At the front door she turned for a last
look back at the ship, but it had already headed southward and
was gone.


PART FOUR

COMING
HOME


'Farewell to old England for ever,
Farewell to my rum culls as well;
Farewell to the well-known old Baillie
Where I used for to cut such a swell.'
Folk Song



Chapter 23





Fog lay across the river, and the streets were full of carts and
jostling people, huddled up against the winter. Slush covered the
ground where thin patches of snow were being thawed by the
steaming piles of horse dung and the crunch of boots in flight
from the winter's day. The chill made his bones ache. He had
never been so cold. Weeks ago he had bought a thicker jacket, and
now in Limehouse, on his way to the Isle of Dogs, he stopped to
buy a pair of warm gloves. A cheerful cockney in the market there
reminded him of Sam Lyons, and made him homesick for the
far-away auction rooms. Memories flooded his mind.
The day he rowed Sam out to help bargain for the schooner Piccadilly, with his passenger nervously declaring he was about to
feel seasick, even though there was not a breath of wind or a
ripple on the water. Then brilliantly persuading the owner to sell
to Daniel at a price he could afford. Or the time he decanted the
barrels of cheap, smuggled brandy into old bottles with expensive
labels, and sold them to the gentry, who, he said, wouldn't know
the difference between cognac and a mouthful of Spanish snake's
piss. He thought of Sam's auction of the same cheap brandy,
siphoned into magnums of Napoleon Grande Reserve, created in

1804 for the Emperor of France.
The remembrance of the brisk bidding that had raised two
hundred sovereigns each magnum made Daniel smile, and a
tart, loitering on the corner of the East India Dock Road
thought he was a prospect, the nicest looking one she'd seen
today, and invited him back to her room for a bit of warm, and
a cuddle. Cheap, she said, to a nice young geezer like him.
He thanked her, even paused to say he was late for an
appointment, and as he turned towards Blackwall Pier, she
wondered about his accent and the tanned skin that must have
been caused by a real sun, not the pale balloon-like globe that had
hardly showed through the fog and cloud since Christmas. She
thought that a bit of whatever-he-fancied might be a relief from
her usual clients, and was about to call him and say he could have
it for free, but he did not glance back.
Daniel paused by the inscription on Blackwall Pier, and read
the lettering on the bronze plaque.

From near this spot, December 19, 1606, sailed with 105
adventurers the Sarah Constant (100 tons), the Godspeed (40 tons) and the Discovery (20 tons). Landed at Cape
Henry, Virginia, May 13, 1607, where these adventurers
founded the first English colony in America, under the
leadership of the intrepid Captain John Smith.

What tiny ships, he thought, and what guts, realising the smallest
one ploughing across the Atlantic was only a third the size of his
own schooner. The convict transport he was to take home was
500 tons, a blunt-nosed collier built at Whitby, like the drawings
he had seen of Captain Cook's ships and
about as old.

'Sturdy,' the elderly commander from the Admiralty had
commented on their brief inspection, where she was undergoing
repairs off Wapping pier. 'English oak and Yorkshire shipwrights.
Good enough for James Cook, lad, good enough for you.'
Daniel restrained himself from replying James Cook had
made his great voyages nearly eighty years earlier, and this was a
slow old tub, fit for carrying coal but not much else. He had
already had a taste of officialdom from the Admiralty, for he had
arrived at Portsmouth at the end of a six-month journey on the Indian Queen, and after the thrilling sight of his first train and
first rail journey, the wonder of the countryside as they sped past;
then the entry into the cavernous railway terminus, and the
excitement of the crowded London streets, with horse-omnibuses,
hackney cabs, smart carriages and the phenomenal amount of
people. After all this spectacle, so unlike anything in his life
before, the chilly formality and disinterest of the Naval Office in
Somerset House had been a considerable disappointment.
In the large entry hall he had been ordered to wait, while the
duty officer appraised his casual garb, thick woollen sweater and
sea bag, and seemed convinced he had come to the wrong place.
He had sat and watched men in uniform and others in modish
and elegant clothes, with elaborate waistcoats, fitted breeches
and buckled shoes, come and go in the echoing building, carrying
papers, on their way to meetings, sparing him a curious glance,
then hurrying by as if puzzled by his presence.
He filled in the time by studying the elaborate friezes, the
figured architraves and cornices on the walls and high ceilings, as
well as the display of sombre portraits in huge gilt frames.
Foremost was King Henry VIII; a gleaming brass plate declaring
he was the founder of the Navy Board. Another painting was of

Samuel Pepys with
a plaque to say he was the Clerk of the Acts,
and Secretary of the Navy 1660-1673.
An officer came and asked his name, again told him to wait,
then others appeared at frequent intervals while most of the
afternoon went by. Finally, there was a civilian, a Mr Hood, who
told him that he would be required for a meeting tomorrow. He
was really, Mr Hood said, a matter for the Colonial Office, but
since they evinced no interest, and he was to take charge of a
transport under naval direction, it seemed the Admiralty had no
option. They were, he explained, obliged to look after him,
despite their feelings about the matter.
It was not a promising beginning.
The following day he had met with the elderly commander,
who had taken him to Wapping to inspect the ship, and informed
him it needed more work to make it seaworthy, and the authorities
out in New South Wales he
pronounced the name with a
certain reluctance and a trace of contempt, as though it offended
his sensibilities those
people in that place who had sent him,
had clearly sent him far too soon.
Why? Daniel asked. Because the vessel would not be ready
until the spring, he was told. As it was not yet November, Daniel
ventured to wonder what he would do for the next five months
until March, and was informed any assumption he would leave
then was wildly optimistic; it was far more likely to be May before
he put to sea, and that was seven months away, not five. The best
they could do for him was to give him bed and board at the naval
hostel in Woolwich. He would get five shillings a week, and if he,
felt this insufficient for his needs, he should approach the
Colonial Secretary's department. The impression he gained was
that this would be unlikely to benefit him, but as he had most of



his pay intact from the months at sea, there seemed little point in
submitting to any more official intransigence.
It was then he decided to put the time to real use and search
for Marie. On the voyage over often
on watch at night he thought of her letter and how it puzzled him. He had assumed
there would be no time to trace her; that he would spend only a
few weeks in London and have a busy schedule organising the
crew and the victualling. He had not counted on the massive
indifference of the Admiralty, or the lassitude of the contractors
when he visited the ship. They had been in the business of
outfitting naval vessels since the American wars, and after that
the wars with France, and had rigged and repaired the Victory before Nelson took her to Trafalgar. An elderly convict transport
paid at the naval dockyard minimum was not to be compared
with this glory nor
did it rate highly on their itinerary.
The end of June, if yer lucky,' the dockyard manager told
him.
They promised May,' Daniel said.
They'd promise anythin', matey. I'm tellin' yer the end of
bleedin'June, or even mid-July'
'I'll miss the trade winds.'
The sodding cargo won't care. They won't be in no hurry to
be dumped out there in convict-land.'
'Is that how you think of the place?' He wanted to tell him of
the sunlit harbour, its lavish homes and picturesque windmills.
'I 'ardly thinks of it at all. But what else could it be? Just a
bleedin' big gaol. And half the people in irons; if they got streets out
there they'd be full of whores and wallet-mongers. It'd be like livin'
in Newgate. Who'd want ter hurry back to that sort of a shit hole?'
After that, he had stayed away from the dockyard. In his sea

bag, he'd found Marie's letter, read it yet again, and wondered
where and how to begin a search for her in this vast city.

Matthew saw her from a distance, and thought he must be
mistaken, because she was deep in conversation with the
governor's wife, and they were smiling and talking animatedly
like close friends. She looked cool in a gown of white sprigged
muslin, the high waist adorned with a vivid cummerbund, an
elegant contrast to so many of the guests overdressed in close-buttoned
and tight English fashions, perspiring in the summer
heat. When she finally turned in his direction there could be no
doubt; he realised at once it was Clarissa.
It was almost the last place he would have anticipated seeing
her, here among the selected dignitaries at a garden party hosted
by Sir Charles Fitz Roy, celebrating the 26th of January, 1848, and
the founding of the colony sixty years earlier. Not that he expected
to see her at all; they had all long ago concluded she must have left
here after her stay with Conrad Martens and his wife. He knew
from the meeting with Mr Tompkins that she had been able to
transfer her money before the Royal Bank froze its funds. They had
gone to Fort Macquarie and looked through the passenger lists,
but her name was not on them. Daniel had believed the likelihood
was that, after leaving the Martens' house, she had gone by coach
to Melbourne, and taken a ship from there.
To where? Matthew had wondered.
To any-bloody-where, he'd said, dejected, knowing she had
enough money now her account was saved, to travel wherever she
wished. New Zealand, the Cape Colony, America, or even back
home to England. Ever since Daniel's own departure nine month

ago, Matthew had given little thought to what had happened to
Clarissa. Yet here she was, smiling at him, raising a hand in
greeting, speaking to Lady Fitz Roy, then making her way across
the lawn to greet him.
'Matthew,' she said with delight, and when he put out' his
hand, still stunned by the surprise of seeing her, she leaned
forward to kiss him on the cheek. A number of the notables
observed this, and exchanged glances. They had been wondering
about the new companion the governor's wife had acquired, and
whether it was the lady of that name who had been involved in
the strange affair at the Standish Art Gallery? If she was a friend
of young Conway, as the kiss indicated, then gossip confirmed it
was the same Miss Wilberforce.
'Clarissa, I can't believe it.'
'Are you here to cover the occasion for the Journal?'
"Fraid so,' he said, without thinking, until she laughed and
gestured for them to move away from any eavesdroppers.
'I know you hate these events.'
'Pomp and ceremony. How do they stand it, in their cravats
and their cutaway coats? Look at old Wentworth over there.
Sweating so much he should lose half a ton of weight.'
'Don't be cruel,' she said, smiling. 'He was once as slim as you,
and found his way across the mountains.'
'Found great wealth, with it.'
'You're still a Whig, not a Tory.'
'Neither. A plague on both their houses. I'm a currency lad,
though you're the only person here today I could tell that to.'
'I approve of currency lads,' she said, smiling. 'I always found
them most courteous and gentle.' Before he could reply to this,
she turned the conversation and asked: 'How's Emily?'

'Wonderful.'
'Any little ones?'
'She's expecting. We're expecting!' He gave a huge grin. 'The
end of August, we think.'
'Congratulations. Give her my love. Is she thrilled?'
'Ecstatic'
'And Bess?'
'Even more ecstatic'
Clarissa laughed. 'And Jeremy? Is he well?'
'Pa's fine.'
'And Lucy?'
'She's going to be eighteen this year.'
'Eighteen, heavens! And pretty? I'm sure she is.'
'Yes but
don't tell her. She's already impossible.'
'What's she going to do with her life?'
'Who knows? Not even Lucy. At present she works on the Journal with me. She may become a poet, she says. Keats and
Shelley are her great loves. I hesitate to tell her, but she's a good
reporter. We're the only local publication that has a woman
writing stories. That's not because she's my sister, but because
she's talented.'
'Somehow I'm not surprised.'
'Don't ever admit I said so. She'd be intolerable.'
Clarissa nodded and smiled; it was a brief, abstracted smile.
There was a tiny pause, as if she had run out of suitable questions.
'I don't suppose --' she began, hesitated, then continued:
'I don't suppose there's been news of what happened to Daniel?'
'Not since he went back to recover the Marie. By now he's in
the Pacific. He said he'd be twelve months or more to
earn
enough to repair the schooner.' He saw her look at him strangely.

'When he first came back, he searched everywhere for you. He
even went to see Mrs Martens.'
He thought she was going to faint. He put a restraining hand on
her arm as she swayed and grew pale. 'He's alive?' she whispered.
That was when he realised, that for more than a year, she had
believed Daniel was dead.

At the pier near the inscription on the Isle of Dogs, three sides of
it surrounded by the frigid wind off the Thames, he stood in the
January cold and waited for Sarah. Daniel had not the faintest
idea how to recognise her or why she had chosen to meet here.
But she was, at long last, a link in his prolonged search to find
Marie.
He had begun back in November with the letter. She had
mentioned living in Bloomsbury and
hopeful that it was some
modest village, he had foolishly gone to look there. He soon
discovered it was a large, thriving area of London; fine houses
fronting exclusive garden squares, busy streets from Euston Road
to High Holborn. He had vainly trudged them all. One day
opposite Bedford Square he found the British Museum, where a
sign announced an exhibition; a display of watercolours, etchings,
engravings, lithographs and oils by a few celebrated colonial artists
of New South Wales, and he went inside to seek the warmth,
hoping to cure his loneliness in this cold and foreign place.
It was like coming home: the room was full of nostalgic
landscapes. There was a lithograph of Fort Macquarie; drawings
of The Rocks done in years gone by, before they were quarried
down by chain gangs and made habitable; the new Government
House looking like a medieval castle, then a watercolour of the

harbour and the shore from Rushcutter's Bay to the Pyrmont
Windmill. He stood in front of it for a long time. He had sailed
that stretch of water most of his life, and knew every building,
every church spire and flagstaff. A canvas alive with colour at the
end of the room drew him towards it, and recognition was
instant and painful. Bridge Street by Conrad Martens, an intense
painting full of ochre and blues, with the Tank Stream, the
bridge, and alongside it the house once owned by Simeon Lord,
where he and Clarissa had lived.
It was too personal, too realistic. The windows where they
had looked out watching the ships arrive; the sloping roof
beneath which they had lain awake on stormy nights and heard
the rain; it was too graphic it
made him ache for the past, and
feel insecure about the future. There were many other paintings
of familiar places even
a landscape of the terrace of town houses
built by Sam Lyons in Liverpool Street overlooking Hyde Park,
with smart women promenading in their finest gowns and
bonnets; if not for the vivid terracotta-coloured earth it could
have been a row of London houses, like those he had seen around
Regent's Park. He must write and tell Sam there was a picture
entitled lyons terrace in the British Museum in the heart of
London. Sam would get a laugh out of that and
then he realised
he could not do this, for he was supposed to be working as a deck
hand in the Pacific.
He had not been able to stay in the room with its memories
any longer. He had hurried out into the drizzle, back to his
cubicle in the naval hostel, and resumed the search for Marie
Geraghty. Only now she would be Marie Wilson. The name
Geraghty, he realised, might have been easier to find. He reread the letter. A friend called Sarah. We are both with the Shaftesbury

Players, and at present I am playing a small role in William Congreve's
famous play 'The Way of the World'... Christmas came, and he had found no trace of her or any of
the Shaftesbury Players. It felt strange, this mid-winter celebration
of yuletide; the first time he had seen mistletoe or fresh holly
with bright berries, the charcoal braziers in the streets cooking
chestnuts, poulterers plucking the feathers to provide their
customers with the finest turkey or goose, and bakers' shops that
made plum puddings and cakes heavy with dried fruit and nuts.
The festivities had been for other people. Unable to find Marie he
had spent it alone, missing the summer heat and the parlour
table in George Street where Bess carved the fowl so everyone had
a slice, with seasoning and potatoes, and where she and Jeremy
invariably told them about the real Christmas, the way it was on
the other side of the world, with carol singers and snow.
In January he found some news, at last. He had taken to
haunting theatres never
realising any city could have so
many where
he asked the doorman, or an actor if he could find
one, if they had heard of the Shaftesbury Players lately? Could
they tell him where the company might be? Finally, an elderly
actor at
the stage door in an alley behind the Haymarket
Theatre tried
to brush him aside because he was late for the
matinee performance.
'I'll miss the half.' he said imperiously. 'I haven't time to waste
with process servers or bailiffs.' He was wearing a long winter
coat, trimmed with fur, and carrying a polished wooden cane
with a brass top. He seemed not only impatient, but important
and rather prosperous.
'Do I look like a bailiff?' Daniel asked.
'They come in all guises,' the old man said. 'Now be a good

fellow, and desist. This is my first job since the Shaftesbury went
under, and the manager did a moonlight with the money.'
'Then you know them?'
'Knew them, sir. Past tense. Past imperfect! Stand aside.'
'What time do you finish?' Daniel asked.
'When the performance ends,' he replied, 'which it may do for
me any moment, if you delay me further.'
'I'm looking for a girl who was in the company,' Daniel said
urgently, realising he was not important at all, just an old actor in
a hurry and fearful of losing his job. 'If I meet you here after the
play and buy you a cup of tea, will you let me ask you about her?'
'A cup of tea, and perhaps a buttered bun?'
'Two buttered buns,' Daniel said.
'Done,' said the actor, and walked into the theatre swinging
his cane, as if he owned the place.

She was late, and it was becoming colder on the pier. Hardly a day
for a meeting in such an exposed place. The tide was out; he
watched a mudlark, a boy of about ten, gathering scraps of wood.
It reminded him of childhood, he and Marie escaping their parents
on the mud flats along Cockle Bay, even before he knew Matthew.
'Want some wood for the fire?' the boy called. 'Give yer the
whole lot fer a tanner.'
'No, thanks,' he said.
'Got some lumps o' coal.' The boy came and looked up at
him. He had a pinched face, and his bare legs were almost knee
deep in the soft Thames mud.
'How much do you make a day?' Daniel asked.
'Depends. If I pick up a bit o' iron, kin sell that for tuppence

a pound. Get a penny farthin' a pound fer pieces of rope. Mate o'
mine found a floater. We undressed him, an' sold 'is clothes to a
dolly shop.'
'What's a dolly shop?'
'Don't y'know nuffing? Dolly shops is where the tea leaves
sell their gear the
fieves,' he said, 'them wot nicks things. You
some kinda foreign geezer, are yer?'
'Yes,' Daniel said. 'I'm a foreigner.' He held out a shilling.
The small face looked at him with sudden suspicion, the eyes
narrowed. 'Wot the 'ell do you want me to do fer that?'
'Catch it,' Daniel said. 'Then go and buy a hot drink and a
cake.' He dropped the coin. The boy eagerly caught it almost stopped to express his gratitude then
ran off in case his
benefactor changed his mind.
In the distance, other children were clambering across the
mud, gathering scraps of debris to make a living. A floater, he thought. Undressing a drowned body to sell the clothes. He knew many of the mudlarks were orphans, who slept on the river bank if they
could not find an empty barge.
It was a cruel city for the poor, as the old actor had told him,
over the buttered buns in a tiny teahouse off Drury Lane.
'Very decent of you,' he said in his mellifluous voice, when
Daniel suggested a third bun. 'It has been several days since I was
able to indulge in a luxury of a meal. I'm sorry I mistook you for
a bailiff, but I imagine there's a whole battery of them after that
swine of a manager. He left us stranded in Chipping-Norton. Not
exactly the sort of place one wants to be left skint in Chipping-Norton. I do wish I could recall your friend for you, but the old
memory is going, I fear. That's why it's so difficult to keep in
work now.' He sighed. 'I used to be quite good with lines.'

'Marie shared a room with another member of the company,
somewhere in Bloomsbury.'
'Very nice, Bloomsbury. Wish I could afford digs there. I'm in
Shoreditch. Cheap, but always a strong smell of cabbage in the
hall'
'Her name was Sarah --'
'Oh, Sarah,' he said instantly. That'd be Sarah Leighton. She
was the only one in the company called Sarah.'
'You remember her?'
'Most unlikely to forget Sarah, dear boy. Charming girl and
a promising young actress.'
'Would you happen to know where I could find her?'
'Well, I imagine she's still got her place in Russell Street. I did
hear someone say she went back there after our dreadful
catastrophe in Chipping-Norton. I even recall it was number
forty, Russell Street.'
'Where's Russell Street?'
'In Bloomsbury. An attic. Sometimes I gather she shared it
with other young lady thespians to help defray expenses. Oh yes,
I would hardly be likely to forget Sarah.'
'How about another cup of tea,' Daniel had suggested eagerly,
feeling relief and excitement that his search was virtually over.
But it had not been that simple. The next morning he had
gone to the address in Russell Street, at once realising it was almost
around the corner from the museum, and that he had walked past
it weeks ago. The landlady emerged from the basement to confirm
that Miss Leighton did live here, but she was away.
'Is Marie Wilson here?' he asked.
'Never heard of her, dear,' the landlady told him.
'Do you know where I could find Sarah Leighton?'

'Not the faintest, love.'
'Or how long she'll be away?'
'A couple more weeks, I think, ducks. On tour, somewhere.
She's paid to the end of January, so she'll be back by then.'
'Can I leave a note for her? It's rather important,' Daniel said,
as the landlady made no reply. He felt in his pocket for a shilling,
and decided instead on a florin. 'It's very important.'
'Depend on me, dearie,' the landlady assured him. 'She'll have
it the minute she returns.'
A reply had come to the address he had given her, the naval
hostel, only two days ago. In it Sarah thanked him for his letter and
agreed to meet him, suggesting that since he was staying in
Woolwich, a short ferry ride away, and she had to be in the vicinity,
they could meet on the Blackwall pier. They would doubtless
recognise each other, as there would not be many people on the
pier in this weather. Well, she's right about that, he thought, shivering
as he watched a group of gulls circling with predatory interest
above where the mudlarks fought for their scraps of river trash.
'Sorry,' a voice almost beside him said, and he turned to see a
girl in her twenties, warmly wrapped. She was fair skinned, with
light brown hair and clear grey eyes, her manner brisk with
apology. 'Hideous day to be late and
in this weather. I'm Sarah
Leighton, and you're obviously Daniel.'
'Yes. Thanks for meeting me.'
'Let's find a coffee house, or somewhere warm.'
They found a tiny inn, which served coffee. It was called the
Virginia Arms. The frescoes on its walls celebrated the exploits of
John Smith and his intrepid voyagers. Sarah asked him how he came to be in England, and he explained he was taking a ship
back, but did not go into details of its cargo.

Instead, he said how extraordinary it was that he should find
her. He described his search, and the luck of meeting the elderly
actor who often forgot his lines but
had remembered her.
'Dear old Stanley,' she said. 'Stanley Dunn.'
'He didn't remember Marie.'
'Well, she was only with us for a brief time.'
"With the Shaftesbury Players?'
'Yes.'
'When she wrote to me, she said she was in a play "The
Way
of the World", by who
was it William
Congreve?'
'Yes, that's right,' Sarah said, and seemed uneasy with the
conversation.
'The letter it
didn't look, or sound, like Marie.'
'I wrote it for her,' she said, after a pause.
'Yes, I thought someone did. I guessed it was you, after the
note you sent me. I recognised the same handwriting.' 'Silly of me. I should have remembered about the writing. But
it was just to help her, because she'd never had much schooling.'
"You wrote down what she told you?'
'Yes.'
'Including the lies?'
Her head came up, and she stared at him. 'What lies?'
'That she'd been learning to spell, and practising her writing.
As if she'd really written the letter herself.'
'Oh that,' Sarah said.
'And the other lies. About being in the company, playing one
part, being understudy for another? Going on tour? Even the
name of the play. What about those lies?'
Before she could answer, the landlord brought them mugs of
steaming coffee. He commented on the perishing weather, promised



the drink would soon warm them up be
even better with a decent
toddy of rum if they cared for it and
when neither did, he went
back to a couple of West Indian sailors at the bar. Sarah waited until
he had gone. The interruption seemed to have given her a respite.
'How do you know they were lies?'
'I know Marie. The letter felt strange. Unreal. I thought so
even then. Your friend Stanley had never heard of her --'
'That proves nothing.'
'-- nor had your landlady.'
Sarah shrugged. 'No reason why she should. It's my lodgings,
rented in my name. She was just sharing expenses for a time.'
'But she's not still living there?'
'No.'
'She was never in the play, was she? Or even with the
Shaftesbury Players?' When Sarah hesitated, he continued: 'I
went back to the Haymarket Theatre and saw Stanley. I asked
him how to find out? He told me about a bookshop in St Martin's
Lane. Sold all sorts of things called theatrical memorabilia; I'd be
sure to find what I needed there.' He produced a programme he
had purchased and showed it to her. In the centre was the list of
characters in the Shaftesbury Players Production of The Way of the
World, and the names of the actors playing the roles.
'You're mentioned. So is Stanley Dunn. But not Marie.'
'I didn't want to do this, Daniel. Please believe me.'
'Where is she?'
'She's dead,' Sarah said quietly, then cupped her hands
around the mug and took a long sip of it. Her grey eyes looked at
him over the rim. 'At least that's what I'm supposed to tell you.'
'Please,' he said, 'no more lies. Just tell me what's really
happened.'


Chapter 24

All his life, or at least the years he could remember, Matthew
Conway knew his parents had been plagued by a rarely expressed
fear, by the spectre of never having been granted a conditional
pardon, let alone a full one, and existing from one year to another
on their tickets-of-leave. Once, long ago, he had felt contempt for
his father; had considered him timid and spineless, and unwilling
to take a stance in the pages of his weekly news sheet. He had
learned, in time, the error of this attitude; he had felt fear himself
from the veiled threats of the Reverend Edward Grayson, and the
result of that had been a new understanding of Jeremy's insecure
status. But he resented it deeply. In a society where he was
becoming accepted as one of its voices, and his father's enterprise
had grown from a primitive press to a thriving printery and a
well-subscribed and eagerly read newspaper, the injustice done to
them long ago by the malice of Samuel Marsden stood like a
stain that tarnished their lives.
In this summer of 1848, it increasingly occupied his mind.
At supper one night in his parents' house, with his mother
happily fussing over Emily, now five months pregnant, and the
pair of them upstairs sorting through materials to make a loose

smock for the remaining months before the birth, Matthew tried
to obliquely raise the subject. He sat with Jeremy and Lucy after
the meal.
'I've written an article on Henry Brown Hayes for next week's
issue, Pa.'
'Hayes?' Jeremy queried, surprised.
'You must have heard of him.'
'Of course I've heard of him. He abducted an heiress, a young
Quaker girl, but that was years ago. He's ancient history.'
'Not to me,' Lucy said, cupping her chin in her hands, one of
her familiar gestures, her large dark eyes intent on him. 'Tell me
who he was, Matt.'
'Sir Henry Brown Hayes, one of the few knighted gentry to
ever be shipped to Sydney aboard a convict transport.'
'A real knight?' Lucy asked, and Matthew was aware of his
father watching and listening.
'Yes. As Pa said, he abducted this Quaker heiress against her
will, and was arrested and condemned to death. Instead, they sent
him to Botany Bay for life.'
'When?'
'About forty years ago. Being an aristocrat, Sir Henry felt he
should make the voyage in the style to which he was accustomed,
so he bribed the captain of the convict transport, dined nightly
with the officers, and was given his own private cabin. As the
story goes, he behaved as if he had privately chartered the whole
vessel. He became quite famous. People used to chant a verse that
was all the rage:
Sir Henry kissed, Sir Henry kissed,
Sir Henry kissed the Quaker.
So what if he did, what if he did?

He was only after a few of her quid.'
Jeremy shook his head in despair, and Lucy laughed.
'What a terrible rhyme.'
'There's a ruder version, but I'll spare your blushes.'
'Oh, go on,' she said. 'I'll bet I've heard worse.'
'No,' Jeremy intervened. 'Spare all our blushes, and get to the
point, Matt. It doesn't sound like a story that has much relevance
for our sort of weekly.'
'But it does, Pa. You see, Lucy, Sir Henry was soon in trouble
for improper conduct, then threatened with gaol on Norfolk
Island for starting an illegal organisation, but somehow he talked
his way out of it all. Not only that; he prevailed on the governor
to reward him with a hundred acres of the best crown land in the
colony. The finest view of the harbour, where he built a mansion
and called it Vaucluse House.'
'But that's Wentworth's place.'
'He bought it later. After Sir Henry had sold up at a large
profit and gone home.'
'How did he manage that?' Lucy asked.
'Easily. Within a few years he was granted a full pardon, and
left the colony. Free and rich. I thought I'd tell it as a mild fable,
the amusing exploits of a brazen baronet, a naughty knight with a little sting in the tale that
in forty years not a lot has changed.
If you have the right friends, land grants and pardons are easily
acquired.'
Lucy realised what Matthew was suggesting, and, chin still
cupped in her hands, glanced towards her father. For a moment
he was silent, then he rose from the table.
'You're the editor, Matt. We came to that agreement, and I
wouldn't want to interfere. But think about it. You make a sharp

point, but it could be construed as using the Journal to promote
dissent. That still doesn't find favour here. Your barb could cause
pinpricks in the wrong backsides. Think about whether it's wise,
that's all I ask.'
He went out of the parlour, and they heard his footsteps
descend the stairs to the printery. They knew he had a large order
of government pamphlets to complete for the delivery in the
morning.
'Is it wise?' Matthew asked his sister.
'No,' she said.
'You don't think it's unfair people
like Hayes getting a pat
on the head and
others like Ma and Pa ignored all these years?'
'Of course it's unfair. But I doubt if your parable would
help.'
'Parable, indeed.' He smiled.
'On the other hand, you said something --'
'You noticed?'
'Of course. You meant me to notice. You said, if you have the
right friends...'
'That's what I said. You're smart, Lucy!'
'I'm glad you think so. You meant Clarissa, didn't you? Now
that you've met her again, at the Government House party.'
'Yes, I meant Clarissa.'

They had afternoon tea at a table on the lawn overlooking Farm
Cove, brought by a maid in uniform who bobbed her a curtsy and
called her Madam. Lucy felt an urge to giggle. It was really a case
of nerves, she knew, for inwardly she felt hopelessly gauche and
immature. Clarissa was so poised and elegant, so much at home

in these unfamiliar surroundings, with liveried servants, where sentries on the gate had presented arms and escorted them
into Government House, after studying the formal invitation Matthew had presented.
It had been comparatively easy to arrange. First, Matthew's
carefully composed letter to Clarissa, asking if he might be able
to call on the governor, at any time convenient to His Excellency,
to discuss a matter concerning his family. If she could possibly
arrange it for him he would be deeply grateful. Then her prompt
reply, affirming that the governor could spare him thirty minutes
if he was to present himself at four o'clock on the following day,
and that perhaps Lucy might care to accompany him, as it was so
long since they had met, and they could gossip and have tea
together while Matthew conducted his business with Sir
Charles.
And here we are, Lucy thought, me in my best dress and bonnet
being utterly inadequate, and Clarissa making me feel as if I'm a schoolgirl again. But that was hardly fair, since Clarissa was trying to be
both friendly and kind, and had no idea that every time she
mentioned Daniel's name, her visitor experienced a dismaying
surge of jealousy.
'It was such a shock, when Matthew told me. I hadn't any
idea. I really did assume, like everyone else, that he'd been
drowned.'
'Almost,' Lucy said. 'And you heard about him being in gaol,
and losing all his money?'
'Only what your brother had time to tell me at the garden
party. There was so little time to absorb the details.'
And you want to know more, Lucy realised. That's why I'm invited
here. To tell you more about Daniel.

'We thought you'd left Australia. Nobody had any idea where
you were.'
'My fault,' Clarissa said, 'for not keeping in touch. But it was
a bad time. I suppose I was running away from everyone I knew.'
'Trying to hide?'
'Yes.' She looked carefully at Lucy. 'You really are grown up,
aren't you? Matthew said you were.'
'Not quite.' Lucy smiled.
'He said something else, that I'm not supposed to tell
you but
I think I will. That you're a good reporter.'
'Did he?'
'But I got the impression he thought you'd be a bad poet.'
Lucy laughed, and Clarissa joined in, and suddenly she was at
her ease. It was a friendly gesture, that's all, inviting her. And they
were friends, had instinctively liked each other since the first time
they met, at Emily and Matt's wedding.
'Danny almost lost his schooner. It's at a boatshed up the coast,
until he comes back with enough money to have repairs done.'
'And I suppose no one knows when that will be?'
'Well, he said a year, or even longer. My guess is we won't see
him much before next Christmas.'
'It seems a long time.'
'Yes, it does.'
'Do you miss him, Lucinda?'
'Yes,' she said, pleased by the use of her preferred name. 'I
miss him a lot. But not as much as you, I imagine.'
Clarissa appeared thoughtful. They both watched one of the
gardeners weeding around the rose bushes.
'Bess must have had an awful time, all those months while he
was missing.'

'She prayed a lot. I'm like my Pa, not a believer, but she never
stopped lighting candles and praying for him. It makes you
think.'
'I have a lot to think about myself,' Clarissa said strangely.
'Can we keep in touch?'
'I'd like to.'
'Then we shall.'

Sir Charles Fitz Roy was a slow and careful reader. There was a
cluster of documents, and he took his time while Matthew waited
and tried to contain his impatience. Among them were references
from businessmen and friends, a carefully compiled record of how
many years Jeremy Conway had spent in the employ of the
government printer, and how he had established his own print
shop, together with a copy of the first edition of the Weekly Journal, almost ten years ago, and current editions now that it was three
times the size of the original. There was also a statement that Matthew himself had composed and printed while
his father was
out which
made the strongest case Matthew could muster for his
parents to be freed of the unconscionable burden the Reverend
Marsden had placed on them, because of personal acrimony.
'Very thorough,' Fitz Roy finally said, and folded the papers
neatly together. 'I appreciate your sentiments, and your parents
could not have selected a better emissary.'
They didn't select me, Your Excellency. They don't know that
I'm here. But it's seemed to me, for a great many years, that their
situation is quite unjust.'
'I daresay it does. And in the privacy of this room, I believe I
could agree with you. But perhaps it's as well they don't know of

your mission, for I'm afraid I can't grant a pardon. Not in this
instance. Not at this particular time.'
'But sir...' It was like a pitcher of icy water flung into his
face. He'd been so certain, and everything the governor had said
had encouraged him. 'May I know why?'
'What you may know, Conway, is that I would accede to this
if I could. But there are matters I'm not at liberty to discuss, and
events that are beyond my control.'
'I don't understand ...'
'Nor can I explain. But if it became known I had granted a
man of influence a pardon after so many years and at this
particular time, I assure you there are some in this colony who
would use it quite ruthlessly against me.'
'So you're saying that if he was a nobody you could grant it.
What an irony! He's a success, he owns a widely read newspaper, so
you're unwilling to. It might seem like patronage, so you're afraid.'
'I don't care for that word, Master Conway. I've never been afraid
in my life, and nor will I be called a coward in my own house. I did
you the courtesy of a hearing, at the behest of Mistress Wilberforce,
and you've been heard. Now take your papers, and go.'
Matthew realised he had been intemperate and thoroughly
indiscreet, possibly jeopardising Clarissa's position here.
'I apologise for my discourtesy, sir. It was unwarranted, and
the result of disappointment. I do hope you won't hold it against
the good offices of the lady concerned.'
'Good-day to you, Conway,' the governor said.


They walked home across the city. Matthew had bid a brief
goodbye to Clarissa, who seemed to sense it had not gone well.

However, she repeated her invitation to Lucy; she would send a
note, and next time they would have lunch.
Lucy thinking
it was rather brave and possibly foolish of
her volunteered
that if they heard any news of Daniel she would
advise Clarissa immediately. Once again Clarissa seemed
thoughtful, but she saw them to the entrance where the sentries
saluted, and they parted with thanks and smiles. At the corner of
Macquarie Street, Lucy turned and saw her still standing there.
They waved to each other.
'She's nice. I always liked her. But she's changed.'
'How?'
'I don't know. Perhaps it would be wishful thinking to say
she's changed in her feelings towards Daniel.'
'Wishful thinking?' He turned and stared at her.
'You're my brother,' Lucy said. 'You're not blind, are you?'
'It looks as if I am,' Matthew said. 'Good God.'
'There's nothing good about it,' Lucy replied. 'He hardly
knows I exist. Daniel, I mean never
mind God!'
'But I hadn't the faintest idea. I don't think anyone does.'
'Ma's guessed.'
'Did she tell you?'
'Of course not. I guessed she knows. Women's intuition.'
'He's always been like a brother to you.'
'Don't talk such rot,' Lucy said. 'He might be your brother,
but I certainly don't want him to be mine. Anyway, it's pointless.
If it's not Clarissa, there'll be someone else. And he could be away
for years. So forget it and
tell me what happened.'
She listened, while Matthew recounted the details of his
abortive meeting.
'Don't you find it bizarre? If Pa was a clerk or street sweeper,



His Bloody Excellency would be happy to grant him a pardon.
Our father's problem is, he's made a success of his life.'
'I suppose in a strange way, he'd be flattered,' Lucy observed,
'only we can never tell him, can we?'
'No. Never.'
'Don't tell anyone what I feel about Daniel, either. Nothing
will ever come of it.'

The Earl of Buckingham was situated in Emmett Street, close by
the clustered wharves at Limehouse Reach, and a favourite
attraction for the crews off the dozens of ships moored there
along the river. Daniel stood across the street and watched the
crowd of sailors pushing around the entrance, many already
drunk and noisy, some in groups, a few with girls they had just
picked up in the neighbourhood, girls as young as thirteen or
fourteen with hard, painted faces.
He wondered what to do. He had made a promise to Sarah to
keep her confidence, but a longing to see Marie again just
for a
few moments, even anonymously from a distance, and a vital
need to confirm what he had been told was true drove
him to
join the crowd streaming inside. At the door he paid his sixpence
to gain admission. The sixpence also paid for the customer's first
glass of gin or ale, but it was officially known as an entry fee, a
fiction that was necessary so the place could be legally called a
theatre, Sarah told him. It was not unusual, she explained; there
were music halls like this all over London, but the Earl of
Buckingham, better known up and down the length of the river
as Buck Palace, was the magnet that drew most of the crews. To
attract an audience to these places, a cast of young and attractive

women were essential. Marie was one of them, a performer who
danced and sang there.
It had taken him a long time to find this out. Sarah had
initially been reluctant to talk about it, and it was only after they
had left the tiny inn, and walked back in the direction of the East
India Dock road and he began to recount fragments of their
distant past, their childhood in Cockle Bay, the shared
camaraderie, and then the last time he saw her on
the dockside
waving to the ship as it headed out of Port Phillip, sad at the
thought he would be unlikely to ever see her again. It
was only
after this that Sarah began to tell him.
She and Marie had met at an audition in the Tottenham
Court Road. Backstage in a gloomy theatre, where over twenty
actresses were competing for two tiny roles in a new production
of The Rivals by Richard Brindsley Sheridan, and for which
neither had received the encouragement of a second call asking
them to return. Marie had been in London only a month at the
time; she was excited by the city, filled with enthusiasm and
confidence, and she and Sarah liked each other on sight. They
had gone to a tea shop to further the acquaintance. At the time,
Sarah had recently taken lodgings in the house in Bloomsbury,
and with jobs so hard to find had realised she would need
someone to share. Marie seemed the perfect choice. It suited
them both; Marie had money to pay her half of the rent for six
months, and by then fully expected to be gainfully employed.
She had a determined faith in her own ability, and a self-assurance
that would not countenance the prospect of failure.
There were so many theatres, such a large range of acting
companies, so stunningly different from the cultural desert
that had been Sydney Town, with its single playhouse and

almost entirely amateur performers. She had no fears for the
future.
When the now defunct Shaftesbury Players had advertised,
asking for young ladies with theatrical experience, both applied.
Sarah had been offered a contract with the company. Marie had
not. She had accepted the rejection with a philosophical air,
convinced her time would come but
as months passed she
became concerned about her fast diminishing supply of money,
and began to haunt the offices of the London theatrical
managements, the reputable ones, as well as the fly-by-nights.
She was to be seen at almost every audition, but could not get
work. It was painfully apparent to most people she simply could
not act.
'It was awful' Sarah, once started, had been able to talk about
it freely. 'I knew she was running short of money, and I didn't
know what to do. I couldn't afford the room on my own, not
then. She said it was only a matter of time of
having the luck to
be in the right place at the right moment and
I didn't have the
courage to tell her what people were saying behind her back.'
'Poor Marie.'
'Yes ...' Sarah said, but in a way that made him wonder.
Daniel asked if she was cold did
she want to take an
omnibus but
she said she'd rather walk some more, if he didn't
mind. It was easier to talk while they walked. They headed west,
along Commercial Road in the direction of Whitechapel. Away
from the river there was less fog, but the pavement was still
slippery with thawing ice and snow.
'She said she had access to money, through you. I heard a lot
about you. That you were rich, and owned two boats. You would
send her more to live on, you'd promised and
she knew you'd

keep such a promise. I pointed out that it took about six months
to send a letter there, and another six for you to reply, so we were
talking about a year at least and
now I wish I hadn't said that to
her.' She stepped on a piece of ice and almost lost her footing. He
took her arm to save her. She accepted it with a nod of thanks,
and they continued a while, before she resumed.
'I came home unexpectedly one afternoon. A matinee was
cancelled, because half the cast were sick with the croup, and I
found Marie in bed with a man. A stranger. It was very
embarrassing, because he clearly was a stranger, and when he'd
finished dressing he paid her. A guinea was the price they'd
agreed he said, and Marie just nodded and took it. I gathered
from his manner, and the way he talked so openly in front of me
that he assumed I was a prostitute, too.'
Daniel had said nothing for a moment. He couldn't speak. A
carriage trotted past them, the couple inside it secure and warm.
'I asked her how long she'd been doing this, earning money
as a harlot, whoring in my lodgings? How long I'd been
unknowingly a bawd, running a brothel for men she picked up in
the street? I'm afraid I wasn't very nice, not the least bit charitable.
She swore it was not often, just now and then, only to make
enough to live on while waiting for her chance. It would come.
She'd be a star some day. She knew she would; she'd always
known it.' Sarah hesitated. 'She also said she hated men, and got
no enjoyment from it.'
'Her father ...' Daniel began to say, and Sarah said she knew
about that. Marie had spared her no detail.
"You asked her to leave?'
'I didn't have to. She left that day. She found another room,
and came back to collect her things. She said she was sorry, and

by then I was, too. That's when she asked if someday I'd forgive
her, and write a letter for her. A letter to you. I said I would, but
it was six months before I saw her again.'
'Had she found any work?'
'No. At first she pretended she had, but then admitted the
truth. I asked her how she was managing. There was a man, one
she could tolerate. Twice a week with him that
paid just enough
for her food and lodging.'
'No more auditions?'
'Oh, yes. She still went to them, and hadn't given up
hope not
once did she admit defeat or think of giving up, I'll
say that for her. She felt guilty about not writing to you, but
didn't know what to say, which was why she'd put off the letter
for so long. Not the real truth, she couldn't tell you that, so she
invented a role for herself with the Shaftesbury Players which I
was in at the time, and I wrote it all down. Afterwards, she asked if somehow we could be friends again? She hardly knew anyone
here, at least no one she liked. I think she meant that as I knew
about her, she felt at ease with me. Couldn't the two of us, now
and then, meet at a coffee house? So every few months we did,
and about a year ago Marie at last got a job. Not just a job, she
said. A starring role. She would have her name up. Though it
wasn't a play, not drama. It was music hall. She had to sing and
dance. I was really thrilled for her, and said I'd come to see it but she said I'd better not.'

The band was a piano, a violin and concertina. They played
loudly, not always in time with each other, or in tune. The dancers
were dressed in short gowns of wispy gauze, like Grecian nymphs,

and they flung themselves about the stage in some semblance of
a ballet, while the sailors drank copiously, shouted profanities
and clapped for more.
The dance stopped for a brief pyrotechnic display, a rowdy
explosion of blue demons and cascading flowerpots, which was
soundly booed. When the acrid smoke had cleared from the
stage, the trio played what seemed to be a fanfare, and the sailors
cheered with expectation.
A well-padded figure dressed in a flounce of skirts came on.
As the cheering died to silence, she began to sing:

The first time on me back, was a soldier lad, alack,
And he served in a squadron of dragoons,
Well, I let him have his way he'd
have had it anyway,
And then I up and pinched his silver spoons.

Her voice was tuneless, but it hardly seemed to matter to the
audience, as she removed the first of her skirts, and they roared
approval. She did a brief dance, then sang another verse.

The next one was a sailor, a lively sort of tar,
He promised he would show me all his toys,
And after it was over, and he'd had a play with mine,
He said it made a change from cabin boys.

The sailors whistled and stamped their feet, beating time to
the music and words of the ditty. Daniel felt revulsion watching
Marie pirouette around the stage as she stripped. Soon the portly
figure was almost undressed; skirts and padded blouses spread
around the floor, some thrown into the front row of the audience,

her body now slim and clad only in a camisole and frilly
pantaloons. Around him the sailors were yelling. There was a
rising tide of excitement and lust that seemed to erupt into a
crescendo of ribald frenzy. From all over the theatre, sailors were
moving forward, brandishing money. Straight off their ships
after long voyages, they had their pay and were eager to spend it
on this.
A platform was pushed onto the stage, and Marie slowly and
tantalisingly climbed the steps to stand on it. A red-nosed clown
appeared and acting as master of ceremonies, began to conduct a
mock auction.
'For the lovely lady, the pride of Limehouse, who 'as come to
enchant us from the far off wilds of Botany Bay, wot price am I
bid? For Maree from
midnight till morning, who will be the
lucky man?'
'One sovereign,' a sailor shouted.
'One and a half...'
'And another florin ...'
'Two sovs ...'
'Three.'
When the bidding reached five sovereigns all but two of the
sailors dropped out, and it became quiet. The protagonists
studied each other. One was a huge, bearded Scot, the other a
Lascar.
'Six,' said the Lascar.
'Six and a half,' said the Scotsman.
'Eight.'
'And a half
'Ten sovereigns.'
'Ten sovs and
half a crown.'

'Twelve.' the Lascar said, and the crowded theatre watched
the Scot as his native providence battled with desire and
longing.
'To buggery with ye,' he said at last, 'I can have four lassies all
night and the next day fer that.'
Daniel watched the final indignity, as amid wild cheering
Marie flung off the camisole to be naked except for the frilly
pantaloons, and jumped into the East Indian's arms. The Lascar
caught her, paid the clown, and carried his prize off into the
darkness at the back of the stage.

'I told you not to go,' Sarah said.
'I only promised not to visit her. I kept to that. Though I
wanted to confront her, try to persuade her to stop. Tell her I'd
somehow find a berth for her on the ship I'm taking back. She
could go home, make up whatever lies she needed, and start her
life over. Stupid, eh?'
'Not stupid. But she wouldn't go. Not back to any place near
her father.'
'I know. Besides, I doubt if I could really arrange it and
the
sad truth is, I'm not sure I'd want to. I felt sick and angry, it was
hideous, yet I think I had to see it. Can you understand that? I
had to know, instead of always wondering.'
'Yes,' Sarah said quietly. 'If you ever want to see her, don't feel
bound by a promise to me. She has a room above the so-called
theatre.' She shuddered. 'That's why I met you at the Isle of Dogs.
I went to see her first, to tell her you were here. I showed her your
letter, said you were going to be there on the pier only a walk
away, and you'd looked all over London for her for two and a half

months, ever since November. All she had to do was go and meet
you.'
'Instead, she wanted you to lie to me and say she was dead.'
'I shouldn't have told you that, Daniel.'
'But it's true. That is what she asked you to say?'
'Yes, it's true. But be fair. She was shocked you were here. She
had no time to work out any sort of pretence or story. And she
was ashamed. She didn't want you to know about the the show...'
'The whorehouse, you mean,' he said. 'The lousy, crude, filthy
spectacle of being auctioned to whoever bids the highest for her.
You know what I hated most?'
'What?'
'That she liked it. All that applause. She really loved the way
they shouted and clapped when she came on, how they laughed
and stamped their feet to her silly song. And and
cheered her.
Cheered her off the stage, when the seaman carried her off.'
'But don't you see, Daniel don't
you understand?'
'No, I don't. What should I understand?'
'She's the performer all those men go to see. At long last she's
what she wanted to be all her life, since you were children by the
harbour. No matter how repulsive the show she's
the star.'

Later he walked her home from the coffee house. It was still cold,
but the sky had cleared and there was a crescent moon.
'What will you do now?'
'Wait for the ship to be ready. Sail her home.'
'But that's not until June.'
'Or July.'

'This is only the end of January.'
'I know,' he said. 'Back home by now they'll have celebrated
the 26th.'
'Is that important?'
'Only there. The arrival of the First Fleet, and the founding of
the colony. The sixtieth anniversary. My friend Matthew would've
been there, to report it for his newspaper, but he doesn't like it
much. All that pomp, he says. He reckons the celebration's for the
English and the rich Exclusives, not for us currency lads and
lasses. And that they're only rich because they took the land
anyway.'
'Who from?'
'The Aborigines. The people who once owned it. We drove
them from their hunting grounds. Matthew said last year most
guests were boring politicians, lawyers, churchmen, members of
the Exclusive Party otherwise
known as the Pure Merinos.'
She smiled. 'I like Pure Merinos. He sounds nice, your friend Matthew.'
'He is.'
'So are you,' she said. They stopped outside the house where
she lived on the top floor. The street was quiet. In the distance a
cart with shire horses rolled along Southampton Row. 'I keep
thinking how awful, spending those months on your own. How
sad and lonely.'
'It does feel like a long time,' he said.
'Daniel,' she looked at him, and he knew why the old actor
had remembered her, even if he forgot his lines.
'What?'
'Why don't you come in,' Sarah said.

Chapter 25

By the end of the week it was all over the colony. Lady Mary, the
governor's wife, was dead. She had been fatally injured in a
carriage accident; the governor himself was driving in the
grounds of their official country residence at Parramatta. Fitz
Roy, often accused of recklessness at the reins of his sporting
four-in-hand, had been seriously injured and taken to hospital.
For some days his life hung in the balance, while he struggled to
come to terms with his grief and guilt. The physicians in
Parramatta decided his condition warranted a transfer to Sydney,
where they would not be responsible for his demise, and since the
river seemed the smoothest means of travel, he was conveyed by
ferry to the Circular Quay, where a horse-ambulance removed
him to a private room in what was still called the Rum Hospital.
Clarissa Wilberforce, long ago persuaded by her friend Mary
to accept the permanent hospitality of Government House, and a
post which entailed no duties except being a friend and
companion they
both disdained the affected title of lady-in-waiting'
was
deeply shocked by the tragedy. She missed Mary,
and was considering her future position, when she had a request
from the governor that she remain a member of the household,

at least until he was able to return. Perhaps, his letter suggested,
she might visit him. She did, and was surprised to discover how
sincerely and deeply he mourned his wife. He admitted he had
failings as a husband, but he had loved her, and valued the way
she had supported him since his arrival here. His remorse would
not abate, and most nights he slept little. He asked Clarissa to be
a Samaritan, to cheer up his days with more calls whenever she
had the time, and she began to visit regularly.
Less than a month later, still limping, but declaring himself
fit, Fitz Roy demanded his doctors discharge him. He announced
it was a gloomy place, this hospital, and he would have far better
care from his staff and the efficient Miss Wilberforce. To the
alarm of some of the citizens of Sydney, he insisted on driving
himself home in a new carriage to Government House. There he
could relax, admire his cherished harbour view, and contemplate
his late wife's friend. He had lusted after her for eighteen months,
but had kept his distance at Mary's insistence. Now Mary was
dead, and Charles Fitz Roy, still an imposing and a dashing
figure at the age of fifty-four, was free. He was as virile as ever.
There were many women available to him, some openly offering
a dalliance, but the one he really desired was Clarissa.
He asked her to consider it. He believed in a direct approach.
At Waterloo he had won a medal by confrontation; ever since the
liaisons of his life had been conducted with similar boldness.
During a stroll in the garden, where she was admiring the native
flowers and shrubs, he abruptly turned the conversation to her
future. He knew she was contemplating leaving, but to do what?
Resume painting? After her distressing experience, he
gathered not. Become a governess again?
She admitted neither choice was to her liking.

He was aware there'd been a romantic attachment, but it
seemed it was over some time ago.
Yes, Clarissa said, she thought so.
Then he hoped she would reflect on the idea of remaining at
Government House. Consider keeping her private apartment.
This great sandstone castle would be cold and empty without
her, and he would like to feel, in the fullness of time, that she
might consider a closer friendship. He believed that Mary would
not have disapproved. But if, in due course, she felt unable to
pursue such a path, he would fully understand.
Two months later, the governor, officially declaring himself
out of mourning, and Clarissa, having had no sexual encounter
in nearly two years since Daniel's disappearance, went to bed
together.
It was not unexpected by the servants, who often knew these
things first. The rhythmic rumble of bedsprings resumed after
luncheon each day, from the upstairs room. Fitz was back on the
job, they said, and a good thing, too. Made him better humoured.
Less cranky. And they approved of Clarissa; she was discreet,
never trying to use her privileged status. In fact, the senior
footman and upstairs maid agreed she often seemed as eager as
the stallion himself, and the bedsprings sounded a bit busier up
there. If she was hot upstairs, they admired the way she was so
cool in formal company; her prudent restraint at official functions,
where she dined as a minor member of the household, impressed
all the staff.
Clarissa grew fond of him. He was a skilled lover, and a good
companion. If there was not the wild and headstrong excitement
of her time with Daniel, this was intimacy of a different kind.
While she never abused the situation, she was party to most

secrets in the colony. That was how she learned a select group,
headed by Edward Grayson but
not including Benjamin Boyd,
who was persona non grata in so many quarters now had chartered a vessel under contract from the British Admiralty, and
with the acquiescence of the Colonial Secretary, a shipload of
'exiles' were being sent to New South Wales.
She was concerned it would be seen as a breach of trust, as a
betrayal of the decision to end transportation ten years ago, and
would mean division and outrage. She tried to warn Charles, for
she felt his partiality towards the Exclusives and squatters who
were so determined to have cheap labour, would bring about his
undoing. People were starting to say he was in the pocket of the
ruling elite. He assured her she should not bother her pretty head
about such matters; it was all in hand, the ship would arrive and
it would be condoned; he had promises about that.
'How?' she asked him.
They had engaged a master of the vessel who would be
acceptable to most people, he told her. He did not know who it was not his business to know but
it was arranged. He had been
promised that all would be well.
Clarissa Wilberforce said she distrusted political promises.
Especially when she heard the names of those who had made
them.

He stood on the deck, aware they would soon be casting off. It
was August and the fierceness of the heat surprised him; the
Thames was swollen and there was almost no wind. Across the
river from their berth at Gravesend, the Tilbury Fort guarded
entry to the port of London. Throughout the previous five days

the convicts the
exiles as the manifest insisted had
been
shipped on board, and the final batch were still being loaded.
They were all shapes and sizes of men, all ages. Some sullen,
others looking lost and beaten, a few defiant. None showed the
least sign of hope or expectation, no emotion apart from dread at'
the thought of their long journey and its distant, unknown end.
He wanted to encourage them, to explain that the land, when
they reached there, might surprise them; that people met,
sometimes fell in love, married, and had successful lives like Bess
and Jeremy Conway. He could not attempt to do this, because it
had been made plain to him that control of the convicts was not
his business.
It was the surgeon-superintendent who was in charge of all
prisoners on a transport vessel. At present the surgeon was
supervising embarkation and ensuring the new arrivals were
medically fit, although Daniel had a feeling the examination
would be perfunctory. Laurence Hunt was a florid man in his
forties. He had never practised medicine ashore, but had made
eight previous journeys to the Antipodes in the past ten years,
and his manner from the start gave the impression that because
of his age and experience, he would in reality command the entire
voyage, and his youthful captain would best be employed to
merely check his bearings and steer the ship.
There were 240 male prisoners, with a crew of thirty, and a
marine guard of retired soldiers, who, in return for their unpaid
services, had earned an emigrant passage accompanied by their
wives and children. The guards were armed with muskets in the
unlikely event of trouble. There had been a few occurrences in the
past; murders aboard were not unusual, and there had been one
attempt to mutiny and take over the ship but
disorder on this

scale was rare. The mutineers had been hung from the yardarm;
the elderly commander at the Admiralty told Daniel they always
acquainted the convicts with details of this punishment, and had
not had the slightest trouble since.
The Sergeant Major of the Guard and his small squad of
other ranks and their families occupied cramped cabins aft. The
convicts were in the main forward hold, sealed off by a heavy oak
bulkhead running the width of the vessel. There were deck
hatches to admit fresh air in good weather, and an iron-studded
door at the lowest level below, which allowed the only access to
the prisoners. In this way they could be easily controlled, and let
out a few at a time, for food or exercise. Beyond the heavy door,
Daniel suspected, there was misery and bedlam.
The surgeon informed Daniel that he had already decided the
prisoners would be woken daily by a bugle call at 5.30 a.m., and
locked up for the night at six. The food would be ample to keep
them free from disease, but he was under instructions that there
would be no indulgence. The prisoners would receive a basin of
gruel and six ounces of biscuit at breakfast; dinner at noon would
comprise soup and four ounces of salt beef. For supper a half pint
of tea and a further six ounces of biscuit. Drinking water would
be a pint daily, and the convicts would be forced to wash on deck,
by rote once a week, using buckets of sea water. Any refusal to
strip and wash would be punished by confinement in the brig.
Daniel said the drinking water ration was insufficient with so
much hard biscuit, and should be increased to two pints per day.
He ignored the surgeon's irritated look, and insisted he wanted
no trouble below, not with an overcrowded ship, a severely
undermanned crew, and a military guard who were more like
pensioners than soldiers. In fact, he had serious misgivings. The

vessel had been chartered by a private company, a group he
suspected that included Grayson and his friends in Sydney, and
while it was under the official jurisdiction of the Admiralty, it
was this syndicate which had chosen Laurence Hunt as surgeon-superintendent
to provision the ship. Apart from the small
victory over the water allowance, there was little else that Daniel
could do about food and conditions; the victualling, discipline
and welfare of prisoners was always under the surgeon's direct
control. Having gauged Hunt's attitude, he feared for the mass of
apprehensive humanity below decks.
In less than an hour the last of them were aboard. A light
breeze had stirred the sluggish river, and the tide was almost full.
Daniel gave orders, and sailors put their weight to the capstan,
while others stood by to hoist sail. The anchor was winched up
and stowed, and lines released on the dock. He looked back, but
only briefly; he knew Sarah would not be there. They had said
their goodbyes; he had been firm that she should not make the
long, pointless trip to stand on a dockside and wave. He wanted
a private parting from her in their tiny room, from where he
could see the fluted colonnades of the British Museum, and had
known such unexpected heaven. He had been so fortunate to find
Sarah. Apart from her kindness, and the joys they shared, she had
shown him a London he would never otherwise have discovered.
At first in the depths of winter, later in an early spring where
he saw the crocuses and daffodils emerge from a frozen earth and
begin to flower, they walked the pavements, found the small
wonders, the constant surprises; tiny streets with a Christopher
Wren church, graveyards with headstones of historic names,
monuments, the vast maze of streets, the huge, endless complexity of so many villages that comprised a city from
Highgate and

Hampstead and the wild heath, to Chiswick and Kew in the west,
over the Thames to the Elephant and Castle, and then the
teeming shires of East London which Sarah knew best, because
she had been born there.
'In Stepney,' she said, 'two streets away was the house that
was Captain Cook's old cottage.'
He knew about Cook. They walked in a churchyard where one
of the great navigator's children had a grave, and wondered what it
would be like to go to sea for years three
long years, discovering
lands and mapping the southern world and
come home to find
a new child born, and another, a favourite daughter, dead.
'Poor old Cookie,' he commiserated.
'Poor Mrs Cook,' Sarah said.
For a month she was in a play, and he went to see it almost
every night, and collected her at the stage door afterwards, and
once, in the Strand they met old Stanley Dunn, and took him to
a corner house to have tea and buttered buns. Daniel was suitably
grateful to the British Admiralty, because they had no wish to see
him; he was delighted with the indolent incompetence of the
dockyard manager and his workers at Wapping, because each
week's delay was another week spent with Sarah.
Now it was over. They had made no rash or false promises, no
lies about meeting again; they both knew this would never
happen. It had been an interlude, seven months, and for the rest
of their lives, they agreed, they would remember 1848 as a special
time that was theirs alone.

The PeverilBay moved beyond Thames Haven, and then St Mary's
Marshes on their starboard side. The wind freshened and they

hoisted more sail as they reached Sheerness. Ahead of them was
the North Sea. Soon they would turn southward down the
Channel, off Deal and Dover to the west, then follow the English
coast towards Land's End and the Scilly Isles, and set his course
sou'-west past Biscay for Tenerife. He'd take on fresh water there;
by then the tanks would be foul.
The surgeon joined Daniel on the poop deck, where he and
the first mate were selecting the roster for the port and starboard
watches. Hunt had a document in his hand.
'Might interest you this, Captain. I believe in advice to even
the worst of felons, preparing them for the kind of life ahead of
them. I've evolved a philosophy over the years I've sailed on
transports back
to my first voyage in 1833. You were still at
school, I daresay?'
That was the year I drowned my father, he thought. I was ten years
old, and started to earn my living. But he smiled and agreed that he was no doubt at his lessons.
'Hints to Convicts. Shall I read it?'
The first mate gazed out towards the sea. The helmsman was
fixed to the wheel, determinedly impassive.
'By all means, surgeon,' Daniel said.
The surgeon cleared his throat, as if to command all their
attention.'Hints to Convicts, compiled by Surgeon-Superintendent
LJ. Hunt.' He began to read:

ONE. As you have been a discredit to yourself and the cause of
grief to your friends and shame to your family, and are expelled
to the shores of Australia as unworthy members of society, make
sure, from the instant you arrive, to give up these habits which
have brought you into degradation.

TWO. Serve the master to whom you are assigned sincerely in his
lawful commands.
THREE. Avoid becoming the perpetrator of any new moral,
judicial or civil crimes. This will lead you to further imprisonment,
or severe punishment on the treadmill. It may even lead to the
gallows.
FOUR. Never harbour fellow prisoners who have run away, or
receive stolen properly. Such conduct will end in despair and
retribution.
FIVE. If you have had the good fortune to honestly acquire any
money, be sure to lodge the same through your master or a
magistrate who will arrange to place it for you in the most
reputable savings bank.
SIX. Try to spend your spare time in advantageous reading but
take care at all times to read books calculated only to improve
your moral and religious welfare.
FINALLY: If you follow these sensible precepts, you will expurgate
your sins, and become a worthy and useful member of society.

He beamed at Daniel, who was uncomfortably aware that the
helmsman was trying not to laugh, and the first mate was still
intently gazing out to sea.
'Interesting,' Daniel said.
'Commonsense, captain. I've had copies made by two of the
convict forgers, and circulated to the prisoners.'
'I daresay some can't read,' Daniel observed.
'I've taken care of that,' Hunt replied. 'For those who are
illiterate, I shall read it to them once a week until they memorise
it. And if they're too stupid to learn it in a reasonable time, they'll
be punished.'



He left them to their navigation, and went down the steps of
the poop deck and into his cabin. The captain's and the surgeon-superintendent's
quarters were directly opposite each other, in
close proximity. With Surgeon Hunt as companion, Daniel knew
the voyage, however lucky he might be with the tides and the
wind, was going to be a long one.


Chapter 26






Emily kissed Matthew and told him to stop fussing. It was still
nearly three weeks before the baby was due, and the day could not
come soon enough for her. She felt heavy and clumsy, lumbering
around like a cow in calf. A contented cow, she said, but the
calf-whether
it was boy or girl was
beginning to kick out and
make its presence felt. Matthew felt she looked tired; he knew she
had not been sleeping well, and had already spoken to his mother
about whether the midwife was experienced enough, or should
they arrange for a doctor?
Bess had hugged him, and said the midwife had assisted with
births for over twenty years, and even though this was certainly the
most important and precious child she would ever deliver, she was
qualified and quite capable. So why didn't he get on with his job of
running the Journal, and stop making them all nervous?
Matthew had tried to take her advice, which was why he was
sitting at his desk, staring at an official report in front of him,
and feeling dismayed. He shook his head. It was a true dilemma,
a public as well as a personal problem, and he was uncertain how
to handle it. Page after page of the report, drawn up by William
Charles Wentworth, and openly endorsed by the squatter




members of the Legislative Council, favoured a subtle
reintroduction of the long-abolished convict system. Of course,
there was no mention whatever of convicts; the report spoke of
'exiles', reformed offenders who had done their hard labour, and
were anxious for a new start in a new land.
It had always been secretly on the agenda, but this was the
first time he had seen such an outright statement in support of
the idea in several years, and it presaged an ominous warning
that the matter was still in the minds of those it would so greatly
benefit. His particular quandary, and Lucy knew it, was that
Governor Fitz Roy was openly letting it be known this met with
his personal approval.
'What the hell do we do, Luce?'
'You can't attack the governor,' she said determinedly.
They both knew the danger of this. It had nothing to do with
the fact that they particularly
Lucy had
remained friends with
Clarissa. It had everything to do with Matthew's unsuccessful
interview, the refusal of Sir Charles to grant a conditional pardon
to his parents. If he was to oppose the report, then by implication
he was criticising His Excellency, and the viceroy could take it as
a specific and spiteful affront.
'But that completely ties our hands.'
'I know it does. For once, Matt, we have to be careful.'
'We ought to be opposing this, wholeheartedly. And so
should every other newspaper.'
'But they're not, are they?'
'All the more reason why we should. If we all shut up, that
means tacit acceptance. And apart from anything else, what
about the absolute garbage that Wentworth's written,' Matthew said. 'Listen to this claptrap. Our boundless interior seems to have

been assigned by Providence to the British nation as the fittest scene for the
reformation of their criminals. If the untrodden wilds discovered by our
enterprising explorers were made available, how many millions now spent
for the support of the poor might be saved... how many happy and
smiling countenances, how many prosperous homes might soon brighten up this beautiful wilderness?' He waved the report at Lucy. 'Have you
ever heard such bloody rubbish? Such bilge!' He went on: 'The seeds of a great community would be sown, a mighty colony would
arise... a faithful subject of the mother country in peace and war... that
would continue Britain's supremacy and dominion in the world.'
Lucy was laughing. 'The old boy really got the wind in his
sails there. Goodness me! Talk about hooplas and hyperbole ...'
Matthew turned and looked at her. His face was enlivened
with sudden glee. 'That's it,' he said.
'That's what?'
'You just said it. The exact words. Hooplas and Hyperbole. That's our headline.' He grabbed a pencil and started to scribble,
speaking aloud while he wrote as quickly as he could. 'Of all the fatuous public reports, the latest utterances of the Laird of Vaucluse will
become a classic, with his rambling vision of prosperous homes and happy
smiling faces of criminals reformed,
of course all
over our boundless
interior. The Good Lord, Mr Wentworth seems to feel, has offered Britain
our backyard as a pasture for prisoners, a paradise for the punished, if we
can believe the report of the Honourable Gentleman at his most
lyrical...'
'Nice,' Lucy said.
'We'll just attack his purple prose, and act as if the whole idea
is a great big joke. Not a word about His Excellency, although if
he wants to commend the report after this, he'll look as big a
bloody fool as old Willie. What do you think?'

'I think we make a good team,' Lucy said, 'so make sure your
story lives up to my lovely headline.'
As Matthew laughed and resumed writing, they heard the
front door slam and the clatter of feet hurrying downstairs. It
was Jeremy, breathless.
'Emily,' he said.
Matthew felt a sudden chill. His father's face was white, and
he was agitated.
'What is it?' Lucy was suddenly as tense as he was.
'The baby ... it was quick and sudden ... your ma and I
called by, and there she was, on the floor, screaming. One of the
neighbours trying to help. No time to call the midwife. The
baby...'
'Pa, for Christ's sake ...' He almost shook Jeremy; he had
never seen him in such a state. 'Pa, is she all right? For God's
sake...'
'Take it easy, Matt. Stop shaking me like that.'
'What's happened?'
'I need a drink. I don't need you getting in a panic. I've never
helped deliver a baby before.'
'You what?'
'Delivered! I mean, helped ...'
'That's what I thought you said. Are they alright?' Matthew
shouted, as if he wasn't going to get this information by any
other means.
'Of course they're alright,' Jeremy shouted back. 'Your ma was
there, wasn't she? The bloody neighbour was worse than useless,
but Bess delivered him ...'
'Him?'
'Well, that's what you call boys, isn't it? Him!'

'Jesus Christ,' Matthew said. 'But Emily ...'
'Emily's a sight more calm than you or I are.'
'Is she safe?'
'Yes.'
'I'm an auntie,' Lucy said. 'I have a nephew.'
'And I've got a grandson,' Jeremy said with tears streaming
down his face, 'and he's the spitting image of me, the poor little
bugger.'

Matthew went to the market the following day, and left with his
arms full of as many flowers as he could carry. The porters and
vendors who had known him all his life applauded him and
demanded a speech, but he was rescued by the appearance of
Bess, who said the poor father was totally exhausted by it, and
needed all the rest he could get.
They left amid laughter and shouted congratulations.
'Good on you, Bess,' one of the costermongers said quietly as
she went. 'I hear it was a bit lucky you were there. They both
alright?'
'Both lovely,' Bess said, and smiled at him. 'It was a bit lucky,
but we need some luck now and then, don't we?'
She had the loveliest smile, the costermonger decided. Made
you feel good just to see it. He found a half sovereign in his
pocket, and put it in her hand.
'To buy something for the young feller,' he said.
'I'll buy him a christening shawl,' Bess promised.
A month later, with Emily fully recovered, and the baby
wrapped in a lace shawl, there was a small family gathering at St
Saviour's, where Father Casey officiated.

If only Daniel was here, Bess thought, as the tiny baby was
baptised, bellowed healthily, and was duly named. It was all
entered in the Parish register. Date of birth, 10th of August, 1848.
Father: Matthew Conway. Mother: Emily Conway (nee Pearce). Child:
Male. Given name: Daniel.

Friction had been simmering between Daniel and Surgeon Hunt,
almost since their first meeting. Now it flared into open conflict.
Bad weather off the Spanish coast, brought about by driving
westerly winds blowing across the Atlantic into the Bay of Biscay,
meant they had sailed into heavy storms all the way to the Azores.
This had caused delay, and they consequently reached the Canary
Islands and Tenerife three weeks behind their estimated time of
arrival.
The result was a hazardous shortage of drinking water. The
tanks were badly depleted, the contents discoloured and foul.
The ration was cut back to the one pint daily, much to the
surgeon's gratification, since this had been his first assessment;
then, a few days out from the port it had to be reduced again to
even less for each prisoner. The noxious-smelling water in the
main tanks was declared dangerous, and would assuredly cost
lives, Hunt stated. It was also undrinkable.
Daniel suggested they sweeten it with lime juice, a remedy
since the days of Christopher Columbus, but the surgeon replied
that in his opinion his medical opinion such old-fashioned
methods were inappropriate. The emergency barrels were to be
used, he ordered; the first of which, when the bung was knocked
out, emitted escaping gas that went off with an alarming
explosion. They reached Tenerife harbour with less than a half

day's supply, a state of affairs the surgeon-superintendent blamed
on Daniel's unintelligent generosity, by increasing the ration in
the first place.
To anyone else, Daniel would have conceded that inexperience
of such large numbers aboard might have made him rash, though
no one could have anticipated the unseasonable westerlies. But
Hunt's manner made penance impossible. It was his bombast
and air of superiority that Daniel found so dislikeable. Not
content with asserting his authority over the convicts on every
possible occasion, from the dawn bugle call until they were
locked below in the dark at night, he strutted the poop deck and
shouted commands to the overworked guards with a strident
militancy that could be heard throughout the ship. There were
days when Daniel thought the soldiers might rebel, but they were
retirees earning passages for their wives and children, and the
surgeon felt safe in bullying them. They would all require his
signed certificate of good conduct, when they reached New
South Wales, in order to remain as emigrants there. At other
times Daniel found himself seriously speculating that if Hunt
had made eight voyages, why hadn't someone in all those nautical
miles felt impelled to nudge him overboard?
The crew veered between loathing and scorn in their attitude
towards Hunt. They mocked him behind his back, but were
carefully subservient to his face, for they all knew where the real
power on convict transports resided, and it was not with the
ship's master. An adverse report at the journey's end could lose
them pay. Nor did they have to deal with him constantly as
Daniel did; daily reports, discussion on progress, entries to
made in the log about discipline, rations, and sick parades. As this were not enough, the surgeon also concerned himself

matters that correctly belonged to the captain and the mates; the
rigging of the ship, checking of the sun at the meridian to mark
the time, ensuring eight bells were struck promptly at
noon interfering
on the pretext that time, tide and each event
that took place aboard concerned the welfare of the prisoners and was therefore his responsibility.
After Tenerife, the antagonism between them became worse.
Down the coast of Africa the ship ran into more storms, and
then, off Cape Verde Island, the sun rose on a placid sea without
a breath of wind, and for ten days they were in doldrum calm. The sea remained flat and lifeless, the sun broiled them in tropic,
equatorial heat. Tempers were on the edge, misery prevailed
below, and the surgeon audibly blamed them all, and in particular,
the captain. Daniel ignored him and stayed on the poop deck,
waiting for the wind to expel a breath, for the sight of a cloud on
a wind-shift to move across the sky, while thinking of London of Sarah with nostalgia, and Marie with sadness and pain.

In Cape Town, the discord came to a head. They were two days
out, when the bilges had to be pumped. The Peveril Bay was
taking water; supplies were drenched, and convicts had to be
moved out of the wet, because down in the lower depths the poor
work done in the navy's yard at Wapping was beginning to bear
witness to the charter company's indifference. She was an old
ship, and a cheap one. Daniel knew that ever since the discovery of gold in California, the rush of emigrants to America had taken
all the best vessels. In addition, it was clear to him that the
syndicate who had leased this vessel had cut every corner, had
restricted their costs, and put a lot of lives in peril. As they came

into the harbour below Table Mountain, Daniel made a decision
that the convicts must be taken ashore and held in a local prison
or a temporary stockade, while the Peveril Bay went into a
shipyard for essential repairs.
He informed Laurence Hunt, who reacted predictably. It's
out of the question,' he said.
'You want to swim the Indian Ocean?' Daniel asked him.
'For Christ's sake, Johnson.' The surgeon-superintendent's
voice became shrill when he was angry. 'It's a mere two feet of
water inside the hull. That's nothing more than seepage.'
'It might be seepage while we're in harbour,' Daniel said. 'But
we have no anchorage once we leave the Cape, for thousands of
miles. So this ship won't sail, until she's fit for the journey.'
'Impossible. You want to take over a gaol, or improvise a
stockade for 240 prisoners? Are you insane?'
'The ship must be repaired. How do you put it up on a slip,
fully loaded with all those men aboard?'
'We simply cannot afford,' Hunt said through gritted teeth,
'to spend weeks here, to pay for all those felons to be guarded just
to repair a few planks of oak sheathing, because you are
inexperienced and afraid to cross the Indian Ocean.'
Daniel was aware the post of surgeon-superintendent carried
special powers, as convicts were the sole cargo and reason for the
voyage. But on the other hand, as Captain, he alone must make
the decision on whether the vessel was seaworthy. And he knew it
wasn't.
'We won't sail,' Daniel said, 'until repairs are made.'
'Then you'll cost the charter company, and you will certainly
be called to answer for it,' Hunt replied. 'I can assure you o that.'

In the end after
several rancorous days they
reached a
reluctant compromise. The convicts were moved into the aft
holds; carpenters and shipwrights came aboard and made what
hasty repairs they could, while the ship stood at anchor in mid-harbour.
The captain was dissatisfied; the surgeon-superintendent
enraged by each day's delay. Less than a week later, revictualled
and with full tanks of fresh water, they began the major part of
the long voyage across latitude forty.
The ship was timeworn and heavily overladen. Already, ten
convicts had died of dysentery, which the surgeon did not know
how to treat. There were other instances of his medical
incompetence, with a botched amputation, and three cases of
scurvy. He and his youthful captain detested each other. They
faced seven thousand miles of ocean without a sight of land, and
the ice of Antarctica a hazard if they strayed to the south. And at
their journey's end, because of the delay and the time of year, it
was almost certain they would encounter turbulent seas, and be
imperilled by the full fury of the roaring forties.

Chapter 27


Night fell on the torn sails, far out at sea. The storm was whipping the
waves into a frenzy, but the ship rode them, rolling and falling in the ocean
troughs, a torment to the wretched cargo in the crowded lower holds, but
safely afloat despite the broken bowsprit and the shredded topgallant. The
fore and the main masts were holding and most of the canvas had been
secured before the worst of the storm had struck.

Down below, the old wooden transport was once again taking water.
Daniel cursed the surgeon-superintendent's obstinacy; if they had dry-docked
in Cape Town for repairs, instead of a hasty and patched overhaul,
this problem, at least, might not have threatened them.

They had now been 160 days at sea, seventy-three of them without
landfall since leaving the Cape. The Peveril Bay was too old for this sort of
journey. In the bilges, up to their knees in freezing water, those of the crew
sent to inspect the damage relayed messages aloft that they were losing the
battle, while cursing the night, the storm, the stink of the unwashed, seasick
human cargo, and all swearing to Christ this would definitely be their last
voyage.

On the pitching deck a worried first mate wished he could see the stars,
and hoped to God Daniel knew what he was about; this blow was a real
bastard, as bad as any he'd seen or sailed through, and he was acutely


aware that somewhere on their lee side in the black night and the boiling
sea, there were breakers and rocks that would slice this exhausted rat-infested
old coal carrier into scraps of driftwood.
The wind howled relentlessly for four more nights and days. The final
night was by far the worst, as if the frenzied weather was building towards'
a crescendo. Driving rain as ferocious and lethal as buckshot lashed the
deck and the rigging. The mizzen boom had broken loose, cross-yards were
smashed to pieces, and the aft mast close by the helm where
Daniel had
roped himself to steer the ship was
splintering ominously. The first mate
felt more afraid than he had the entire five months of the journey. More
afraid than in his whole career of over thirty years at sea.
The dawn brought them no relief; the early light was a grim pewter-grey,
the horizon misted, the sea an endless swirl of leaden water with
treacherous white caps. All morning the hatches remained firmly battened
down, despite the excessive heat and putrid damp below, for without covers
there was every likelihood the towering waves sweeping the decks would fill
the ship, and the men in the crowded holds below would drown. At least
that way would be swift. If they went much further in these conditions, the
poor wretches might begin to die for lack of ventilation.
Daniel's only consolation was that Surgeon Hunt had not proved a
sailor equal to such a storm. For almost a week he had been confined to his
cabin, too ill to attend the sick and needy, and the rare times he had been
heard to speak, his muttered groans had been translated as expressing an
urgent wish to find dry land, or die.

Benjamin Boyd knew it was too good an opportunity to miss.
When one of his whaler captains reported news of a convict
transport in the Indian Ocean, he saw it as a perfect means of
ingratiating himself back into public favour. His finances were

now in complete disarray. Shareholders of the Royal Bank in
London were pressing for payments; he had borrowed to cover
the overdue interest, and privately knew his debts were out of
control. Adding to his discomfort, he had been forced to endure
the humiliation of spending two nights confined in Darlinghurst
Gaol, unable to secure bail after being sued by his manager at
Twofold Bay for outstanding wages. It was unbelievable, that for
forty-eight hours, no person would stand surety for him, until
finally he had prevailed on one of his cousins that the family
name was being demeaned. He was no longer invited to the
dinner tables where he had been an honoured guest. He had not
spoken with Edward Grayson or Wentworth, let alone Sir Thomas
Mitchell or Bishop Broughton for over a year.
But with the eternal optimism that had sustained him for so
much of his life, he was convinced his whaling ships would save
him. Meanwhile, self-esteem demanded the restoration of his
status in the colony. It was, after all, not so many years ago when
he had first sailed here, and huge crowds had gathered to applaud
his arrival. He had become one of the best known, most popular
and sought-after figures in the colony. Newspapers, on more
than one occasion, had suggested he deserved a knighthood!
He wanted those days of acclaim and celebrity back again.
And the imminent approach of the PeverilBay was his opportunity.
It was also a chance to square accounts with the treacherous
Grayson, whom he knew, but could not prove, was deeply
involved in this venture. They had even spoken of it together, in
friendlier times gone by, when the minister had cultivated him,
needing his influence to dispose of one governor and install
another. And for all his efforts to make this a fit place to live in,
his plans to foster industry, to bring wealth to the country how

had he been rewarded? By cowardly attacks in the press, and
being snubbed by inferiors in the street.
That was why Ben Boyd had seized the opportunity to bring
the news, and protested bitterly and publicly against the
re-introduction of convict transportation. Few knew or cared
that he had once endorsed it. He was saying what the citizens of
Sydney wanted to hear, and his populist views brought him
pleasing moments, a gradual renewal of support and the chance
to resume his rightful place here. To hell with the exclusive pure
merinos! Let them call him a charlatan and a fraud. If he was to
be ostracised by the so-called best people, then let them stew; he
would become a spokesman for those they tried to rule.

Matthew walked up Bridge Street. People were gathered in angry
clusters on street corners, and a crowd was outside Government
House. Ever since the rumours of the convict ship had been
confirmed, all work seem to have been suspended while one topic
was discussed, and the same questions asked over and over again. Where was the ship? When would it arrive? How many convicts aboard?
Who were the people who organised this and
why had it been allowed to
happen?
His name was scrutinised on a list, a guard nodded for him to
be admitted, and he was shown into the large formal room, where
the deputation waited for the governor. The room was full. He
observed with no surprise that Wentworth and most of the
Legislative Council were present, including the ubiquitous
Grayson. He recognised most of the others, owners of shops,
merchants, ship brokers, and lawyers. Sam Lyons was there,
Stewart the veterinary surgeon, the fiery Reverend Lang, and in

the midst of them, arrogant and indifferent to the surprise he
was creating, Benjamin Boyd. He saw Matthew; their eyes met
and they stared at each other for a moment, and finally it was Boyd who looked away. It's a long while since he's been in the governor's house, Matthew thought, and coincidentally wondered if the
rumours about Clarissa and Fitz Roy were true. Lucy, who had
lunched with Clarissa twice, maintained she had not the slightest
idea, although he doubted this.
Sam spotted him and edged through the crowd.
'Benny Boyd, eh,' he said softly in Matthew's ear. 'Brought the
news, they say. Bet he's in favour of lots of cheap convict
labour.'
'Not out loud, he's not,' Matthew murmured. 'You should
have heard him working the crowd. He's sniffed the wind and
decided being an anti might make him popular again.'
'Popular? 'Im? Got as much chance as a draught horse in the
Epsom Derby,' Sam said. 'Gave you a nasty look, eh?'
'I noticed.'
'I liked wot you wrote, about him spending two days in the
nick. How did it go again?'
'The distressing thought of a rich potentate without bail, is
like an emperor with no clothes,' Matthew quoted with relish.
'I love it,' Sam chuckled. 'Bet it didn't 'arf get his goat. Now
where's His bleeding Excellency? And is it true,' he whispered in
Matthew's ear, 'that little morsel I 'card about the Guv and
Clarissa?'
'I don't know,' Matthew replied softly.
'Well, if it suits 'er, good luck, I say. She had a bad time thanks
to Boyd, and our Daniel don't look like he's hurryin' home, does
he wherever
the 'ell he might be.'

Upstairs the governor was dressing, having decided to wear
his uniform as a Colonel of the Horse Guards. Clarissa watched
him pin on his medals, concerned. Would those who had
arranged this ship and so glibly promised all would be well still
support him? For since Boyd had brought word, and announced*
it so publicly, there had been days of increasingly angry protest.
Anti-transportation leagues had been formed. There was talk of
republicanism. If England was sending convicts, then break ties
with England.
Clarissa knew it would not be an easy meeting.
Fitz Roy was ready, resplendent in full regimental dress. He
touched his lips gently to Clarissa's cheek, braced himself for
what lay ahead, and went down to meet the deputation.


The rain persisted, it became colder as the violence of the gale
began to ease. The ocean was still turbulent. The bedraggled
transport pitched and rolled yet stayed afloat, like a tenacious
bobbing cork in the churning sea. It was at last deemed safe for
the hatches to be opened, and considered urgent to do so before
the human cargo suffocated. A stench rose from the forward
hold, as sailors backed away in disgust, repelled by the noxious
blend of urine, faeces and vomit, a ferment only partly distilled by
the salt breeze, while the stricken and seasick convicts lay huddled
below in their own filth, despairing and beyond caring. They
might have welcomed the cleansing rain if it had not been so
chilly. It was a relief to them and the crew, when the hatches had
to be replaced, and they were again enclosed in the malodorous
dark.
The coxswain helped untie Daniel from the helm, where he

had clung to the wheel for ten dreadful hours throughout the
previous night and was now, despite his youth and vitality,
utterly exhausted. He went into his tiny cabin and sat on the
wood-framed canvas bunk. His arms ached and his hands were
numb with cold. His eyes felt raw from the driving wind and
spray. He began to shiver, and realised his feet and body were
soaking wet. With an effort he removed his sea boots and clothes,
then huddled beneath the rough hessian blanket, drawing it tight
around him as he vainly tried to seek warmth.
He had saved the ship. The rain might continue, but the
squall that had threatened to swamp them or heel the vessel over
was done. A few more days, given calmer seas, should see them
sight Sydney Heads, and then under light sail proceed down
harbour to stand off Fort Macquarie for the pilot. With the
formalities completed, they would drop anchor and await orders
to land. He wondered how the colony was going to act when they
found out and what Matthew might say but
before he could
contemplate this further, he was sound asleep.



Hardly a deputation, the Governor thought irritably, more like a
damned invasion of his drawing room. He tried to conceal his disquiet.
There were so many factions; from those he knew were secretly a
party to the venture, to some like Boyd, there for the main
chance, and still others, dour opponents like the turbulent
Presbyterian minister John Dunmore Lang, who had already
been vociferous in his condemnation of both the governor and
the expected transport.
All men, of course, the governor thought, and felt it was a pity.
A great many women in the colony had sensible and informed

opinions, and some feminine faces would be agreeable among
this male assembly, all so intent on pressing their own concerns.
As he could have predicted, Edward Grayson was the first.
'The streets are not safe, Your Excellency. I think you should
alert the army. Business premises should be locked, and all police
called to duty. There's wild talk of treason and rebellion.'
'So I've been told, sir. And where do you stand?'
'Need Your Excellency ask? I'm for law and order,' Grayson
declared, plainly offended at being so questioned: 'I stand
alongside you as the representative of Her Majesty and the British
Crown.'
Tm delighted to hear it,' Fitz Roy said dryly. He was unsure
if he trusted Grayson, but had no doubt of his feelings towards
the other parson, who so often disparaged him in public. 'And
you, Reverend Lang? Are you for law and order, or intent on
preaching insurrection?'
'I preach only in church, to my congregation. I'm here to
register my public protest.'
'A peaceful protest, I'm sure,' William Wentworth said with
his practised equanimity.
'Some in this room may agree with you,' Lang retorted.
'There are others of us not feeling the least bit peaceful.'
'Nevertheless,' Wentworth insisted, 'I am sure this can be
discussed with less heat and more reason.'
'That depends.' Ben Boyd felt it was more than time to be
noticed. Once he would have been the first consulted. Now, it
seemed, people in this damned place chose to insult and ignore
him.
'Depends on what, Mr Boyd?' the governor asked.
'On Your Excellency's own position in the matter since
you

hold power of veto over whatever the majority on the Council
may decide. They may want cheap labour, but are you going to
allow London to dump a shipload of convicts on us?'
There was some derisive laughter at Boyd's volte-face, but no
real surprise. Most were aware of his duplicity in his search for a
return to celebrity status.
'You're a fine one to talk, sir,' a merchant called, 'after the
fiasco of your bank, and importing blacks to work your lands.'
'I pay them,' Boyd snapped back.
'Pay? Like hell,' another said. Tour crews shanghai them
from the Pacific islands. You dump the poor devils hundreds of
miles away in the Monaro, in the freezing cold, and treat them
like slaves.'
'That's a lie.'
'It's a well-known truth, and your being here is the damnedest
hypocrisy.'
'Don't you dare label me a hypocrite. Your father, like
Macarthur and all the rest, made a fortune in rum while they
ruined this place. You'd see it turned back into a penal colony,
just to suit your own selfish purposes,' Boyd said heatedly. 'Some
of you merinos in this room are an absolute disgrace.'
'Gentlemen. Gentlemen, please!' The governor tried to quell
the clamour that followed, as the room split into angry factions.
'Bickering among yourselves is hardly helpful, today of all days.'
Wentworth felt it time to add his voice to the restoration of
calm. Boyd should not be here. His rhetoric had already done too
much harm, stirring the town to take sides. It would be calamitous
if the meeting broke up in discord. It would not only undermine
vice-regal authority, but would not be in anyone's best
interests most
particularly his own.

'May I suggest, Excellency, we await the arrival of this ship, as
its captain will no doubt bear letters of explanation from Britain.'
'We know the explanation,' Boyd persisted. 'We don't need letters to tell us they've run out of space in their gaols and
we
have to make more room for the dregs of Newgate.'
There were a few murmurs of assent, but Boyd had little real
backing in here. No one was going to listen to him on issues of
morality. Wentworth knew it, and took advantage.
'Surely the maintenance of law and public order is our first
concern,' he said, and Matthew watched him use his persuasive
manner to quieten the room. 'We may agree to disagree, but we
must not allow disagreement to debase into petty grievance.
Some of us may have an apprehension about this matter, we may
have doubts, but we can surely meet His Excellency to discuss it
with civility. I suggest patience. When the ship reaches harbour it
will bring dispatches from the Colonial Office, and we can assess
the situation. Meanwhile, the town must remain calm. Threats of
violence or civil disobedience,' he speared a glance towards Ben
Boyd, 'do not assist His Excellency to preserve order.' Matthew saw most nod their heads in agreement with this
reasoned sentiment. The governor, clearly relieved, commended
Mr Wentworth's moderation. Only Grayson continued to call for
action.
'Let us remember, any talk of disorder and revolt is treason. I
have already had reports of our Sovereign Lady's name being vilified
in public by certain persons. I beg you again, Excellency, cancel all
army and police leave, and place the colony under full alert.'
'If you mean martial law, Mr Grayson, that would exacerbate
the situation.'
'It would be prudent.'

'Not, sir, in my opinion! Not until I see good cause for it, and
then if action is required, I will take it. In the meantime, we shall
be vigilant, but not reckless nor provoking.'
'Hear, hear,' muttered the majority, and the meeting ended
on this note of partial accord.
Matthew left the room. As he did so, he heard the Governor
announce his intention to serve sherry for any who cared to
remain.
He felt a sense of frustration, for the deputation had achieved
nothing, and had ended in little more than platitudes. Boyd's
opposition was so transparently for his own advantage, it would be ignored. It was clear what would finally happen. There would
be a few days of clamour and protest, then the ruling establishment
would prevail; the smooth diplomatic skill of those like Wentworth
would carry the day, since they were a majority in the Council.
Their cheap labour would be landed, a precedent created, and the
old order restored. He walked through the town, wondering if
this could be prevented. But how?
He knew Jeremy would tell him to take care, would remind
him he was a father himself now he
and Emily must not do
anything rash. But he did not want their son to grow up in a
convict colony. His own childhood and formative years had been
spent in the last decade of transportation, seeing the arrival of
prison hulks, with chained men or women being disembarked
and marched through the streets to be assigned. It could
not must
not be allowed to begin again.
He needed someone to talk to. If only Daniel was here. If only
he knew where Daniel was! Up north in the Pacific, he'd said
before leaving, but that was at least a year and a half ago.





Through the glass Daniel could see a fringe of breakers, and the
white sand of a distant beach. The sea, no longer agitated, was
settling into a ruffled pattern of rolling foam. The old vessel,
with sails close hauled, ran before a nor'-easterly breeze. He
climbed the foremast, and perched himself safely on the stunsail
boom. Below him on deck, sail-makers were repairing the torn
shrouds. He had no need of a sextant now; he knew this coast as
well as anyone afloat. There was a light fleecy cloud, drifting
gently across the sky; he watched it and ordered more canvas on
the main mast, and sent sailors aloft in the rigging to inspect for
damage in the yards and stays.
He felt revitalised, even though his sleep over the past few
days had been taken in brief two-hour spans. He rarely slept
longer, no matter how long the watch or how demanding the
weather. It had always been like that at sea. He could take short
naps and be refreshed; he thrived on the adrenalin of a rolling
deck under his feet and a salt breeze, while the prospect of danger
stimulated him like a drug. It was the same since he was a boy,
when he and Matthew had sailed his sprit-rigged ketch upriver to
Parramatta, and ferried passengers back to Dawes Point.
He frowned and thought about Matthew. Because of the
proximity of his arrival, he began to feel nervous about the kind
of welcome he might receive two days from now. It had been
suggested in London the most sensible thing was to stand off,
outside the heads, wait there and come in under cover of night. It
was also the firm opinion handed out by Surgeon Hunt, now that
he had recovered his sea legs and was visible and
unfortunately
audible on
deck again.
'Avoid any fuss. I can see nothing but disadvantage in a daylight
arrival. Late at night, that's my advice if
you care to listen.'

Use the dark and his knowledge of the harbour. Be there
anchored off the fort for the formalities at dawn, before the city
was fully awake and aware. Slink in, was what the Admiralty and
the surgeon really meant. The trouble is, Daniel thought, that had never been his way.

The telescope, given to him by the Duke of Suffolk on his last trip
to the old country, apart from being a most handsome present,
was of daily use to William Wentworth. The Duke, an enthusiastic
astronomer, had waxed lyrical on the joys of observing the Great
Bear and the Plough on clear English nights, forgetting that his
guest, not an Englishman at all, but native born, was far more
likely to appreciate the Milky Way and the Southern Cross.
In fact, it was more often used in daylight by Wentworth for
the pleasure of observing the harbour view and ship movements
below; the arriving emigrant packets, the sturdy freighters and
sleek clippers, and the thrill of seeing a fully rigged barque, with
the wind filling the sails on its way to or from the open sea. Even
Suffolk, so attached to astral constellations, would surely feel
these were visions to rival a heaven full of the most celestial
stars.
Wentworth was a paradox, for while many of his kind loathed
the place and wanted only to return to the cultured world that
began at Dover, he was fiercely proud of his homeland even
if
quite willing to exploit it. He had that patriotic pride in common
with the currency lads and lasses, although neither might be
pleased to acknowledge such a bond.
He adjusted the focus of the lens and could clearly see the
deck of the Peveril Bay as she came through the heads and into

the calm of the harbour. Despite what he had been led to expect,
her captain had chosen to enter in broad daylight and under full
sail! Whoever he might be, this young man, he was not about to hide.
The ship was proudly rigged, even if most of the sails bore
signs of wear. One of the booms seemed to be missing, and a rear
mast appeared to have been repaired. From the flag station high
on the south head, a signaller was hoisting pennants to semaphore
the town. Within moments the lookout on Flagstaff Hill would
know of the ship's arrival, and messages would be raised on the
internal semaphore to relay the news. It would then be deciphered
by those on the harbour slopes, and circulated around the
streets.
What might happen then was something that occupied his
mind. For one thing was becoming crystal clear, from the tumult
since the news had been confirmed. In their haste to achieve the
objective of restoring transportation, he and the others had
misread the situation. They had badly underestimated the mood
here, and would have to be extremely careful.

It was cobalt blue, the entrance to the harbour, the waves dancing and glittering in the sun. Stand off and wait for dark? Sneak in? He wouldn't have missed this for worlds. He glanced at the set face
of the surgeon who had been swift to register his complaint at
this highly visible arrival. Madness, he'd said.
Well, madness it might be, Daniel thought, but what a sight. The old
sea captain who'd been the first governor had been right-having now
seen many of the world's harbours, Daniel believed and there was none to
match it anywhere.

It was warm and sunny, a perfect Sydney day. He could see the
windmills projecting above a rash of new houses on the hillsides.
A pilot boat from Fort Macquarie was leaving Bennelong's Point.
A naval pinnace was also coming out to meet the ship, and he
gave the order to strike sail. The anchor was run out; the pinnace
came alongside, and he saw the uniform of a Royal Marine
lieutenant. Beside him was a figure with gleaming polished cross-strap
and the crowns of a major in the Fusiliers, and he realised
the governor had sent one of his senior military advisers to meet
them. The major Major
Morgan brusquely
introduced himself
to Surgeon-Superintendent Laurence Hunt, as if he was in charge
of the ship. They shook hands, and before the major could even
acknowledge Daniel, the surgeon said he would like a few words
in private. While they conversed in Hunt's cabin, the sun went
behind a cloud, the blue water lost its lustre, and the day began
to change.
There was a small crowd along the shore, watching as the
pilot boat led them past Sydney Cove towards Cockatoo Island.
They stood off there, the pinnace and pilot boat alongside, as
they again dropped anchor. In the vicinity of their mooring as if by deliberate intent were
other ships, all recent arrivals who
had brought free emigrants. From these, as well as from passing
barges, ferries, and the growing crowd, Daniel could see angry
gestures; he could hear hostile shouts but not the actual words.
Though the feeling everywhere was plain. The abrasive Major
Morgan had soon made that apparent.
'His Excellency has issued strict orders that you and the crew
remain on board. Under no circumstances will any of you, except
your surgeon-superintendent, be allowed to disembark.'
'For how long,' Daniel asked, 'do we remain aboard?'


'Until the governor or I determine the best course of action to
be taken,' the major said icily. 'In the meantime, I'm to relieve you
of any dispatches from Lord Grey or the Colonial Office.'
'There are sealed letters in my cabin for the governor.'
'I'll take possession of them.'
'And the passengers the
convicts?'
'Will remain below at present until
I order them ashore.'
'It's stinking hot below.'
'You can open the hatches after dark. For one hour.'
'The poor bastards need food, and fresh air. They've been on
half rations and hardly enough water for the past few weeks. It's
been a hell trip for them.'
'I'm well aware it was a hell trip. Mr Hunt says this voyage has
taken far longer than was reasonable.'
'I can imagine he did,' Daniel said.
'He informs me he made exact and proper provision, but your
lack of seamanship caused delays that meant the water turned
foul, and the food went rancid. He reports you were not fit to
command, and he intends to make it known to the authorities
and senior naval officer.'
Daniel felt a moment of rage. It was patently untrue, but
there was little point in saying so. Hunt was standing within
distance, to enjoy his triumph. The crew would not risk censure
from the surgeon who would make his report on the voyage,
which this major with
his gleaming boots and bristling
moustache already
believed. He had an irrational but strong
desire to grab him and toss him overboard, to see his cap floating
away as the pompous oaf attached to it sank from sight.
Morgan, as if reading his mind, took a quick step back.
'I shall leave troops on board, to make sure His Excellency's

orders are carried out. Now hand me all communications and be
sharp about it.'
Daniel could not tolerate him a moment longer. Words
tumbled into his mind, and he was unable to restrain them.
'You're on my deck, major, and I don't take commands like
that here. Especially not from a togged-up tailor's dummy like
you.'
The first mate and the Marine lieutenant blinked and glanced
at each other. Hunt stared open-mouthed at Daniel, as if he had
not heard correctly. The major was bright crimson with outrage.
'I beg your pardon?' he said.
'I want you off my ship. Right now.'
'How dare you! I demand the letters for the governor first.'
'The letters are sealed and personal for His Excellency. I'll give
them to the lieutenant. Once you've gone.'
'You may find that attitude unwise, Johnson.'
'Go ashore, major. Take that apology of a surgeon with you.'
'You impertinent young bastard,' Laurence Hunt said, his
usual aplomb discarded in heated animosity. 'You'll regret this.'
Daniel ignored him and resumed talking to Morgan, as if
there had been no interruption. 'You won't leave troops on board,
major, not without an order from the Legislative Council. I
believe that's the law.'
'You're a fool, boy. We keep records, and you've had trouble
before. I know your background. A currency lad, the illegitimate
scum of a convict tart. You're in no position to antagonise
authority here.'
Daniel wanted to lash out, to beat the officer's bland face
until it bled. Instead he kept his clenched fists by his side, and his
voice under control and determinedly calm. 'You're wrong sir.



I'm the authority here. As master of this vessel, under sea law,
while we're still on board I outrank you. And the surgeon-superintendent
may be surprised to know it, but I outrank him.
Now both of you get the hell off this ship.'
The first mate thought it was worth enduring the long
voyage to see this. He'd certainly make sure all the crew heard
about it. The marine lieutenant could hardly wait to tell the story
in the mess that night. They watched as Hunt seemed about to
bluster, then resentfully left the deck. Major Morgan followed
him, so swollen with affront and indignation that it seemed the
buttons of his uniform must burst, as the pair boarded the
pinnace alongside with
the major loudly demanding he be
taken at once to the Botanical steps, and put ashore with all
possible haste.

'I don't believe we should do anything premature,' Sir Charles
Fitz Roy said carefully.
'I merely request, sir, this person, this upstart be arrested, and
the convicts be immediately brought ashore for assignment. Let's
march them through the streets and show people who runs this
place.' The major was still incredulous at his treatment, and
flushed with anger.
'No,' said the governor. 'The convicts will not be brought
ashore and put on display. That's the last thing we need. Nothing
will be done until I've met again with the Council, to resolve the
best course of action. And talked with Brigadier Farrar about the
military situation.'
'The prisoners can't stay out there, Your Excellency.'
'We have no choice.'

'They'll foul the harbour, and next thing they'll be escaping.
It's a sink of iniquity down below in that ship.'
'Did you go below, major?'
'Of course not. The stench was indescribable. I had no need
to inform myself by closer acquaintance.'
The governor sighed. He had hesitated before sending this
officer, despite his seniority, and it seemed his concerns were
justified. 'We shall make a decision on what's to be done within
forty-eight hours, Morgan.'
'In my opinion, that's too long, sir.'
'Your opinion is noted.'
'My experience here should also be considered. The unrest in
the colony is extensive and
I assure you it will grow.'
'If it does then army leave will be cancelled, and all troops
and constables placed on alert. But under no circumstances will
I be rushed into a rash decision.'
The major clicked his heels. It seemed to imply an answer.
'At least you'll sign a warrant of arrest for the ship's master.
I've had one drawn up, and it can be acted upon at once,' he said,
producing it. 'His name is Johnson. Daniel Johnson.'
'No ' Fitz Roy said firmly. 'He will remain aboard in charge of
his vessel and
his cargo.'
'His cargo is the responsibility of Mr Hunt, the Surgeon-Superintendent,
who this offensive young whelp has ordered off

the ship.'
'I believe that's the captain's privilege. I do not intend, major,
to become embroiled in personal disagreements which are none
of our concern. Now, if that is all I'm
rather busy.'

'Your Excellency.'
Morgan's look was mutinous, his salute less than military as




he left the room. Charles Fitz Roy shook his head. Major Morgan
was unfortunately the most senior officer on his personal staff,
and would have been deeply offended if the governor had
followed his own instinct and used his aide, Lieutenant Marshall.
He needed a drink and better company, and went upstairs to join
Clarissa in their private sitting room.
'The galloping major,' she said, 'has obviously trodden on
someone's toes again.'
'The ship's captain,' the governor said. 'The man's just an
incredible oaf. An absolute bloody fool.'
'The ship's captain?' Clarissa asked.
'No. Morgan. All I know of the captain is that he's young,
obviously headstrong, and his name is Daniel Johnson. And he
clearly dislikes the galloping major.' Fitz Roy smiled. He went to
pour them each a drink, and in doing so missed her astounded
reaction.
'Daniel Johnson?' She tried to control her voice, but the
governor turned.
'Do you know him?'
'I believe I sketched him once.' She shrugged, by now under
control. 'I'm sure I did. Before you and Mary came here, when I
earned a precarious living as an artist.' She smiled away Fitz Roy's
quizzical look. 'He was just a boy. But a nice one, I seem to
remember.'
'How old would he be now? This nice boy?'
'Daniel? About twenty-five.'
'I wonder how he came to be skipper of the convict ship?'
'Yes I
was wondering that myself.'
Later, when the governor had gone downstairs, she went to
the window and looked out. The harbour was crowded with

vessels at anchor. Tall masts stood around the quay and beyond
the fort. There was little point in trying to use Charles's telescope.
It was impossible to pick out the Peveril Bay. The thought of
Daniel being somewhere down there, within a mile of her after so long made her heart quicken. I'd give the world to see you, my love, she thought. If only it were possible.

Chapter 28

The closed carriage waited on the quay. Daniel told the boatman
to stay by the barge until his return. He sat back on the plush,
cushioned seat, relishing the unfamiliar luxury as they drove in
the dark along the harbour shore, then turned east into the gaslit
streets. He knew he was only a short distance from the printery
and the Conway home above it. He wished he could tell the
coachman to divert there, to wait while he went inside and gave
Bess a hug, shook hands with Jeremy, a sisterly kiss on the cheek
for Lucy although
he wasn't so sure about the sisterly part after
his last memory of her talking
about her breasts and how she
was almost a woman. By now that was true, he realised; she was
nineteen, grown up and probably no longer a larrikin. He smiled;
a smile tinged with sadness. He'd miss the larrikin, and perhaps
never know the young lady, for he doubted if he'd be welcome
there when they heard the news not
this night nor in the
future.
They crossed the town and drove through Hyde Park. It was
quiet at this hour, except in the military barracks that Francis
Greenway had built, where lights still burned, and no doubt
plans were being made to get the convicts ashore tomorrow

without much trouble. At least he hoped so. He wanted to be
done with it, be free to recover his schooner and be gone from
here. He had been forced into this assignment, and from the first
day since leaving Gravesend dock, had bitterly regretted it. But
the facts of his entrapment would never be known, and so he
would become a pariah in his own country. An outcast who had
brought this place a shipload of human rejects. He would not be
allowed to forget that. Any disturbing premonitions about his
reception had been fully confirmed by the hostility to his
arrival.
So what future did he have? Only the schooner. Retrieve it and find a
shipyard cheap enough to refit it for a long voyage. The Marie could sail to
California, and already he'd heard people were leaving here to join what
had become a gold rush. He could easily find paying passengers, and
raising a crew would not he difficult. And after that... ? He realised the carriage had stopped.
The same footman opened the door, and Daniel went inside.
He gave the man his sea jacket to hang up, ignoring his pained
look and supercilious sniff. In the large room upstairs Edward
Grayson nodded a welcome, wondered whether to shake hands,
and introduced his well-known companion instead.
'Mr Wentworth.'
William Wentworth seemed to have no such reservations. He
held out his hand and said, 'Congratulations on your safe arrival,
Johnson. Welcome back.'
'Thank you, sir,' Daniel said, 'though I hear that there are
different kinds of welcome.'
'That's what we brought you here to talk about. This awkward
situation, and how to deal with it.'
'I'd say there's just one way.'

'And what's that?'
'Don't wait. Get the convicts off before dawn tomorrow.
Then you avoid time for trouble or any demonstrations.'
'I agree with you. But unfortunately the governor seems incapable of decisive action. He's called a meeting of the Legislative
Council for the morning. We'll be obliged to go through the
tedium of debate and a vote, all of us knowing what the result
must be. We have the numbers, of course. But Governor Fitz Roy
has the power of veto do
you understand the political
complexities of this place?'
'It hardly matters,' Grayson said impatiently, 'whether he
understands or not. What he needs to understand the
only
thing he need understand is
we cannot disembark that damned
cargo at present.'
Wentworth made no reply for a moment. Then, as if to
rebuke the other for his lack of manners, he said: 'I don't believe
you've offered your guest a drink?'
'A brandy, Johnson? Or a glass of port?'
'Thank you, Your Worship, I don't drink.'
'A sailor who doesn't drink. Extraordinary.'
'My father taught me not to,' Daniel said, with a sudden flash
of anger at the condescension.
'He was against drink?'
'No, sir. He was drunk every day of his life, until he fell in the
harbour and drowned.'
Grayson cleared his throat as if about to say something, then
was silent. Outside, on the cobbled roadway came the sound of a
horse and carriage driving past.
'Did that happen long ago?' Wentworth asked quietly.
'Long enough,' Daniel replied, feeling a strange moment of

kinship with this powerful man, and if they'd been alone, might
well have felt impelled to tell him the truth about that day. But
even as he thought it, he knew you didn't talk about such things
to a man like this.
'We have to delay bringing your passengers ashore, until the
governor gives his consent,' Wentworth said, returning to the
matter.
'And he's timid,' Grayson said. 'He's a weak man.'
'We can do nothing without vice-regal decree. That's a fact of
life here. His Excellency is 'concerned because there is
opposition far
more than we anticipated.'
'The man's gutless. Too busy fornicating with that woman.'
There was no doubting the parson's lack of discretion.
'Being personal achieves nothing,' Wentworth, considerably
more prudent, admonished him. 'Politically he's a careful
man so
we must take care.' He turned back to Daniel. 'A
deputation made clear we have a divisive situation, and I'm afraid
I had to propose delay and caution. It was no time to force the
issue.'
'So you see, Johnson, you can't get rid of your convicts yet,'
Grayson said, intervening. 'What's more, we rely on you to keep
that riff-raff quiet, and to keep them on board. There's to be no
escapes,' he warned, 'or our agreement about your schooner is
rendered null and void.'
'You can't do that,' Daniel said, staring at him.
'Don't tell me what I can and can't do.'
'We have a signed paper, Mr Grayson.'
'With certain conditions. You'd be advised to read them more
carefully. The small print is always worth reading.'
As he said it, Daniel could sense the amused contempt with

which Grayson regarded him. He felt an intense dislike for this
minister turned politician. He preferred the urbane, if glib, Mr
Wentworth, no matter what Matthew said about him. Matt had
called him a foxy turncoat who crossed sides for his own financial
gain, but at least the man was cordial, unlike the slimy Grayson. (
He'd been a fool to trust him.
'You have to deliver the convicts safely to
my satisfaction is
what our contract says. You were offered troops to stand guard,
and like a fool refused them. You offended Major Morgan,'
Grayson said.
'He spoke to me like I was dirt. Gave me orders as if I was
some deckhand. I don't take that from anyone --'
'He's a senior officer. You had no right to show disrespect. We
could have had the ship secured, but your lack of control has
created a dangerous situation. You lost your temper.'
'If I did, I was well provoked,' Daniel said, knowing he was on
the verge of losing it again. 'When I said I didn't want his troops,
I counted on the arrangements we'd made that
the convicts
would be taken off as soon as possible after we arrived.'
'Mr Wentworth has explained why we can't do that. The
conditions have changed, and we had to change our plans
accordingly.'
'It might have helped if you'd sent someone to meet the ship,
to tell me. Or come yourself.'
'Don't be obtuse, Johnson. I can hardly be seen to do that.'
'No, you want to keep your head down. Meanwhile, you're
good at making threats, and your promises are worthless. I'd best
go back to the ship. I think I'll feel more comfortable there.'
'I was certainly not proposing you remain here any longer
than necessary. But before you leave, I have to tell you there's

been an adverse report on your ability from the surgeon-superintendent.'
'He's no surgeon. Your friends at the Admiralty signed Mr
Hunt not
as a doctor but
because he's expert at making short
rations go a long way. He knows as much about medicine as I do
about religion.'
He did not wait for Grayson's reply. At the top of the stairs
after he left the room, he realised Wentworth had followed him.
'We should try to remain on the same side, Johnson.'
'Tell your friend.'
'He's hardly a friend of mine. This matter has made us
associates, that's all.'
They walked down the wide, ornate staircase together.
'How long before we can get them off?' Daniel asked.
'I hope tomorrow.'
'So do I, sir. It won't be easy to stop them jumping ship.
Different at sea. But I can't rightly keep them locked up in those
holds now we're in harbour at
least not for long.'
'I suspect you feel sorry for them.'
'I do,' Daniel said. 'I've seen the lists of their convictions.
None of them has committed any serious crime, nothing terrible.
Not bad enough to chain and give 'em months of hell, knowing
they won't see England again.'
'And all because we pure merinos want cheap labour here, is
that what you mean?'
'I didn't say so.'
'You didn't have to. Yet consider this: once the horror of the
voyage is over, they may find a place for themselves here. Australia
might offer them more than an English prison ever could.'
At Gravesend, Daniel recalled, he'd had the same thought

himself, but all he said was: 'I doubt if they'd find it easy to
believe you.'
'Perhaps not. But this place is going to prosper, and it offers
great opportunity you
know it as well as I do. After all, we could
even be considered examples. Your mother, like mine, came 'out
the hard way. We have that in common, unlike His Worship
upstairs.'
'Yes, sir.'
He was surprised, although it was widely known. People of
his kind did not make a habit of parading their convict parentage.
But there were significant differences. Your mother was lucky enough to he fancied by the fleet surgeon, Daniel thought. Mine had the terrible
misfortune to meet my father.
They waited in the vast hallway, while Grayson's footman
brought the sea jacket, handed it to Daniel with barely disguised
disdain, and went away. Wentworth waited until he had gone,
then said:
'It is crucial there are no incidents. Mr Grayson did not put it
well, but trouble aboard would give support to those opposing
us.'
'A few constables might be helpful, sir.'
'I'll arrange it. Expect them before sunrise.'
'And a doctor? A real one. It'd be a comfort.'
'Are there many ill?'
'Some from the diet. And a few with mild fever.'
'You'll have your doctor.'
'Thank you. I'm sorry I upset Major Morgan,' Daniel said.
'Major Morgan is easily upset. A pompous ass of a man. To
hear him talk, you'd think he'd won the battle of Waterloo.'
'Well, he lost the battle of Cockatoo.'

He thought he had overstepped the mark, decided he didn't
care, then saw that Wentworth was smiling.

The carriage took him back to the deserted quay. It was no longer
as comfortable on the return journey; he seemed to feel each
bump and rut in the road as he considered the meeting and the
implication for the morning. He was not going to get his
passengers off in time to avoid an ugly confrontation. That was
becoming clear. These fine rich gents and their promises and
plans, it was all going badly wrong. And in addition, there was
Grayson's threat. Null and void. How, if they had a signed paper?
He had never liked Grayson, but until now had reluctantly taken
him at his word. Tonight the bastard had shown his true
colours.
It was late, and the taverns around the circular quay were
shrouded in darkness. Much had changed in the eighteen months
he had been away. More land reclaimed, extra wharves added,
another large warehouse built. Bales of wool were stacked, to be
loaded at first light. The Customs House was barred and locked,
as if smuggling ended with the sunset. But he knew there'd be
officers and runners making calls on newly arrived ships, looking
for illegal cargo. Repelled by the thought of the convicts aboard
his, they had left one unfortunate there with orders to see no
liquor was floated ashore.
He saw Geraghty's Maritime Hotel, and glimpsed a lamp in
one of the upstairs windows. He rapped on the carriage roof to
attract the attention of the driver, and the coach stopped.
'Yes, sir?' The driver was elderly, and polite.
'I just need a few minutes' fresh air,' he said. 'A stroll.'

He walked across the street, and turned to look back at the
hotel. He vividly remembered when Geraghty ran his dilapidated
pothouse on the shores of Cockle Bay. Grog had been good to
people in this town, and none more so than Sean Geraghty. He
saw the darkened end room that had once been Marie's, and
thought of the painful memory of that night in Limehouse, the
squalid music hall -Maree from
the wilds of Botany Bay and
how
he'd walked away feeling, not disgust, or shame or censure of her,
but an unbearable sorrow. Grief, he thought, that was the feeling. As if she had died. A heartbreaking grief worse than he'd felt all those years
ago, trying to mourn his mother in her pauper's grave.
He wanted to hurl a brick, smash the windows, tell the Irish
bastard what had happened to his daughter; that she was a whore
because his depravity had made her one. He even stooped to pick
up a rock, but reason prevailed, and he walked back to the
carriage instead, nodding his thanks to the driver, and was taken
to where the barge waited.
He thought again about Grayson's threat. Null and void. If he
could not get the schooner back, he had no future.

'Damned lout,' Grayson said, while they took a glass of port
before Wentworth's departure. He was on the verge of a
disparaging comment on the boy's convict ancestry, but
remembered and managed to stop himself in time. It was one of
the irritants here; so many with respectable fathers, and God
knows what kind of women as mothers.
'What did you expect?' Wentworth asked. 'An officer and a
gentleman? He can handle a ship, despite what your surgeon
says, and I can't say I found him objectionable.'

'But you would hardly invite him to your house. Or dine
publicly with him.'
It was a snide reference to the low profile Wentworth had
been determined to keep in this matter, and they both regarded
each other with cautious dislike for a moment, then drained their
glasses.
Grayson rang for his guest's cloak. He accompanied him to
the front door, before he asked: 'Isn't there some pressure we can
bring to bear on Fitz Roy?'
'Were you thinking of his paramour?'
'Perhaps. After all, I doubt if she is independently wealthy.
Some arrangement could be made.'
'I think you'll find Mistress Wilberforce has her own standards
of loyalty, and a bribe would not be one of them.'
He thought it was a gratifying note on which to leave, bade
his host a formal farewell, and entered his expensive and newly
imported carriage. Grayson stood at the door of his house and
watched the liveried coachman drive him in the direction of the
road to Vaucluse.
'Wretched bloody man,' he said, and went inside.

'Offensive oaf,' Wentworth muttered, as he relaxed in the carriage
and decided he would sleep on the long journey home. He had
intended to spend the night at his chambers, but felt so disturbed
by the turn of events that he wanted the comfort of his own
house. He could relax in the privacy of his study there, for he had
much to think about.
Grayson and his associates had not handled this matter well.
He did not include himself in this, for while he had worked toimprove the interests of landowners and introduce cheap labour,
first floating the idea of importing coolies from Asia, and when
this was opposed as expected, then implying that convicts would be less offensive despite
such manipulation of public
opinion he
had done it publicly, and kept carefully free of any
taint of conspiracy.
He dozed for a while, and woke as he saw the parapets of
Vaucluse House ahead. It had been a splendid buy, this estate, the
year of his marriage to Sarah, so soon after his curt rebuff by the
imperious John Macarthur. It was still a vivid memory, and one
he chose not to revisit too frequently.
He had returned from London in great style, with letters of
commendation from the Colonial Office, and had asked
permission to call on Macarthur at his Parramatta farm, to
discuss a matter of some mutual importance. After a leisurely
lunch he suggested their families be joined by a marriage. It was
not immodest, he explained, to consider himself a leading figure
in the colony, with much to recommend him.
The sharp-featured, arrogantly aquiline face had listened to
him in silence. Macarthur heard his visitor had a fancy for his
second daughter, but would not presume to speak to her until he
had assurance from her father it met with his approval.
'It doesn't.'
He could still recall the clipped voice, the penetrating eyes.
'I assure you, Wentworth, if I had known this was your purpose,
I could have saved you the embarrassment and
the journey.'
He had done his best not to be offended. Humiliated himself
by pointing out he was a man of substance, well regarded in
social circles. He had published a book on New South Wales and
Van Diemen's Land, the first printed work by a native-born

Australian; he owned large land grants, and was already called to
the Bar. He had high political ambitions, and a union with the
Macarthur family would consolidate both their names.
'Can you not cease this monologue, sir? I assure you, under
no circumstances will you marry any daughter of mine.'
'May I know why?'
'Indeed you may, if you wish to hear it.'
'Since it seems so cavalier and contemptuous, I do most
certainly wish to hear it.'
'I'd hoped to spare you any hurt or disrespect.'
'A strange choice of words, since you have already chosen to
insult me by your manner and your refusal.'
'Very well,' Macarthur said icily. 'You are not acceptable to
me, because of your family.'
'My mother? If you disdain people whose mothers were transported, there must be precious few eligible to enjoy your
exalted company.' He was raising his voice in anger, but had no
control over it. His mother had been sentenced for stealing a
dress, and had died when he was a child, after a short, unhappy
life. And here was this supercilious sheep breeder and profiteer in
the rum trade denigrating her.
'I'm not talking of your mother,' Macarthur said. 'From all
accounts I'm told she was a gentle woman. I'm talking of your
father.'
'Then you're talking slander. He was Assistant-Surgeon to
the Second Fleet. Superintendent of Convicts on Norfolk Island.
A magistrate and civil member of the Supreme Court bench .. .'
'Spare us, Wentworth. Your father's an old man in worthy
retirement on his Homebush estate, but you know as well as I do,
he was twice tried in England for highway robbery.'

'And twice acquitted.' He was angered beyond discretion.
'Twice acquitted through the failure of the main witnesses to
identify him in court. And advised that if he was seen loitering
around the alleys of Seven Dials again, he'd end up in chains, so
he'd best be smart and find a future for himself in New South
Wales. That's the truth about your father, and why you'll marry
no daughter of mine.'
Wentworth remembered the exact words, as he stood looking
from his study window, down the length of the harbour. A few
distant lanterns swung on ships at anchor. He rarely drank alone,
but he poured himself a brandy, still disturbed by the recollection
of that day. It was true, of course; his father, held in such esteem,
had twice escaped justice by the most dubious means. He had
learned of it in London; what had shocked him was it being
known here.
He had ridden away from Elizabeth Farm, and not seen
John Macarthur again. They were both long dead now, his own
father and the father of the wool industry. That day had turned
him into a passionate Emancipist, and for the next ten years he
had been a thorn in the flesh of successive governors demanding self-rule speaking
for ex-convicts against the hated Exclusives.
His had been the strongest voice, the fiercest opponent of the
squatters. He had alarmed them in London, particularly when
he began to suggest the people of New South Wales might turn
from those who ruled by notion of their own superiority, and
look instead to the democratic States of America for help. Even
now, thinking of it, he felt the heady excitement of that time.
They were going to create a new Jerusalem in this far-flung alien
land.
It had totally changed, in due course. He was honest

enough to accept his opponents had managed to outmanoeuvre
him. Duchessed him, it was called, in English circles. It
started the day Macarthur's eldest son, James, had come to
shake hands and suggest it was time for them to form an
alliance. He had taken the hand, and the lure. Taken it, he had
to admit, quite eagerly; aligning himself with the Exclusives,
the conservative pastoralists, and had in time become their
leader.
Now he and they were responsible for that prison hulk which
threatened to divide the town, and which had been a serious
mistake. If the full extent of his involvement were known, it could
ruin him.


'


Chapter 29


TO ALL CITIZENS
THE CONVICT SHIP HAS ARRIVED. LET US ALL
COMBINE TO PREVENT THIS OUTRAGE AND
STOP THE FELONS BEING LANDED. AT NOON
TOMORROW A MEETING WILL BE HELD AT
CIRCULAR QUAY, TO CONDEMN THIS SHIP. WE
URGE EVERYONE TO BE THERE. LET ALL
PLACES OF BUSINESS BE CLOSED. LET EVERY
MAN AND WOMAN MAKE THEIR VOICES HEARD
TOMORROW. LET US SHOW THE POWER OF
THE PEOPLE.

Matthew held the lantern as he proof-read the poster. He was
unaware of being observed, until he heard the cellar door softly
open, and saw it was Lucy in her nightgown.
'What are you doing ...' she began to ask.
He quickly hushed her with a finger to his lips. He pointed
upstairs, to where their parents were sleeping.
'What is it?' she whispered.
It was too late to hide it, so he had no choice but to show her

the proof. The ink on it was still wet. She began to read, then her
eyes widened and she shut the door behind her.
'Did you organise this?'
The and a few others. Henry Parkes, Robert Lowe, some of the
Emancipist members of the Council.'
'Does Pa know?' she whispered.
'Better that he doesn't.'
'Matt, there'll be trouble if anyone finds out.'
'Go back upstairs to bed.'
'What are you going to do?'
'Print them, of course. Three thousand at least. There's a
bunch of us will put them up all over town before daylight.'
'Can I help?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Pa will be upset enough, if he finds out. I don't want to
involve you. Please, Lucy.'
'You mean I'm a girl, and can't come? I won't accept that.'
'You know that isn't the reason. There'll be coppers out, and
troopers. If we're caught, you have to write this week's edition.
You and Pa, but especially you.'
'Don't you dare get caught,' she said, alarmed.
'Don't worry. But if it did happen, your story is the convict
ship. Who brought it? Who's behind it? Ask Wentworth how he feels, and is this his vision splendid? Ask Boyd what changed him
from a rabid supporter to opponent? And how many of his
Pacific Islanders died down there in the cold of the high country?
You'll get nothing from Grayson but banality and cliches, but
you might have a better chance of a comment than I would. So go
to bed and think about all that. Because I'll need your help.'

'My help,' Lucy reflected, after a long pause. 'Is that meant to
be a compliment?'
'I haven't time for compliments. If I had, it could be.'
'That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Matthew. It
may be the only nice thing you've said to me.'
'I'll live to regret it. Go to bed.'
'Not yet. What happens to the convicts if
they can't land?'
'The ship must take them somewhere else. Who cares?'
'I do. It's a crucial part of this story.'
'Yes,' he said, realising it was time to stop underestimating
her, 'I suppose it is.'
'They're ordinary people, just like our mother and father were
on their convict ships.'
'I can't think like that. Perhaps I should, Lucy, but to me
they're like a plague. Let them be taken back to England, or
anywhere in the world, as long as it's not here.'
'You don't have any sympathy? It never occurs to you they
might be victims like Ma and Pa?'
'We mustn't allow ourselves to feel that way.'
'It's plain humanity, Matt.'
'But if we sympathise if
they come ashore and we accept
them without protest then
other ships are bound to follow.
This place will be a penal colony again.'
'They must have been at sea for months.'
'I expect so,' Matthew said, inking the cylinder of the flatbed
press. 'But we can't let them land.'
'I don't welcome them but
I still feel sorry for them,' Lucy
replied.
'So does Emily.'
'What did you tell her?'


'The same as I'm telling you. But she agrees with me. Not
you you
always argue back.'
'I'll have a quiet word to Emily. Women must have minds of
their own.'
'She has a mind of her own,' Matthew retorted. 'She also has
a child, and neither of us want him to grow up in a place where
England dumps its gaolbirds. Now go upstairs please.
Or I
won't have this done in time.'
'It'll be quicker with two of us. I'll help you just
with the
printing,' she said before he could protest. She watched as he
began to guillotine the paper to size, and place it on the platen. 'I
wonder how they feel about this?'
'The convicts?' he asked.
'No...'
'You mean the Merinos? Wentworth and his mob were all
there at Government House. Full of themselves. Confident.'
'Not them either,' Lucy told him. 'I meant the others ...'
'What others?'
'The crew of the ship. Do you think they know how strongly
people are against it?'
'They must,' Matthew said. 'No one welcomes a plague and they were the ones who brought it.'

Daniel could not sleep. He heard the wash of the tide against the
hull, and mingled with it the voices of the prisoners in the convict
holds far below. They were complaining, he imagined, as well
they might, for it was a hot and humid February night, and with
the hatches closed it would be like an oven. So often in these past
months he had identified with the poor devils down there, tried

to imagine how it must have been for Bess, or his own mother or
Jeremy. Tonight the voyage was over, but he wished it had never
occurred. He wished he was ashore with Matt and Emily and perhaps Lucy would be there. He knew there was no likelihood
Clarissa would be, and wondered whether she had gone back to
England, or was in some other part of the colony. If only he had
not taken that ill-fated journey, and had been there to help her
when the revulsion of what the gallery owner had done made her
flee from Sydney.
Thoughts tormented him. If only she had remained a few
weeks longer at the Martens' house. Or left word for him with the
landlady at the studio. She had been such an important part of
his life, Clarissa. He was barely twenty when he met her, yet it had
been so natural the
difference in their ages had meant nothing
to them. Lying sleepless in the dark, with the resonating peal of
the rigging as the ship shifted with the change of wind, he
remembered the first day they had met, in the gardens above
Farm Cove recalled
vividly those deep blue eyes and that
animated smile. He had always known it would never last. Yet it
had lasted almost
four joyous years and
it might never have
ended if he had not taken the shipment to Brisbane.
If not for that, he would never have become embroiled with
people like Grayson and William Wentworth. He could tolerate
the latter but
the Reverend was a different matter. The Reverend was a prick, he thought, no two ways about it. He was a scheming opportunist, and if the gossip was true, his money had all derived
from his timid and retiring wife. Grayson had only one objective,
which was to milk this place of every possible penny, and then
retire with his wealth to some Elizabethan manor house in the English countryside.

He turned fretfully on the hard bunk. Tomorrow would not
be an easy day. He thanked God the surgeon-superintendent was
ashore, and with reasonable luck might remain there. But Hunt
was the least of his concerns. Tomorrow, somehow, he had to
land the convicts. It would become known that he was the ship's
captain, and among those hearing it would be Bess and Jeremy.
But even before them, one of the first to hear would be Matthew,
who would hate this ship and despise him for bringing it. He
knew his closest friend well enough to know that.

They carried the bundles of pamphlets out through the dark
backyard and into the tiny lane behind the printery. At the corner
of the adjoining street the billycarts were waiting. From her
bedroom window Lucy saw Matthew and the others all volunteers, some their delivery boys, but most of them his friends
from school days load
each cart with leaflets. Clever, she
thought, to use the carts. If they were seen by any patrols, it would
appear they were delivering the weekly edition. Except it was the
wrong night if
someone was smart enough to realise that,
which she doubted.
She climbed back into bed and tried to sleep, but sleep was
impossible. Her mind was churning, busily collating the ideas Matthew had implanted there. Wentworth Boyd
Grayson.
An
unholy trinity, she thought, and smiled to herself in the dark. But
surely there was another part to this story, which Matt had
declared the biggest they'd handled, and which would occupy
most of the available space in this week's Journal. Her thoughts
kept coming back to the ship; the wretched convicts locked
aboard it, and the crew that had brought them. Did they knowthe offence they'd caused? Did they realise that tomorrow,
because of her brother's leaflets that would blanket the town they would hear the angry citizens of Sydney baying for their blood?

The two patrolling constables on the corner of Barrack Street
loitered there to eye the pair of tarts, and asked them if they felt
like a quick one in the dark, behind the sturdy columns of the
post office. The girls were suitably indignant; they asked the
bobbies if they intended to pay, and on being firmly answered in
the negative that
this was to be a quick knee trembler that
would allow them to remain in business and out of court decided the constabulary was one of the scourges that made their life
such a hardship, and their trade was a treadmill, a perilous
pathway along which there was no escape from randy bastards
who abused their power.
They told the constables this in their own colourful vernacular,
and were given a choice; skirts up and knickers down, or they'd
face the Beak in the morning so
which was it to be?
They went into the deep shadows, secure from observation
behind the Doric columns, and emerged a brief time later, the
policemen looking pleased with themselves as they fastened their
buttons, and prepared to resume patrol. They told the girls they
felt a great deal better, and hoped to be able to protect them
again soon, which was when they saw a young man towing a
billycart and
assuming it was the next day's newspaper, hailed
him and told him he had two extra customers, and to hand over
a couple of papers and never mind the money.
The young man left the cart and ran. The constables set off
in pursuit, but somehow at that precise moment the doxies

appeared from the gloom, adjusting their ruffled feathers and a female foot slid out and deftly tripped one of the bobbies. He
fell with a resounding crash, and the two girls ran away before he
could recover his wits and manage to work out what had
happened.
The young man easily outpaced the second policeman out of breath from his previous exertions who
returned to find his
partner reading a leaflet. There were hundreds of them stacked in
the billycart.
'What is it?' he asked.
'A meeting about
the convict ship.'
'I don't hold with bleeding convict ships.'
'Well, then,' the other said, 'you better take a few of these
home to the wife, and tell her to pass the bloody things around.'
They went off, leaving the cart outside the post office. Ten
minutes later Matthew cautiously returned, and seeing no sign of
them he resumed his progress through the town. He headed in
the direction of the quay, along the main business thoroughfare,
sliding leaflets beneath doors, inserting them in letterboxes, and
as often as he could, paused at lamp posts to liberally coat them
with glue and paste the notices there. At the Maritime Hotel the
lights were out. Matthew took the opportunity to smother paste
on all the doors and windows, then slapped the leaflets on them,
relishing the task, which was what almost brought about his
undoing.
'What the fuck is this?' came a drunken voice behind him, and he knew without having to turn and look that it was
Geraghty. Even in this condition of slurred intoxication the
landlord might recognise him, and then it would be a simple
matter to prove the leaflets had been printed on their press. As

quick as a flash he flung the contents of the gluepot at the
drunken Irishman, and Geraghty cursed in alarm as the sticky
fluid congealed in his face and temporarily blinded him.
Before Geraghty could claw the glue from his eyes, Matthew
lashed out with his foot and caught him in the shin. He heard the
cry of pain, and brought up his knee with all the force he could,
into the publican's groin. Geraghty collapsed in a yelling mess of
outrage and anguish, and Matthew paused for a moment, amazed at his belligerence, even more astonished at the unexpected
enjoyment of such violence but
it was only for a brief moment,
then he turned and disappeared into the night.

Clarissa was wide awake. When she heard the grandfather clock
downstairs strike three, she slipped from their bed, careful not
to disturb Charles's measured breathing. She put on a gown
and went into their private sitting room. It was a humid night,
and she sat by the window to catch what little breeze there
might be, looking down on the quiet harbour and the sleeping
town.
Daniel had brought the ship and
now she knew at least a
part of the reason why. After a late dinner in their private
quarters, she had decided it must be discussed.
'I want to talk to you, Charles,' she had said, 'about the
captain of the Peveril Bay.'
'Ah yes,' he had said, 'the one you painted. The what
did
you call him the
nice boy.'
'Daniel,' she replied. 'His name was Daniel.'
'Of course. Daniel Johnson.'
'We were lovers,' Clarissa said.

Fitz Roy had nodded, as if unsurprised by this.
'Mary, never mentioned a name, but she did say there was
someone and
that you'd told her it was not a fleeting affair.'
'Not fleeting at all. It was rather important in my life,
although I was older than him.'
'Older perhaps, but hardly old,' Fitz Roy had said, unable to
resist any chance of gallantry. She managed a smile, but had
remained concerned.
'Is there going to be a great deal of trouble?'
'Perhaps. Major Morgan's like an outraged bullfrog, as I told
you. And the wretched Mr Boyd sees a chance of renewed
popularity, by inciting people's emotions. There'll be
demonstrations, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Meanwhile, the
captain is to stay on his ship and keep his convicts guarded. Not
an easy situation for him, especially with reports about his lack
of seamanship being made to all and sundry by the rather
obnoxious surgeon-superintendent.'
'Lack of seamanship? At least that nonsense can easily be
disproved. You could have enquiries made around the port,
Charles, and I'm sure you'd find it completely untrue.'
'You underestimate me,' he said. 'I already had my aide do it.
No one had anything but the highest regard for him.'
'I should think not.'
'However, there was one curious incident. He was sent to
prison for six months. Did you know?'
She hesitated a moment. 'I heard about it, long afterwards. Matthew Conway told me. Until then I thought Daniel was
dead.'
'What else did Conway tell you?'
'That Daniel assumed I'd left the colony, and perhaps gone

home. That he had taken a job on a ship, a trader in the Pacific in
order to earn money to repair his own vessel. Matthew certainly
didn't know anything about the Peveril Bay. And he still may not
know. I fear that when he finds out he'll be greatly upset.'
'I imagine so. Did young Conway know about the fine?'
'What fine?'
'That's the curious incident. In addition to prison, there was
a fine of five hundred pounds. It was also recommended his
master's licence be cancelled for two years and
his schooner be
sold unless he could pay harbour charges for all the time he was
in prison.'
'How unfair. It would have taken every penny he had although by then all his money had been lost in Boyd's bank swindle. So he
couldn't have paid.'
'He had no need to.'
'What do you mean?'
'There was no fine, after all. No licence taken away. He was
saved, even the harbour fees paid, and do you know by whom?'
He smiled at the expectation of her surprise. 'The very Reverend
His Worship Edward Grayson.'
'Good God!'
'And do you know who assured me the captain he'd chosen
was a well-known currency lad, and would be completely
acceptable when he brought in the cargo of exiles? The same
pious parson Grayson.'
'So he bribed Daniel? Is that what you're saying?'
'It certainly begins to look that way.'
That may be part of it, she thought, sitting alone in the dark
with Charles asleep in the adjoining room, but there must be more. That's not the Daniel I knew. My Daniel couldn't be bought like that. No

matter how badly he wanted that ship of his, there must definitely have
been something else.

The morning brought rain. It crept in from the east, off the
Tasman Sea, and became heavier; visibility on the harbour
deteriorated to a few hundred yards. A boat with two armed
constables left the jetty at Long Nose Point and headed out, the
constables drenched and cursing their luck all the way until the
blunt stern of the ship loomed up ahead of them. They were
taken on board and met by the vessel's master. Expecting a
greybeard, they were surprised to find he seemed almost half
their age. He asked if they had news of a doctor coming to the
ship, but they shook their heads, and said they'd load up their
muskets in the dry, and if there was trouble then he was not to
worry, they could mow the convicts down the minute they broke
out through the hatches. When the master said he doubted that
would be necessary, the older constable told him that when it
came to dealing with the scum and riffraff like his cargo, you
could never be too careful.
The rain fell steadily, and washed away some of the notices
that had been pasted up, announcing a public meeting. But a
great many others were safely delivered into shops, lodging
houses and hotels, or slipped into letterboxes before dawn, and
early in the day the word had spread.
In his town house opposite the domain, Edward Grayson and some of his closer colleagues studied the leaflet. They sent
messages to the Governor, the Attorney-General and the Chief
Magistrate suggesting this was a treasonable document, and its
source should be traced to bring about a prosecution. From

Captain Innes, the chief inspector of police, Grayson obtained a
list of all printing shops in the close vicinity of the town. He also
went to the Legislative Council chambers, where members were
gathering for the debate. There were leaflets being scrubbed from
the outside walls of the building, and additional fury erupted
when it was discovered the members' lavatory was plastered with
them. The representative for the district of Cumberland complained
bitterly that the mirror was obliterated by the damn things, and he
was unable to comb his hair. Since he was given to vainly combing
a few strands to conceal a bald pate, it raised laughter, but the
Speaker declared this was no matter for levity, and the Legislature
was clearly infiltrated by persons whose intentions were not in the
public interest. They must be sought out. Taking advantage of the
mood, Grayson put forward a motion demanding the governor
declare a state of emergency, and that the police and army be
placed on full alert. It was, he said, time to act. Time to properly
demonstrate to this mob of dissidents exactly who ruled here.
Meanwhile, the promised physician arrived on the Peveril Bay. He brought news of a massive protest, with people flooding from
all parts of town, and even by river ferry and public omnibus
from as far as Parramatta, and although it was only early, already
half the town seemed to be waiting in the rain at Circular Quay.
There was a great deal of wild talk, he said, and it looked like it
might get wilder. If it was his ship, he'd haul anchor and go
somewhere else.
'Go where?' Daniel asked him.
The doctor said he didn't know where. But he doubted if
Sydney Town was going to be a safe place for the vessel and its
crew before this day was over.


Jeremy Conway glanced at one of the leaflets, and felt a moment
of unease. But it couldn't be; typefaces were often identical, and
besides, this had been slipped beneath his own front door. His
neighbour the baker also had one, and said he was definitely
going to the meeting, and would be shutting his shop in protest.
He took Jeremy's silence for criticism, and declared it was a public
strike, and everyone should keep their businesses closed. Read
the pamphlet, the baker insisted. Jeremy shrugged and said it
would achieve nothing.
He went downstairs to his cellar printery. Matthew had not
yet arrived. Lucy was doubtless already down at the quay
collecting the shipping news. His formerly scatterbrained
daughter was a surprise. She had settled to the daily routine of
what was not often a glamorous profession. With Lucy's penchant
for drama, he had expected her to be soon bored. Instead, she was
showing an aptitude for the job that impressed him. Even more
importantly, Matthew thought she was good, which Jeremy
considered praise indeed, for Matt was now regarded as one of
the best reporters in the colony. He and Bess were lucky with
their children, he reflected, and with Emily's baby thriving, it
lacked only Daniel's return to make their family complete.
There was a stack of work to be done, and the Journal was due
to be published in two days' time. He wondered how, editorially,
they would handle the arrival of this ship. It was a stupid,
provocative decision, he thought, and showed how little those in
London cared about this place. But whether they could say so was another matter. It was not so long ago, he thought, that governors had
the power of censorship over everything that was published here. Perhaps
those bad old days would come back again -for he had no doubt there
would be strictures placed on critical comment of this ship.

The type in the composing stick had been unlocked and the
metal letters and margin quoins replaced in their trays. The
whole place seemed far tidier than usual. Then he noticed a
crumpled sheet of paper in the bin, and saw it was a discarded
proof.

TO ALL CITIZENS
THE CONVICT SHIP HAS ARRIVED. LET US ALL
COMBINE TO PREVENT THIS OUTRAGE AND
STOP THE FELONS FROM BEING LANDED.
A MEETING HAS BEEN CALLED FOR NOON

He rifled in the bin and found other discards. He took them
to the incinerator in the tiny backyard, and burned them. Then
he hurried back inside to make sure there were no other traces. If Matthew thought there'd be no search to find the origin of this
pamphlet, then his clever and talented son was a fool. If putting
a leaflet beneath their own front door was his idea of a joke, he'd
be told otherwise. It was then that he heard a heavy knocking on
the front door, and the sound of Bess's footsteps above, as she
went to open it. Jeremy ran upstairs to join her. As he entered he
recognised the uniform and epaulets of a lieutenant and knew it
was the governor's personal aide.

The crowds began to gather soon after sunrise, the earliest of
them travelling the farthest distance, for Matthew had sent
bunches of leaflets by delivery boys along the Turnpike Road to
Parramatta, and all the growing new townships between as
well
as special messengers chosen for their fleet of foot, who took the

news by word of mouth to Windsor and the river towns. Other
runners had spread word of the meeting to the farmers in
Paddington, and the cottages on the South Head Road, while the
George Street market itself had been blanketed with notices for
the carters to read, when they brought the produce at dawn. He
had insisted on this in his secret meetings with Henry Parkes and
Robert Lowe; it was pointless, he said, having them craft their
fine speeches with ringing phrases, to be delivered to a tiny hardcore
of the converted. They needed five thousand people. Enough
to shake the confidence of every Exclusive, and make them shiver
when they heard the news, back there in Whitehall.
'Five thousand is ridiculous. Impossible,' Lowe said. Matthew
and he had been rivals when Lowe established the newspaper Atlas, and were uneasy colleagues in opposition to the convict ship. But on
each side this was true; there were uncomfortable alliances among
those who sought the return of transportation, just as there were
tense factions among the many to whom it was anathema.
'At least I'll try,' Matthew replied. 'And I won't accept your
attitude of defeatism. You write your speech, and don't forget to
turn up to deliver it. I'll get them there to listen to you.'
By seven in the morning, Henry Parkes had to admit that
Matt Conway looked like fulfilling his ambitious quota. By then,
with five hours to go, almost a thousand people had converged
on Circular Quay. But Matthew was not there to enjoy the sight.
Arriving home at dawn, totally exhausted, he had managed barely
an hour's sleep before Emily came to wake him. He reached out
his arms to her, but she whispered that his father was waiting in
the next room, and by the look of him, was thoroughly upset. Matthew pulled on his clothes, and went into their tiny sitting
room to find Jeremy in a chair nursing the baby. Six-month-old Daniel was being gently jogged on his grandfather's knee, and
happily waving a chubby hand at him.
'He's growing,' Jeremy said. 'Soon be talking and walking.'
'Pa --' he began, but his father interrupted.
'Soon be going to school, learning to read and write. I hope
he learns his lessons as well as you did, but I hope he learns more
sense.
'Pa'
'The governor's aide came to call. But we'll get to that,' he
said, before Matthew could ask why. 'One day, Matt, when I'm
long gone and you're old if
we still have it, if they haven't
smashed up our press, or used some sham emergency power to
close us down your
son here might even own a printery and a
newspaper that we started and called the Weekly Journal.'
'And he might even live in a free society.' Matthew managed
to get a word in at last. 'If we manage to stop them sending us
more convicts. How did you find out?' he asked
Jeremy took a corrected proof from his pocket. 'No point in
cleaning the platen, tidying away the metal, and leaving evidence
like this in the bin. You better burn it. I've burned the rest, and
tidied up so they'll find nothing.'
'You mean the aide didn't come about this?'
'No, he didn't. But they'll come looking.'
'Who will?'
'The police. Matt, you're good with words, and run the Journal better than I could, and I'm proud of you but
sometimes you
really are an eejit!' In his agitation he became suddenly Irish. 'Did
anyone see you last night?'
'No.' He thought of the two constables outside the post
office, and of Geraghty. 'At least, not to recognise.' 'Thank God for that.'
'We've nothing to worry about.'
'You really think that? How many printers in this town?'
'About a dozen.'
'I mean the town itself. The centre of town, so these leaflets
could be run off and distributed in a few hours?'
'Perhaps five,' Matthew said, after a moment's thought.
'And how long does it take to make a search of five places?
Yes, of course they'll come looking. They might even ask for
samples of type face, to take back to study, or want us to set up
the metal and pull a proof of a leaflet like this to compare it, but
I hope not.'
'Then I'd better get back there.'
'No, you won't. Stay out of it,' his father ordered.
'Why?'
'Because unlike you, I know how to look dim-witted and eat
humble pie. I've had plenty of practice.' It was so palpably true that Matthew was silenced. 'No need to worry,' Jeremy told him,
wryly, 'Bess will be there just
the two of us. A couple of harmless,
middle-aged ex-convicts. No currency lads with their dangerous
notions that this place belongs to them. Your ma will probably
offer 'em tea and scones and
they might even accept.'
'Pa you
know why I did it.'
.'Of course I know. But for Emily's and all our sakes, I wish
you hadn't taken such a risk. Though I'd probably have done the
same.'
'Do you really mean that?' When his father nodded and
briefly smiled, Matthew felt warmed. He wanted to hug him.
'Except for one thing,' Jeremy said. 'I might've been smart
enough to clean up properly.'

Emily came to take the baby, who waved his tiny arms and
wanted to cling to his grandfather. Jeremy looked pleased, and
said he'd hold on to the young codger a while, since they had
much in common, including similar looks and the same good
sense.
'Now about the aide. Lieutenant Marshall.' He nursed the
baby, while the tiny hands explored his face. He seemed glad of
the diversion, as if what he had to say was proving difficult.
'Clarissa sent him with a sealed note.'
'Clarissa?'
'Yes.' He paused again, and Matthew suddenly realised his
father was deeply distressed. 'She thought we should be
told should
be warned was how the note put it before
we
heard from anyone else.'
'Be warned of what?'
'The convict ship Daniel
brought it.'
'Daniel!' Emily said.
'Daniel,' Matthew echoed in disbelief. 'Daniel?'
The baby, as if recognising his name, gurgled a happy smile.

The rain continued to fall but, despite it, the crowd grew. Some
optimists were estimating four thousand already, and it was not
yet midmorning. Shopkeepers shut their doors. Schools were
closed, homes locked, as people joined the throng heading
towards the quay. Hundreds had travelled all night determined
to be there. Families came; people brought their children. No one
had ever seen so spontaneous an event; nothing remotely like this
had ever happened before, not here.
As the morning slowly passed and people milled around the

waterfront, Sean Geraghty was foremost among the tavern
owners who tried to take advantage of the situation. He was still
limping from the attack the previous night, and had tried to
report it but
since there was no trace of his assailant, and he
could not identify him, the police told him not to waste their
time. As if this was not offence enough, now an army corporal
was ordering him to close his hotel. Telling him there would be
enough shouting and goings-on later, without grog inflaming
it.
'Go to buggery,' Geraghty told him. 'I own this place, and no
bloody sod of a trooper is going to tell me I can't open up.'
'Is that a fact,' the corporal said, first pointing out he was a
non-commissioned officer and not a sodding trooper, then
prodding him unnecessarily hard in the stomach with his rifle,
while ordering two of his men to take the keys, march the
landlord downstairs, and lock him in his own cellar.
'Yer can't do this,' Geraghty shouted.
'Watch us,' the corporal promised him. 'We'll let you out
later if
we remember,' he said, and managed to clumsily slam
his rifle butt heavily on the landlord's foot before they bolted the
cellar door.
'Yer mongrels,' they heard the furious voice shout, though
the heavy sandstone walls of the cellar made his words indistinct.
'I got plenty of friends. You'll live to regret this.'
'One more yap out of you, and yer stay locked in, while we
turn on free gin and ale for the public. Which reminds me,' the
corporal said, as the others laughed, 'if we do happen to remember
to let the bastard out, we fine him ten barrels donation to the
mess, 'cos we'll all be thirsty tonight, by the look of this mob.'
As the size of the crowd kept increasing and the rain

continued to cascade down, the streets became a muddy quagmire.
Mounted police sat on horses at a careful distance, and the
governor ordered the gates of the domain locked, and troops
stationed with fixed bayonets around the perimeters of the viceregal
grounds. A great roar went up as an omnibus was pushed
into place to provide a platform for the speakers, so they could be
seen and heard by the vast crowd.
'Grayson's got his state of emergency,' Fitz Roy said at the
window, hearing the distant cheers. 'And a bigger demonstration
than ever he and his friends bargained for.'
'Is it true the cannons at Fort Macquarie are trained on the
meeting?' Clarissa asked. 'And that Major Morgan wants a
company of the York and Lancasters to arm their muskets and fire above the heads of the crowd to scatter them?'
'Rumours, my dear. I've never known such a place for the
distribution of rumours.'
'But is it true, Charles?'
'Only partly. The galloping major did suggest it. But I
suggested that if he did give such orders, he'd be on the next ship
home in
irons.'

The rain was in his face, driving rain that almost blinded him. Matthew was drenched by the time he rowed the dinghy past
deserted ships at anchor. The Peveril Bay was ahead of him an ungainly vessel, blunt and high in the stern, like the drawings he had
seen of old ships sailed last century. He came alongside as a sodden
and armed constable on the foredeck watched his approach.
'What do ye want?' the constable challenged, but before he
could answer there was another voice.

'It's all right,' Daniel called, and Matthew turned to see him
at the rail amidships, with a rope ladder. 'He's a friend. At least I
hope he still is. You coming on board, Matt?'
'I'm not sure,' Matthew said, staring up at him, feeling half
drowned by the relentless rain.
'I could hardly blame you. She's as ugly as sin, and stinks like
a pail of shit. But I can offer you a hot drink, and the cabin's
dry.'
He lowered the rope ladder. Matthew hesitated, then made
the dinghy secure and climbed aboard on the swaying rope. They
did not shake hands. Daniel pointed towards the companionway
into the cabins below the poop deck, then headed in that
direction, leaving Matthew to follow him, recoiling at the
offensive smell that seemed to permeate the entire vessel.
'I warned you,' Daniel said, seeing his reaction. 'It's packed
tight down there, hardly room to breathe. And I have to keep 'em
aboard, until decisions are made about what happens. I'm in
trouble if anyone escapes. You want some broth to warm you
up?'
'No. I want nothing on this bloody awful ship, except answers.
You stupid bastard. How in God's name did you get into this?'
'Long story, Matt. Better get yourself dried.'
He tossed Matthew a towel. It was ignored and fell to the
cabin floor. It lay there between them, and after a moment it was
Daniel who stooped and retrieved it.
'You said you were going to work on a trader, in the Pacific.
Go north and salvage the Marie then
get a job for a year or so.
That's what you told us all.'
'I was advised to say that.'
'Whose advice?'

'Never mind. Is this the only reason you came out here to interrogate me like some copper?'
'I came because I couldn't believe it. Because I wanted it to be
untrue. Jesus Christ why?
How could you do a thing like this?'
'If that's your attitude, it doesn't sound as if we'd gain much
by talking about it.'
'We have to talk about it.'
'No, we don't. You wanted it to be untrue. Well, it isn't. I
brought them. Put it in your paper. Say Daniel Johnson refused
to comment further, when interviewed by his friend the editor.'
'Danny was
it money? Did someone make an offer you
couldn't refuse?'
Daniel bunched his fist. They stared at each other, then he
shrugged. 'That wouldn't be smart, would it?'
'I didn't come for a fight. Ma's upset and
Jeremy they're both bewildered. Can't you see, we're all trying to understand?'
'Don't try,' Daniel said, suddenly feeling a great sense of loss
and pain. 'Tell Bess I'm sorry. Say I lost all my savings, thanks to
Boyd. Then the cargo was stolen, so I owed Nott & Edwards. The
fine at Port Macquarie, the ship being damaged it
all went
wrong all
at once. So many years wasted, gone for nothing. So
what you said was true. Someone did make me an offer that I
couldn't refuse.'
'I still find it hard to believe.'
'You'll get used to the idea.'
'I doubt it,' Matthew said.
'You better get ashore,' Daniel said, wanting him gone.
'I suppose so. What'll you do?'
'I dunno. Try to unload these poor bastards.'
'If you're allowed.'

'They've been cramped below for over five months, Matt I
know you're against it --'
'We have to be, or this place remains a dumping ground a gaol just as much as Newgate or Dartmoor.'
'I know. But some of 'em would make decent settlers, like
Bess and Jeremy, given half a chance.'
'That's the pure merino argument the
bloody Wentworths
and their cheap labour argument.'
'It's easy to say that. A sight harder to haul anchor and sail
back, when there's two hundred men below, and you know a lot
of them will never make it home again. I know people are angry,
but a lot of human beings are going to die if they force this ship
to be turned back.'
'I'm sorry for them,' Matthew answered after a moment, 'but
they shouldn't be here.'
'Do you really think they chose to come?' Daniel said.
They went out on deck. The rain was starting to ease, and the
harbour visibility improving. Around the foreshore and the quay
it was now possible to glimpse part of the huge crowd, a mass of
seething humanity waiting for the stroke of noon.

Chapter 30

'Let the rest of the world be told,' a speaker shouted to the crowd,
'that no faith is so hollow, no promise so rotten, no word so
dishonest as the word of those in the British Colonial Office.
Typifying all that is false, they are hypocrites, charlatans, frauds
and liars. In the artillery of subterfuge there is no weapon, no
trick, no unscrupulous deceit that is not practised at that devious
grave of hope and liberty.'
His denunciation was met by a roar of approval. Lucy could
hear it in the distance, as she tried to struggle through the crowd
that was banked solidly all the way to the waterfront. She was
cursed by one man and felt another's hand stealthily trying to
fondle her bottom. She paused to elbow him in the stomach,
then found room to swing her arm and slap his face, before she
moved on.
On the fringe of the crowd, Matthew had hired an upstairs
window in one of the wool stores, having engaged it the previous
day so he would have a vantage point to observe the crowd and
make notes of the main speeches. It had been difficult to reach
there. Lucy was expected to join him, but he doubted whether she
would be able to force her way through this mass of people.

The size of the crowd exceeded all his expectations. Hoping
for five thousand, it seemed likely it was closer to twice that
number. Nobody could ignore this not
the governor, the
legislators, the police or military none
of them could disregard
this massive display of dissent and indignation. The town must
be virtually deserted, he imagined, most doors locked, and he
wished Emily could be here, and wondered if his mother and
father were somewhere in the streets. He knew they were terribly
distressed by the news that Daniel had brought this scourge it was the only word he could find to describe it. He had gone to
comfort Ma before rowing out to the ship, promising her there'd
be an explanation, some logical reason why. They all agreed there
had to be. But what he could tell her, after his meeting with
Daniel, he didn't know.
A new speaker climbed to the top of the stationary omnibus.
The mood and the message was the same. Invective was duly
heaped on the Exclusives, the squatters, and the governor in turn.
He condemned the convict ship, reviled those traitors in the colony
whose secret intrigue had arranged it, but, like previous speakers,
his real venom was reserved for the Colonial Secretary and those in
London who had arrogantly ignored public opinion and dispatched
the Peveril Bay, and therefore had caused this day of outrage.
Fine words, Matthew thought, but we need someone to speak who
can set this crowd alight, or else they'll drift away. They needed Parkes, but young, politically ambitious Parkes had written speeches for
others to deliver. Above all, they needed the unreliable Robert
Lowe, who could speak with equal brilliance in a court or a bar,
and reduce an audience to tears or laughter. Lowe was one of the
finest orators in the country but
where was he? Probably lost somewhere in the crowd, he thought, like Lucy.

But Lucy was not lost, merely wet and dishevelled, and feeling
bruised when she finally managed to reach the locked iron gates
that led to the grounds of Government House.
'I've got an urgent message for Miss Wilberforce,' she said.
'Not a hope.' The sergeant of the guard took one brief look at
this soaked apparition and shook his head. 'Nobody's allowed
in.'
'Send one of your men. Tell her I'm here. Please?' She smiled
at the sergeant, and informed him she was a well-known writer
for the newspapers, and her name was Lucy Conway.
'Never heard of you,' the sergeant said. 'Clear off.'
Far below them, the crowd's enjoyment heightened with a
new speaker, who claimed that it was time to emulate France,
pull down the fabric of society and dispose of these would-beiftheycould-be
aristocrats of the Antipodes. These bogus bunyip
baronets!
'Let us find a tumbrel, and take them to Gallows Hill. Let's
first hoist James Macarthur, and counterbalance him with a cask
of rum for
that is how His Lordship, the Earl of Camden, as he
would like us to call him while we tug our forelocks, came into
his fiefdom through
the sale of sly grog. And along with him,
the great Lord Wentworth, though it would require a stout rope
to uphold that weight of opinion.' There was loud laughter. 'And
who to pray over them, while we send them to the council
chamber of heaven? Why, who better than the gaitered Grayson,
the pious political priest, who tiptoes out of bawdy houses in the
dawn, after having wrestled mightily all night long with sin.'
Clarissa heard the laughter and cheering from the window, as
she tried to make out what was being said in the distance below.
Charles had a series of runners located in the gardens above the

crowd, conveying the gist of all the speeches to him, but before
she could ask him what had caused this prolonged laughter, she
heard a commotion nearer at hand, and turned to see a struggling and bedraggled figure being hauled into the room by two of the
guards.
'Miss Wilberforce, we've arrested an intruder who tried to
scale the fence. She claims she knows you.'
'Well, of course she does,'Clarissa said. 'Hello, Lucy.'
'Clarissa. Thank goodness. They were just deciding they
might take me to the guardroom and search me to
see if I was
carrying a concealed weapon.'

At a pothouse near the old slaughter yard on Dawes Point, a
group of men had been drinking steadily since the owner locked
his doors, and opened a keg of rum for his regulars. They were an
oddly assorted bunch; a few dockers, shop assistants, a cobbler
and several stable hands from the military battery. They had one
thing in common; they had all emigrated in the past few years as
free men. At noon, they intended to join the meeting and hear the
speeches, but decided to finish the barrel they had paid for. Word
was, from a man who joined them after the meeting began, that
there was a lot of talk but not much action, and as the rum
welded them in a collective purpose and a shared dislike of the
convict ship, they felt that words were not enough.
Having paid their passages, however small the amount, they
bitterly resented the free arrival of felons who would soon be
competing with them for jobs, once they received their tickets-of-leave.
And with the leniency of the law these days, that would not
be long. In fact, one of them declared, these convicts might be

around the town offering their labour for lower wages in a day or
two.
They decided to have another round of rum, and consider
what they could do to prevent this. By then they had concluded
something must be done. While people talked a lot and others
listened, what was being achieved? The real answer was to rid
themselves of this ship, and the only question was, how to do
that?

The rain had softened to a light drizzle. The quayside was a
muddy morass, but the crowd remained. They cheered each
speaker, despite the similarity of many of their messages. Nobody
seemed to care about the discomfort, or time passing; it was as
though they intended this unusual day of protest to last as long
as possible for
the chance to rage against the government in the
streets was a rare occurrence.
Small boys climbed lamp posts and perched precariously on
the roofs of buildings, as if sensing the event was a unique
phenomenon. Something to remember in years to come. Their
mothers, in bonnets and shawls, huddled under umbrellas or
overhanging verandahs, striving to see the figures who replaced
each other on the top of the omnibus. The bulk of the crowd was
a solid mass all the way to Bennelong's Point, and it flowed back
up George and Pitt Streets, and towards The Rocks, where no one
could hear or see, but simply wanted to be a part of this day. As
phrases of each oration were passed back through the crowd, so
the words were repeated like an echo, and the cheers or laughter
greeting them seemed like successive ripples resonating in each
direction.

Henry Parkes was applauded when finally he was prevailed
upon to speak, and vigorously pointed out that the Cape Colony,
Canada, and even tiny Bermuda had violently rejected the
dumping of 'Newgate Saints' and 'Pentonvillains' on their soil.
Tiny Bermuda, he thundered, had a great deal more spirit than
the enfeebled Fitz Roy and his courtiers. Britain could dump
their refuse here, because no one up there in the castle on the hill,
or in the coward's castle that was the Parliament of this place,
had the spirit to tell them they were unwelcome. .
Then at last, Robert Lowe arrived, just when most had
decided this erratic lawyer had chosen not to make an appearance.
A strange-looking man, he was an albino with milky-white skin
and flaxen hair, a former political figure, journalist and a
successful barrister. He climbed to the top of the bus, and paused
there without speaking for so long that people wondered if he
meant to say anything at all, but it was a lawyer's trick to obtain
total silence. As if in accord, the rain ceased altogether. The
clouds lifted; for a moment there seemed to be a gleam of
sunlight. Lowe looked up at this, as though the elements, too,
were waiting to listen, then his intent gaze traversed the crowd.
'We are,' he said, 'beset by greedy men. This land has been a
captive to avarice and acquisition, from the days when a select
few were given vast grants to establish their domains. They took
the best acres, the most fertile pastures, they established their
squiredoms and their kingdoms their
prime and private
realms to
the exclusion of the ordinary man. And now that
same select few are on the march again!'
'They are,' someone shouted, and the crowd hushed him.
'This ruling class not
content to get the land alone, for
without labour they are completely worthless have
decided they

must enrich themselves with convict slaves.' Well, let me tell them,
we will not tolerate that! Slavery is unacceptable! No human being
is the property of another! That vile day is gone. Slavery is an
offence, a serious and punishable offence under British law, and
well might Britain remember it!'
There was an outburst of cheering, that he allowed for a
moment, then quelled it with a gesture. He waited again for total
silence, as people far off strained to hear him.
'Let it go from here across the world and be known to all,' he
thundered, 'that the people of New South Wales reject we indignantly reject the
inheritance of shame that Britain holds
out to us. Let us send this day our emphatic declaration we will
not be slaves, nor tolerate slavery that
we will remain a free
society. And that this meeting is proof we shall assert our freedom
not by words alone. This is a peaceful protest, but we may not
always be so peaceful. As in America where oppression was the
parent of independence so
shall it be in this colony. As sure as
the seed shall grow into a plant and
the plant to the tree in
all
times and in all nations shall
injustice and tyranny ripen into
rebellion, and rebellion grow into independence.'
There was a great roar of approbation that could be heard
over half the town. Fitz Roy heard it from his upstairs window of
Government House, and learned the alarming lesson it sent.
Jeremy and Bess heard it in Pitt Street, which was as close as they
could get; Bess had put on her finest bonnet and said never mind
the rain, they were going to this meeting, and afterwards,
somehow, they were going to find a way to talk to Daniel. If he'd
done this, he had a reason, and she was going to discover what it
was. Sean Geraghty heard it, hopelessly drunk on his own liquor,
locked in his cellar at the Maritime Hotel.

On board the Peveril Bay, Daniel heard it like the thunder of
a distant wave, far out across the harbour where steam was rising
from ships like a mist as the sun came out and
went to the rail
wondering what had happened to cause such an outburst of
cheering which
was when he saw the longboat close alongside
and directly below him. The men in it were lighting flares from a
supply of pitch and a barrel of spirits. Daniel saw the wooden
hull was already smouldering as they hurled the first of their fiery missiles onto the deck.

It's like being a salmon swimming upstream, thought Lucy, as she fought her way through the dispersing crowd, although she had
never seen a salmon swim upstream, and knew it only as a phrase
from her copious reading. It had been an illuminating interview
with Clarissa, interrupted frequently by news of what was being
said at the meeting below, and she had been in the rare position
to witness the governor's concern at Lowe's ringing oration and
the wild enthusiasm with which it had been greeted. She also had
the secret knowledge which
she had no intention of using that Fitz Roy's current mistress, who was the object of much gossip in
the town, was opposed to the arrival of the convict ship, and well
pleased at the consternation the huge public meeting was
causing.
She liked Clarissa enormously, and knew Matthew did, too. It
was a curious situation, she and Clarissa talking with such
candour of their concerns for Daniel, and feeling such a bond of
genuine friendship as they did so. It was also fortunate that she
had managed to get herself arrested and talk to her today, for she
had a great deal to tell Matt when she could find him.

At last she managed to reach the Customs House. People
were pushing past, discussing the speeches and resolutions they
had voted on; there was a sense of excitement that seemed
infectious. Across the road was the Maritime Hotel, where a
window was broken, and the main door forced open. A group
were converging on it, for the word had spread that the landlord
was locked in his cellar, and there was grog for anyone who cared
to help themselves. As she saw this, she remembered the
threatening figure of Geraghty who owned the place, and
promptly told several men the pub was offering free beer and
spirits to celebrate the successful meeting. They thanked her
effusively and sprinted across the road while
she went on her
way laughing, to search for Matthew.

The flames were spreading, despite the earlier rain, for the group in
the longboat had approached stealthily, with ample time to hold
blazing flares against the hull of the ship, before hurling others onto
the wooden deck. The two constables with their muskets were
dozing in the surgeon's cabin and quite unaware of any danger.
Daniel locked them in there before raising the alarm; he had no wish
to see the idiots in the longboat shot for their stupidity.
The blazing missiles started to create havoc as small fires broke
out on the deck, and he realised, to his dismay, that more than half
the crew had gone ashore; some illegally rebelling, others having
been given approval by the mate to do so. Of the rest, most were in
their quarters drunk and incapable. Only the helmsman, two
young hands and the second mate were able to help him. Daniel
found a bucket and used the foul water in the emergency butts
stored against a bulkhead to douse some of the fires, while the

young deckhands rigged the pump, fitting a long hose that ran
down into the sea, positioning the pump above the longboat and
the mounting flames. Within moments a steady gush of water was
pouring down and turning the flames to steam.
The men in the longboat saw this and renewed their efforts,
as they flung every burning torch they could ignite at the ship.
That was when the helmsman directed the pump water down
into their faces. Drunken abusive shouts showed the success of
the tactic, and Daniel, joined by the second mate, emptied their
next buckets of water on the motley group below.
'Fucking scum,' one of the drenched assailants shouted, as
the helmsman aimed the pump with unerring precision into the
open mouth below him. The men took evasive action, then began
to realise the longboat was starting to fill, and was rafted to the
convict ship. By the time they untied and pushed off, they were
thoroughly drenched and rowing with difficulty, trying to bail
while they kept up a steady barrage of disparaging abuse at
Daniel and the others. Meanwhile, the two constables, woken by
the commotion, kicked down the cabin door and were on deck,
aiming their muskets at the departing longboat.
'No,' Daniel yelled, but one gun discharged, and he barely
had time to throw the contents of his pail at the other constable
in time to stop him pulling the trigger. The drunken invaders,
now terrified, rowed for their lives, while the helmsman and
deckhands thoroughly doused the still-smoking hull, and Daniel
and the second mate put out the remaining fires. When it was
done they realised how fortunate they had been. The scorched
timber was testimony to how easily the old ship could have
burned. There would have been no possible escape for the
convicts locked below.

It was then they heard the scrape of another craft against the
ship's hull, and Daniel, in a fury, picked up a full pail of water,
ran to the side and emptied it on these new invaders. As the water
poured down, he saw it was his own dinghy, with Matthew at the
oars staring up at him. In the bow, taking the full volume of
water, was a drowned, dumbfounded face he barely recognised at
first then
realised with dismay that it was Lucy.



They sat in the cabin a few minutes later. Daniel was watching
Lucy as she dried herself and found it difficult to believe how
different she was, so composed and adult. She was relating her
visit to Government House and how she had contrived to be
arrested because it was the only way to see Clarissa.
'I don't like to be the one to tell you this, Daniel, but Clarissa
and Fitz Roy well,
you'd hear the gossip before very long, so I
suppose it's best you hear it from me. I'd say she's content. Not
wildly happy, as she was with you, but content.' He blinked. Was
this the tiresome child who had chased them along the mudflats
in Cockle Bay long ago? 'Since she'd sent the message to warn us
you'd brought the ship, I felt certain she'd know a lot more than
that and
she does. I've already explained to Matt that she knows
who chartered it. Who headed the group that arranged all the
finance, everything.'
'I could have told you that,' Daniel said.
'Then why the hell didn't you?' Matthew asked him.
Before he could reply, Lucy spoke again: 'Let's be quite clear
on this, Daniel. We're talking about the Reverend Mr Grayson,
aren't we?'
'Yes, we are,' he said.

'And he did help you, financially?'
'He did. Got them to drop the fine. Stopped me losing my sea
licence. Promised he'd help with the schooner if
I signed and
went to England to bring this ship back.'
'But that wasn't all, was it?'
Daniel didn't answer this time.
Matthew said impatiently: 'What else, Daniel? For Christ's
sake, is everyone struck dumb? My own sister refuses to tell me.' 'I'll tell you now,' Lucy replied, but it was Daniel she gazed at.
'I work for the Journal these days. Matt will write the main story
about this ship the
size of the crowd, the speeches, all that. I'll
write an entirely different story. Mine will be about a young man
forced to bring this ship here, because he was trying to protect a
family. His family. Our family. He was frightened a certain
gentleman was going to use his position to have that family
destroyed. Pa still has a ticket-of-leave and he's helpless if
someone with influence set out to impeach him and
that's the
real reason you did this.'
'Is it true?' Matthew asked.
'It's true,' Lucy insisted.
'Then why wouldn't you explain it to me?' he asked Daniel,
but Daniel appeared to be incapable of speech.
'He wouldn't because he didn't want to transfer any feeling of
guilt to Ma and the rest of us.' She looked at him; it was very
quiet in the cabin, and they were intent on each other. 'Isn't that
so?'
'You seem to have it all worked out,' Daniel replied finally. He
was gazing at Lucy as if he had never seen her before.
'Clarissa helped me. We felt the chance to regain the Marie would tempt you but
in the end you'd say no. And that's when

Grayson would twist your arm. Because of Ma because
Bess has
been more than a mother to you you'd
have to agree. Isn't that
right, Danny?'
Daniel hesitated, then nodded. Matthew's face was a mixture
of relief and sibling pride.
'How the hell,' he asked, 'did you and Clarissa know all that?'
'We both know Daniel,' Lucy answered softly. 'A great deal
better than he imagines.'

'There have been a series of resolutions proposed, all of which we
are here to consider,' Fitz Roy said to the meeting of the
Legislative Council he summoned the following day. 'Despite all
our concerns and the size of the crowd, it seems to have been
relatively peaceful. In fact, by all accounts, surprisingly so.'
'I disagree. We were slandered and abused,' Edward Grayson
protested, and Wentworth wished the man would have the sense
to be quiet. He had also been lampooned; they had all come in for
their share of insult and denunciation, but given the provocation
and mood of the day, it could have been a great deal worse.
In fact, he felt relatively cheered by events. It had, after all,
been only words. The ship with its cheap labour was here. No
shots had been fired, no bayonets drawn. A great deal of hot air
had been expounded, but the day had ended without any
bloodshed, without violence apart
from an incident on the
harbour, which young Johnson had insisted was of no
importance and
the leaders of the mob had been admitted to a
meeting with the governor, the details of which were about to be
revealed to them. It would all be dealt with diplomatically. That
is, if the wretched parson would be silent.

The governor seemed to share this view, for he studied Grayson
with what, many said later, appeared to be extreme dislike.
'My aide will read you the details of the protest motion,' Fitz
Roy said. 'Kindly listen, then if anyone has anything constructive
to say, I'd like to hear it before you vote. If you will, Lieutenant
Marshall'
'We, the free and loyal subjects of Her Most Gracious Majesty in this
public meeting assembled, do hereby enter our solemn protest against the
transportation of British criminals to the colony of New South Wales,' the lieutenant began.
'First: Because it is in violation of the will of the majority.
Second: Because many among us emigrated on the faithful word of
the British Government, that transportation had ceased forever.
Third: It is incompatible with our existence as a free colony, desiring
self-government, to be the receptacle of another country's felons.
Fourth: It is unjust, to sacrifice social and political interests of the
people to the profit of a privileged few of its inhabitants --'
'If that means us,' Grayson stormed, 'I protest bitterly.'
'Shut up,' Wentworth snapped, and a number present did
their best to smother smiles, amid calls for order from the
Speaker.
'Fifth: Because we fear this act of injustice and stupidity by Her
Majesty's Government will alienate the affections of the people here
towards the British Crown.
Finally: For these and kindred reasons -for the love we bear our
families, and the exercise of our duty to our country we
protest again,
the renewed landing of any further convicts on these shores'
There was a brief silence while they considered.
'It's direct and to the point,' one said.
'I think it should be sent, forthwith to London,' Alexander

Berry, the respected owner of Crows Nest House, declared. 'I find
no fault with it.'
'Well, I do,' Grayson began, but no one wanted to listen.
'May I ask for a vote?' the governor requested.
'We need a seconder,' the Speaker said, and when he had one,
asked those in favour to raise their hands. All but Grayson did so.
'The motion is carried,' the Speaker said. 'Twenty-five in
favour, one opposed.'
Wentworth smiled to himself. Mere words. A gesture. It
would no doubt cause some frowns and shaking of heads in
Whitehall when it arrived, but that would be months away. In the
meantime other ships would certainly be sent. This document
would be discussed by the Colonial Secretary a
reply
dispatched the
whole thing could be prolonged for years. If the
most that happened was a bit of fuss well,
transportation had
to end one day, but not yet. Not for some time yet if good sense
prevailed. He realised the governor had rapped for attention.
'Now for the urgent matter,' Fitz Roy said. 'We must discuss
what happens to the ship and the exiles.'
'They'll be disembarked,' Wentworth chose his moment to
steer the debate. 'Tomorrow we acknowledge to the leaders of the
protest that we have voted and are sending their resolutions to
London, and that the matter will receive due attention on its
arrival there.'
'I'm afraid that won't satisfy them. I was presented with an
ultimatum,' the governor announced, 'that the Peveril Bay be
returned home immediately with
her full cargo.'
'That's outrageous,' James Macarthur said.
'May we know your response to this demand, Your Excellency?'
Sir Thomas Mitchell, the surveyor-general enquired.


'I said I felt it was inhuman to return those convicts, and
subject them to more months at sea. I told them that employers
in Sydney are willing to take at least half the exiles, and those
offered work should be allowed ashore.'
'Hear, hear,' came a chorus of approving voices.
'The remainder should be sent to Moreton Bay, where they
would find employment without difficulty. If the leaders of the
protest agreed, I would guarantee them this is the last convict
vessel containing
exiles or whatever you care to call them that would ever be sent to eastern Australia.'
It silenced the room. Even Wentworth was left speechless for
a moment.
'You guaranteed?' Macarthur questioned.
'We had an exchange of views,' Fitz Roy said. 'I can do nothing
without your support. But I ask you to consider this. You saw the
people. You heard their voices.'
'Rabble,' Wentworth said.
'On the contrary,' the governor contradicted him, 'a huge
crowd making its peaceful protest. Lots of speeches, and not a
shot fired in anger. It seems plain to me that in other countries
there could have been carnage. I'd say what occurred yesterday
was a sign of maturity. So what I need here now, today, is a vote.
If possible, one that's unanimous.'
'That we will reject any further transport vessel?' Mitchell
asked.
'Yes.'
'Repudiate any decision London might make?' James
MacArthur sounded incredulous.
'Yes,' Fitz Roy said firmly. 'Warn them that any future ships
will be turned back.'

'We give orders to them? To the Colonial Secretary? To Her Majesty's
minister, and by implication the Queen herself? It was now Wentworth on his feet, his voice loud in outrage. As Fitz Roy hesitated, in the
face of this anger, the Attorney-General rose to answer.
'Rather that than tear down the Union Jack and unfurl some
new flag-Remember
the American colonies. We must insist that
London listens, before someone here starts flinging tea into the
water. Because, believe me, it wasn't the tea the Yankees disliked it was the tax, the intolerance, and the injustice.'
In the end it was twenty in favour, with five notable
abstentions, while Edward Grayson refused to hear the motion
and walked out.
After the votes were counted, William Charles Wentworth
rose and hesitated, while they waited. He said quietly, without
anger, that he was returning home, to the peace of his family and
the solitude of Vaucluse House. If this was to be a place where the
herd could gather and make demands, and the rule of those who
mattered those
of wit and wisdom had
to bow to the will of
the vast unlettered majority, then it was a sad day for the colony.
There was a considerable danger in this place of too much
democracy. Rule should be by quality, not by mere weight of
numbers. If the Honourable Members thought that was elitist,
then let it be known he was in favour of it. He would go and
spend more time at home, with his books. He doubted, he told
them, if he would be back.

Another ship's captain took the PeverilBay north. More than half
the convicts went to Moreton Bay, where work was found for
them. The newspapers announced the Legislative Council had

passed a motion condemning the British Government and the
Colonial Secretary, and refusing to accept any further convict
transports sent to the colony. The Journal, along with almost
every publication, declared it a victory by
the people and
for
the future.
The Journal carried a special article alleging that the skipper
of the vessel had been blackmailed into taking command by a
person they chose not to identify while
showing proof that the
Honourable Edward Grayson was a majority shareholder in the
company which had secretly chartered the vessel, and that others
of some renown were his associates. Because of lack of written
evidence, they could not name his colleagues in the venture.
Grayson at once threatened an action for defamation, but
was advised that while the court might grant him a farthing in
damages, it would be a pyrrhic victory, and the damage to his
name would be such that he would be better off returning to
Yorkshire. Even if he won, he would be ostracised, his secret
stratagems and conflict of interest publicly revealed and
trumpeted in the headlines of every newspaper. Better to ignore
it, and pretend the Journal had no influence, he was told.
He then attempted to use his standing as a magistrate to have
Jeremy Conway's ticket-of-leave revoked, but found to his fury
that Governor Fitz Roy had suddenly seen fit to grant the printer
a pardon, on the grounds that it was seriously overdue, and the
lack of it until now was an abuse of justice. Suspecting the hand
of Clarissa Wilberforce in this, he was infuriated he could not
even spread malicious gossip about the woman, as everyone
appeared to know she was the governor's mistress, and, apart
from the inevitable clerical denunciations, no one seemed to
care.

Daniel travelled to Newcastle, to the bay where his schooner
was moored. He had made his first repayment to the firm of Nott
& Edwards, surprising them, for they had long ago given up hope
of this. With the money remaining, he proposed to make
emergency repairs to bring the schooner back, until he could
afford a full refit. Shortly before he left Sydney, Matthew and
Emily invited him to dinner. He nursed his namesake, and was
delighted when young Daniel smiled at him.
'It's wind.' Matthew explained, with the unfeeling wisdom of
a new father.
'Wind be buggered. He smiled, he recognised me,' Daniel
insisted, and they both laughed indulgently. That was when
Emily gave him the package. When he asked what it was, she told
him to open it. Inside was a mixture of paper currency and gold
sovereigns. He stared at it, then at her in bewilderment.
'It's yours, Daniel,' she said.
'Don't be ridiculous, Emily.'
'I'm not being the least ridiculous. You're going to fully
restore your ship. You're going to hire a crew, and bring the Marie back as soon as she's seaworthy again. Then you'll get on with the
rest of your life and
if the money bothers you, then someday
you can count it as a loan and pay me back. But I don't care about
that. I want you to have it. And you're not getting any dinner
until you agree.'
'But Emily...' he said, and seeing she was taking no notice,
he appealed to Matthew. 'Tell her to be sensible.'
'She is being sensible. Now why don't you stop being as thick
as two planks, and take it.'
The? I'm not thick!'
'Of course you are,' Emily told him. 'Too thick to stop and

realise how much you mean to this family and
by that I mean
all the family. Bess and Jeremy, too.'
'And Lucy ...' Matthew murmured, but Daniel said nothing,
just stared at the package then looked at Emily.
'Why do you think we called our son Daniel?' she asked.
'Well... it's a nice name for a boy ...'
'If it had been a girl,' she said, 'we intended to name her
Danielle. He or
she was
always going to be named for you.
Because we love you. We owe you our happiness. You're the
person we care most about in the world. Did you ever stop to
think of that?'
'But -' he said, and was allowed to get no further.
'That wretched money kept Matt and I apart for too long,
and ever since then it's been sitting in the bank accumulating
interest since
the day you paid me six hundred sovereigns for
my pa's share of the smuggled spirits. So now there's nearly eight
hundred there and
if you don't take it, then I'll never speak to
you again.'
Daniel had never heard her so forceful. He felt choked with
emotion. He looked at Matthew for an opinion, but Matthew
merely smiled and shrugged, as if it had all been decided.
'You heard her,' he said.

Weeks later Clarissa saw the schooner come past Farm Cove. She
was in the garden, at an easel, for she had begun to sketch again.
She recognised it at once, left her painting and walked to the edge
of the garden to watch it sail by. Then she smiled, hurried into
the house and called a coachman to take an urgent message to the office of the Weekly Journal in lower George Street.

She wrote a brief note to Lucy Conway, which said, Hurry down to the market wharf. Your ship is coming home.

Lucy ran down the steep slope of Market Street, the note for
Clarissa still in her hand. She saw the sails, as the schooner came
around the miller's point, and paused on the hillside to watch its
approach. It looked stately freshly
painted with vivid white
sails and
as it drew closer she could clearly see on the bow its
new name LUCINDA.
She walked down to the jetty, and waited for Daniel to drop
anchor in Cockle Bay.
Author's Note

This is a work of fiction based on an actual event. With the
exception of some historical identities, in particular William
Charles Wentworth, Benjamin Boyd, Francis Greenway and
Governors Gipps and Sir Charles Fitz Roy, the characters are my
own invention.
In 1849, a ship called the Hashemy arrived with a cargo of
convicts ten years after the abolition of transportation, and
caused outrage in Australia. Because of the involvement of my
fictional characters, I have given the vessel another name.
The participation of the group known as the Exclusives or
Pure Merinos the
wealthy landowners is
on the public record.
Wentworth's support is revealed by his own writings approving of
renewed transportation. His report on this (partly quoted on page
496) is taken from The Story of Australia, by A.G.L Shaw. Benjamin
Boyd was first in favour of the scheme, and later sought to regain
lost popularity by a pose of opposition. His many dubious
activities included the import of Pacific Islanders, who became
virtual slaves in the isolation of the Monaro. The character of
Boyd is a complex one, being variously described in my research as
a psychopath and a swindler. He was also an opportunist, who

used his aristocratic background and membership of the Royal
Yacht Squadron to impress and delude a great many people in
Australian society. Our history is beset by those who arrived with
convincing credentials, only to eventually flee from their creditors.
Boyd fled to California, bankrupt and in search of gold, but was
killed when he went ashore on a Pacific Island.
Research also established that there were several young men
like Daniel Johnson, who were ship owners and captains in their
late teens. One such was John Jones, part owner of three vessels at
the age of nineteen; another was Robert Towns (for whom
Townsville is named), at twenty the captain and owner of a
schooner that traded between England and Australia. While
Daniel Johnson is a fictional creation, the stories of Jones and
Towns are proof that many who were successful in those days
were extraordinarily young. For this followed a time when
William Pitt was prime minister of England at the age of twenty-four.
In the list of acknowledged sources, I would like to make particular mention of Historic Sydney, as seen by its Early Artists by Susanna Evans, published by Doubleday. Her research and
selection of paintings brought so much of the harbour and the
city of that era alive to me. The speech made by Robert Lowe on
page 568 is adapted from his actual words at the time, and taken
from Ruth Knight's biography of him, Illiberal Liberal.
I am also greatly indebted to Jan Harbison, Technical Services
Librarian of the Australian Maritime Museum; Keiran Hosty,
specialist in early sailing vessels and marine archaeologist; and to
my friends Brian and Mary Wright for loaning me so many of
their precious books of early nineteenth-century Australia on
which I have drawn to recreate this remarkable time.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

SOURCES

Australian Encyclopaedia
A Maritime History of Australia, John Bach
Ben Boyd of Boydtown, Marion Diamond
Ben Boyd's Ships, Jack Loney
Benjamin Boyd in Australia, H.P. Wellings
Convicts & Colonies, A.G.L. Shaw
Historic Sydney, as seen by its Early Artists, Susanna Evans
History as it Happened, John Fairfax
History of Australia, Manning Clarke
Illiberal Liberal, Ruth Knight
Picture of Sydney and
Strangers Guide in 1839, James Maclehose
Story of Australia, A.G.L. Shaw
Sydney Directory -1851, W. & F. Ford
Sydney in 1848, Joseph Fowles
Sydney Town -1846, Charles Mundey
The Convict Ships, Charles Bateson
The Fatal Shore, Robert Hughes
The Long Farewell, Don Charlwood
The Newspaper Press in New South Wales, R.B. Walker
The Rocks, OlafRuhen
The Twofold Bay Story, J.A.S. McKenzie

Peter Yeldham
pyeldham@bigpond.net.au