ANTONIA'S JOURNEY

 

The crowd was excited. The crew were excited too, Antonia could see. And, she had to admit, she could hardly contain herself either. The only thing was, she wasn’t going to show it.

Six months, six dreary months of cold and wet, sickness and fever and endless rolling and tossing were evaporating in a balmy breeze that propelled the sailing ship “Enterprise” through the magnificent bluffs which guarded the entrance to Sydney Harbour. The crowd chattered animatedly as they swept past fishing boats, forts and, perched on picturesque headlands, attractive and substantial residences. Even from afar, Antonia could see the bustle of activity as gardeners worked their way along hedgerows, seemingly transplanted from their English homes, and groomsmen led horses through carriageways. Occasionally the crack of an axe, the clatter of hooves or the rumble of a mill could be heard over the endless creaking of ship cables and the flapping of sails billowing in the stiff breeze.

The others thought her stand-offish but she didn’t care. In fact, she didn’t care to be associated with them at all. She had paid the price on the journey, being ostracized by some, and chided by others, for the crime of being “uppity”.

“’n I think y’re jus as happy as the rest ‘v us to see land.”

Antonia didn’t have to turn, for she recognised the voice of Isaac, the bosun. She liked him, as he was an honest man with a good mind. He was always respectful, and she felt safe with him, unlike many of his colleagues.

“Do you think anyone would not be happy to see land, Isaac?”

“Indeedy maam, indeedy. Some isn’t fit to go ashore, and some knows it too.”

“But you’re not one of them Isaac?” she went on, with a playful smile.

“I leaves you t’be the judge ‘o that maam” he countered with his most innocent face, which only made him look so comical that Antonia burst out laughing. This drew the attention of a couple of the older ladies who drew together as if for protection from evil spirits.

“Don’t look now Eliza”, muttered one, in a stage whisper meant for a generous audience. “It’s that stuck-up creature again.”

Ignoring the advice, Eliza spun round, squinted meaningfully toward Antonia, and remarked into the air “Which one?” This drew a couple of laughs, but on this day, the day of their arrival in the colony of New South Wales, the thoughts, hopes and fears of the group were on their future, the future of this new colony and the future of their own little lives.

 “New life, eh?” muttered another woman, more coarse than poisonous.

 “Lookin' fr an 'usband?” she added, offensively Antonia thought.

Nettled, she did what she had sworn not to do, and bit back.

 “No, I am promised to Captain Oldham of the Regimental Corps.”

Now the stir was noticeable. Even though she had not spoken loudly, her morsel of information seemed to have electrified the whole crowd. She regretted it immediately, like a card player who has produced a trump too soon. For the moment the victory was sweet and she savoured it. But a small knot of concern lay undigested inside her. There had been no letter, no news – nothing!

Isaac spoke. Her mind only half there, Antonia turned languidly to concentrate on what he was saying. What strange creatures we are, she thought as she perused his weather-beaten features. Decades of salt and sun had turned his face into a leathery map criss-crossed with dozens of mysterious channels, most of them good-natured. And from this tawny visage glittered a pair of startling blue eyes, as bright and inquisitive as those of a jackdaw. Yet his face was pleasant and his presence comforting. What was he saying now? Ah yes, only to be expected, he wanted to know her plans. Already she'd be having to elaborate, and there were ears waving like mainsails in the breeze she thought, eager to catch any scraps of information and gossip to enliven their lives. Oh dear, she thought, is this what life is going to be like in this new place? And to think I thought I'd be leaving all that behind in Norfolk. The cat's out of the bag now though.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SYDNEY TOWN

 It was a fine post, a comfortable barracks and superb weather. Prospects for advancement were excellent, but Major Jackson sighed heavily as he shuffled his paperwork yet again. His aide looked up, but remained tight-lipped. He knew better than to guess the boss's mood on these occasions. The Major was a fine man and a good soldier, and it was to be supposed that he found standards a little too easy, a little too slack for his exacting temperament. He would have supposed wrong, for uppermost in major Jackson's mind were concerns of a more trivial and domestic nature.

 

 Jackson sighed again, completely oblivious of the effect it had on his subordinate, who hunched his shoulders and buried his head in a vast ledger.

 

 Drumming his fingers now on his desk, a substantial one made from local timber, by convict craftsmen, he gazed abstractedly through the window. Far below stretched the dimpled waters of the harbour. Across its steel blue surface crawled beetles of various sizes. These were small working ships, ferrying wood and coal and horses from place to place, landing people and food along the coves and inlets. Still daydreaming, he lined up imaginary cannon sights on real ships, calculating, by habit, range and elevation, charges and timers. He sighed again as his worries reasserted themselves. Why did life have to be so difficult? It was easier being an artillery man in India. Guns, muskets, cannon, soldiers. Prisoners, rations, marches. These were bread and butter to him. Cake too for that matter. But what did he know about hired help? How should he know what Lydia should wear to the Ball? What the hell was a Viennese waltz, and how was it different from any other?

 

 His unfocused eye gradually became aware of a larger shape down on the water, and the dark scowl of vexation on his brow lightened several shades. By Jove! It was the “Enterprise” running a couple of days early. No doubt the poor sods on board were glad of that. Well, he didn't care if it carried wheat, wool, convicts or slaves. As long as it held a new outfit for Lydia, he would be eternally grateful. And if it turned out that the domestic help was of a superior quality to their predecessors, he would be almost as pleased. A dancing master might be too much to hope for.   

LYDIA

 

   Lydia Jackson picked moodily at a frayed hem. The needle was blunt, but still managed to draw blood on too many occasions. It was just too infuriating, to have come half-way round the globe and be forced to do one's own mending. The only girls she'd had who were any good had gotten above themselves, and had upped and married, and they didn't seem to care to whom. So frustrating to see them playing madam when they might, with a little modesty and perseverance, have been part of a truly fine establishment. She rested her work for a moment and straightened her back.

Not for the first time she wondered whether it might be possible to train some of the native women in some of these domestic tasks. Did they really wish to sit under the trees all day, doing nothing? Maybe that's how this colony made you feel – there seemed to be a lot of it going about, and to tell the truth she felt less energetic by the week. Surely though the native women would appreciate the chance to learn civilised ways, she thought. She pictured an extensive staff of obedient, starched helpers, dutifully washing, cooking, ironing and repairing. In her mind's eye she saw a splendid  and beautifully manicured lawn sweeping down to the harbour. Fashionable visitors thronged the enclosure, and envious neighbours peered through the wrought-iron fences and hedges.

 

 She was unaware that she was smiling gently at the thought, so was embarrassed at being rudely disturbed by Sadie's “Master's home, missus.”

 

She saw immediately that Sadie had missed nothing, and even suspected that her coarse voice was pitched even more roughly than usual, to annoy her. If so, it had been effective, she reflected. She stifled the impulse to round on the florid servant, saying only “Very good” but meaning nothing of the sort.

 

Everyone liked Myles – except Lydia. He'd shot and slashed his way across half the world and she'd accompanied him as a good wife. Now it was her turn. Just a modicum of style, just a soupcon of comfort, just a smidgeon of style was all she asked. To dress, to walk, to be entertained as a lady was reasonable surely, but here, in the heat and dust of Sydney, the dream was evaporating. She turned to her needlework again. She would have an elegant hem for the Ball even if she had to stay up all night, and Myles would accompany her in gentlemanly style, including the dance floor, or there would be consequences. For the moment at least, they inhabited two different worlds.

 

She had heard the clatter of horse's hooves on the path, and now the tread of her husband's boots on the flagstones. Today they sounded crisp and  authoritative, unlike the measured fatalistic tread she had become used to. Something had happened!

 

“Ship's in” he rapped, laying aside his belt and tunic. He waved aside the excuse for a servant who appeared at the door waiting for orders. The man was a wreck, and no-one really wished to know his history. Just one of the myriad nameless and possibly harmless convicts who had been strained out of the mainstream of  life by the sieve of circumstance. Truth was, Jackson rarely had any good news for his wife and was relieved to be able to impart the latest item.

 Awareness swept over Lydia, but all too often disappointed, she controlled the spark of elation that threatened to engulf her.

“That's nice dear” was all she said.

Baffled, he rejoined “Well, I'm off then.”

“Where?”

“Checking the ship of course. Any disease, stowaways, marriages, babies – in any order you like” and he laughed heartily at his own joke.

 Despite herself, so did Lydia.

“I'm coming too.”

BAD NEWS

 

Sydney Cove looked busy and dirty. There was a motley collection indeed, of all types to be seen from the ship. Most of the people seemed to be English of one sort or another, but there were also representatives of far-flung races and colonies, while there appeared to be considerable numbers of folk well-heeled and well turned-out. Even the fashions appeared to be reasonably current.

 There was a small military deputation as well, and Antonia's eyes were glued to this group, the group from which she imagined Marcus would emerge. Still the ship manoeuvred, jockying for a position along the quay.

 Isaac had deputed his authority to the harbour master and pilot and found time to chat again to the pleasant young woman who had been such a welcome change on the voyage.

 “You done well with that lot Miss” he began.

“I don't suppose they mean any harm” she responded.

His blue eyes peered hard at her for a moment before they both burst into hearty laughing.

“Well, it can't be helped anyway.”

He watched her carefully, but politely as they talked. She knew he was watching to see if she spied Marcus. She didn't. But that in itself was not remarkable, for he could be away anywhere, on patrol or routine garrison work.

 She didn't notice him leave, but next became aware of Isaac on the wharfside, threading his way through the crowd. There he was again, talking earnestly to the redcoats. They looked serious. That feeling tightened in her stomach.

“So y'r gennleman's here for ye is he luv?”

The false solicitude of the woman was so odious that Antonia could have swept her into the noisome water of the harbour with one blow. No vulture ever smelt carrion so keenly as this witch. Something was wrong! Every nerve in her body told her so. And every instinct told her not to give in to it.

“The gentleman to whom I am engaged is currently on patrol in the Blue Mountains” she replied stiffly.

 “Corse 'e is luv, corse 'e is.”

And with a hoarse chuckle, she swept away to join the disembarking throng.  

 

While Major Myles Jackson helped go through the formalities of a new vessel's arrival, Mrs. Lydia Jackson arranged to view the cargo. It all took time, but her importunate demands soon saw a nest of soft bundles released to her care. Her husband, meanwhile, totted figures of another sort. The number of souls having departed Plymouth, less the number of souls arriving in Sydney gave the number of soft bundles claimed by the sea en route – mostly babies. He had a check-list of duties and he worked his way methodically through them all. One in particular he regretted.

 Here on the dockside were the newly arrived. Men looking for work, girls looking for husbands and younger sons looking for land. One way or another it was the Land of the New Start. And surely, thought Lydia, amongst this lot are some who know how to dress a table, who can speak the King's English in a manner which he would find intelligible and who might provide an oasis of cultured company.

Then her eyes fell upon Antonia. Damn, she thought. If only she were more plain. Still, there was something about her. And damn again, she thought, for it appeared that her husband had the same thought, as he seemed to be approaching her, though not with any great certainty. Still, what could it matter in the end?

 “Miss Newland I presume” he murmured.

 Antonia responded well, showing fine breeding and a graceful air. Still, there was something coltish in her eye. She looked suspicious.

“I regret Madam, that I have sad news.”

The knot in her stomach turned into a fist that gripped her with icy fingers. She waited, struck mute.

“I have to tell you that Captain Oldham is no longer with us. He disappeared on patrol some six months ago, and I also have to tell you that little hope could be entertained of ever finding him alive. The other men with him also died – their bodies were seen. I'm sorry.”

 And he said it again.

 “I'm sorry.”

The words echoed in Antonia's brain. They seemed ludicrous. “I'm sorry” he'd said. No, thought Antonia, I am the one who is sorry. I am sorry, I am sick, I am sore. I am confused and lost, for my world has gone. I am on the wrong side of the world and I have no future. My man is gone, the one I promised myself to, the one who promised himself to me, the idol of my childhood, my hero, my protector. I am sorry, I am sorry.

 

She became aware that he was looking at her, and so was a woman with a very strong and determined face. Was she his wife? Why didn't he die? Why did it have to be Marcus.  She had borne up all through the journey. When the rest of the ship's company was leaning over the side, emptying their stomachs into the India Ocean, she had turned into rope and steel, had become just another part of the ship, evoking the admiration of the crew and old Isaac. The fevers and cramps that came and went amongst the assemblage seemed to pass over her, just as the the plagues of Egypt spared the Chosen Ones. She had come to feel that she was a creature of destiny, marked out for fortune's munificence.

 But this feeling crumbled like sand, and the taste of triumph turned to bitter ashes in her mouth as she tried to grasp the meaning of the words she had heard. She was unaware of the voices, the salts, the bustle of horse and carriage as she was carried like a baby, who knows where. As if in a dream, she saw the harbour recede, the little gardens file past; the hustle and bustle died down until soon there was little but the clip-clop of hooves and eventually the shuffle and clatter of arrival. She was ushered inside on someone's arm, and given a draught of something. She didn't even know if it was hot or cold, but soon found herself unutterably tired, and unable to remember anything. Even without the shock of her news, it had been a long and exhausting journey with precious little sleep. She didn't even remember going to bed.

 

                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE JACKSONS

 

As Lydia peered at Antonia, she had become puzzled by the look on her face. A pretty face, indeed, she had noted. Drawn and pinched no doubt, but, indubitably pretty. But at first glance she had seemed alert and intelligent, but now, surely, she looked stupid and vacant. The reason became clear as the confounded creature swayed and slid to the ground in a balletic motion. Men leapt from all quarters to rescue her, but none so quick as her own Major Myles Jackson. It was clear something had to be done.

 “Stand back and give the poor girl some air” she commanded. “Myles, fetch some salts. There'll be some with the doctor – he's still on board.”

She didn't know if this was true, but it would get Myles' hands off the hussy.

 Lydia misjudged her husband, who was not so much an honourable man as an unimaginative one. Happiest when soldiering, he was almost as content on those occasions when his wife was at her wifeliest. These occasions had become more rare of late, and he relished them keenly. By now, Lydia was the centre of the ministering group, and had assumed unquestioned leadership. She liked this very much, and continued to organise the rescue.

 

 “But where will she stay, Mrs. Jackson?” came the obvious question, and before she could bite her tongue, she heard herself declare in the most noble and civilised manner “She will rest with us until she has recovered.”

 

Myles himself looked perplexed but pleased on hearing the news, and it was a silent and thoughtful couple who drove the patient back to their own abode atop the  hill at Vaucluse.  Once Antonia was put to bed, Lydia looked in from time to time. Heavens, was the child going to sleep forever? She had felt awkward about undressing her for bed, and had only half done the job. Still, it seemed to be the right thing to do, and Myles was actually being helpful and thoughtful. Perhaps they should have had children after all. Would that have changed Myles? she wondered. Probably too late now. If they changed their minds, chances had suddenly improved, for Lydia had generously (so everyone thought) given the girl her own bedroom and had resumed sharing with her husband.

 She stood close to the bed. The girl was hot, and fine beads of perspiration decked her forehead. Her breathing was uneven and sometimes raced. Lydia fetched a flannel and water and mopped her forehead gently, tracing a delicate line round the fine eyebrows. It all seemed to help. Eventually her temperature came down, and her breathing became slower and more regular.

 

 Antonia remembered little of this. She seemed to pass from land to land on a cloud, a cloud which rose and fell like the ship at sea from which she had so recently departed. One moment she seemed to be back at Sandringham Hall and the next she was skimming the surface of the dark grey sea as if she were an albatross. Next she would be in an aboriginal village, being pursued by snakes and kangaroos, and then she would be in a new London, a colonial London with the Cathedral of St. Paul's surrounded by dry, drab, sage green eucalypts. Ghostly figures came and went. The temperature soared and fell, from jungle climes to Arctic ones. Then it became very calm, for a long time, and she became aware that she was awake, that she was looking through a window. It was like looking at a painting one has never seen before. The frame, the casing of the window, was a handsome one. And the backdrop to the picture was the sparkling waters of the harbour. Not far from the window, in a small tree, perched a large, stern-looking bird. It looked like a huge kingfisher, and as it began its raucous cry, she realised that it must be the famous laughing kookaburra, known to be a snake killer. She took this protection as a good omen, and before long, fell asleep again.

 

It was late afternoon, and Lydia had the place to herself and her patient. She had begun to take a proprietorial attitude to Antonia, and was pleased with her own nursing efforts. She felt that Antonia would soon need sustenance, and growing a little impatient and anxious for conversation, she visited the room, finally sitting by the bed. She studied the sleeping form, and marvelled at her stillness. She might have been a slim statue, like the effigies of ladies and knights in cathedrals. The delicate features, no longer flushed or waxy, were attractively set off by a pale golden complexion. Her hair too, was tipped with gold, no doubt from exposure to the sun. Golden, too, was the locket round her neck. How had that survived the company of thieves?, unless she had broken it out at journey's end to greet her man. Well, that wasn't going to happen. The delicate golden chain twitched ever so finely with Antonia's heartbeat. Lydia had an irresistible impulse to trace the chain's path across the soft throat. Without thinking, she did so, and her own heart lurched.

 Antonia slept on. How did she stay so fresh, and keep her clothes so clean? Lydia stood and bent over the sleeping girl, and as she did, was aware of a pleasant aroma, like soap and caramel. She leaned down to kiss the smooth forehead, then did so. Immediately, she became uneasy, and feeling a rush of guilt, spun round to check the door. No-one was there!

 

Sleep was calm, sleep was nice. Antonia could feel her spirit revive. She would live. She would have a future. Her dreams became clear and lucid. Once again she found herself back in Norfolk. Again she walked the passages of Sandringham Hall and again she basked in the pleasant attentions of the gentry. Again her dream took her back to the golden fields of the estate and again she felt the ardour of her older kinsman Marcus. Again they walked and planned in that warm and throbbing Summer, when all nature seemed to be abuzz. Did they really kiss? It was like another world. Did they really lie together in the grass, far from the crowd? Did they really promise themselves to each other forever? Did they really exchange rings? Yes, she remembered slipping it over his finger, the one with the nail like a talon, deformed by a rockfall in childhood.

Again she seemed to feel his tender lips brushing her forehead. How sweet, how pleasant.

And now, his lips were suddenly gone. It wasn't Marcus, she knew. She knew now where she was. And she knew Marcus was dead. Whose lips? Her breathing became shallow, and she moved not a muscle. Someone was leaving the room, but she didn't dare look, or even show a sign of life. The door clicked closed, and her breathing returned to normal.

She rose and washed. Everything was nicely laid out. Her clothes had been respectfully laundered and she suddenly realised she was ravenous. A deep sadness for her Marcus still pervaded her, but she knew she would make a life.  

   WORDS AND MUSIC

 

A week later, she sat at the table outside her window. Her companions were Lydia and the kookaburra. She had had the notion, at first, that Lydia didn't like her, but now, she was all attention. Lydia was kind and patient, and so solicitous that it reminded her of the young men back home, eager to win her affection. She smiled inwardly at the thought.

 “So pretty, that blouse, on you my dear” murmured Lydia, glancing at her neckline as she poured the tea. She had dismissed the cook early, as she had done several times during the week. It was a novelty for Myles to dine on his wife's cooking, but as she seemed so content, he accepted the situation with gratitude.

 “My word, you do sit well” she would go on. “Posture is so important don't you think?” Antonia could hardly disagree, and it was no hardship to be cosseted after her journey.

 “Now, one doesn't learn manners like yours, do they my dear?”

Aha! There it was. It was the question of breeding, family, position and status. There was no point beating about the bush thought Antonia. Better to just spell it out.

 “My family, Mrs. Jackson, is not a wealthy one. There are not a great many wealthy families in Norfolk. I believe we once were well-off, but young men leave the farms, they go to war, and the land is not rich.”

“But you speak in a cultured voice, you have a graceful manner.” She left off at that as Antonia responded.

“Voice and manners don't bring in one's fortune Mrs. Jackson. But land does. That's why we came here. Or at least, that was our idea. Marcus too needed to leave. There is no more land for a younger son to farm, and...”

Here she stopped, as fresh tears glistened.

 “Oh Mrs. Jackson, he is the most beautiful of men. I felt so happy with him, and so safe. Don't you think he might still be out there, just lost. Or living with the natives.”

Lydia might have laughed at the poor girls naivete, but didn't. Not from any softness of heart, but from another emotion which had risen up and threatened to overwhelm her. It was sheer, blinding jealousy.

Cruelly, and unable to help herself, she replied

“He's dead, child. How do you know he was sincere. Do you have his letters?”

 

Hurt and puzzled, Antonia admitted that she had waited in vain for his letters, but explained what Lydia already knew – that a round trip for two letters accounted for a year, and was often unsuccessful anyway. She felt silent again as Lydia expressed again the hopelessness of her wish, and that he was almost certainly dead.

 But was he? Antonia had to ask herself, for if she gave up, who in the world would be there for him? A clue, a word from a native camp, a white man injured but alive, that was all she needed. How splendid if this all turned out to be a bad dream, a mistake, and if she, Antonia, could rescue her beloved from his bush prison, re-united, they would fulfil their splendid destiny as they had planned. Could there yet be a House of Oldham in New South Wales?

 

During this brief respite, Antonia enjoyed reading as she rested. A book by a Jane Austen, whom she'd never heard of, took her fancy greatly. The light turn of phrase, the droll irony and the comedy of the situations entertained her greatly. As she reposed between chapters, she became aware of a warbling sound, melodious and pleasant. At first she thought it was one of the local magpies, magnificent songbirds, but she soon recognised popular airs from her youth. It was a flute player surely.

 Laying side her book, she strolled slowly into the bush. The light bracken parted easily, if a little too noisily, and it took a while to get her bearings. The flute- playing seemed to go into a trance-like reverie which she found enchanting. Closer and closer she drew to the source, just over a large rock which faced down to the water. She scouted wide round the rock to approach it from the front. As she gained this vantage point, she saw that the player was using the wall of rock behind him to amplify his tone in a most effective manner. He was young! And he was a soldier, just like Marcus. He had laid aside his musket, cap and pack, and, eyes closed in the pleasure of the Spring sun, was completely lost to his muse.

His blond hair cropped his round head in Pan-like style. She wondered if had cultivated this image deliberately, but dismissed the thought as unworthy. She was now almost in front of him, on a rock of her own, which suddenly tilted, throwing her off balance, and sending her sliding sharply into a rough and thorny patch of antipodean Spring shrubbery. The flautist stopped abruptly as his audience of one threshed wildly in the embrace of nature.

Highly embarrassed, and scratched and bleeding, Antonia summoned all her dignity to remain calm, and to abjure the proffered help. She was not yet aware that not only was she bleeding profusely from cuts and scratches, but that a goodly portion of her flimsy upper garment was trailing like a dis-masted spinnaker. The entertainer had missed little however, and his handsome pink face turned an even deeper shade as he removed his coat. Suddenly alarmed, Antonia turned to spy her way back, but by then the young man had offered her the jacket. Now aware of her situation and touched by his gallantry, she accepted gratefully. As he escorted her back to the house, they talked, and Antonia found herself immensely pleased to be in the company of a fine young man again.

Inviting him in to the house as her rescuer, however, she was surprised to find Lydia less than grateful for the rescue, for she seemed just as eager to dress Antonia's hurts as she was to send the young soldier off the the servants' quarters for his cup of tea. It was a puzzle, thought Antonia.  

 

 

 

 

 

OLD GOVERNMENT HOUSE

 

At the old Government House, preparations for the Ball were muted. The fact was, the Governor was a killjoy. Gloomy and duty-driven, he didn't care if no-one else had fun either. The whole town wanted him out. There were more and more free settlers coming, and a lot of the old convicts were decent enough people now they had work, money and food. Some had done very well, and were even leading citizens.

 Mathers was what you might call a chief steward. Everything tended to run on military lines here, but it got things done.

 “Lucky to have a ball at all, what?” he languidly remarked, expertly flicking flies away from the cordial bowl with a cotton napkin.

 “Why shouldn't we? We got to dress up and dance, everyone does.”

“Not where you come from mate” rejoined Mathers.

 “Besides, you know old Darling. He's terrified he might enjoy himself.”

 

It was true enough. Governor James Darling was a military man, and ran the colony like a jail. As the balance of the colony tipped in favour of the free settlers, his harsh, puritanical rule became more and more resented. He had even banned the performance of drama, though he grudgingly allowed concerts, providing they were serious and gloomy enough. It was commonly held that he had  over-stepped the mark and his powers all too often.

“Mark my words” Mathers sniffed “the Governor's not long for this colony.” “What's e done now?”

“It's not what he's done now, it's what he's always done. You remember those two soldiers don't you?”

But his dim assistant was not well versed in current affairs or in history longer than a week. His leisure hours were liquid and unproductive.

Mathers sighed. He was an intelligent man of polished manner and bearing. The crime for which he had been transported was that of counterfeiting, for which he was neither proud nor ashamed. He was only sorry that he had been caught. Now that he was a free man, he could see that his social skills would be in demand in a society desperate to set itself up in dignity and to shake off  its inglorious past. Mathers' chief punishment, he reflected to himself, was enduring the company of cloth-brained yokels like this chap.

“It was a few few years ago Bill.”

“Ahh!”

“Not long at all Bill, not long at all. Couple of soldiers – couldn't see much of a future for themselves.”

Bill sniggered. Even he was aware of resentment amongst the military. They found it hard to see ex-convicts rising above them in wealth and reputation. The convict stain could be washed away with money, it seemed.

“Well, these two, their names were Sudds and Thomson, hatched a plan, and it was a good one. They stole some cloth.”

Bill began to throw up his hands in horror, but Mathers cut him short.

“Oh for Christ's sake Bill. It's just cloth. No-one got hurt. And the plan worked. They were sentenced to seven years' imprisonment. Convicts in Tasmania.”

Bill still looked puzzled.

Mathers tapped Bill's forehead, and was unaware of his subsequent action, that of wiping his hands on the napkin. A fastidious man himself, he found Bill's presence and person mildly distasteful.

“Think of it Bill. Seven years in a mild cool climate. Cold enough, but no snow. Learn a few skills, make yourself useful. Get fed, guarded by the military. No picnic, but probably get released early, make some money, buy some land. Get a couple of the old lags to work for you, and soon it's Squire Bill .”

“Of Swineherd Hill” he added, rather unkindly. But Bill thought the account most amusing and took no offence.”

“What'r we doin' now Mr. Mathers?”

“Oh, making silk purses, as usual.”

At Bill's blank look, he added “Out of sow's ears.”

But Bill, a man of limited education, and meagre experience, remained mystified.

 Mathers removed himself to the verandah, a fine colonial style adapted from the Indian experience. There he smoked and reflected. He liked it here. Every week new settlers arrived, and there was such a hunger for style and entertainment. Every morsel of news, of new styles, gossip, music and theatre was devoured whole by the Sydney public. His own past was forgiven as long as he could add a veneer of style to proceedings. He actually felt he could build up a social group not dependent on the doltish military, who had no idea how to live. Myles Jackson, for instance. Not a bad chap if you didn't mind bluff, hearty types, but did he really think he might run the place one day? Even his wife – now there was a tough woman, handsome enough certainly, but not one to meddle with – must have realised that he had no chance.

 Mathers wanted to build a society. He looked around him at the very walls of Old Government House. It had been started in 1795, pretty early. And it had been built of local mortar and sandstone bricks. Anyone could see the rough pointing work was crumbling fast, and that ants and other nameless creatures, so abundant in this place, transacted busy lives in the sandy world of Government House brickage. He felt this was a powerful symbol of his own situation, and wondered how to build a society of local sandstone and  old world rejects. As a formal seat of power it had long been superseded by the fine new Government House at Parramatta, with fine orchards, gardens and clean air.

 

Mathers' thoughts were interrupted by the rapping of military boots. He listened carefully, ready to jump up and head the visitor off if he should hear the change of sound which would indicate him heading for the ballroom. That polished floor was worth a great deal, and it didn't come cheap, in time or labour. The sound was louder. It was vigorous and precise. He knew exactly who it was, and relaxed.

 "Hello Tom, and not before time" he opened, without turning round.

 "Go on, sit down, have a drink. it won't kill you."

Tom demurred, but did force himself to sit, albeit perched precariously on a cushioned cane chair.

"Look at you now. Born to serve, you are. Sit back Tom. Take possession. Look as if you own the thing. Otherwise you'll have every jumped-up two-striped Napoleon jumping all over you. Dog eat dog, you know.”

 Tom knew exactly what he meant, and wasn't without ambition, but for the moment he wasn't pushing anything, or creating enemies.

"Have you got the list?"

"I believe I have sir."

"I'll take that as a yes." A pause, as he perused the paper Tom had handed him. "You're on flute I hope. These are the fiddlers? Can they do the job, or will we get more of those blasted Irish jigs?"

"Oh no, they're good sir, and actually, the Irish jigs are very popular, especially later in the evening, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean, and I suspect the Governor will too."

Here they both laughed, for their challenge was to have as good a time as possible under the patronage of a miserable tyrant.

 "It's the quality of the people that matters Tom – what is it?"

 He saw that Tom had suddenly recalled something and was eager to speak, and in no time at all Mathers was acquainted with the story of the new arrival. An unescorted female was not always good news thought Mathers, but if she was remotely like the description he had just heard, she would be a welcome addition to the prosaic crew he was expecting.

 

  

FRIENDS

Lydia often felt happy. Myles was helpful and affectionate, and Antonia had brought light and grace into her life. Unobtrusively, Antonia had begun to sort out the servants, finding their real talents and interests. She had seen Dorothy, a local native girl of fifteen or so, moulding  grasses and twigs into attractive shapes, toys and adornments. Teaching her to ply a needle was rewarding work indeed, as the girl marvelled at the magic of needle, thread and coloured cloth. She understood quickly the principles of dressmaking, having woven, plaited and and bound natural materials  into the intricate shapes evolved by her people over hundreds of generations. Patient and hard-working, Dorothy enjoyed her work as long as there was some fun in it. And Antonia made sure there was material left for Dorothy's own use, and this proved a master-stroke.

 Antonia had found Lydia depressed and despondent, standing in front of a large mirror, bedecked in in an ill-fitting ball-gown. The one she liked didn't fit; the one that fitted, she didn't like. It was immediately obvious that changes would have to be made.

 “What shall I do? This colour is all wrong for me. I like this one, I like it very much, but it just seems to hang off me in the wrong places, and it's simply too short. I don't know what I'm going to do.”

“Just stand there for a moment, don't move.”

With an artist's eye, she ran over the figure of Mrs. Lydia Jackson. It was a good figure and much could be done. The garment seemed to be designed for a stouter woman. There would be tucks to be made, and more volume was needed at the hem for elegance and balance. She thought she could see how to do it, but wasn't quite sure what she was working with.

 She now closed the door for privacy, for she had to see Lydia in her undergarments.

“May I?” she said, unclasping the neck catch.

 She had helped so many ladies at Sandringham Hall, and was perfectly comfortable. Duchess, Queen or gypsy, we are all much the same under our clothes, she thought.

Lydia, meanwhile, blushed furiously, and it crossed her mind that her guest was somehow gaining the upper hand. She felt confused and excited, and as her gown fell to the floor with a swish and a swirl, she took Antonia's hand and placed it on her upper bosom, hoping that that soft and attractive palm would cup her breast. Beyond that, she had no plan.

 A great light dawned in Antonia's mind. It seemed to her that time stood still and that she was looking at a tableau of scenes from a painting. She realised many things in that one long, long instant.

She realised that she was surprised, but not shocked.

She realised that she should have seen this coming.

She realised that she had been in this situation before, in Sandringham Hall, without knowing it.

She realised it was not a matter for shame.  She realised that we are all human, with the same needs.

 And she realised that this could be a very difficult situation.

She also realised that if someone entered the room, they might get quite a shock.

At this stage, Lydia embraced her powerfully, jamming her hand against her breast, while the other arm hung awkwardly by her side. For a moment they stood, Lydia's head pressed into her neck.

 Lydia released her.

   “For God's sake, don't tell Myles.”

Antonia felt that this displayed Lydia's light grip on reality, for nothing seemed to her less likely.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me” Lydia went on.

Antonia said the first thing that came into her head, and it seemed to calm Lydia greatly.

 “No, it's our little secret isn't it.”

 An hour later saw an idyllic scene. Two ladies and an aboriginal girl sat  amicably sewing amid an afternoon tea setting. Young eucalypts sprouted Spring growth, and birds called noisily from tree to tree. Little wedges of newly-shorn cloth lay at their feet, and Dorothy plied her needle steadily round a newly-created hem of  beautiful colour and proportions.

HOPE

 

The rumour swept the colony like a bomb. There was a white man living with the natives. Nothing was known but this. It reached the Jacksons, and with it, Antonia, whose heart leaped.

A party was organised to rescue the man, presuming that he wished to be rescued. But it wasn't going to happen before the Ball. Lydia was annoyed, and felt ashamed of it. Her feeling for Antonia wasn't going away, and even if she seemed not to reciprocate, she just wanted her near.

 “I hope you are not getting your hopes up, dear” she remarked, in what she hoped was a tone of concern.

“Of course I am Lydia.”

 She had at last moved to a first name relationship with Lydia.

“How well do you know this man?”

“Quite well, and I am hoping to to get to know him very much more.”

“Oh, child” and Lydia put her hand over Antonia's, who didn't mind at all.  “Don't you realise? He's gone. I'm sorry, but it's just foolish to pin your hopes to something that's not going to happen. Of course Myles has asked everyone about your Captain Oldham. No-one has a bad word to say about him, but no-one thinks he is alive either.”

“But how do you know? Why couldn't it be him?”

“The men who have lived with the natives, my dear, are not men like your captain Oldham. They are desperates, convicts and fugitives wanting to escape society.”

 “Such as it is here” she added.   

Antonia protested her faith, and resented what she thought was a harsh judgement, but Lydia's words had the ring of truth, and they bothered her greatly. What Lydia said next however, bothered her even more, for in a confidential tone, Lydia murmured

“You must not expect too much of a man. They're not like us. They don't really know what love is. They have their appetites, and many are not too particular about how they satisfy them I'm afraid.”

As Antonia reared in indignation, she added

 “I presume you had frequent letters.”

“You know that's not always possible Lydia.”

“Of course not, but it is desirable.”

In the heat of the moment Antonia reflected that Major Jackson didn't seem to be the letter-writing type and hit out.

“How well did you know Major Jackson before you married?”

The shoe was suddenly on the other foot, and Lydia seemed anxious to finish the conversation.

“That was different” she retorted lamely.

“I'm sure it was” came Antonia's swift rejoinder.

 

Antonia was eager to see Old Government House, and soon managed an invitation to visit. Major Jackson organised it, and Lydia insisted on going too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AN INVITATION

 

The building was much as she expected it to be, like so much else in this colony, a worthy attempt to emulate something more grand and noble than it could possibly ever be. She was introduced to Mathers of course, whom she didn't particularly like at first, but saw that he was more than capable, which she appreciated. The ballroom was of adequate size, and the ante-rooms and wings, although a hodtc-potch of arrangements and styles, seemed quite suitable for their purpose.

Mathers seemed to want to talk to her, and to draw her out. He was good at it, and soon they were all, in spirit at least, deeply involved in the goings-on at Sandringham Hall.

“Yes, I know the place, and I'm told the Royal Family might be interested...”

“In buying it?” cut in Myles.

“In acquiring it” replied Mathers.

Antonia enjoyed the subtlety.

 “Is it really that sort of place?” asked Lydia, glancing sideways at  Antonia.

Mathers and Antonia began to answer together, until Mathers gave her the floor, insisting she speak, with her first-hand experience. Even as she began to speak, Antonia realised how good Mathers was at acquiring information, knowledge and people – and quite possibly, power. For the moment, she enjoyed talking about her old life.

“I spent a great deal of time there...”

“Family connections, Miss..”

“Newland.”

There was a stir from the Jacksons as they heard the name, a proud one if an impoverished one in her native county. There was no response from Mathers.

“We may have made our mark there once, but if we kept our pride it was harder to keep our land. Mine is a backward county I know, and people make fun of us. We are mostly farmers on poor soil, and even now it's getting worse with wool from this very place putting more farmers out of work. But my father saw to it that I could keep up with my brothers, and my cousins” and here she turned slightly towards the Jacksons, saying “whether close or distant.”  

The Jacksons turned away ever so slightly in their discomfort, knowing by now that Marcus Oldham was one of Antonia's distant cousins.

“As a result, I was found to be highly employable at Sandringham House, whether as a Governess or nurse, and sometimes just to help out on social occasions. They didn't even mind if visitors assumed that I was one of the family.”

“And you?” queried Mathers.

“Yes, I did mind. It wasn't my family, and no matter how well I was treated, I felt like a servant.”

“And now you're here, eh?” went on Mathers ruminatively. “Listen, I'll just organise some tea, and then we must have a chat eh?”

Lydia was in a fog of delight as she examined preparations, and it wasn't long before Mathers was able to corral Antonia into a private conversation. He was blunt and to the point.

“No title, no breeding?”

“None.”

“Land?”

“I've sold off the last of my inheritance.”

“Escort?”

“My betrothed is missing presumed dead.”

“Sorry to hear that – oh yes, the Oldham chap.”

He paused for a moment thoughtfully, recalling something.

 “Are you up to coming?”

“To the Ball. Certainly.”

He looked at her thoughtfully.

“Good girl. I'd like you here. Got any idea why.”

Antonia looked round. Mathers she understood. She knew his type, and appreciated his abilities. She looked at the other helpers and servants. They wouldn't have got through the front gate at Sandringham Hall. She looked at Lydia, sipping tea on the verandah. She was quite a good-looking woman but stood out as somewhat of a beauty amongst the soldiers' wives.

Again she answered “Yes.”

“We'll talk some more” finished Mathers.

Even if I'm grieving, thought Antonia, this promised to be diverting.

THE DARLINGS

Governor James Darling hadn't got here by chance. He had shown himself a good administrator, able to lead and to make tough decisions. He brooked no weakness, and showed no mercy in punishing misdemeanours. Once the rule of law was flouted, the only path was down. He wasn't going to let that happen. He had seen it around the world, in various administrations, British and other.

 A Ball was fine, but drunkenness and lasciviousness were not. Strict safeguards were necessary, and he would exercise control from beginning to end. He considered himself a fair man, and in some respects, a fortunate one. Even if the colonists didn't know what was good for them, he did, and he had the best policeman in the world to help him – or policewoman, to be more precise. Elizabeth, he knew, was respected and popular, a fine counterbalance to his orderly and authoritative rule. No-one could question her good works amongst the convict women, the natives and the poor. And she was also an accomplished hostess, able to look after those aspects of life which he found, well, not to put too fine a point on it, frivolous.

A Ball was a celebration, to be sure. But there was no need for it to become a reckless, unseemly outbreak of boorish behaviour. If he had his way, there would be no alcohol at all, but people, in their ignorance, wouldn't stand for it. The military element was prone to this fault, he knew, and the leading lights, the more entertaining element of the colony, unfortunately showed strong republican, free-thinking tendencies. And, what's more, they were so intemperate and reckless, in their criticism of him that, given the chance, he would have them all imprisoned, fined or sent back to England, possibly all of these together. But surely they could see he was a fair man.

 The next day saw Antonia back at Government House. The promised interview with Mathers was taking place in one of the drawing rooms. An easel was set up on sacking to protect the carpet, and was draped by a cheesecloth. The pleasant smell of oils and waxes wafted through the room, and out into the spring air of the street.

 “Mrs. Darling's work” offered Mathers without being asked. He removed the cheesecloth, and revealed an entirely conventional offering of considerable merit. The  subject was a posy of native flowers, and was most attractively rendered, although something about it didn't seem quite right. But what it was she couldn't think.

“What do you think?” asked Mathers, who seemed sincere in his desire to learn her opinion.

“I'm new, here. I've hardly been here any time at all. I like it. She's good. But there is something a bit odd about it isn't there? Am I right? It's better than anything I could do, but it still looks a little strange.”

Mathers seemed pleased. He pointed to the leaf arrangement which formed some of the background.

 “Observe closely.”

Antonia observed closely, and could find no fault.

 “Now turn to your right, eighty degrees.”

She did so, and found herself looking at a floral arrangement in a vase on a mantel.

 “Observe closely.”

Antonia saw already that it was the self-same leaf featured in the painting. As she focused, she realised that the colour was wrong. That was it!

“She's got the colour wrong.”

“What about this one – the kangaroo paw?”

“Is that what it's called? How lovely and how strange. I think she has captured it well.”

“You're right. That pink is a colour she recognises from home. But that grey green hasn't sunk in yet. She finds it drab and rejects it in favour of the soft colour from home. Look at the edge of the leaf.”

 

Puzzled, for she could see no other apparent difference, she peered dutifully, and again, eventually, it became clear. The edge of the leaf was not entirely regular, but seemed to suffer some kind of erosion, giving a ragged edge, not unattractive in its own way, but not according with a traditional artistic sensibility.

“It's a new place Miss Oldham, and takes new eyes and a new way of thinking.  We will have our own artists before long I dare say.”

“But would you not say, Mr. Mathers, that she is a fine artist?”

“Yes, she is talented, and people will enjoy her work for a long time.”

You know a lot about these things don't you Mr. Mathers. You have what they called “the eye” at Sandringham Hall. Surely you have an artistic gift as well.

Mathers looked at her with a mixture of irony and amusement.

“Such gifts of mine as you are aware of, Antonia, are essential to a good counterfeiter. But even there, it wasn't enough, or I wouldn't be here, would I?”

 

Antonia had never heard the like of this, and felt uncomfortable suddenly in the company of a self-confessed criminal.

 “My crime hurt no-one, girl, and I can assure you that you are consorting with people here, in all walks of life, with much darker secrets than you could imagine. Certainly much worse than mine. ”

As he hinted at this fund of knowledge, it occurred to Antonia that Mathers was the most likely source of news and gossip that she was likely to encounter, and she blurted

“This white man living with the natives...”

“Don't get your hopes up.”

This seemed unkind, and they were the same blunt words used by Lydia. Why shouldn't she keep her hopes up? What else did she have?

“But why shouldn't I keep my hopes up?”

Mathers reflected silently for some time, a pause which seemed ominous to Antonia. It seemed he was reluctant to voice something.

“Of course we hear things. There are patrols coming and going. They are in touch with settlers and native camps. There's not much goes on but gets reported. My best guess is that Captain Oldham has indeed met with misfortune, There are many who disappear in this way. Sometimes their bodies are found, perhaps years later. And sometimes not.”

 

He was going to say more, but was interrupted by the entrance of a short, stout woman, simply dressed in sober colours. Mathers was on his feet in an instant, whereupon she waved him down.

 “Have you seen my brush-set Mathers, it was...” and she broke off as she saw Antonia.

“Ah, you're Lydia's guest I presume. I'm Mrs. Darling of course, but in here I'm Elizabeth. Never outside though, you must remember.”

She frowned, and added

“You've had some bad news I understand. Was it young Oldham? Yes. Well, my dear, I hate to tell you, but I shouldn't get my hopes up if I were you.”

Antonia could see that she was a good and practical woman, and in time she would probably grow to like her, but right now she felt like hitting her. But she merely smiled and bobbed gently to show her good-will.

THE BALL

 

She'd been here a month now, and felt that, on the whole, people had treated her with kindness. No word had emerged about Marcus, and the one man who had come in from the bush in recent days seemed quite deranged. No-one yet knew his story, and he seemed incapable of expressing himself. For the first time, Antonia wondered whether death might be preferable. She now prayed only that if it were so,  he had met his end with her still in his heart.

 She hoped now, as she entered the ballroom, that she was true to his memory.  She was not unaware of the glances and compliments which flowed her way and was aware also of the yearning for home which inspired much of this attention. One tow-headed officer stared alarmingly at her, so that she thought she must have known him from some previous occasion, so she smiled and nodded as she moved gracefully on.

 Although she had been keenly aware of the place's shortcomings compared to Sandringham Hall, she was nervous and excited, for now she was an honoured guest, and the colony had made a mighty effort to present its best face. All was colour and gaiety, but all at the same time circumscribed by the conservative and decorous taste of the gubernatorial couple. It would take some warmth indeed to melt the ice.

 

As the claret glasses clinked merrily, a familiar sound wafted over the throng.  It was the flute of her Pan-like friend, Tom. The melody which had haunted the shores of the harbour now floated entrancingly throughout the ballroom. Most hardly noticed, but others were enraptured, as the voice of old Europe rang out clear and true in this far-off land.

 “Damn strange thing for a young man to do” remarked a man nearby, without being introduced. Antonia looked past him demurely, but pointedly, and he hastily reacquainted himself with Lydia, who then introduced them.

“Possibly”, she replied, “but he's not hurting anyone, and is actually giving me a great deal of pleasure. It is hard to imagine life without music.”

“Never bothered me much, I can truthfully say.”

“No? People are different aren't they?” she answered, wondering if this could possibly be the reason for finding him so uninteresting.   

She was eager to move away from this boor, and in turning found her arm brushed, spilling her wine. How clumsy of her, and what an unfortunate start to the evening. But before she even had the time to blush, she found her arm taken in the most natural way, and in a pleasant, if theatrical, manner, Mr. Huxley produced a perfectly spectacular handkerchief which he employed in drying her wrist. At the same time he motioned a lackey to attend to the minor spillage on the floor. He smiled warmly and bowed briefly.

“Captain Henry Huxley at your service, Madam.”

Antonia was impressed, and grateful. A moment of social risk had been turned to advantage.

 “Why thank you Captain Huxley. You are most considerate. You will have a reward in Heaven.”

“A simple dance with you madam, will suffice.”

Several people heard this, and marvelled at his boldness and charm.

 “How could I refuse?”

The meal was a splendid one, with several courses, all decently dressed and well-presented. There were those that thought the Ball was for dining, and they were not disappointed. Others were more interested in the effect they were making, and in preserving their finery in its cleanest, most alluring form. Others wanted to catch up with the wealthy, the powerful, the entertaining and the wanton. All were there, glistening gently in the warm room as the temperature rose and the wine levels fell. Antonia ate and drank sparingly, but saw little restraint around her. The person who seemed to be enjoying himself the most was Tom, the flautist, who also acted as soloist and concertmaster. From time to time she would absent herself from the table to sit awhile by the orchestra, which she found mesmerising. It was a good one, and if their individual skills were not virtuosic, their rapport was marvellous and their playing spirited.

 The serious tenor of their earlier offerings had been supplanted by vigorous marches and arrangements of popular operas, but the dancing had not yet begun.

 

The Jacksons were enjoying themselves, and this pleased and relieved her greatly. From the verandah one could see townsfolk and some aborigines loitering, hoping to catch some of the music and the festive air. Other gatherings and festivities were also running at the same time, albeit of a less exalted standard.

 

 The wine flowed, and so did the music. The old country dances she knew from Sandringham Hall were still in vogue and the columns of couples advanced and retreated decorously with a mighty rustling of silks and satins, and an exciting shuffle and tap of gleaming leather shoes of every colour. Mr. Huxley looked perfectly comfortable, though slightly distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Antonia felt hers should be, but she was enjoying herself. As much as young Tom was.

 

 She was pleased to see Huxley talking to Tom, and she surmised that he was passing on his enjoyment to the musicians. It was not long after this that the band played a short bracket of jigs and reels, which occasioned much spirited dancing, mirth and merriment. This perfectly satisfying bracket came to an end as Huxley appeared at her side, and as if on cue, brought her round to face him. He took her arm and her waist in the formal waltz position, just as the orchestra struck up three four time.

 It was easy to relax and be guided. It was more than easy, it was pure pleasure. Huxley stepped with ease and grace, and guided her so surely that she danced with a new vigour and life. Confronted at first by the intimacy of the waltz position, she told herself that all over the world people were mad about this dance. She tried to tell herself that she was not at all excited by his strong presence and masterful control, but she didn't listen. For the moment, she had abandoned herself to Huxley and the Waltz. After all, who could it hurt?

 

The music swept to a finish and the crowd applauded. The band was much appreciated, but all eyes were on the handsome couple who seemed made for each other. In her pleasure and confusion, she was not sure where the plaudits were flowing, but was soon surrounded by well-wishers and admirers of both sexes. It took her some time to make her way back to her table where she received a surprise. In fact, a shock.

 

On the table, placed discreetly to the left of her setting, lay an envelope, a handsome one. Wondering if this was another Huxley ploy, and possibly a good one, she took it quietly out to a corner of the verandah. There she opened it.

 

It was an odd little note, seemingly official, but un-headed and unsigned. It read

“Dear Madam,

we wish to advise you that news has been received of a white man living with the aborigines not far from here. You will receive further information if you report to the upper gentlemen's parlour No. 2 forthwith.”

 

Elation and guilt fought for possession, and elation won. Not caring who saw her, she hurried as fast as she could to the staircase. Even as she ascended the stairs, the thought crossed her mind that the informal tone of the letter would shortly be explained. She found the room quickly, and there seemed to be some sort of hubbub within. She assumed she was expected, and burst in.

 

If the devil himself had done so, it would not have created more of a stir. The entire room froze. Glasses and lamps gleamed in the rich, low light and various items of womens' clothes draped round the room added colour and richness to the scarlets and blues of the men's uniforms. Every eye was upon her, and in that instant she recognised some of them, who suddenly looked ashamed, or turned away. Others seemed to devour her with their hot eyes, and she felt great danger, and wished to be anywhere else. Confused, she was still waiting for someone to explain the news when she saw, at the back of the room, a young woman lightly clad. In fact, to her horror, she realised she was the only other woman in the room, and her form was clearly visible. As her eyes drew back, her gaze swept over books and statuary of a voluptuaries' taste. She looked at the letter, feeling unutterably foolish.

 

“I think you've come to the wrong place Miss” murmured one of the older men.

“Oh no she hasn't” cried two younger men, receiving laughs from some and sharp reproof from others. Swiftly, the older man ushered her out.

 “I'm sorry about that, but we don't do any harm Miss. I hope it doesn't upset you. Now, what's going on?”

Speechless and mortified, she proffered the letter. He scanned it quickly and grunted

“I'm sorry. Someone is playing a cruel joke is my opinion.”

And just then, on the upstairs landing, there appeared a gaggle of junior kitchen  hands, primed to view her exit from Gentleman's Parlour No. 2 it seemed. Wide-eyed and giggling, they gawped and gaped rudely till the officer, giving Antonia his arm, brushed them aside, saying in a loud, clear and respectful voice

 “I shall investigate the matter myself, your ladyship, and we will punish those responsible.”

 

She didn't want him touching her, or even talking to her, but in the circumstances, she was grateful for his considerate gesture. She had no idea whether he meant any of it. Halfway down the stairs he released her and said

 

“I think you're better off on your own from here.”

Then he added

“Are you Oldham's girl.”

“Yes.”

“Then I am again most heartily sorry.”

Seizing the slight chance, she asked

“Do you think he could still be alive?”

And he just answered

 “No.”

She couldn't go straight back, as her face was aflame. She passed round by one of the smaller galley kitchens looking to kill some time and regain composure. As her shoes crunched on the sandy gravel, she heard an even harsher sound.

 “Ay! Reckon this pig's really dead, or d'ya think the abo's are lookin after im.” The cackling laughter was familiar. She'd heard it most of the way from Plymouth to Sydney.

 By the time she re-entered the Ballroom, she had to fight to keep the grimness of her heart from broadcasting her anger and disappointment.  People were kind to her, but she would not find it easy now to tolerate their patronising and condescension. As she chatted and drank, possibly a little unwisely now, she began to think of revenge. With another claret, a course became clearer, and she made her way to the kitchen. She would have it out with this harpie, this cruel witch, and put her to rights, somehow.

She never got there, Unsteady on her feet, she encountered Mathers, who drew her into his office to see what was wrong. This seemed to her a good idea, if a change from her previous plan, admittedly loose as it was. As she talked, she felt that he wasn't listening, for he was peering intently at her. His face was getting larger, and suddenly he was pressing down on her , kissing her and feeling her through her gown.

 Galvanised into action, she furiously threw him off. She felt nothing but elation in the exercise of her own strength as she slapped him hard, leaving her with a stinging and bruised hand. She marched out, angry but at least pleased to have asserted herself.

 It wasn't long after that that the Jackson coach rolled away, clip-clopping along the shore and up the hill.

 “Tell us about it in the morning, if you like, dear” was all Lydia said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A VISITOR WITH NEWS

 

The importunate advances and trials of the previous evening sounded a warning bell. It would be next to impossible to maintain a single female presence here. And yet her situation with the Jacksons was also not without its problems, for Lydia, although she had made no further advances, was at the very least, possessive. Antonia wondered how to deal with this and how she could bring up the subject of her own future. But other events transpired before she could bring up the subject.

The weather being oppressive and gloomy, with the threat of a storm hanging heavily in the air, they prepared for a light luncheon in the parlour.

 “You were quite the Belle of the Ball I believe” began Lydia. She seemed not at all jealous, but rather, proud, as if Antonia were her splendid daughter.

 “It was an interesting evening” replied Antonia archly, whereupon they laughed companionably.

 “What is it?” she asked, as Lydia appeared to gasp for air. Looking more closely, Lydia's colour looked more waxy than usual.

“Are you sure you're alright? You do look a little queer.”

“The food – it was so rich. Something must have disagreed with me.”

But, thinking back, something occurred to Antonia.

 “You felt like this yesterday morning, didn't you? Getting ready, you know, for the Ball I mean. I put it down to the excitement.”

“What are you getting at?”

“It's called morning sickness Lydia. I believe it's happened before.”

Lydia's colour changed again as she took in the implications of this news. She looked incredulous yet thoughtful.

“Do you think it really could happen? At this stage? Surely not.”

“Don't you want it to happen?”

“Once, it was all I thought about, but I haven't thought about it for a long time. I'd hate to get my hopes up for nothing. You remember – no, it was before you came, the wife of Major Chiswick seemed to be pregnant. But she wasn't.”

“But if she wasn't. How did she 'seem to be'?”

“I suppose she felt ill – like me this morning.”

“And yesterday!”

“Yes, and yesterday.”

“And then?”

“And then her stomach grew larger.”

“That's usual, I believe” cut in Antonia.

“But she wasn't pregnant at all, the doctor said so. But everyone knew that she so wanted a baby, it's all she thought about night and day.”

“Lydia, you know that's not you. That's called a phantom pregnancy. Have you missed this month? That should tell you.”

“Yes, but I thought I might just be irregular, or coming to that time of life. It does happen you know.”

“Yes, I'm sure. So do babies. Shall I mark you in for a visit from the doctor?”

“Don't be impertinent” replied Lydia, making a mental note to arrange it as soon as possible.   

“Of course” added Lydia musingly “Myles and I have been together rather more frequently of late. Of course, how silly of me. I'd come to to think it would just never happen. Huh!”

And it was not without  a certain satisfaction that Antonia congratulated herself  as a catalyst of this possible, no, probable, development.

 

 It was soon after this that Captain Huxley, in company with a friend, called in at the house, ostensibly on business with Myles. The thing was, Myles seemed surprised to see him.

 “Will you dine with us, Captain Huxley? It will be no trouble for cook.”

“It's kind of you, and I gratefully accept. The Officer's Mess is not always an agreeable dining experience I have to say.”

 And he laughed pleasantly. It was impossible not to like him, and he seemed entirely unconscious of his good looks. He enjoyed his food, which he consumed with unaffected good manners accompanied by easy conversation. His friend, Lieutenant Harrington, was not so polished, and was somewhat ill-at-ease. He enquired attentively about Lydia's health and hopes, and eventually, as a kind of afterthought, asked about Antonia's life.

 Naturally, the subject of Marcus Oldham came up, and Huxley was noticeably affected. Suddenly he was lost for words, as he stumbled for the right expression. It was clear that he was uncomfortable, and Antonia felt sorry for him.

 “Yes, Marcus – Marcus. Ah – he is missed, I am sure. A sad situation, so many fine fellows, and he was one of the best.”

Antonia's heart leaped with gratitude.

 “Where did you meet him.”

“I believe we trained together.”

“Was that under Butcher?”

“Ah yes” chuckled Huxley. “The old sod, begging your pardon” and he chuckled again at the memory, while Antonia warmed to the recollection. She remembered Marcus's stories and she could picture a younger Huxley as one of his companions. Under English skies his tanned skin would have had a rosier hue, and the tiny hints of grey in his curls would have been a fine black.

“And did you go on to serve together?”

“No. Sadly, we were separated as I went to India while, as you know, he went both there and eventually, Australia.”

“And did you enjoy your time in India, or is that a difficult question?”

“It is truly an interesting country Miss. Unfortunately, my time there was marred by personal sadness.”

He paused and seemed not to want to proceed. Antonia, somewhat artlessly, urged him to go on. Reluctantly, he continued, in a softer voice

“My young wife died. I am sure you understand.”

Mortified that she had pressed him into this declaration, she instinctively laid her hand on the back of his before withdrawing it decorously. It was a firm and strong hand.

 Harrington had little to say, and his open, country-man's face had a sour, doleful expression as if he were also deeply affected by the conversation. And, indeed, he was.

 “Did you?” began Antonia, and as she did, she (foolishly, she felt later) glanced at Lydia's stomach. Already she had begun to treat her friend differently. She didn't have to finish the question, for Huxley understood immdiately.

 “Yes, we had a child. She lives in England where I support her at a fine  boarding school where she may learn to live as a lady and learn the habits and customs of civilised society.”

 

It was clear to all that Huxley was somewhat affected by the recollection of his tragedy, and Antonia, for her part, decided to change the subject. Although she sensed the growing bond between her and Huxley, she felt she should not pursue it in too obvious a fashion for the moment. Some light conversation centred round Harrington seemed to be called for, but Harrington appeared not to be the light conversational type, not indeed, much inclined to speak at all. It was shortly after this that the visitors began to take their leave, but not before Captain Huxley, collecting their hats, found a moment to murmur to Antonia

“Should I call again this week Miss, I should be most obliged were your company to be expected. I shall be visiting on Wednesday week.”

He had declared himself courteously, and had made it easy for her, and it was easy, and gratifying to be able to say

“I shall be here, certainly.”

 Surely that could do no harm.

 

 Lydia, was to be seen in the next couple of days, looking speculatively at Antonia. She seemed about to broach a subject, but never quite managed it until, suddenly

 “Something arrived a couple of days ago. I've been hanging on to it – didn't want to give it to you just before the Ball – spoil your fun and all that. But, I just did what I thought best.”

She left briefly, and came back with a small package.

“Its what we thought I'm afraid” she said sorrowfully, as she slid the contents out of a pretty, decorative wallet onto the table.

 Antonia's heart froze as she recognised the very paper, then the handwriting, then the letters themselves. The wallet itself was a present from her to Marcus, and she had decorated it herself.

 

“These were found on the body, my dear. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you. They say his death was quick and that these were the only personal items found with him. I can tell you that he has been buried decently, but I really don't know any more.”

She realised that she'd known it was coming, and that she had already done a certain amount of grieving, but the news still seemed to turn her to stone. And then she murmured in a small and far-off voice,

“A new life for you Lydia. It just maintains the balance. It just makes up for the one that was lost. A new life.”

AMBITION OR HAPPINESS?

 

Huxley was true to his word, and punctual to the day. Wednesday week saw him arriving alone, driving a smart horse and trap. Antonia saw him approach, and took pleasure in his deft work with the horse. She was reading when Huxley was shown in, but waited until after he had been presented to Lydia who was pleased enough to receive a visitor.  Antonia had the feeling that Lydia approved of his interest. She wondered if he had brought the trap in order to make it possible to go driving together. She was not sure that she wanted to, just yet, and even felt that it might have been presumptuous on his part.

 “Here's Captain Huxley, my dear. He has come to pay his respects but has brought no cooler weather with him I am afraid.”

Antonia didn't feel in the mood for talk about the weather, and was feeling gradually more annoyed that he should have presumed to bring the trap. He was no better than the rest of them, she was starting to feel.

 “That is most remiss of him. I should have thought he would have more influence in that quarter.”

He was kind enough to laugh gently at her feeble joke, and proceeded to chat most companionably to Lydia in particular, and Antonia when she chose to respond. She couldn't help but thaw as she recognised his modesty and good humour. He seemed pleased to be in her company, without ever making it obvious or seeking a response. If only he hadn't brought the trap.

Before long, he was making ready to leave, and Antonia found herself disappointed, both at the brevity of his stay and her own suspicions.

 As he was about to depart, he seemed to recollect himself.

Oh, Mrs. Jackson. Pardon me, but I almost forgot. I have taken the liberty of bringing something which you might find useful. It's a little bulky, that's why I have travelled in style.”

And so saying, he exited briefly, to return holding a large parcel. It contained a beautiful christening robe and a down-filled blanket of fine quality, things which he said he no longer needed since his wife's passing.

 “Oh, Captain Huxley. This is too generous. Besides, I am sure you will marry again one day.”

Antonia was afraid to look at her, or guess the kind of smile she might be wearing.

 “I would have to be sure Madam. I would have to be very sure.”

On every count, Antonia felt, she had misjudged him. Had this place made her so suspicious? She cursed her own mistrusting nature that had made her doubt the sincere affections of an honest man.

 

 She was getting to know this place rather well she thought. The round of Christmas and New Year festivities was both enjoyable and tedious. Every day she persevered with her questions at Company Headquarters, but no news arrived except for the vague notion that there could be a white man living somewhere. There had been a number of false alarms already, and even a couple of returnees who had not been missed in the first place. She gleaned any piece of information she could from anyone who was willing to talk. Huxley was most helpful in this as he procured native interpreters where necessary, and also made written reports of other witnesses of  violent or uncertain temperament. The news all pointed only in one direction, but Huxley seemed happy to go to any lengths to assist.

 

 She still had money – not a lot, but money. And land was free, if you could settle it and work it. Or so they said. It was common knowledge that the land was free, but freer for some than for others. Grants were tightly guarded and closely administered as they were given out. The same faces could be seen at the Lands Office, morning after morning, acquiring yet more and more land. The process of selection was a jealously guarded secret, but the grantees seemed to be a selection of cronies and capital, well-placed to profit from their investment. The same people were loud in their demand for  convict labour with which to work their land. They would need farm labour, roads built and transport to markets.

 Antonia made inquiries, but was greeted with incredulity at the notion of her acquiring land. It was then that she heard about Mrs. Elizabeth McArthur. She was the woman who ran a farm at Camden, and this gave Antonia much heart. Her husband, it seemed, had imported the Spanish Merino sheep which were such a spectacular success here, and although he had returned to England to educate their boys, she managed the farm with conspicuous success, and with civilised methods. Camden was a day's journey from Sydney, and much of the best land was being reserved at an alarming rate, but who knew what lay beyond in this vast country? She turned over in her mind the possibility of acquiring land. It had started to become an obsession. Was not Mrs. McArthur now a leading figure in the colony? Had she not  set them up for international success with their flocks and their wool? Was she not  a model of femininity and charm, a good mother and a humane employer? While her husband was persona non grata, did anyone impugn his faults to her? Could not she, Antonia, do something similar?

 It was Mrs. Darling, the Governor's wife, to whom she put the question. She had gone to Government House on a number of occasions. She was a welcome addition to various groups which met there for informal occasions. Mrs. Darling had kept up a punishing round of charitable tasks throughout her husband's tenure and had earned the admiration of the population. Antonia couldn't help thinking whether, if the Governor had been a more popular man, this would have been necessary. But, she concluded, he wasn't popular, and it was necessary.

 Now that they were going, Mrs. Darling had reduced her commitments and was finishing off her reign with a round of social engagements. She was an accomplished hostess, and the hospitality was gracious and enjoyable.

“No, don't go” she said, as Antonia readied herself, along with the older  ladies, to leave.

 Antonia was pleased and flattered. Mrs. Darling made no effort to hide this favouritism, but waved cheerfully to her friends, who looked curiously, but without resentment at the couple. It was pleasant to loll in the late-afternoon detritus of their luncheon as the servants unobtrusively cleared up. Antonia noted the steady training of the staff under Mathers and the unostentatious style they had begun to employ.  

“I'm sorry you're going Maam” Antonia began.

“Bless you girl” she replied, looking grateful.

 “I am

and am not – sorry, I mean.”

Antonia guessed what she meant, but held her tongue. So did Mrs. Darling. She went on reflectively.

“There are two sides to everything aren't there? I'm sorry because it's been a grand time, and I believe I have done some good, and people like me for it. And I'm not sorry because, well, Ralph is not popular as I am sure you know. It's not really our decision to go back, but he is a good man and a fair man and has done his very best for these people. His standards are high, but I feel he has given offence to people who simply do not understand him, or appreciate him.”

Antonia knew this last part was certainly true, but forebore to agree. Her silence and nod were well received, and Mrs. Darling went on.

“No dear. I just wanted a talk. You're a free woman and a free spirit. I can see you want to do something, leave your mark and all that sort of thing – not so easy to do.”

“Well that's something I actually wanted to speak to you about. You know that Mrs. McArthur?”

“I know her well of course. Everyone does. So you want to be Mrs. McArthur? Everyone does. She is a great success story. But the strength of the lady is not generally appreciated. She has the spirit of the Lord in her and her faith and breeding have been invaluable in setting her up.”

“But could I not do the same thing?”

“No.”

“But why not?”

“The farm is not hers. It is her husband's.”

“Anyone can buy.”

“That land was a 5,000 acre grant by Lord Camden.”

“But she is the one who administered it.”

“I take it you haven't met Wilson?”

“No, who is he?”

“He is the ex-convict who runs the place. She did the books and made the decisions, to be sure. But nothing happened without Wilson. Do you see what I am saying?”

“Mrs. Darling, you seem to be telling me that I need a man.”

“Yes, dear. That is precisely what I am telling you.”

“Why should I not be the first woman to succeed in this.”

“Succeed in what? You're not even sure what you want to do. The men perish like flies out there trying to succeed at what they've been doing all their lives. You know how hard it is for a single woman here. I can assure you that even for a middle-aged Governor's wife of sober disposition and homely appearance, negotiating the other sex is hazardous. They can't help it. It is their nature. You need protection, you need a man. Don't be silly and don't be perverse.”

“But I came here to marry Captain Oldham. I love him.”

“Child, it pains me to say this. You are deluded. You love his memory, but you can't live on memories. Don't take too long my dear, don't take too long. Don't put off living for the sake of a memory. There are good people about” and she nodded kindly and reassuringly.

 “Don't be too picky.”      

       

      

THE CASE OF HUXLEY v HARRINGTON

Huxley called again, and Antonia found herself awaiting his visits. She found them disturbing, but exciting, her mind in a turmoil, torn between sorrow for Marcus, and her hope for a new life. Just how and when it would start she didn't know, nor did she know the day and the hour when, to her surprise, she began to entertain in a tiny way, the possibility of a life with Huxley. She found herself wondering idly what the children of their union might look like, then blushed for shame to discover her own thoughts. At other times, bitterly missing her beloved Marcus, her thoughts were flat and colourless. But when Huxley visited, her world was suddenly brighter and busier, her colour heightened, and people looked meaningfully at her. There was nothing wrong with that, she told herself, and busied herself till the next visit.

 Huxley was always the perfect gentleman, and she could no longer pretend that he was coming to visit the Jacksons. Just as she began to realise this, he broached the subject with her, saying

“Antonia, the Jacksons are fine people, but I do not love them.”

“You seem fond of them.”

“Fondness is a mild emotion.”

Then he smiled winningly as he added

“I suffer from a much stronger emotion, my dear, and I think you are aware of it. I believe it is like an illness. You see, I have faced the heathen in battle and have put down mutinies, all in the line of duty.”

He spoke the words lightly, without any hint of bombast.

“But I don't recall being nervous or excited. This illness has affected me more than I would like to admit. I believe it is called love, but I don't know if it is infectious. My constitution has been weakened by it when I lost my wife, and I fear it is being tested again.”

He waited for Antonia to speak, and said

“No, don't say anything. I'm away for a week on patrol, and I will be thinking of you very much.”

And he took her hand, stroking it gently, before bidding farewell.

 

 Harrington was one of the dimmer lights of the Regiment, but was tenacious in his habits. He and Huxley had been thrown together by circumstance, and managed to get along well enough. While Huxley was popular, Harrington made up the numbers. Huxley was handsome, Harrington was stolid. Where Huxley was a leader, Harrington merely exercised the authority devolved upon him by King and country. These things were perceived, albeit dimly, by Harrington, but did not endear him to his colleague. A certain mean-spiritedness, and an inflated sense of his own importance led him on a dirt-finding quest directed at the reputation of Huxley.

 

 He thought about these things down by the harbour-side. There were people who knew things. Mathers, for instance, at Government House, he knew stuff. Not sure what, but stuff, for certain. He'd be a good man to know. That lad Tom, plays the flute. In fact, that's about all he does. How does he get the time off day after day, week after week, so he can go and fix up all those dances and parties and such-like? He must know a few people, pull a few strings. Major Jackson, well, friend of Huxley's, or was he? Straight sort of chap, but in on a few things. Must be some others who served with Huxley in India, maybe they had some stories to tell

.

 The men who had been out with Oldham when they were ambushed, or the ones who found the body. They could be useful. Perhaps if he got the story there, he could pass it on personally to her, and with his tact and her welfare at heart, she would see that he was genuinely interested in her, and would realise that Huxley's interest was just a passing fancy.  Yes, he thought, that was the way to go.

 

Three months passed. Lydia stomach grew noticeably larger, while the ache in Antonia's heart gradually subsided without ever disappearing. In one way she felt comfortable staying on, as Lydia had come to regard her as her friend and companion, helping to run the household. In another way, however, she felt uneasy and confused. It had not been so long ago that she had pictured her future with Marcus, building a life with family, farm and a fine future. She had to ask herself what she now wanted, and was surprised at the answer, for it was still the same. Yet, she had no man to help her.

 

Without a plan for land and life, Antonia felt she would be doomed to a future as a nurse, a companion, a governess, all on the coat-tails of others. Her immediate challenge, it seemed, was to remain single and to avoid entanglement, while building her business prospects. The colony, it seemed, had other plans for her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A CHAT

   

Lydia had become fond of Antonia, and regretted her early inclination, but as Antonia never mentioned it or seemed to mind, the matter rested. Sharing the room  with her husband suited them both for the moment, and there was more occasion for intimate conversation than previously. She realised that in many ways she was fortunate to have one of the few men in Sydney not disposed to impose himself on the girl. So, while she had Antonia to discuss matters with, she also had Myles to discuss Antonia with.

 

“Do you think it will be a boy or a girl, Myles?”

 “Yes.”

“What do you mean, yes.”

“I mean, yes, I think it will be a girl or a boy. Or a boy or a girl.”

“If only your troops could hear you now.”

Myles enjoyed his new relationship with Lydia, and was less inclined to volunteer for patrol work and the like.

 “What would you like to call the baby Myles?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether it's a boy or a girl – makes a lot of difference.”

“If it's a girl, Myles, do you think we should call her Antonia?”

“Excellent choice, my dear.”

“Myles?”

“Yes dear?”

“What shall we do about Antonia? What do you really think? Is there any possibility Captain Oldham is alive? And shouldn't she get married?”

“Lydia – you know I'm not so good at some things. Women things, I mean. She's a fine girl, but you know...” And he left the sentence hanging.

“No, I don't know. Tell me Myles.”

“Well, you know how it is here, just not enough women to go round. She's not going to last very long surely.”

“I'd say that's up to her. It's not just a case of  supply and demand is it?”

Lydia was nettled by Myles' approach, like that of a quartermaster or accountant, she thought.

 “Lyd, I know men. We're a bad lot. And some of my lot are from the bottom of the barrel. She's an English rose, and , and...” He paused, trying to find, or complete, a metaphor.

 “And an English rose is often surrounded by manure.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, but Lydia found the barnyard metaphor distasteful.

“That's not a nice way to talk about your men.”

He was suddenly grimly serious, and turned to face her full on.

“Lyd, I have seen things I will never tell you about. If I hinted at the evil in some of these men, you would be loth to ever set foot outside the house.”

“Do you think we are stupid Myles? Yes, we do know what goes on, but for good men like you we hide our fears and don't talk about it, but” and she lowered her voice “do you not realise how every day we are undressed by dozens of eyes, inspected and assessed like chattels? We know what goes on.”

“Well, as I said my dear, I don't know about these things. Oldham alive? No chance. Better dead anyway I'd say.”

 “Then tell me. Where did the letters come from?”

“They were brought to me by Huxley.”

“That was a noble thing to do Myles. Not everyone would have done it. You could see he was taken with the girl. Most men wouldn't lose the opportunity to gain favour, but he asked nothing. You saw them at the Ball didn't you? They made such a handsome couple and everyone was talking, but he seems a shy man in his own way. What do you know about him?”

“Only what they say. He's obviously a gentleman, has land somewhere, career soldier, service in India, tragic loss of first wife, pretty much the usual except he's better looking than most of us, what?”

“Yes, that's true” she agreed, and at his mock-startled look, added

 “Except for present company milord” and as he advanced upon her in his recently acquired playfulness, she had time only to say

“Myles, the door.”

 

She returned to the subject later in the day. That is, the subject of Captain Huxley's character and prospects. Was there any possibility that he was not what he seemed?

Not likely, thought Myles, though some in the service were not so fond of him. But, they both knew, this was often the fate of handsome men and beautiful women. In the days and weeks that followed, they came back to the topic a number of times, only to confirm their feelings and beliefs.

 

But amongst the cohort of his friends and colleagues, not all was smooth sailing. The journey back to Sydney from the Jackson's home passed in silence, and not a companionable one. Huxley was mystified, and a little perplexed.  Harrington was usually good company, and this was not like him at all. Huxley began to turn over in his mind the possible reasons for Harrington's morose demeanour. He felt he would not like to lose Harrington's good opinion and he continued to mull over the problem. It was  many days before he hit upon what he felt must be the cause of it.

 

Mathers knew he had behaved badly at the Ball and sincerely regretted it. He valued Antonia's esteem, but felt he didn't have the right or even the access to plead his case. Her stocks had risen in the colony to be sure and she would begin to have a little more influence. But he didn't want to lose her. If she got in with a different crowd, his own circle would be diminished. He needed a trusted intermediary, and he thought straightaway of Tom, the flautist. He was a boy she liked and trusted. He would be the intermediary.

 

Land, land, land. It was all about land. Wasn't it the exploding population of England that had sent these droves and swarms of people to this far-off place? They had already populated America and everyone knew they were now swarming westwards, sweeping the red men before them in unimaginable numbers. And the rest of Europe too, with its war-torn tribes, its religious refugees and political dissidents, was providing yet more and more bodies to look after and mouths to feed. Would every valley, every plain and every hill on this Earth be occupied, settled and cultivated? Every one of them wanted land. It was the key to security, wealth and power. Those who didn't have it wanted it, and those who had it wanted more, while many struggled to keep it.

These thoughts came to Antonia often, and she realised how deeply her dream future with Marcus had taken root, for even without the inspiration, the drive remained. She knew she wanted land. She knew she wasn't going to get it on her own, a single, young woman.

 But she wasn't ready to give up on Marcus. Something bothered her, but she couldn't say just what.

 

 Lieutenant Harrington was annoyed, vexed, miffed and put-out. From the moment he had spied Antonia, he had made a decision. At the Ball, he had noticed her immediately. There might have been women who were more beautiful, more worldly and more entertaining, he supposed, but Antonia seemed young and fresh and her qualities were finely balanced. This was the one for him, he felt, and as she began to pass by her table, he fixed her with a look of intensity and passion which she would find hard to ignore. And respond she did. Her smile was so warm, intimate and special that he was sure she felt the same way. He immediately began to build a career based on their union. Her face was regular, and the desirable small oval. She seemed likely to produce comely children. Her manner was suitably demure, but confident, as became a lady. And the more he looked, the more did his estimation rise. It did not occur to him for one moment that the same sorts of thoughts might be pre-occupying several young men. He had tugged Huxley's sleeve.

 “I say, Hux. Splendid girl there. “

Huxley hardly seemed to notice. He wouldn't, thought Harrington. He always had a woman at his side. They seemed to love that bluff, manly style. Was it affected? Probably. He returned to his reverie, admiring the simple, classical style of her outfit. The mild claret had already begun to affect his thoughts, but he resolved to concentrate, and introduce himself as soon as that crowd of people round her had begun to dissipate. But it didn't.

 Gloomily, he took further claret, knowing it to be unwise, but took heart as the meal began, and the ebb and flow of music and people settled into a more normal rhythm. Finally, he took courage, and approached her table, not sure how to begin, but he needn't have bothered. Many thoughts jostled for possession of the limited space in Harrington's mind. But pre-eminent was rage, for there, right in front of his eyes, appeared Huxley. What was the fellow doing? Oh, what was that? The clumsy fool had inadvertently jostled the very lady, dashing her drink to the floor. Good!

 

But what was he doing now? What a beautiful silk handkerchief (probably got it in India) it was that he produced, taking the girl's delicate hand, and dabbing solicitously where he imagined there to be drops of wine – and anywhere else he could get his hands on no doubt. It was just too much, too galling, so insincere. And he, Harrington, had seen her first!

 

 Now, after the Ball, and visiting the Jacksons, Harrington was watching Huxley like a hawk. Blast the fellow, he was so smooth. Solicitous and caring, polite and deferential yet bluff, manly and honest. He did it well. What was in that packet he'd left with Mrs. Jackson? Can't be up to any good. Wouldn't put it past him to try one on her too. He'd come a cropper for sure. And where had he got to at the end there? Disappears from view for five seconds and emerges looking like the cat that got the cream. She didn't look as if she minded whatever it was that transpired. He would find out. He would find out and Huxley would be sorry. She should've been his. He saw her first.

 

The summer passed, with the strange herbiage of this strange place crackling in the heat, firing off miniature volleys from their seed-pods. Bushfires swept the surrounding districts, their ruddy glow lighting up the steamy nights. Insects crept, hopped and flew in and out of their lives and windows, and tremendous Sydney storms crashed in from the Pacific in cataclysms of thunder and rain, leaving the place glistening and fresh. The previous year's harvests were standing them in good stead and Governor Darling was set to return to England. His successor could not conceivably be less popular, and hopes were high for a good man.

ISAAC

 

Isaac Abraham Godfrey was a god-fearing man. He was afraid of the gods of the Polynesians, the Melanesians and most of all, the god of the British Empire. All, in one way or the other, were bloodthirsty, demanding entities. Godfrey by name, and god-free by nature he would joke to anyone who cared to listen. Of his own ancestry he knew little and cared less, but most observers in his stratified world would have classified him as a creation of many cultures. By any reckoning, he was without a social calling-card to press his claims, but out on the oceans, those great highways of the world, he was a man who commanded great respect. In the face of tempest and storm, of shipwreck and pirate, social differences seemed to melt away and Isaac was a respected presence for passengers and crew. His many talents found expression in surprising ways. One of these was the talent for drawing. He loved to sketch, and was gifted.

 

When the wind was steady, and the sea was smooth, and the men under his charge gainfully employed, he would seize the precious moments to put charcoal and pencil to paper. Locked behind a cabin or trunk, sheltered from the wind, he would lose himself in his creation as magic shapes blossomed on his pad. No-one would have suspected he was there, unless they too were seeking a sheltered spot for a tete-a-tete or a moment’s relaxation.

 

This is how it came about that Isaac found himself one fine day gradually becoming aware of a conversation – a conversation which would normally be whooshed away by the sea breeze, but which echoed uncannily round the cargo boxes as if funnelled there by Neptune himself. The blithe, friendly and hearty conversation which had, in its unremarkable normality, caused him hardly to turn his head, had devolved rapidly into a low, conspiratorial murmur, and despite himself, he found his ears and mind drawn to the conversation.

 

“And ‘oo does she think she is I asks meself. Knew her straight away I did. Bold as brass, actin the lady if you know what I mean.”

The reply was muted, and the second speaker had little to say, but was obviously a good, and encouraging, listener.

More now from the first speaker, but indistinct, as the wind turned and set the sails thrumming.

Then, as the wind settled

“...now, you take my word for it. I knows class. I’ve worked for real ladies and lords. She don’t know he first thing about it. Ere she is, miles from anywhere, out on er own, talking to anybody she fancies, free and familiar like. Well, she ought to know better. I wouldn’t like to be her young man I can tell you, waitin for er patient like. Corse, ee may be no better’n er, you know what some of these chaps is like. I shouldn’t be surprised if e’s already got one of these diseases, you know what I mean. Well, like attracts like, don’t it. F’rall she knows e may be married out ere. I eard it appened last trip, chap was already married, found someone more suitable-like.”

 

A pause, an indistinct mumble, then more of the same. It gradually dawned on Isaac that the subject of their contempt was the pleasant young woman who always had the manners to greet him politely, and seemed to possess that air of easy grace which, for his part, had always been the province of the truly noble.

A PASTORAL SYMPHONY

 

Antonia liked Huxley. Most women would. But there was something ardent in his manner which besought a commitment she didn't feel ready for. The rest of the colony had them paired already. A handsome couple, a leading couple, was how they were perceived. In fact, she had to admit, not so different from the picture she had previously imagined for herself and Marcus. She enjoyed his company, but couldn't abandon herself to it.

 The company of Tom Watkins, on the other hand, suited her very well. Tom was married to his music and didn't seem to care overly for company. He would often put together a string quartet to play the music of Mozart and Haydn, and his duets arranged from Mozart operas were a favourite at many parties and gatherings. Tom had a certain flair and style, and his penchant for presentation made many performances memorable. He constantly pressured the Regiment to purchase new compositions and arrangements for all manner of ensembles, and he spent much time arranging and copying these into an extensive private library. In this way he appeared to be building a musical future for when the colony had outgrown its past, and would be looking for entertainment. He was constantly in demand to provide groups, and it was important to him that he keep abreast of the latest musical development. When Tom asked her to accompany him on a picnic, she didn't hesitate for a moment. Tom was good at creating an occasion.

 

The day dawned fair. It was a Sunday, and Tom had arrranged a deputy to play at Church service. At the quay at Vaucluse, several large dinghies bobbed gently at anchor. Onlookers watched curiously as they loaded hampers and music stands, parasols and blankets. The boats swept out, into and across the long ocean swell, the musicians rowing smoothly together. The deeper water of the harbour heart was shared with few other craft. A few fishing boats, some scows and  repair craft scuttled from cove to cove, hardly disturbing the surface, which was heaving in long, slow gentle swells.

 

“Lay into it lads” called Tom, admonishing the oarsmen, who then shaped to crown him with the oars.

“Insolent lot, what?” he roared to Antonia, in imitation of certain of his superiors.

 

 He then started singing and clapping out of time with the oarstrokes, to the mixed disgust and amusement of his colleagues. But it was not long before he took his turn at the oars, while Antonia was given charge of the tiller. The simple pleasure of the breeze on her neck, the gentle rise and fall of the ocean swell and the cheerful simple company of the young  men conspired to put her in a dreamy and most agreeable temper. Arriving at Manly Cove she was surprised and elated to find horses and carts waiting. Tom's resourcefulness seemed to know no bounds, and he was certainly a useful man to know.

 The hour was still early, and needed to be, for the horses took some time to bring them up the steep road to the North Head of the harbour, where they established themselves with a magnificent view of the harbour, the sea and the South Head. Smoke soon rose from the headland, a small fine column rising obliquely in the shore breeze, scented with appetizing cooking aromas. The camp assumed a more ordered shape, as easels and music stands were set up, the latter in the lee of the camp, just down from the brow of the hill, to shelter from the southerly breeze. The artists set themselves up to capture the glory of the view or a portrait subject and often, both. There were other young women there, all enjoying the freedom of the day and their unchaperoned leisure. They were also well aware that this could cause problems.

 

The little band swung into action quickly, Tom using the occasion to try out new arrangements and the latest imports. There were yet  more waltzes and they met with universal approval, capturing, as they did, the light and movement of youth and nature. More ambitious was their attempt at a chamber music version of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. While much was imperfect in execution in the first readings, the outline of this great work was there for all to see and hear, and in far-off Australia, a group of young music-lovers thrilled to the immortal picture of village life in their ancestral homes.

 

 The scene was indeed an idyllic one. For one thing, most of the participants were young, and looked forward eagerly to their new life. They were, for the moment, free, not ground down by toil, or chained by class to  pre-ordained future. They painted, they played music, they sang, they played cards. They ate and drank, and it is possible that, in that beautiful setting, high on a cliff top, surrounded by ocean, harbour and acres of verdant bushland, some made love.

 On the cliff top she sat, gazing into the far distance. On the headland opposite they could see a similar group, disporting near the lighthouse at Watson's Gap.  Check. Even with her non-military mind she could see what a superb defensive position the two bluffs were, perfect cannon mounts to aim into the hazy blue depths whispering endlessly below. Tom had left off playing and directing, and had joined her. Together they strolled the bush for a while.

“You love your music don't you Tom? Will you do it always?”

“It's all I want to do. It's all I ever wanted to do.”

“But don't you feel it is just a pastime? Isn't there something more serious you want to do?”

He looked puzzled, and thought deeply.

  “I see what you mean.” He thought some more.

 “You've seen the Cathedrals at home haven't you?”

“Of course Tom. What are you getting at?”

“And you've seen the great railway bridges and the canals. Were you impressed? Of course you were. Well, to me music is a greater miracle than these. I can't think of anything I admire more in human achievement.”

“But what music are you talking about?”

“All music 'Tonia. But some more than others. I wish you could hear our Pastoral Symphony the way it was meant to be played. Our little group will make a good fist of it, but oh, the glory of it in its right clothes.”

 

He left off, for the moment too overcome with his memories to continue. They strolled further, often in silence, until Antonia began to feel the uncanny sensation that she was being followed. Swaying to and fro as she walked, she managed to turn enough to glance behind her, and sure enough, there was, surely, a figure which suddenly stopped. She tried it again and was similarly rewarded, for she was quite sure that the person didn't want to be recognised.

 

 “Tom” she said. “Don't ask questions, and I'll tell you later, but when we round these small trees, make your way back to the others, and I'll join you there surely.”

 

Tom knew and trusted her well enough to obey, and probably thought she was wishing to relieve herself in private. As he walked on, Antonia slipped into the trees, concealed herself and waited. Presently, light footsteps drew near, and a black-suited burly figure padded past. To Antonia's amazement, she saw that it was Huxley. She smiled in wonderment, and thought about it for a moment, and came to only one conclusion. This was the behaviour of a jealous man.

 

How he had got here she had no idea. But it must have taken some planning, and must have required knowledge. It was also quite a risk, for he could look foolish if surprised. She waited, but knew better than to try to shadow him, for she knew that he, with his military training, would be even more alert than she. She waited a goodly time, then hearing preparations begin for departure, made her way back. Tom was busy, but broke off to speak to her.

 

“You thought we were being followed didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“And were we?”

“No.”

“Ah, that happens a lot out here. It's the bush. Who on earth would want to follow us anyway?”

And they both laughed.  

HARRINGTON PERSEVERES

 

Henry Augustus Huxley thought of himself as a career soldier. The Army suited him well, and would pay, feed and keep him for as long as it suited both parties. The hierarchical structure of the Army was congenial to his nature, and there was plenty of scope and outlet for his talents and energies, while in this colony there might be chance for promotion and even political advancement at some stage. Why, it might even be possible to think of governorship, and if not here in Sydney, in one of the other colonies, newly created.

 

 In Antonia he thought he had found a most congenial partner for such an enterprise. And, he had to admit to himself, he had also found a woman with a mind and heart of her own. She was interested, he was sure, but try as he might, he could not get her to forsake her foolish dream.  

 

 

Several people found Harrington's behaviour a little strange, as he haunted offices and barracks chatting with forced casualness about life, routine and the Army. Bit by bit he edged closer to the events of the previous year, when Marcus Oldham had disappeared. But his quest for the truth was elusive, as, like the end of the rainbow, it seemed to fade into the mist the closer he approached. This much he could tell; the expedition was a small one, covering the area just outside Forest Glen, where the natives had been a nuisance, feasting off local settlers' sheep. There was little hope of finding the natives if they didn't want to be found, and the patrol seemed little more than “gunboat diplomacy” of the bush.

 There was always the possibility of being speared as they slept, but the natives realised full well the weight of the reprisal that would follow, so that the patrol felt reasonably secure on a routine assignment.

Most of this information was gleaned from an inarticulate soldier of no distinction, so unimaginative and slow that even Harrington found his patience wearing thin.

“But isn't there anyone else from that patrol?”

“No Sir. No Sir.”

“I heard you the first time, you...”

And Harrington bit back the insult, dependent as he was on the man's good will.

“Think, man, think!”

“Such a long time ago Sir.”

“It was last year you...”

“Yes Sir, very long time.”   

“Now think carefully. Who was your mate on that trip? You  left Sydney. You marched in line, and your mates were...? Bill, Tom, Alf?”

A light seemed to dawn like the Spring sun peeping into the frozen Arctic.

“Ah no Sir” he chuckled, and Harrington realised the man thought him very slow indeed.

  “That were 'Enry.”

 And he chuckled again, recalling something of amusement to him, but possibly of no interest to anyone else.

 “Ah yes Sir, that were 'Enry.”

“And where is Henry now?”

As suddenly as it had risen, the sun set and darkness reigned on the brow of Private George Smith. Henry's whereabouts were a mystery to him, and he seemed to think that all his companions of those days were also gone. Where, he knew not, but “gone” he was sure of.

 

There would be a report on this expedition or patrol, call it what you like, but attempts to gain access to it were met with rebuffs. It was His Majesty's business and not his it seemed. But Harrington was not about to give up. He talked to Tom, but the young musician didn't like him, it was obvious. Mathers was another story.

 Mathers was deeply regretful for his loss of control and his drunken lunge at Antonia. For one thing, he liked and respected the girl, and wanted her good opinion. For another, he had shown himself to be no better than those men he had grown to despise, of whom there were so many in this place. It didn't help either, that there were so few women, relative to the size of the population. He was curious then when Harrington turned up to talk. He remembered Harrington as the man from the Ball, a colleague of Captain Huxley, and an odd contrast to be sure. Where Huxley had shone, this man had glowered, and, now that he put his mind to it, surely he recalled this sullen fellow ogling the women. Or was it “woman”? That would be right if it were not preposterous. There was only a handful of women who would have attracted that sort of attention, and Antonia was the most recent arrival and the most available.

This could be amusing, thought Mathers.

 

Harrington took some time to come to the point, but Mathers quickly discerned the main elements. The man seemed to have a positive hatred of Huxley and was determined to undermine him. This only mildly affected Mathers, for he had nothing against Huxley, except that he was of a breed of men who breeze through life, favoured by nature and fortune. Anyone would find this hard to take, but one had to admit that he was handsome and charming in a perfectly pleasant and understated way. The other element was that of Marcus Oldham's final days or hours. This brought the focus round squarely to Antonia, in whom Mathers was interested, not, he now hoped, in the shameful and venal way he had already shown, but in a more protective and helpful way.

 “Mr. Mathers, you see how it is don't you? This young lady is a true lady, who is at some risk in this colony. It is my conviction that she needs advice to protect her from unscrupulous persons who wish to take advantage of her.”

“That is very noble of you Lieutenant. We should all have friends like you. What is it that you wish of me?”

“Well, Mr. Mathers, you are in a good position to win confidence, and I am sure that the expedition report from last year may throw some light on the situation, if you get my meaning.”

Mathers didn't but simply nodded agreement. He deliberated gravely before informing Harrington that, yes, indeed, it might be possible for him to investigate, and somehow it might be possible for him to acquire the report, but that these were delicate matters, and all who had tried to get this information had been rebuffed. Harrington believed this to be true because of his own experience, but Mathers knew that it wasn't true, because he already had the information.

“I can't promise anything, and you know how it is here. There are wheels to be oiled lest they squeak too loud.”

 Eager to show himself a man of the world, Harrington had his wallet at the ready in a trice. As money changed hands, Harrington muttered

“I hope it will go where it will do some good.”

Standing, Mathers proffered his hand in a firm shake, saying

“You may rely on me for that Lieutenant,” which seemed to satisfy Harrington.

 

 

WALKING OUT

 

Lydia bloomed in her pregnancy, and the household thrived. Antonia, however, began to feel that she was slipping back into the sort of menial role she might have expected staying on at Sandringham Hall, a nurse, a governess, a companion as the occasion demanded. It was not for this that she had forsaken her own country, and travelled to the far ends of the earth. By now she might have expected to be married to Marcus, perhaps with a child of her own to look forward to. She felt that Lydia and Myles were coming to depend on her more and more, and wondered how she would disengage herslf from this encumbrance, generous though they had been. She was not short of offers, and Mathers, she knew, would find her something worthwhile as it was in his interest, but also, she felt, because he recognised her gifts as worthwhile.

 

And now, of course, there was the question of Captain Huxley. He was attentive, he was charming, but he had been married before and owed his daughter in England his support. Surely his affections were in this way somehow compromised, and despite his attentions, he had never really declared himself, or asked her to marry him. Her vanity was pricked at this, and she came to wonder about his motives.

 

It was in the Autumn that he called for her in the trap, and she acccepted the drive with pleasure. Time on her own was becoming more important to her, and Huxley's company was exhilarating. The drive was wild and vigorous, in tune with her mood, and she laughed as they scattered sheep and dogs. Children waved cheekily and little groups of aborigines sitting round campfires looked up with mild interest as they passed. It was good to be out on their own. Down in the harbour, on a warm Autumn day, they picked up the scents of nature, the sea, the fish drying in the sun, the smoky eucalypt in someone's fire, and even the warm healthy glow of each other's bodies. The horse tethered, they walked in the forest, dappled with sunlight and echoing to the piping, trilling sounds of a myriad songbirds. Occasionally a phantom drummer, probably a wallaby sent a thumping through the trees. She broke into a run at the sound of it, inducing Huxley to follow with his own interpretation of a wounded kangaroo. It was fun, until she caught her ankle in a tree stump.

 

 She didn't care, but flopped on the grass, looking up at the streaks of high wide cloud passing through the patch of blue at the treetops. It was pleasant, living in the moment and it seemed only natural that Huxley was with her, and not only with her, but kissing her. She relaxed, and let it happen. It was not right she felt, but still she let it happen. That little voice, always with her, watching and advising, was still and mute as he unlaced her bodice and explored with strong, practiced hands. She squirmed, feeling resistance, which had long been her habit, evaporating with the sunshine.

 

As his other hand moved over her stomach she felt such a thrill that she told herself that this is what people do. But that small voice was not done yet. It whispered to her that people also get pregnant. Alarmed, she sprang up, hastily adjusting her bodice and skirt. Heavens, if anyone had come along! Huxley, she now noticed, was re-adjusting his trousers. She hadn't noticed him make any preparation. Now he looked furious and disappointed. She understood, but the gamble was too much. In silence they composed themselves until they began to resemble the young couple who had set out earlier, but without as much energy.

 

“I'm sorry” she said to Huxley, who seemed to be having trouble walking. She understood that unrequited lust affected a man in this way.

Leaning up against the carriage wheel, he managed a rueful smile and replied.

“I am too, Antonia” and at this point his formal style disappeared, and she felt he was speaking from the heart.

“I'm sorry Antonia, that we are not husband and wife. If we had committed ourselves as I certainly would have wished, I believe I, for one, would have committed no sin. I believe when one loves wholeheartedly one is in tune with God and nature. Antonia, I love you wholeheartedly.”

And she was so relieved to hear the words that she fell into his arms. A day which might have been disastrous was now one of rapture. He went on to tell her that the day could not come soon enough when they might be married.

“Shush” she told him.

 “Stop, and get me home before I forget myself.”

They took their time getting back. For the first time in many months Antonia allowed herself to dream of the future, and found it very pleasant.

 

 

       

 

 

 

     

  

MATHERS ON THE MOVE

 

Mathers had made enquiries about the ill-fated Oldham expedition. He was curious about the prospects which Antonia might have expected had not Marcus come to a premature end. He had ascertained that it was indeed, spearing by the natives which had done for the young officer. There was an element of misadventure in this, as he appeared to have set off in foolhardy fashion into territory where the aborigines felt trapped. Many of them had vacated good hunting lands as the English took over, and resented further intrusion into their last stands of forest. His body had been found, and had been buried, while the few items on his person were collected and sent to Sydney.

 The items in question were

1. Personal letters from Miss Antonia Newland

2.  A likeness of Miss Antonia Newland

3.  A small journal

 

On the principle that knowledge is power, he asked Harrington to visit.

 “I think I'm getting somewhere, but I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Is there anything that you know to be around?”

“I know that there were letters. They were from Miss Newland, and they may again be in her possession.”

“Nothing else that you know of? This is important. Try to recollect.”

“Recollect what? All I know of is the letters. Have you found anything else? How did he die?”

“Speared by the blacks.”

“Poor fellow. He's not the first. Nothing else?”

“It's not easy. No, I don't need any more yet” he shrewdly added as Harrington went for his wallet. Feeling that money was not Mathers' object, Harrington now felt more conspiratorial, and confided in him.

“That girl is dear to me Mathers. And I don't want to see her fall into the clutches of that popinjay Huxley.”

“I'll find what I can, I have several contacts who will help I am sure. The letters I know about, but I am trying to ascertain whether or not there was any other material involved. Leave it to me.”

“Before I go, Mr. Mathers, did you find out anything about Oldham's companions, the ones who would have been with him near the end?”

“Just two of them. Went the same way. All buried together.”

 The material in question had indeed passed close to home. It had passed through the hands of Major Myles Jackson, for whom it was a simple administrative matter, to be dealt with and filed away. And for Myles Jackson, there the matter rested, but for his clerk, overworked and underpaid, there was normally little possibility of extra money, hospitality or influence. The keys to his files were easily oiled, and unknown to each other, Mathers and Huxley had both approached him, each for his own reasons.  

MORE QUESTIONS

 

These were happy days for Antonia, as she looked forward to her new life. Not yet committed to Huxley, she nevertheless felt that she could plan a future. The daughter could be brought back from England and Antonia would take over her care and education. It was to be hoped that someday she herself would have a family, God sparing her the fate of her predecessor. Huxley had now intimated that he was the owner of considerable property in the Forest Glen area, good farming land with fine prospects. She was glad she had not known this previously, so that her motives   could only be seen to be sincere. The only misgivings she had were the mixed feelings she had, where Marcus Oldham was, in so many ways, metamorphosing in her mind into Henry Huxley. This she found confusing and upsetting, but told herself that she must give these feelings time to pass.

 

Mathers had great difficulty in locating Marcus Oldham's companions on the fateful trip. The addled soldier he had spoken to could recall little of events, so distant, in his mind, from the present. It was Jackson's clerk who was the most useful source of information. He came up with a small list of soldiers, and between them, they were now dead, were in England or India or had come to the end of their service. This was an odd coincidence indeed. From his own earlier investigations, Mathers seemed to recall items coming in from the bush – personal items like the letters from Antonia. But he seemed to recall also that there was more. This had now been confirmed, but there was no trace of the journal or the likeness of Antonia listed in the description. Huxley had acquired the letters, presumably on compassionate grounds, to return to Antonia, who appreciated them, no doubt. But where was the picture, and where was the journal? `

 

It was odd to say the least.  Huxley was reputed to have been one of the youngest men at Waterloo, and fifteen years later, was still a young man. His reputation was high among the men and he carried himself well. It was true that he was imperious at times, and quick to take offence. He had called others out in duels a number of times although the respondents had withdrawn their remarks or apologised before blood could be spilt. His service in India was also hard to trace and few seemed to remember him. But he knew his business, of that there was no doubt.  But something was odd.

 

Harrington was nothing if not tenacious. He had almost forgotten his infatuation in his dedication to undoing Huxley. He talked to his officers and members of the Regiment, but all were unanimous in their praise of Huxley and appreciation of his qualities – except for a few, and those few were the kind who think before they speak and who choose their words well. No-one could put thier finger on it, but something didn't seem to quite sit right. Harrington had planted the seed, and he would just have to wait to see if it sprouted.

 

It was not too long, however, before Jackson's clerk mentioned, by way of an afterthought

“Strange business about Huxley.”

“What's this? Has something happened to Huxley?”

“Oh no Sir. Just that some of the men were chatting...”

“You can't take notice of gossip man, men are always talking. Fine man, fine soldier.”

“Oh yes sir, undoubtedly. It's just that no-one seems to know anything at all about him, and his past, I mean.”

“Is that so unusual? There are lots of men we know little about.”

“Yes, that's true. But you wouldn't have to look far before finding a friend of a friend, or someone who served with him somewhere. There doesn't seem to be anybody who's met him before.”

“Man just keeps himself to himself, that's all, and there should be more of it. I'll hear no more of this.”

“Of course sir” acquiesced the clerk, and that was the end of the conversation.

  Major Myles Jackson was struck by the information he had received, and his puzzlement grew the more he thought about it. He was not going to share his thoughts with his clerk, and felt the less the lower orders were involved the better. But he did resolve to make some enquiries of his own.

 

Expeditions and patrols came and went. Most were routine and some were extraordinary. The Army was there to police the colony, and to maintain order. Settlers were to treat the natives decently, and in turn had to be protected from depradation or attack by the aborigines. Offenders were to be brought to justice, and treated equally under British Law. Everyone knew that the system was imperfect, and that many offenders escaped punishment. They also knew that the settlers had their own system of payback, designed to terrorise the tribes into submission. The Army was cumbersome and imperfect. But it was also a long-established institution with well-tried methods. It was supposed to keep records –  for every man and every day. Those records were read and signed. The were filed and stored. Most were never read again, and would nevermore see the light of day. But until they  mouldered away into dust, or were lost to fire, flood or war, they should be there. They were retained. And somewhere, there would be records of Huxley. He would search.

 

Cockroaches and spiders lurked round the walls and windows of Sydney Town. Mighty storms battered the settlement only to leave it gleaming and fresh. Pacific rollers broke incessantly on the fine golden sands of the Sydney beaches, and the population waxed, Mrs. Lydia Jackson finally preparing to do her part for the new nation. She was pleased that the hot weather was behind them, and she might be able to  look forward to a delivery in a comfortable climate. She had become quite dependent on Antonia as a friend and companion and feared losing her. While the imminent engagement of her friend and Mr. Huxley was a matter of some pride and joy, it also occasioned foreboding, for who knew where life would take them? Possibly out of Lydia's life forever; and she had so looked forward to having Antonia for a Godmother for her child. She and Huxley would make such a fashionable couple too, and would draw their friends into that special circle of fun and influence.

 

“It's a shame” she muttered, but affected by weariness, and the last attempts of Autumn at a sultry day, allowed her standards to slip.

“Izshum” was what her husband heard and puzzled over for a moment.

“Isham? Isham who, my dear? Is that the Afghan who tends the camels?”

Testily she barked out

 “I said it is a shame.”

“Oh well, why didn't you say so? Of course it is.”

 Then

“What exactly is a shame.”

“Oh for God's sake. Can't you follow anything? Antonia and Huxley.”

“No, it's not a shame. Damn pleased about it myself.”

Exasperated by her husband's inability to read her mind, Lydia moaned in frustration.

“Are you alright old thing” he asked solicitously.

“Don't patronise me like one of your stupid soldiers. Of course I'm not alright. I'm pregnant, that's what's wrong with me.”

“But you are happy to be pregnant – aren't you?”

“Am I? No I'm not. I hate it and I'm sick of it.”

“Keep your voice down Lyd, there are people about.”

“Are there? How did they get here? Some poor woman had to drag them around for the best part of a year, feeling sick as a dog, and...then hope she got through it in one piece.”

She'd meant to talk about Huxley and Antonia, but she'd got diverted, as her pregnancy seemed to colour every aspect of her life. She just wanted it over.

Seeing her fear brought Jackson more in tune with her feelings.

 “It's all up to the gods isn't it Lyd? You've been marvellous all this time. I'm sure you will be fine.”

She wasn't sure of that, but just neded the embrace and the comfort of his words. Then she confided her fear of losing Antonia. He understood. He had also grown to understand just how much he valued and loved his wife. His happiness was bound up with her comfort. He didn't want her to lose Antonia either.

 

Down on the waterfront, a group of soldiers herded sullen convicts in a work gang. The soldiers were herded in turn by a youngish officer with a look of both experience and authority. They went about their business in the normal manner, unaware that they were being scrutinised in any particular way. If they had stopped work for a moment, if they had replaced the heavy paving stones and hammers, if they had laid down muskets and whips and turned their gaze into the shadows of the storage sheds, their eyes, squinting against the afternoon sun, might have descried a quaint figure perched by the warm boards of the shed. If they had approached closer, they might have seen a pair of bright blue eyes lined with laughter creases, directed unblinkingly, and with great interest, in their direction.

 

Blue eyes still fixed in their gaze, the man removed his pipe briefly from his mouth to mutter

“Well, well, well. Just look who it is. Just look who it is.”

And he chortled and rolled his eyes.

But no-one saw Isaac. He was a god-fearing man, but didn't care too much for anyone else. He'd been coming to Australia now for some time, and only recently had he decided to throw out the anchor. It was a strange feeling, but he couldn't help but think of the vast new continent as nothing but a giant ship.  And confident in his own abilities, he was sure that there was plenty for an honest, enterprising man to do. The place used to look like a jail. Now it looked like many things. Look one way and it was a prison, with that convict work gang.  Turn the other way and it was the Garden of Eden, a late-blooming orchard. Turn again and it was a harem, with fancy women on show. And yet again, it might be a convent, with good children chaperoned by strict governesses. He liked the look of this place, and the feel of it. It had a future, he was certain.

 

The year rolled on for no-one could stop it. The old Governor departed, amid much rejoicing, and the new one arrived, receiving a harvest of good will. Darling had been a harsh and unimaginative man, but had done much good. There were areas, however, where he could not effect change easily, but with a fresh broom, Governor Bourke announced that he would start a land auction system No longer would the same old faces line up for grants of land, always having the inside running or the ear of the land officials. Antonia clenched her fist in triumph when she heard of the plan, for it was exactly what she had been depending on with Marcus, who had seemed to be frustrated in his attempts to acquire some land. Now, there might be a way forward, and she even had the support of a good man.

 

As the old order passed, and the threat of a new dispensation loomed, there was a flurry of activity as secrets and deals were buried, others were consummated  and old promises were dug up to be honoured. It was a fertile field for the right man, and Mathers considered himself to be just that person.  

 

 

     

 

 

INVESTIGATING

 

Myles Jackson was as good as his word. He didn't much mind who he disturbed when he was on a mission, and he vowed to get to the bottom of the business. He found nothing that disturbed him. It was what he didn't find that disturbed him. Files were missing, officials were missing and survivors of the fateful party were missing. The same could be said of Huxley. He was truly a man of mystery, and although he liked and trusted him, he wanted to know the truth.

“Do you trust him?” Lydia asked.

“Of course I do” replied Myles.'

 “Then just ask him.”

“Oh I don't think I could do that.”

“Then you don't trust him.”

“When you put it like that, yes, it does seem so doesn't it? But it's never crossed my mind before. Why ever not? I mean, I'm a good judge of character...” and here he was cut off as well as irritated by a snorting sound from Lydia.

“Sorry, it's just the pregnancy does that to me. But look, just ask yourself why you've never had to ask him about himself.”

“Well, the man's so positive. He'll tell you what he does and not hold back at all. In fact, he sometimes tells you so much you just want him to stop for a while.”

“Doesn't that tell you anything?”

“Of course! Depends what he's talking about doesn't it?”

“Oh Great Judge of Character, listen! It means he tells you exactly what he wants you to hear. He takes over the conversation and it all goes one way, filling you up with his background. Did you ever get a chance to ask about him, that wife in India, the daughter, the family he came from.”

Oh, fine people, there's no doubt. Land somewhere. All the usual sort of thing.”

“I don't know about you Judge, but I'm beginning to get a funny sort of feeling.”

“Damned if you're not right. I can't discover anything about him you know.”

“Yes dear, so you were saying.”

 

James Stubbs had a friend. Well, more a mate. Or was it a colleague or an acquaintance? At any rate, he knew this chap who worked  in the Army. Worked with that big-wig Major Jackson. He knew stuff. Lots of stuff, and so did James. It was not as if they made much money, either of them, so any little extra you made could be a help. Pretty easy now compared to when he first came out. Van Diemen's Land! God, what a dump!The only people as miserable as the convicts were their gaolers. It was bad enough having to leave England, leaving everyone and everything behind, but those soldiers copped the same. To make sense of their own misfortune they had to make the convicts' lives hell.  Life was a breeze after all that but pickings were still slim for the likes of him.

 He remembered when it happened. It was the talk of the colony for a while when those blokes disappeared. It was always happening of course, but this one hadn't seemed necessary and was a bit of a puzzle. Something fishy about it right from the start.

He'd been cleaning the barracks and offices when Bill called him.

“Hey Jim. Hop in here a minute.”

“What?”

“Remember Oldham, that disappeared.”

“Yeah, corse.”

“Well he's dead, but they've brung back  stuff.”

“What sorta stuff?”

“Papers, medals, books, that sort of thing.”

 “Want to look?”

They went through the material together, looking for nuggets of information with the potential to turn into nuggets of gold, but their search was disappointing. There was nothing but a neat journal or diary and some papers pertaining to a land puchase of some sort. Then – something more interesting! A sheaf of letters in a feminine hand, lovingly enribboned and delicately scented still.  

“Bring it back tomorrow Jim” was Bill's parting advice. Jim duly took the material home where he perused it further, filing the information in that reasonably reliable repository of useful knowledge, his own brain, there to rest till needed. It was much later that they put two and two together, and came up with a double-cross.

 

THE JOURNAL

The expedition was more ephemeral than they could have believed. No-one was sure where it came from, or who had sanctioned it, or even what its purpose was apart from the usual flag-waving exercise. “Restive blacks” was the consensus, but this didn't make much sense, for there hadn't been much trouble here for ages, and the natives didn't want to provoke massive retaliation. They scanned through the main elements.

 

Marcus had written, in a small, neat hand, as space was limited

“In the Forest Glen area as planned. Country looks fine, not far from our purchase. A decision has been made to split up into two groups. Not a good idea...

 

Natives no problem, but reports of two ex-convicts-bad ones. Could stir up natives.

 

They are nervous, so are we. Have bad feeling. Taking all precautions, trying to talk to natives. Got to catch them first...

Read A's letters many times. Strange, we must be on the land we might farm. Have high hopes for this land. Half of it anyway, but could get more later...

 

Heard shots, some distance away. Finally found native body. Fine specimen. Bad for us. Feel we should abort mission and return while possible...”

 

The natives seem to trust us. I think we have behaved pretty well in general, and we are the only protection they have from the settlers and the convicts. The sight of our red coats is an assurance for them. There are some dangerous people around here. As for the convicts at large, the sooner we catch them the better and I hope we find them before they find us. Some of them have approached us but communication is difficult...”

And here the entries stopped.

 

A NEW BEGINNING

 

The new governor, Bourke, was completely different from his predecessor. Some care had gone into his selection for the job, and he was a wise choice. Aware of the need for further reforms, he continued with much of Darling's work, but made sure he was seen to be a man of the people. His easy and hearty manner was much appreciated by the people of Sydney Town, and enabled him to consult widely and achieve much co-operation.  

  

When Governor Bourke arrived, Antonia didn't hang back. She got herself invited to the welcoming parties and the first hospitable gestures of the new appointment. This time she was actively courting the good opinion of the first lady of the colony and again, found herself well received.  Again, there was little the good lady could do, but the matter of Marcus Oldham and the Forest Glen expedition was revived in the public mind. The atmosphere at least was ripe for action. Once again people discussed the fate of the expedition's members and this time rumours circulated to whet the public's curiosity. Was it true that no expedition member was still in the colony? Was it true that evidence found on the body had disappeared? Was it true that documents returned from the site were being kept secret? The colony thrived on gossip, and made it up if it were in short supply.

 

Antonia found Lydia's pregnancy difficult. Although she wished her new friend nothing but good fortune, she found it hard to be a spectator in life, nothing happening, while, for better or worse, fate took over the direction of Lydia's life. She renewed her efforts to learn the truth about Marcus. Major Jackson, Tom, Jackson's clerk and his friend, and Isaac, largely unknown to each other, were all co-opted into further enquiry.

 

It was a tavern conversation, overheard, which jogged James' memory. The  keywords “Dural”, “Forest Glen”, “Oldham”, “letters” combined to point his mind back a year or more. Once the notion took hold, he couldn't stop worrying at it till something emerged. Eventually, it did, and the knowledge took him back to Bill.

Bill worked late. Major Myles Jackson didn't mind. It made him feel secure to have minions so diligent, and Bill often worked late. Apart from information to be gleaned, Bill largely preferred the comfort and order of the office to the cramped conditions at home. And information could sometimes be golden.

 

Isaac closed his eyes, and basked in the warmth of the sun. He was used to the sun in all its moods, and was happy to soak up the benign glow on this late Autumn day. There had been times when the sun was a cruel torturer, ready to snuff out lives mid-ocean, and there were times when it was little but a pale and pallid streak in the Antarctic sky. He had seen the sun in all its moods, but his mind drifted back sixteen years to the sun of New Orleans. The invasion had started well enough, and the British troops and ships were well-placed, expecting to secure Lake Bourgne without too much trouble. The Americans were defeated on the lake, and the way to New Orleans stood open. But Admiral Keane refused to follow up his advantage, and waited for reinforcements. But by the time they arrived, the Americans had thrown up formidable defenceworks.

 

The advance to New Orleans now looked impossible, and the sailors were pitchforked into a mad scheme to divert the canal under cover of fog and darkness. It collapsed, and in a trice, disaster struck, for the fog quickly lifted, and there they sat, in the glare of the New Orleans morning sun, sitting ducks in the mud of the canal.

 

 Then they learned what hell was. Isaac had seen it all before, in the Napoleonic campaigns, but here he seemed to be surrounded by new lads, farm boys, Irish and Scots eager for a penny to send home to their families. There were village lads, some press-ganged with little knowledge or understanding of what had happened to them. And here he was, nursing these tyros, most of them in their first action.

 

           Sixteen years ago, and the memory was bright and clear. No time to talk, just keep the head down whenever you could and hope and pray. There, in front of his eyes, a man was cut in half, another lost a leg. One died instantly, the other slowly. Screams and curses mingled, and the new boys showed their mettle. Some became men, and some retreated to a world of terror from which they would never emerge. But occasionally there were others who showed themselves to be made of different stuff.

 

            It was a peculiar thing that in the heat of battle, a man's mind could be in so many places. While shot and shell ripped the men apart, and murderous splinters of shattered wagons flew at all angles, there were other lives being lived in the head of Isaac. Green meadows, his family home, the women he loved, were all there in the maelstrom of horror that was the present. And, as if in a scene from a play, he saw a tableau enacted not far away. One of the new boys, a strapping young fellow good to look at, had forsaken his gun, to attend his dying mate perhaps. He cradled the boy's head. Life was ebbing fast, and with a gurgling, bloody splutter, the young man gave up the ghost. His companion laid his head down, and quickly, without compunction, went through his pockets, retrieving several items.         

 

          The bright blue eyes blinked open, and Isaac was back in the land of the kangaroo, in Sydney Town of 1831. That young man had survived, it was clear. But Henry Huxley, officer class, Waterloo, Army, seemed less and less likely. Try His Majesty's Navy ordinary seaman, Peter Penhallurick, Battle of New Orleans. Yes, he was sure that was it! It had taken a long time coming, but he was sure. Now, what was that all about?  

 

THE CARROT OR THE STICK

 

The old Sydney Town of 1831 had begun to thrive. There was a bustle about the place that augured well for the future, Isaac found ready work for his talents and as a pilot, harbour-master or gang manager was constantly employed. Resolutely temperate, he was much favoured by employers for his discipline. The same could not be said for the men he worked. He had always found good crews, and the men respected him for his personal standards and religious habits. But it was not always easy to find the calibre of worker he would have wished for.  But James Stubbs, unattractive as he was, might have enlightened him on the subject of Henry Huxley. They worked together, Isaac finding him less useful as a mover of cargo or plying a shovel than as a messenger, go-between and general factotum. The man actually had a knack for ferreting out the latest news and current rumours.  These were always of interest, for general entertainment, and for a clue to the direction of the colony.

 

 Fires, destruction of crops, flooding of roads, an epidemic of cholera. These were all to be factored in to the acquisition of supplies (and their profitable resale). The latest papers from London, the newest authors, the fashions of the year and the most recent music were of acute interest to that section of so-called Society with money and leisure. And, Isaac noted, that section was rapidly being swelled by the most unlikely source, ex-convicts as well as new settlers, who would also decide where the colony would spend its leisure and its money.

 

Isaac enjoyed his position and its possibilities. And, amongst many other matters, the puzzle of Huxley continued to occupy his thoughts. The man was brave, he knew that. And he appeared to have been promoted above his station in life. It had been known to happen. He'd switched services, no longer Navy, but Army. Again, this was often done. And he appeared to have a new name. That too, was not unusual out here. But there was always a reason for this –  always a reason.

 

 James Stubbs' life had picked up with the new Governor. Not that the likes of James were likely to come in contact with a person of Governor Bourke's eminence. But, thought James, you got a feeling of confidence just seeing him there in his uniform, talking like a normal person to other normal persons. They all smiled and laughed a lot, everyone said he was a good bloke, and you could see progress all round. Chief Isaac for instance. What a relief he was. You could see he wasn't afraid of work. James had to admit he didn't care too much for it himself. After all, that heavy work should really be done by convicts, not free men.

 No, Chief Isaac was just as likely to muck in and toss bales aboard to help finish off a job, or even take over for a few minutes getting a dray out of the yard. Most men loved him for it. And even if he was a bit keen on the prayers, he didn't bother anyone else with it, and he wasn't a drunken sot like so many other bosses. He habitually carried with him a stout crop, which looked both menacing and authoritative. But he was never seen to use it.

 

          “”Wot noos, master Jim?” opened Isaac on a cool late Autumn morning

Stubbs gave the greeting real consideration before replying.

“Storms along the coast boss, lots of sand washed away, some huts too.

Abos getting nasty down Mittagong way. Bunch of floggings on today, couple of hangings too. Major Jackson's missus had her baby. Think it's alright. Her first, bit old for it they say.”

Here Isaac interrupted the litany of news.

“And how go the Jacksons?”

“What do you mean boss?”

“I means, tell me all about the Jacksons.”

“Oh – ah, they are well. I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Master Jim” and Isaac's banter took on a serious undertone.

“I likes to know things Jim. We all does. Only, I mean to know.”

Then, calmly

“Tell  me about the Jacksons.”

“Not much to tell boss. They live up there” and he motioned along the road to Vaucluse.

“And there's just them and the staff and Miss Antonia...”

“Ahhh! A young lady you say?”

Relieved that he had delivered something of interest, Stubbs continued.

“Yes boss. Fine young lady, very popular.”

Isaac chewed his lower lip as he briefly reflected, wondering if this indeed were the girl from the ship over a year ago. It must be. Wasn't she the one doomed to disappointment over her lost fiancee? He fell into a reverie of remembrance, wondering what the sequel to the fainting scene on the wharf had been. Pieces looked like coming together. And there was that mystery of Huxley.

 Stubbs had not failed to note the interest he had generated, and began to smell the scent of money. His instinct was a powerful one.

“I can find things out boss, but of course it would cost something”

Isaac heard the words with disbelief.

 The emotions of a lifetime overwhelmed him. No-one could say he ever had anything easy. He knew his strengths, and his weaknesses. He had served His Majesty well. He had survived where many had fallen, struck down by cannon ball or cutlass, yellow fever and treachery. He had held to his faith and his bible, a sure guide through the perils of life. He needed the bible to guide and calm him. But now, it was the righteous anger of the Old Testament that overwhelmed him like a thunderclap.

 This miserable little worm, this gutter-snipe, this piece of human flotsam was trying to extort money from him. How he had prayed to his god for the strength to abjure the temptations of the flesh that had done for so many of his companions. How he had prayed to manage without recourse to drink, when all around him were deep in its clutches. He didn't count the cost, but thanked God for the gift of strength and worked his way through life. And as he worked, he tried to set an example. A kind word instead of a curse. A helping hand instead of the whip. And this pale slug was trying to use him for a penny.

As swift as a striking snake, Isaac wheeled on Stubbs, pinning him to the wall with the crop across his windpipe. From this position he could swiftly strangle him or break his neck. He had done it before and he would do it again if he had to. Then he would ask his god for forgiveness. His god had forgiven him before, and he was confident he would do so again. But the cost was great.

 Stubbs saw his life pass before him, for he thought his last moment had come. There was no mistaking the sheer fury of those wild blue eyes, and he bitterly regretted the misjudgement which could cost him his life.

 

 For an eternity, it seemed, they stood. A life was poised in the balance. Isaac poised to press for the coup de grace which would send Stubbs to join his worthless ancestors. Isaac had a moment where he saw himself as if in a painting, but also saw that he was ready to consign himself to a personal hell for the sake of a wretch. He breathed deeply several times, while Stubbs, unable to breathe at all, gagged airlessly. Isaac released the crop, and Stubbs sagged to the floor.

 

Almost inarticulate with anger, Isaac hauled him to a standing position. The terrified Stubbs poured out the content of his researches, every rumour, every skerrick of information he had ever heard about the Jacksons, their visitor, her suitor and their lives, backgrounds and futures. His fury abating, Isaac dismissed Stubbs.

 “Not a word of this to anyone. Any thing more you hear, you tell me.”

 And he pointedly thrust the crop at Stubbs' throat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OPPORTUNISM

 

What imbecile had landed them in this mess? Here they were, the mighty British Navy, in possession of Lake Bourgne ready to teach the impudent Americans a lesson. But instead of striking while they were on the back foot, the English  were forced to wait and wait while their commanders awaited more reinforcements, and while American defences and barricades went up, making the assault ever more difficult.

 

 And now the morning fog had lifted, leaving them sitting ducks, working like navvies in this accursed canal. How the American artillery would rejoice in their good luck. Bloody hell, they were making the most of it. That was close. Shot and shell tore their wagons apart, and their guns were unmanageable as they sank in the mud. A cart splintered into a thousand fragments and sent deadly javelins in every direction. You couldn't guess where they would come from. Was that Monty who copped that one? Yes, and a glance told him that Monty was done for. His eyes were full of entreaty even in the midst of this storm. Seaman Peter Penhallurick left his gun to cradle his friend's head. His lips moved but nothing could be heard, and then he was dead. The light in his eyes dulled and faded, his gaze remaining fixed forever on the plumes and columns of smoke and cordite ascending to heaven. What the hell, he thought. No use to anyone else. Supposed to check all this later, but why should anyone else have the profit? A minute out of the battle isn't going to change anything. And he swiftly went through the pockets, retrieving letters, money, coin, something in a tin. It rattled. Maybe a gem or two picked up in India, who knows?

 

 Damn! That old bloke saw. What did that mean? Who knew, in this mad world?

 

Peter Penhallurick was not unusual in the British Navy of 1815. Like so many, his humble origins propelled him to sea early on and at 18 he had already seen a lot of the world. One thing, however, he was coming to realise, and that was the value of class. Without rank, land, wealth or breeding, he was a nobody, and nobodies died like flies for the Empire, goaded by sword and whip, and controlled by Church and State. The fact was, thought Peter Penhallurick, he was answering to men who didn't have the right to order him around by virtue of their ineptitude and arrogance. Nelson might be  the hero of the Navy for the moment, but it was hard to see how one could emulate his rise through the ranks. There was no Nelson in charge here. Nelson would have seized the ascendancy days ago and pressed home the advantage while the Americans were on the back foot. But no, Admiral Keane needed the comfort of reinforcements, a luxury in the circumstances. Who were these born-to-rules who assumed superiority and then marched men to their doom? A burning desire to assert himself grew daily in his breast, and became his guiding rule of life.

 

In the aftermath of the battle, there was much confusion, and, captured by the enemy, he was able to pass himself off as Second Lieutenant Henry Huxley, an identity he'd found on another fellow who no longer needed his money either. He promptly got himself transferred to the sort of Indian trouble-spots where brave volunteers were welcomed without too many questions. His youth raised suspicions in his colleagues of the Indian frontier, but he was a quick learner and the Empire needed leaders. He aped the manners of his superiors and kept to himself socially at first, until he was confident in style and manner. He meant to enjoy his new privileges and to gain the highest level commensurate with his personal comfort and ambition. By the time he moved to New South Wales Peter Penhallurick was long forgotten, and Henry Huxley was an emerging identity with a real, if little known, past.    

 

A NEW LIFE

Lydia Jackson was terrified. She had faced uprisings in India and risked angry aborigines, but the personal ordeal that loomed seemed to dwarf any other danger. Childbirth was a killer, she knew. And just how painful would it be? People kept telling her that billions of women had done it before, it was natural. But Lydia kept telling herself that millions of women had died and that death, too, was natural. She wanted every aid and convenience that could help her through, but mostly she wanted Antonia.

 

 She was looking beyond the event. She knew that Antonia wanted her own life, her own future, but could not bear to think of her going off  into some dusty corner of this vast land, perhaps never to be heard of again. She wanted her close, where she could talk to her, look at her, enjoy her fresh complexion and gentle voice. Was it selfish? Yes. So what? She was the best thing that had happened in this place. Myles was all the better for her presence, and she even thought of Antonia as the Godmother already.

 

As Winter drew in, and the mild air of Sydney grew a little cooler and clammier, she yearned for the day of delivery, just to be herself again, God willing.

 

 “You will stay with me, won't you Tonia?”

It wasn't really a question – more a demand, and she heard it in her own voice.

 “I'll do all I can. Of course I will.”

This wasn't good enough. Antonia had to stay. What else was more important? Her soldier was dead. Huxley was ready made for her. Everyone could see it. She had to stay.

“I'll die if you go away Tone. You know that.”

Glumly, but with the nicest smile she could manage, Antonia just squeezed her hand, thinking

“We all do what we must.”

 

Antonia had to admit she felt trapped. Maybe she had always felt this way. Maybe this was the feeling she wanted to escape from in leaving the old country. The lure of land was still strong in her and she hadn't for a moment given up hope of acquiring it.

       With the inexorability of nature, the days brought Lydia to bursting point. Antonia had put the best face on it and committed herself with a good heart. She would do her duty and do it well.

 Even in the distress of childbirth Lydia never lost her focus on Antonia. With the doctor and the midwife fussing round, she wanted Antonia involved. With a great show of decorum, the doctor spread a modesty sheet across her lower body, to shield her from the gaze of the curious, but who was there to be concerned about, she thought, as she threw the sheet aside, cursing and swearing like a trooper in her distress.

 “Madam” chided the doctor “it's only for your dignity.”

“Damn your dignity,” she screeched in between heaves, “I couldn't give a fig for dignity, I just want this thing out. Help him Tonia – get it out.”

She gave up, subsiding in pain, as the next contraction started. Antonia was horrified but fascinated.

 “”Here, hold this” said the doctor quickly, plonking towels and a small basin into her arms.

Already she felt better, just to be doing something moderately useful. Suddenly she felt no concern at all for her friend's modesty and the manners and mores of her world suddenly seemed insignificant and laughable in the face of this event, at once the most basic and the most sublime in human experience. Now she felt an urgent panic as Lydia distended and swelled impossibly. Surely she would never recover from this? Was this quite normal? The doctor didn't seem overly perturbed and continued to coax and advise, but Lydia directed all her talk now to Antonia.

“Is it coming, tell me, tell me.”

“Yes, of course it is Lyd.”

“Is it now, is it now?”

“Any moment, certainly.”

 

 And any moment it was, for a few moments later, something dark and wet appeared, and with another scream and another heave, the head emerged. Antonia saw a creature from another world, not yet human. Another heave, not so violent, and a tiny body slithered free. It was blue and waxy, and it slept, eyes shut tight. Antonia didn't yet see a human being at all, or even a baby. She saw an alien, a visitor from another world, an amphibian creature which swam in fluid. Suddenly the baby coughed, and a spray of water burst from its little mouth with surprising vigour. He immediately roared into life, sucking in his first oxygen and announcing his arrival. As he did, his blue colour ebbed and he began to glow a healthy pink.

 

Lydia would want to hold and caress her new baby Antonia knew, and prepared to hand him over to her while the doctor tied off the cord. But Lydia flopped back on her bed, and had just enough strength to feebly wave him away. Antonia was pleased that she was there to nurse him, and as she looked down into his face, she saw bright, clear eyes looking back at her, when she had been expecting the blind gaze attributed to the new-born. As she gazed, she felt that her soul was being searched in some mysterious unfathomable way she couldn't hope to understand. What she didn't realise was that, by then, Lydia was watching her with a small smile of triumph and satisfaction. What she also didn't realise was that the doctor was outside washing up and saying to Myles

 

 “A strong woman your wife. That's as smooth a birth as ever you'll see.”  

They called the baby Marcus.

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PRAYERS

 

There was an unpleasant side to Isaac Godfrey, thought Isaac Godfrey as he tried to pray. Dear God (why does he have to be dear God? Sounds effeminate) sorry about that man. Well, not much of a man, you have made better – no, I take it back, is that arrogance or pride? What's the difference? Arrogance I hope – Pride is one of the seven deadly ones isn't it? Anyway, you know everything and you know I do it for the best. Don't get much done unless you push a bit. I threaten people, you got earthquakes and lightning and such. You give us life, I give a bit to the poor as you know because you see everything. Can I ask a favour? I think you know already, it's for that Antonia girl. I will look after her if you will help me. And can you tell me what that bastard Huxley's up to, begging your pardon?”

 

Such was the nature of Isaac's prayer as he tried to steer as worthy a course through life as he had through the oceans of the world.

 

Many of Sydney's good, and not-so-good folk prayed at that time. At least, most of them went to Church. Lydia wondered how much good it did, but when the time came she formulated her ideas quite clearly. She didn't really pray at all, but reflected on her life and her future. The last year and a bit had turned out quite well. Myles was a good husband, and they had a good child. She had a good friend who was now a good Godmother. In her own way she supposed she was grateful to God.

 

Myles Jackson didn't give the matter much thought but prayed earnestly in the formal manner he had been taught. He thanked his god for the renewed state of his marriage and the gift of a child. In this he was most sincere.

 

James Stubbs didn't pray in any manner at all, but sought the help of any god who cared to listen to locate just a scrap of evidence relating the Dural expedition, Marcus Oldham or Henry. Life was becoming miserable, and Isaac was giving him hell. He'd seemed such a kind man, but now he gave Isaac a wide berth, but he always turned up, and that blasted crop was always there swishing and twitching. He could still feel the bruises on his throat. He pestered at the barracks, he dug up old records, he bought drinks at ruinous prices for garrulous clerks. Then finally!

 

He didn't believe it at first. He'd checked again, and it was true that the soldiers involved, or at least the ones who had survived, were no longer in the colony. Not suspicious in itself, but not one left? Except of course, the hopeless old codger with no brain who had already been interviewed to no avail. And it was he who was dug out to provide fresh information.

 Stubbs felt quite the gentleman compared to this wreck of a man. He could never have been prepossessing and had obviously been through much. He nodded assiduously as James outlined his query. Unfortunately, he nodded all the time, but James began to see a pattern, a language of nods which acted in a “yes” or  “no” manner.

“You remember the expedition?”

A yes nod.

“And you were on it?”

A different kind of yes nod, a qualified yes nod.

 “You were on some of it?”

The task of interview was onerous, but James' needs were great. He persevered, and over the course of hours, some rum and some food, he had deduced that this man had accompanied the group in a supply capacity at some point, remaining in a supply base, perhaps on the new Great North Road. The group had gone on in two parties, one into a hostile area from which they never returned.

 

He had remained at this supply depot for months, supplying the road builders. Then a team had gone into the bush to retrieve the bodies, but found them already in rough shallow graves. All were identified, and one wore his red coat. And there were things on the body. At this point James descried a consciously cunning look which he read well.

 “There are people who would pay for such things” he offered.

The old man looked gleeful. Still unintelligible in his speech, he went on to barter with James for something unnamed. But all the while he was tapping and clutching his jacket, until James surmised that the something of value lay therein. He would have to do the old man in or pay him. Depended on the price.

 He laid a florin on the table, and Old Man looked interested. He laid out another, and he could see that he was excited. He stood up as if to go, and Old Man waved him back. Still sporting his sly look, he slid a small book out from his coat. Small, slim and unspectacular, it puzzled James, till the old man riffled through some pages. He wasn't sure what the writing was, but had obviously ascertained at some earlier time that it was of some importance.

 Now James was truly interested, and realised he was being scrutinised for that  very thing. Sitting down calmly he motioned to the pocket, and the old man gingerly reached in and produced another document, obviously a legal one, with seals, stamps and signatures. He didn't get a good look at it, but thought he saw something of great interest. He had to have it, so stood up again as if he had lost all interest. Old man pocketed the lot, James then produced the third florin, the journal and document reappeared and the deal was done.       

THE RISE OF AMBITION

Antonia was annoyed with herself. She had fallen for the baby, and though it was well-meant, she would have wished that his name was anything but Marcus. She was torn too, for while she was happy to fuss over the little boy, she was not a nurse, and did not want to see herself become a menial. She was still a lady, if only by sufferance. But that could all come to an end, any time. The only way out was to marry, or buy land. Either way would require a man, it seemed.

 

Threatened by domesticity, she now found herself more and more interested in the lives of others. A tour of the town could be frightening. At one moment one would be surrounded by a fashionable crowd, with maybe a dignitary or two. Military men would jingle with flashing brass, and creak softly with gleaming leather. There was no shortage of labour to bring all their accoutrements up to an immaculate level of presentation. Uniforms were constantly washed and pressed so that the leaders of society appeared to be beings from another planet, a planet where dirt, dust and grime had never been created. Their conversation was loud and confident, their orders peremptory.

 “Heah – you! Yes, I'm talking to you. Take that damn horse back to the stables, and make sure he's rubbed down properly.”

 A surly stable hand did as little as he could to acknowledge his orders, and slouched away with the beast in question.

“Damn impudent fellow” remarked the officer.

 “Too many of his ilk round here I'm bound to say Doctor.”

The doctor in question wasn't a doctor at all as far as Antonia was aware, but a judge.

 “Hopeless, bloody hopeless” he assented.

Antonia was shocked at the man's speech, for it bore little trace of his English, educated origin, but sounded for all the world like a native-born Australian, his flat vowels and monotonous intonation giving a characteristic Australian twang to his pompous utterances. She had noticed that this accent was becoming the province of all classes.

 

 Their women were surprisingly well-dressed, their fashions having arrived with the latest ships. They were confident too, and not repressed by their sex. Wives and daughters of the colonial administrators, they were not at all unlike their counterparts back home, except that here they shone as rare beauties, the finest achievement of modern civilisation.

 “Oh, Papa” cried one gaily, “you really are too cruel.”

 She giggled prettily in company with her friends, while her parent harrumphed in mock indignation. All seemed perfectly happy with their role in the drama of the day.

 Only yards away sat an aboriginal family in the street, huddled round a small fire. From time to time they sang, smoked, drank a little if they could get it, and waited for friends and relatives to call. A young woman looked sick, and her male  companion stared resolutely into the near distance, unblinking, unseeing. He might have been a solemn guard for one of their mystical ceremonies in the desert rather than a Sydney itinerant. They were all scarred and Antonia guessed they were the survivors of smallpox. If that were the case, they would have lost most of their families, most of their tribe. There was almost no hope now of keeping their way of life going. The white man had brought civilisation, religion, alcohol, guns and germs.  The aborigines were a shadow of the people who had greeted Captain Cook.

 

People could do worse, and did. There were parts of town where women were      lightly clad indeed, and they were not hard to find, as sailors arriving from their six-month voyages had discovered. They sold their basic wares with basic salesmanship, their costumes both revealing and eye-catching. Men talked and smoked, children played in the dust, horses and drays came and went, convicts dragged past in file, all enlivened by regular floggings and an occasional hanging.

 

In this society Antonia wanted to be at the top, if only for her own protection and in order to have some influence on the future. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised that she knew someone else with that same drive. Someone she felt to be very different from her, but someone with the same desire as  she had, with the will to achieve and the personality to do it. She felt almost foolish as the realisation took hold of her, for of course she was thinking of none other than Henry Huxley.

 

As long as people were trying to steer her into his arms, she felt the need to resist. The excitement she felt in his presence had seemed dangerous to her, and possibly self-indulgent, but as a partner in destiny, a business partner with a vested interest in the land, Huxley was now not just a mere husband or lover, but a partner in a great enterprise. She wanted to see him more, mostly, she told herself, to discover his dream for the future.

LAND

 

Huxley was a regular visitor, but a more decorous one of late. Antonia approved, but couldn't help wondering if she might have dampened his ardour permanently. But no, she thought, as she saw his colour rise behind those dark locks tinged with early grey, despite his impeccable manners. She too, was affected by their meetings, and was aware that she couldn't cover her blushes.

“What do you think, Tonia? Of Mr. Huxley, I mean.”

“I think he's a man.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I know what you mean. You mean, what do I think of Mr. Huxley as a potential husband.”

She sighed.

“I don't know and that's the truth. How do I know what he would be like to live with? How do I know what he would be like, you know, I mean, how we would manage, er, ...”

But Lydia saved her from further bluster

“You mean, what would he be like in bed?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Only one way to find out, isn't there? Oh, don't be shocked. Most of us never find out till the fateful day, then it's too late. That's if it's important to you. Is it?”

Antonia had never considered this, only that it would some day be her destiny and her duty.

 “I suppose it is. Isn't it?”

“Not to some women. Don't be so coy. The act is different for different people. At first I liked it – a lot. Then I didn't like it. Now I like it again.”

Antonia considered.

“Surely if you love someone – ”

“It might help. I wouldn't know. There, I've shocked you haven't I? Don't be. It's quite normal. As a matter of fact, There's much more sex around than there is love. And I don't mean respectful, mature love the way they talk about. I mean the real thing...where you want to be with someone, you want to touch them and breathe the air they breathe, where you want to own them, all of them, from top to bottom.”

She had moved closer to Antonia, and with her last words, illustrated them with a tender hand on the head, stroking her hair gently and the other hand sweeping down over the swell of her breasts. Antonia, who had been thinking of Huxley, was startled and confused, and wondered if she was overly suspicious, and whether this was just an eccentric way of talking and explaining.

 “Goodness” continued Lydia, “I can see your heart beating.”

 It was true. Antonia's pulse was racing, and Lydia smilingly pressed her hand over her heart. Lydia was still shocked.

“If you want something you have to make a move. If you think you can have everything, you have to risk everything.”

Although enigmatic, this seemed sensible in some way.

“Are you still talking about Mr. Huxley?”

“Yes I am. Anyone can see you're made for each other and he's keen as mustard while you hang back. What for? The old Marcus is gone, the new Marcus is here. It's your life girl. Don't let it slip through your fingers.”

 

 Antonia would have liked to discuss things in a reflective way with Huxley, but found it almost impossible to bring the conversation to the point she wished.

“Mr. Huxley” she ventured as they were seated in a parlour of the Jackson house, “you were once married I believe.”

As she spoke, she recalled the day they had sported dangerously on the grass, and marvelled at the decorous manner of her speech. How polite and stiff and formal they were with each other, when they had been like two animals on that occasion, throwing almost all caution to the winds,

 He looked at her intently, and immediately she felt her colour rise, as if he were reading her mind. He then closed his eyes for a moment, before speaking slowly.

“Aye. I was. It seems so long ago now.”

“What was her name?”

She imagined how handsome Huxley would have been, even fresher and younger, bright-eyed and rosy, with his bride. But what would she have looked like?   Which officer's daughter (for no doubt this was in India, amongst military men) had she been? And when she died, were her parents distraught too? And just who was looking after the child? And would the child be a painful reminder of his wife? Would it be possible to compete with a memory? Would she send for the child and help rear her, if not too late? How old was she now?

 Huxley was talking, but she hadn't heard. With a gesture oddly reminiscent of Lydia, he reached out and touched her head, stroking her hair lovingly. It felt lovely, and she thought of Lydia's words – “you want to touch them”. She wanted to touch Huxley, then she thought of Lydia again –  “you want to breathe the air they breathe” and she leaned in closer to him, breathing the musky scent of his skin. He enveloped her in strong arms and she gave herself up to a long and warm embrace. It felt right as Lydia's words echoed. She was only mildly startled to hear a door close, and when she peeped, saw that someone indeed had closed the door. At that moment she paused, her heatbeat subsided and her colour lightened. She was not ready to be a puppet in a play.

 She sat up straight and composed herself. She thought she would try another tack.

 “I'm sorry. You were telling me your daughter's name.”

“Edith.”
“And where is she now?”

“She lives with my Aunt in Sussex.”

“You must miss her greatly.”

“Indeed, I do.”

This was unsatisfactory, and seemed rather perfunctory. She changed the subject.

“What do you want, Mr. Huxley?”

She saw now that she had his interest, his true interest and undivided attention. His very gaze was alert and respectful, but his speech was cautious.

“What do you mean, 'want'?”

“Just what people usually mean. Do you want money, or fame, or power, or land, or women? What do you want?”

“I would like many of those things of course, but what I want – what I want most, is you.”

She was pleased to hear the words spoken.

“And what do you want, Miss Newland?”

“Land. That's what I want. I've decided.”

 

And she felt so much better for saying it. Huxley was offended, she could feel it. But at the same time, there was a new respect in the relationship. It took a little time, some days, but she began to feel that in his attitude to her he now showed a willingness to talk, to discuss things as equals, not as a man to his mistress. She had risked being thought hard and venal, but now felt that she had earned more respect. In their walks and discussions, they each seemed to see their new life as a partnership.

 

Sydney Town now took on a different hue for Antonia, and the busy panorama of everyday life appeared as an interesting game, one in which one could invest in crops, people, gold, imports. Where one might set up a school or factory, where one might broker art and music. Where one could bring a better way of life to the poor, and nurse the aborigines who had survived their imported diseases. No doubt her hopes and aspirations were those of an idealistic young woman, but she was not ashamed of them, and felt that Huxley would be her loyal partner in these enterprises.

 

 It was a time for hoping and dreaming, but Antonia knew she could not put Huxley off for ever. He was a man used to having his own way, and a virile man as well. Such men did not often wait patiently for a timid lover to declare herself. She valued his patience but did not want to abuse it.  

 

A BREAK-THROUGH

 

Isaac appreciated Sydney Harbour. It was a fine one indeed, and he knew every cove and jetty along both shores. He knew every inn that capped the crags too, though he never touched a drop. Where others imbibed forgetfulness and fuzz, Isaac gathered stories. He put away scraps of information, tidbits of news, volleys of conjecture and reams of public opinion.

 “Soda water again mate?” sneered the barman.

 Isaac turned the electric blue eyes and held the man in a stare.

“Yes.”

And he tapped the table significantly. The barman soon had his glass on the table, and with a deferential manner that no-one missed. Isaac led off with his usual ploy.

Isaac: “Looks like rain.”

This commonplace was effective.

 “Oo sez – tykes more'n iss t'myke it rine.”

“He just said it looked like rain, but he was lookin at his ale.”

Isaac laughed easily at the witticism and the banter flew around him.

“Ere, that's a soda water, innit? Ere, giss a go 'v it.”

The crop smacked down upon the table with a crack, and there was a shocked silence.

 “Thass why I don' drink lads, it puts me in a turrible temper. Yes, y'muss buy y'self one one 'v these days.”

More laughter, relief at not being Isaac's victim, a heightened respect, and the conversation resumed.

“Don't need more rain just now. Ground's wet through. Spring sun'll do some good I should think.”

“Do you good you mean. I need as much water as I can get.”

“Need to dig a bigger dam Frank.”

“And where am I gunna get the convicts t'do that?”

“Y'pays for them. Like everyone else.”

“And oo's got the money for that?”

 “Me Jonno, me.”

“And you're an old lag y'self. Takes one to know one Jonno. Oo's not an ex-con ere? 'Ands up.”

Isaac forbore to respond, and a couple of drinkers checked their impulse to chivvy him. When the conversation flagged, he would throw another conversational log on the fire of pub-talk.

 

 “Three cheers for the Governor” was guaranteed to provoke a volley of responses. It amused him. It entertained him. And it gave him considerable insight, information and knowledge.

 

 Most drinkers were habitues of their various watering-holes, some of them humble indeed, some very well-appointed, but at each one, the figure of Isaac would become the centre of vigorous discussion.  It was in one these haunts that Stubbs sidled in and perched uncomfortably on  the rough-hewn stool, impatiently waiting for the conversation to ebb.

 “He's got something” thought Isaac, but made no move. Instead he kept the talk flowing longer than usual, with Stubbs looking progressively more anxious. Isaac finally let the chat die away, and motioned the poor fellow over. He bought him a drink. James Stubbs eagerly handed over a packet. Isaac didn't deign to look at it, merely saying

 “Thank 'ee Master Stubbs.”

 

 It wasn't till he returned to his lodgings that he gave in to curiosity, and spread the contents of the packet out.

 A journal – appeared to be a kind of diary by Oldham. Could be useful. Tell what was happening and when.

A contract of some sort. Looks interesting. Let's see. Sale of Land. Up round Dural, no, Forest Glen way. Joint contract. Oldham's signature – and what's this? Huxley's signature too! The blue eyes gleamed.

 An envelope too, but nothing inside. Just a scrawled identification by a clerk recording “Letters, personal from Miss A. Newland”.

 

He sat for a long time examining the map attached to the Sale of Land, and then page by page, the Journal.

 

     

   

STRANGE MATES

 

Isaac not only considered himself a good judge of men – he knew he was a good judge of men. He observed and waited. Men reveal themselves by their actions, not their words, he thought. He had become acutely interested in the actions of one Henry Huxley, once known as Peter Panhallurick. The image of the dying sailor was still clear in Isaac's mind as he trailed the young officer through the streets and alleys, the parade grounds, churches and docksides, the warehouses, pubs and clubs of sunny Sydney Town. Of course, he didn't have to do all this himself, but employed his eyes and ears from all walks of life. He didn't have access to old Government House of course, but he knew who did, and it was not unusual to find, on the verandah of that establishment, two companionable plumes of smoke arising accompanied by the whiffle of expert card shuffling.

“You've played this game before.”

 Mathers grimaced as he inspected his hand. Isaac was eminently honest he knew, but could luck really deliver him such a consistently vile assortment without manipulation?

 Isaac grunted companionably. He didn't have such a good hand either, but his gaming face was unreadable and his whole bearing bespoke confidence and security – a hard man to bid against. He usually won.

 

WORDS FROM THE GRAVE

 

The journal was unremarkable, at first glance, but rewarding upon closer inspection..

 

In the Dural area as planned. Country looks fine, not far from our purchase. A decision has been made to split up into two groups. Not a good idea, but Hux insists.

 

Natives no problem, but reports of two ex-convicts. Bad ones. Could stir up natives. They are nervous, so are we. Have bad feeling. Taking all precautions, trying to talk to natives. Got to catch them first. If they don't want to be caught, that's it. No hope of finding them in this country.

 

 Read A's letters many times. Strange, we must be on the land we might farm. Have high hopes for this land. Half of it anyway, but could get more later. Depends on Hux. Says he'll sell to me when I'm ready. Still don't understand why he thinks we should split up.

 

Heard shots, some distance away. Finally found native body. Fine specimen. Bad for us. Feel we should abort mission and return while possible. Have got that feeling of being watched again.

 

The natives seem to trust us. I think we have behaved pretty well in general, and we are the only protection they have from the settlers and the convicts. The sight of our red coats is an assurance for them. There are some dangerous people around here. As for the convicts at large, the sooner we catch them the better and I hope we find them before they find us. Some of the natives have approached us but communication is difficult. We are not all that far from the new road, but feels like the end of the earth.

 

ON THE RUN

Life on the streets of London was a harsh teacher in the 1800s. Zachariah never knew the mother who named him in the hope that a biblical provenance would somehow insure him against the iniquity of the world. It didn't work. Zak Smith (who knew where that name had come from?) graduated early from an apprenticeship in crime, moving from gang to gang as necessary, and as likely to deal violence as to receive it.

 No-one who knew him was surprised to find him facing the gallows, and the few who liked or tolerated him were pleased to see him given the option of transportation. After all, the new colony needed much labour, and slavery was no longer an option.

 Labour, however, was not Zak's long suit, and he worked every ruse he knew to dodge work, to foment unrest and to better his own position. He quickly formed alliances with others of similar disposition, and it was around the Christmas of  '29 that he and a companion made their escape from a road gang, killing one guard and stealing firearms.

 Life on the run was not easy, and they had exhausted most of their food. They could trace water, and they had shot some game.

 

 Zak could read though. John couldn't. He was Irish, a raw-boned country boy who had missed out on any education at all. Unlike Zak who hated everybody, John held a special hatred for the English, fostered from his earliest days in a community  ground down by poverty and the rapacity of English absentee landlords.

 

“Got im right in the guts. Didjer ear im squeal? Come after me'n there's more for em. What a little beauty eh?”, waving the musket barrel like a regimental standard. He raised the gun quickly, thinking he had found a supper target, then desisted.

 “Can't waste ammo Johnny.”

John had neither the loquaciousness or charm commonly attributed to his race, but was a dour, silent type, communicating with nods and grunts. He knew that Zak was trigger-happy and careless, and didn't trust him one whit more than his English jailers. As far as he was concerned, he was here for the crime of poverty, and he would do what he could to escape. He had a notion that if he continued to walk westwards, he might find a free and happy life in China.

 “You stupid bugger. Christ, you Irish are clods. Don't you know anything?”

John snorted, and dimly rued his lack of schooling. He knew he was not bright.  He also reminded himself that Zak was English, and his finger twitched on the musket trigger.

“Christ, more ….ing conversation in a pig pen. You'd know all about that wouldn't ya Johnny.” But he desisted from further jibes as he saw his companion's sullen scowl. John was a powerful man, and Zak's finely honed instinct for self-preservation told him not to go any further.

“Someone follerin us Johnny. Abos I reckon. Put a stop to that right enough.”

John was not so sure. They had done him no harm, and they too had not been to school, couldn't read or write. He felt a kinship of sorts.

 “Jus go on a bit, Jonno. I'll catch up wif ya soon.”

Dutifully, John made his way through the light bush, keeping parallel to the creek bed in the valley below. Presently, he heard the shattering explosion of a musket discharge followed by the shocked silence of the bush. For a moment no bird called, no insect chirped, no kangaroo thumped as nature reacted to the outrage.

 Presently, footsteps were heard. Zac arrived, his musket barrel still hot.  John was appalled, but said nothing. He thought, in his own clumsy and confused way, the obvious sentiment – that was unnecessary!

As if reading his mind, Zak carelessly remarked

“One less o'them t'bother us.”

He must have friends, thought John. Surely they will bother us soon.

 “His mates'll have to deal with this” patting the bulky musket barrel.

John thought further. We have to sleep sometime, and they know exactly where we are.

 Zak had become quieter and more reflective.

 “They know where we are, so we'll have to take turns to sleep. Maybe we can find a farm or sumthin. Get some proper grub – whatever it takes. Might be women around too if y'know wot I mean.”

Unlike Zak, John did have a mother for much of his early life. The notion of rape was foreign to him, and disturbing. It might be his own mother or sister in such a farm. He wouldn't stand for it. His finger twitched again.

 “Hsst.” Zak held up a hand for silence. His senses were acute, and a moment later John became aware of voices, and the swishing of machetes and hatchets helping clear a path through the bush. From their vantage point low down in the scrub they became aware of small red splashes of colour on the opposite slope of the valley.

Lifting his musket, Zak enjoyed a fantasy of murder and mayhem.

“Look at ya, ya slimy pig. Gotcha! And he pretended to squeeze the trigger.

“Oh dear oh dear. Head's gone. What a mess. Nice jacket all dirty.”

A thought struck him.

“Hey. The abos like those red coats. The sojers looks after em. I c'd pretend to be a sojer, and they'd be friendly like.”

John got it. He thought it seemed like a reasonable plan. It meant killing a soldier it seemed, maybe more. But they were English bastards, and everyone knew they deserved anything you could dish out. He wasn't too sure about all this killing, but that was the way it was going to have to go.  

Zac spoke.

“Ey, look. They're gunna find the abo.”

And sure enough, the party halted at the right spot.

 “There's only three o'them.” and he chortled mirthlessly as he lifted his musket to take aim. John was alarmed.

“Don't panic Johnny. Jus pretendin'. Too far away.”

He turned to address John seriously.

 “How long we been out. Two weeks? What are we gunna do eh? We shot some abos, yeah, alright, I shot some abos, it's them or us. These blokes'll be on to us next, unless we get on to them first.”

 

John waved west, in the direction, as he thought, of China.

“Don't be mad Johnny. It jus goes on forever. Y'r stuck here wif me, wevver y'like it or not. Look, listen careful – what we do is, we get rid of these blokes an we wears their uniforms. The abos thinks we're sojers and lets us pass. If they can speak our lingo we tell em we shot the bad men. Y'wanna go back t'road gang wif English pigs Johnny? Or do y'wanna strike a blow for old Ireland? Let me know Johnny.”

 

John's stolid face betrayed nothing, but inwardly alarm bells were ringing. He had pictured heroic resistance, but this savagery was something new to him. He still preferred to take off westwards and let life do to him what it would.

 

 They slept little and ate sparingly, unable to light a fire but having to endure the smell of cooking from the slope opposite. Just before dawn Zac slipped noiselessly off. It was some little time before John realised that he wasn't coming back for a while, and guessed where he was. He loaded up, and took off in the same direction. The light wind that had brought the cooking smells the previous evening also helped to conceal any noise he made. He thought he could see the coals of the campfire ahead, pinpointing their position in the dark, and making them a sitting target for the blacks should they take it into their heads to attack. Why didn't they? Maybe they didn't mind the soldiers, as Zac said, or maybe they thought it would just bring down fierce reprisal.

 

 Three English dogs lay sleeping, not knowing how perilous their situation was. Did he care? He thought he did. Hatred had been a habit, but some of them were kind to him. They seemed like ordinary boys. They had a hard life too. He didn't want them to die like this.

 

He primed his musket in the dark and closed in on the camp – too late. A shot rang out, and he rushed the camp, to find Zac despatching another soldier with a second shot. A third soldier had struggled to his feet, located his musket and was about to meet Zac on almost equal terms. Almost equal, but not quite. Zac's finger hit the trigger just a moment after John's barrel crashing down on his wrist. It deflected his aim and the ball which would have done for Oldham did much damage, but was not fatal. John wheeled on Zac, eyes blazing. He now saw that he had never really hated the English at all, for what he felt now was blind fury.

 

Nursing his bruised hand, a furious Zac put the best face on it that he could.

“You're a dead man John” he said as he went through the clothes of the three soldiers, looking for the best fit. “You're on your own now.”

 

He calmly ate and drank what was left of the previous evening's meal, and packed a small knapsack. He went to pick up one of the muskets, but desisted when John growled and threatened him. Now he didn't look quite so cocky. He stood straight and walked briskly and soldier-like to the edge of the clearing. He planned to be back and to take over, whatever the cost.

 

  John had dug graves before, and had done it well. He had buried many of his kin in the Old Country, and now he set to with the steady rhythm of the ageless peasant. The wounded man he didn't know how to help, so he cleaned the wound and staunched the flow of blood as best he could, covering it as much as possible to keep away the flies. In due course he dug three graves. He hadn't the heart yet to bury the two dead in front of the injured one, and he covered them as best he could with clothing and canvas. As the wounded man groaned, he felt guilty for presuming his death and used one of the graves as a cache for their meagre supplies and weapons.

 

 He became concerned for the wounded man, who had lost a lot of blood. He felt that the man could not last long, as he was rarely conscious and was ebbing. He found water nearby, and got some into him. He noticed something in the weapons cache – a note of some sort. He couldn't read it, and his patient was unconscious. He guessed that it was a threat from Zac to come back at night, and he guessed right.

 

From the outset it was a terrible night. John guarded the place as best he could, keeping water up to the soldier, and watching the bushes intently. Every stir, every rustle had his nerves jangling. His musket was primed, but he knew how canny and swift Zac could be. The sun had set a couple of hours when he became aware of motion in the forest, like a wind springing up. Then, surely it was footsteps and a scream, then blundering footsteps, curses and silence. The hair on his neck, his head and all over his body grew spiky with fear. But nothing else happened. He sat, eyes staring, for hours, and in this position finally fell asleep. The first pale streaks of grey woke him, to find his patient delirious and hot. More and more water. Then to the edge of the clearing to peer into the forest. There was nothing to be seen. He moved further in till he saw a flash of scarlet. It didn't move, nor could it, for it was the coat of Marcus Oldham, worn by Zac Smith when he was speared by the natives. The insurance of a red coat meant nothing to the blacks, who recognised men's signatures by the very tracks their boots left in the dust. This man's footprints were the footprints of the man who had shot their friends.

                 

THE NEW GOVERNOR

 

Antonia was torn in her loyalties, feeling honour-bound to remain as companion to Lydia, and sometime nursemaid to little Marcus. But, to tell the truth, she had begun to resent this period of her life, when nothing was happening. She found the colony still alarmingly divided, the “exclusives” being the influential folk with money and power, the Tories of Sydney Town. It was they who made the laws, who courted the Governor, and who set up the social climate of the place. Their houses were large and comfortable, with a goodly supply of servants of varying quality. They dressed well, gave fine suppers and held educated discourse. They also jealously protected their privileges with every means available to them, and threatened by the new Governor, made his life hell.

 She could see that Bourke was a man of real principle, with a good heart, for which the people loved him. Antonia would have liked to be involved, just as she had been with Mrs. Darling.

 She had long been in the habit of visiting old Government House, and didn't need any invitation. Liked by Mrs. Darling, and tolerated by her husband, she had often made up numbers and leavened the crowd with her pleasant presence.

 “It seems I am not so popular these days, Mathers.”

“I hadn't noticed Miss. Your expectations are high, I imagine.”

“It's just that, you know, Mrs. Darling and I got on so well. I've just got used to calling in and helping out. I have to do something with my life.”
“Yes Miss. Most women get married.”

“Is that all you see for me Mathers?”

“Some women don't get the opportunity Miss. You have many opportunities.”

“In this place Mathers, I could marry off a camel. No, I mean Mrs. Darling wanted me helping out, and it gave me something to do. What does Mrs. Bourke have against me?”

“The only thing Mrs. Bourke wants is her health. She's just not strong enough to entertain. I'm sure she'd love to.”

They were speaking in the little garden, quite pretty, which bordered the kitchen. Her visits were unofficial and informal, but other staff treated her respectfully now.

 As they spoke, the little wicker gate swung open and the distinguished figure of Governor Bourke stepped through. She made to stand, but he waved her down and introduced himself courteously in a cultured Irish lilt, for although part of the British establishment in Ireland, his family had long absorbed much of the Irish culture, with its hospitality and sense of justice.

“I won't pretend I didn't hear you.”

He was direct, but polite.

“My wife is not well, and I pray only for her recovery. It's common knowledge, is it not? Ah, I see you're not aware. Well, I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. It must be God's will, so we will say it's good. Mathers, will you organise some tea and my tonic?”

While Mathers was gone, Bourke chatted amiably, with considerable grace. Antonia liked the smooth sweep of his domed forehead with its corona of fine hair receding.

 “You have the appearance of one who hasn't long been here.”

“A year and a half.”

“And still unmarried? You're obviously not looking. I would like my wife to meet you, but every day is a blessing – and a trial.”

Antonia could see the obvious pain in the fine, dark eyes, and wanted to change the subject. She knew the people liked him, but didn't think it was her place to tell him so.

 “You are young. It's not so easy to tell here. This place can make one look old.  Don't you have friends?”

She felt comfortable with this man, and wondered why he was giving her so much of his time, when there were so many matters calling for his attention. She reflected for a moment before answering, grateful for his patience.

“Now I think of it, the answer is yes and no. I live with Major Jackson and his wife, yes, you know them? Ad there is Tom, I'm sure you've seen him, or heard him – he's the flautist. And there's Isaac, and Math – ”

She stopped herself, not sure how much to divulge.

 “Yes, Mr. Mathers is your friend, and, strictly speaking, he is of the serving class. So you wonder if you should acknowledge him.”

It was true, and Antonia felt ashamed.

 “It's quite natural to feel that way. It's the way we're brought up. Tell me, you yourself are not from an established family are you?”

What exactly did that mean, thought Antonia. She thought she knew. Hers was a good family. A genteel family.”

Mathers was returning, and it seemed refreshments were not far behind.

“Lady friends, your own age” abruptly cut in the Governor.

“No. I don't. I don't know why. They all seem so – ”

“Frivolous? Silly? They'll soon be married. Then their time for frivolity will be over. What do you want?”

Antonia felt that this was one person she could be honest with, so she said it again.

“Land.”

Bourke looked both thoughtful and amused.

 “And no husband?”

He paused to take tea as it was offered by a red-haired woman, stout but tightly trussed and careful to avoid Antonia's inspection.

 “Land. Do you know what it takes?”

“Yes, money and connections.”

“Ah, yes. The old guard. Well, that's going, I'll see to it. No favouritism from now on. Money? Not enough?”

Then, abruptly, he asked

“Have you heard of Edmund Burke?”

Antonia had. Everyone had, Well, people of education anyway.

“He's my relative. Do you know his opinion of land?”

“No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“How shall I express it? He thinks that property is the basis of society, and I think his reasoning is hard to dispute. Mind you, some of his opinions are unpopular. Some would like to hang him still for supporting the Americans in their rebellion, but he had good reasons. Land – it creates our society, gives it shape, makes us develop

different orders of people. Everything grows from it. I believe it's crucial to the development of a worthwhile society here. I want people to have a chance and I want people of quality, from whatever station in life, to have a chance to make a contribution. Do you think I am popular here because of my ideas?”

 

Without waiting for an answer he went on, for he had fairly worked himself up.

 “You may yet see a priest visiting my wife, as she's a Catholic. So was my mother. They say I am, but I'm not. You're not are you, no? But there are those here who resent it. They were poisonous back home, and they will poison this place if they're allowed.”

Antonia was riveted. Chief in her mind was his implied approval, or even assertion, that her obsession with land was not only acceptable, but was fundamental to society. Another ten minutes passed in pleasant small talk, but already the encouragement was turning into a desire for action.

 

 Mathers watched the new Governor with amusement. The man doted on his ailing wife, and was a good man with fine ideals. Mathers himself could cope with corruption of all sorts from on high. It was his job to oil the wheels of Old Government House Society, no more, no less. But it didn't stop him from appreciating a true gentleman and a real humanitarian. The ideas and ideals that floated round the Governor's table, both at business and pleasure, were stimulating and advanced, where his predecessor had merely sought to observe to the letter the rule of law, as defined by the Colony of New South Wales.

 

But it was amusing to see him so thoroughly captivated by Antonia. Not unusual in Antonia's friends was the feeling of proprietorial solicitude that he felt. As Bourke discoursed eloquently, he saw that she was drinking in his words, grasping fully their implication. Land, that was what it was all about. Was it just land, or land and a man? No more Marcus Oldham of course, but would it be Henry Huxley? Well, no doubt it would, but just when and how? Why was it taking her so long, and why was Huxley putting up with it? Speaking of whom, what was the latest? And how did he put up with it? Most men his age were looked after. Where did he go for pleasure? Or had he already managed to contrive matters with Antonia? He thought not, and returned to his previous pondering.

 

 He knew the man would have his opportunities. There were women, not unhandsome, who were making money this way. They would never be allowed into society of course, but they knew most of the gentlemen in it. There were other women too, who were a risk to health and there were always the private arrangements one might manage with the right lady, bored with her role here and with a taste for  someone more exotic. He thought, on reflection, that it might just be worth putting out a directive to certain observant individuals, in case they noticed anything of interest in Mr. Huxley's habits.         

 

  

 

ABOUT HARRINGTON AND HUXLEY

 

Harrington's life was going nowhere. He was born to be a cog in the wheel, not to run the machine. Devoid of personality, he was destined to serve and to make up the numbers. All this, however, didn't dampen his ambitions, which were doomed to disappointment, such as his aspirations for a union with Antonia. Huxley's popularity was a constant irritant, and although he would not have dared confront him, he looked constantly for a chink in his armour, anything that might thwart the hopes, and blight the life, of Henry Huxley.

 If he was stolid, he was not stupid, and when he divined that there were moves afoot to gain more intelligence about his enemy, he renewed his efforts. Again he started up whispering campaigns to encourage gossip. But the wastrels who frequented brothels had never seen him in their crowd, and the rakes who risked life and limb pursuing other men's wives were hardly a club. No-one seemed inclined to offer a bad word about Huxley, to his chagrin. He told himself that they had been bullied into silence. But there was one soldier, a corporal who had served in India, who, he was sure, knew something, but was holding back. Harrington was privately contemptuous of the man for his mean and close nature, not recognising that he was a kindred spirit. But this gave him an instinctive understanding of Corporal Hooper which he used to advantage.

 

   “I haven't been to India” he told Corporal Hooper. “I expect I shall, one day, and I would dearly like to know from someone who has been, just what conditions are like.”

 

Flattered by the attention, Hooper grew more loquacious. Warmed by sherry at one of the meaner establishments west of the town, he spoke freely. Harrington wasn't comfortable away from the Officer's Mess or one of their little clubs. The seedier element was here in the majority and he was glad he had left his uniform behind. Even so, he felt somewhat overdressed in his jacket and hat, and was aware of the curious glances thrown in his direction. Hooper, however, seemed to relish having a gentleman companion, and waxed eloquent.

 “Yis, when you arst me, I thinks I dunno, but now I thinks about it a bit more, I reckons I knows im orright. Yis, knows im orright.”

 And he paused for effect, knocking his pipe out, and taking his time to tamp a new wad of tobacco into the bowl.

 

“So y'niver bin to India, eh Mister Arrington? Glad to git art of it I was I c'n tell yer. There's no knowin the end o that place I tell yer. Them princes 'n nabobs, they're real royalty like, jools all over em'n servants runnin orl over the place for em. Ready t'do whativer e wants. Wimmin everywhere, reel byootiful like, if y'like that sort o thing Mister Arrington.”

 

He seemed dubious on the last point, and this was not lost on Harrington, who was nettled.

 

“I do like that sort of thing, er, Cooper” he began, fumbling for the man's name in his annoyance. Hooper seemed not to notice. Harrington was now annoyed at himself for offering a personal predilection, perhaps a sign of weakness. But Hooper's mind was in the past, and his tongue was now well oiled. Harrington went on to try to amend his statement. After all, this was about a woman, taste and honour, was it not?

 

“Yes, yes, I know all about that sort of thing man, but that's not of interest to me. I prefer the company of...”

 

And he broke off, remembering that this was not about him, but Huxley. He began to see where Hooper had been heading, and had the sense to give the man his head.

 

“I'm sorry. To interrupt you I mean. That was most interesting, I had no idea it was such a colourful place. Were you there long?”

 

Hooper was delighted. No-one cared much for his history. He lived alone and had no relatives here. He couldn't afford to marry but hoped to before long. Perhaps he would discover some rewarding enterprise to sustain him here.

 “Too long Mister Arrington. There's blokes go mad with the eat an the snakes an the robbers that'd cut yer throat fer sixpence. Yer can't be soft with these people.”

 “And that's where you met Mister Huxley?”

 “Oh, Hux, yis, thass right, Hux.”

 

He looked furtively, but speculatively at Harrington, and for the first time began to wonder at his motives. He hadn't a clue, and just ploughed on while he still had an audience.

 

“Mister Hux wuz there before me. 'E knew is stuff orright. Good to go art on patrol with. Jus as cunning as them robbers 'e was, didn't take no shit from them Indians, if y'know what I mean.”

 “Did he ever have to, you know, take measures?”

 Hooper was mystified, picturing Huxley with surveying equipment and the like. Then the light broke, and he laughed unpleasantly.

 “Gord bless yer Sir. E'd as soon kill yer as shake 'ands with yer. No trouble to Mister Uxley.”

 

 Harrington could have sworn the man's eyes were alight with admiration.  Or, at least, excitement. Or, possibly, fear. He couldn't tell.

 “So he wasn't the sort to take prisoners? But tell me” went on Harrington, doing his best to charm, “about his wife.”

 And here Hooper looked surprised.

 “Oh he warn't the marryin sort sir if y'know wot I mean” he sniggered.

 “So he wasn't married?”

 “Oh no sir, e didn't need t'be.”

 “And so he didn't have a daughter in England?”

 “Well, he could ave. Quite possible, but none that has 'is name I reckon.”

 “So who was his lady friend in India?”

 

 Hooper laughed again. It grated on Harrington, who was not a sensitive man.

 “Bless yer sir. 'E 'as a taste fer class 'as Mister Uxley. But these wimmin sir, they belongs to other blokes. Wives and daughters if y'know wot I mean.”

 He leant forward confidentially, and in a lower voice said

 “I reckon 'e 'ad to get outa there before someone got 'im.”

 “But his Regiment wouldn't put up with that sort of behaviour, surely?”

 

 “No sir, but oo's to complain? Bloke'd look a right mug, speshly when the missus goes and does it off er own bat, I mean willin like. Reckon before long ye'd find him with 'is throat cut. Some robber'd be livin it up and some bloke 'igh up like  'd be satisfied 'n 'is old lady'd be behavin 'erself. Or 'is dorter.”

A FRIENDSHIP OF CONVENIENCE

 

Huxley liked New South Wales. But then, he had liked India. After the first shock of the heat, the dust, the rain, came the shock of the people, the animals, the gods. The English amused him, retreating to the hills in the heat, holing out in their clubs, buttoning up to preserve their decorum and their moral authority. And all around them was life in the raw, sensuous and real, eating away at their civilised facade, teasing their moral rectitude with sensual opportunity. For a realist like himself, there was much slippage in the system. He relished his chances with a merry, if dangerous, life. He was as careful as he had to be, and now that his new identity was thoroughly consolidated, he could move on to new fields, as a gentleman.

 

 By the time he arrived in New South Wales, he knew how the game was played. Governor Darling, now there was a charmless bastard.  And the 'exclusives'?  A bunch of Tories, trying to perpetuate the old country. It  wasn't going to work here. Most of the hard work had been done. The natives were dying like flies from smallpox and other diseases. The country was ready to boom, there was no doubt of it. There was coal north of Sydney, and the orchards and farms were getting more and more productive. Wool was booming too, and who knew, there could yet be gold. There would be plenty of old money coming in to reap further rewards, and it would all need men of quality to run the place. With the right woman, a man could practically be king here, but there was not a great deal of choice.

 

 Oldham was an interesting character. His alter ego in a way, thought Huxley. So naïve, so idealistic. A man had to be a realist in this world. He was good-looking too, but in a fair, blonde, blue-eyed way, as opposed to Huxley's piercing dark-eyed saturnine style. Oldham's face was smooth and golden, while Huxley's olive skin  always had a blue-black hint of beard. And women! Oldham was hung up on this girl back home. How often he had heard it, this piteous love-struck romanticism about the best, the most beautiful, the most gifted and affectionate little creature in the world. It was enough to make you sick. Of course, she was coming to join him as soon as possible, and he even produced the scented letters to prove it. As an afterthought he produced the little likeness of Antonia which he carried with him. Huxley found it charming.

 

“You are a fortunate man indeed Marcus. May I call you Marcus?”

 “Of course. It's my name.”

 “Yes, but you know what I mean. Call me Hux by the way. All my friends do. Not on the job though. Protocol and all that. What do you think about it out here?”

 “Well, it does seem rather stuffy doesn't it? But I can understand that if we don't set a standard, who will?”

 “Good man. What are you going to do here. I mean afterwards. When you've made your fortune.”

 “Soldiering? I don't think so. But land. We used to have land back home, but we lost it. Out here there's so much, but it all seems to be spoken for, or the rich get in first. I've got some money, Antonia will have a bit more, and we may have to start in a modest way. I've got some ideas.”

 “Ideas. Now they're more valuable than gold, believe me. What have you come up with that no-one else seems to have thought of?”

 Unaware of the way Huxley's mind worked, Oldham succumbed to the blandishment of his new friend's attentiveness, and recklessly unfolded his plans.

 “I've been up on the new road, going north.”

 “I know the one. The one Major Mitchell's not so keen on.”    

 “That's the one, and all the better. You know why Mitchell's not so keen on it?”

 “Yes, I do. He wants something more direct, and straighter. Seems sensible to me. How does that help.”

 “Well, I've been up on the North Road, and I like what I saw. It's unsuitable for wheat and crops. Lots of little hills and valleys, very sandy and barren looking. Lots of old soldiers have given up on and it's going cheap.”

 Huxley looked dubious.

 

 “But if the land is so poor, what good will that do you?”

 

Oldham continued.

 “I know the land well, and I'm sure there has to be water close to the surface. A good artesian system will turn it into an Eden. I'm just worried that if Antonia doesn't get here soon we'll miss the chance. Other will see the same possibilities and move in.”
 

 “I'm sure you're right” answered Huxley soothingly.

 

 His words were calm and reassuring, but Huxley's mind was racing. He had taken Oldham for a novice, but his words made much sense. The farms Oldham spoke of were a good idea, and a new idea. The land was close to Sydney, and the Northern Road would bring it closer. More people were arriving all the time, so one had to seize the opportunity while it offered. And as the value increased there was the likelihood of profitable resale as values soared. He smoked and drank companionably with Oldham and broached the subject anew.

 

“You make a lot of sense Marcus. I can see what you're driving at. Yes, it would be a great shame to miss out. If I may ask, what do you have and what do you need?”

 “I need a thousand pounds, and I have five hundred. Antonia will have the rest.”

 “And when will she arrive. Not sure? But not for some time yet, eh? Ah, what a shame. What a shame.”

 They talked and drank some more, Huxley being a little quiet. He then concentrated his attention fully on Marcus.

 “My friend, I am going to suggest something which may seem odd, but I ask you to bear with me. I've been thinking as we talk, and it's been bothering me, this business of the land and the farm and Miss Antonia. The whole thing. I don't have much of  head for business, but please hear me out.

 A kind of a plan has been forming in my head. There's probably something wrong with it, but I can't see it for the life of me. You're a practical man, you'll probably spot a flaw right away, but it just seems right to me at the moment.

 

 Here it is! You go ahead and buy the land. No, don't interrupt yet. I know you don't have the money. You buy it with me, not Antonia. And we hold the land till Antonia arrives, then I sell her my half, yes, if you insist, for a modest fee, a bit of interest or such and the promise of some hospitality in the years to come.”

 

Marcus couldn't see the flaw. He was overwhelmed at Huxley's generosity, but also realised that Huxley too would do well out of it, if in a modest way. He counted himself fortunate to be a friend of such a thoughtful man.

A POST-MORTEM

 

When the senior members of the colony met in Sydney to discuss the Rule of Law and the administration of Justice, they were highly aware of the importance of their decisions and the gravity of their responsibility. What they could not have been aware of was that their counterparts in the bush, the elders of various tribes, held similar discussions. That they were naked, and armed not with musket and sword, but with spears and clubs, did not diminish the sophistication of their discussion.  Around Dural, where the coastal tribes gave way to the hill people who spoke a different Darug, the ways of the whites were considered strange indeed. Their tribal structure seemed to be completely broken down. The Darug had lived here forever, mostly in friendship with their neighbours, and sometimes in dispute, mostly over women. This was how it had always been. Women were necessary and were worth fighting for, but not dying for. Sometimes a man died, that was how it had always been. There were laws about that too. Payback was the natural law, anyone could see, but the Great King's men did not undersatnd this.

 

“That was a good throw Possum. Got him right between the shoulder blades.”

 “Too right. Did you see him dance in his big shoes?”

 

They had been amused when tracking, at the man's clumsy gait and the size of his shoes. They could tell he was of slight build because of the shallowness of his spoor.

 

 “Hey, Water Lily, don't you think it was good of him to wear the red jacket, to have something to aim at?”

 

They all laughed. There were seven of them, a hunting party of the Darug. It had been a couple of days since they had lost Red Cliff and they hadn't sung him away properly yet. They had to get back to base and make sure all the ceremonies were observed. These obligations were heavy ones.

 

“Well, we've done our bit, and all without a scratch. Think he would have killed us?”

   

“You know what will happen don't you?”

   

 “Yes, we all know. They don't understand payback. They just kill for the sake of it.”

 “All of them?”

 “No. I understand some are different. But we are a nuisance. They want us to go.”

 “Where? This is Darug country. Where would we go? There's Gundungurra land but how can we live there? No Darug spirit there.”

 

“Can't understand them anyway.”

 

“I can. They made a good song about the roads.”

 

“Yes, I heard it. Big road, small business.”

 

They all laughed at the whites who moved heaven, and certainly much earth, to make their path through the bush merely in order to visit their relatives.

 

“Gundungurra – nope. Bury their dead standing up. Can't live with people like that. Primitive if you ask me. The whites though, they just bury them anywhere.”   

 “That's exactly what I was saying. They go anywhere. Don't need spirit. Only gun. No tribe, no spirit.

 “We should fight them.”

 “How many can we fight? Who's going to fight anyway? Have you talked to Eora, Awabagal, Darug coast people? Have you heard? They're all gone. Whites make people sick. You go near em, you get sick and you die. It's better to keep away altogether.”

 “You mean, run away, like kids?”

 “Yeah, that's what I mean.”

 “It will never finish like that. Look at our fathers. They saw white men cross mountain. Now every feller going across the mountains brings horses, guns, women. There's no more Darug spirit, that's what I think. My father's father, he saw big ships arrive. No problem, very interesting, much new, much to learn. Now we can speak English, smoke tobacco, wear clothes. Now get sick, we die, we lose our tribe, lose spirit. Better to run away and hide, be by ourselves in a place where they can't live. It's our only hope.”

 “Would you say it is progress?”

 “Progress? We never needed it. The old people hunted kangaroo, just like us. Spear and boomerang did the job. Now we have muskets. You can kill the whole mob. But what for? You can't eat the whole mob, and then you have to have something to eat next week. And just look at the bush. They don't fire it. You used to be able to walk all the way from one side of Darug land to the other in a couple of days, easy. Now it's getting overgrown, you can hardly battle your way through in a week. Disgraceful.”

 I would say they are clever people. Damned clever people. But they have no morals. Not really. No morals.”  

 

Had the administrators in Sydney been able to eavesdrop on this conversation, most  would have agreed that they were listening to the primitive and uncouth grunting of a savage people.

 

 Henry Huxley had always done what he had to do. There was no time for vacillation in his world. There was no room for the finer points of conscience. He had seen too many meet their doom while pondering how to deal with an enemy. Oldham hadn't wanted to go on alone, that was clear. But he'd still obeyed orders.  More fool he! People who behave like sheep deserve to die like sheep. It still left a bad taste though. He couldn't help liking the man. Now it was done, and couldn't be undone. He owed it to Oldham to make the best of it. Oldham's half would revert to him. Fair enough. If he himself had been killed, say by aborigines, Oldham would have benefited. Well, it would be Huxley Estate rising in these pretty little hills. Some convicts to build, some Irish to train the horses and someone's daughter to bring grace and refinement to this part of the world, and he would rise in this colony of New South Wales, see if he wouldn't.

 

His reverie was interrupted by the rhythmic clump and rattle of boots across the grass and scree near the camp.

 

“It's what we thought sir. All dead. Two shot and one speared. Don't know what to make of it. Funny thing, there's three graves dug, ready to go like.

 

 “The natives don't dig graves – too much like work. Doesn't look like they stood much of a chance, between the abos and the convicts. They're still out there. They can't last much longer though. Sergeant, I have things to do here, but I'd like you to go back in the morning with these two – and here he called in two soldiers resting on their haunches nearby – and give the poor chaps a decent burial. If you can identify them, do so, and please retrieve any personal items. You should do this together. I don't want their privacy abused when they have just paid the supreme penalty. You are not to read or peruse these items, they are to go directly into these bags and are to be wax-sealed. Then tag them for identification.”

 

Marvelling at their captain's sense of propriety and earnest care, the three did their duty early in the morning. Amongst themselves they still wondered at the directive that had sent the other three to their doom.

A DISTURBING THOUGHT

 

In many ways, Antonia was pleased with the way things were turning out. While she was happy enough at Vaucluse with the Jacksons, she wanted a life of her own. She was young and popular, but she could see evidence all round her that good looks do not last forever. She was being seriously courted by Huxley, and she felt that between them they had the sort of drive that would place them in a fine position here. She liked his ambition, and he had intimated that he had land, somewhere round Dural, not far from Solomon Wiseman's place. Many women, she knew, had abandoned their dream of love for a practical reality. Men died on ships, in wars and in fights. One had to seize the day. She was now twenty-one and Huxley wouldn't wait forever.

 

 This was how she thought when she turned over her situation in her mind. But it was a different matter when Huxley came to visit, or when they walked out. He seemed nervous and edgy, impatient and irritable.

 

 “It's men's nature dear” Lydia would explain.

 

 “It isn't natural, and if they aren't satisfied in some way, they fret and fight, it's always been the way.”

 “I should hardly think that's my concern” replied Antonia.

 

Lydia looked at her, highly disapproving.

 

“Antonia, much as I esteem you, I would have to say that you are the sort of woman that gives us all a bad name. What you say is arrogant. You will never meet a man like Marcus. That is because Marcus does not exist. No, I don't mean he is dead, of course he is, but I mean you have exalted him to perfection. Good, noble Marcus. He was a man, just a man, with the same faults and failings as other men. I'm sorry, but it pains me to see you carrying on as if you expect some hero from mythology to sweep you up on a magic horse and take you off to a castle in Spain. Meanwhile you give poor Mr. Huxley a terrible time. He'll get thoroughly sick of it soon. Men do, you know.”

 

Her words hit home, and Antonia felt a welter of emotions. But to her surprise, the one that dominated, that quelled what might have been her feelings of shame or misgiving, was a surge of resentment. What if she was foolish, what if she was idealistic? That was her business, and she would cope with the consequences. She told Lydia so, infuriating her.

 

 “You are impossible Antonia. You have the colony at your feet. You get more attention in a week than other people get in a lifetime. You have an eminently suitable suitor with fine prospects and you treat him shabbily. And you hang on to this stupid, naïve hope that your beloved is still out there. For once and for all, face it.”

 Antonia defended herself as best she could, struggling to arrange her thoughts and emotions.

 

“Lyd, I know you mean well, and I'm listening to what you say. I think you make sense, and it's my weakness. Maybe I live too much in my imagination. Maybe I have spent too long thinking about Marcus and planning our future, imagining everything. When I am with Mr. Huxley, I forget myself, I admit. Everything seems rosy. It's nice to be wanted. When I'm away from Mr. Huxley, my dreams are still of Marcus.”

 

“That's just your romantic imagination. It's not real. What man has a chance against a dream?”

 “I suppose you're right. But I can't afford to give myself to him until we are married. I'm not stupid. That could end in disaster.”

 “For god's sake, marry him before it's too late, and you spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

 “ But it all seems so final, and I'm not sure, well, you know, I like to be near him, but I don't know whether...” and she paused, not sure how to express herself.

 

Lydia exploded.

 “You impossible creature. Who do you think you are? The Virgin Mary? This is life, this is real. Go and look at the town, see the women dying in childbirth, others selling themselves, those poor black women dragging themselves from camp to camp. You don't know when you're well off. You're like the Apostle Thomas, Doubting Thomas. He didn't believe Christ was risen till he had put his hands in the wounds, remember? You won't believe till you've dug him up in some god-forsaken corner of the bush and cried your eyes out. There won't be much left by now. But then you might get on with your life, and the rest of us, that try to look after you, can get on with our lives too.”

 

Hurt and stung by this outburst, Antonia was defensive.

 “I'm sorry to be a burden. I can leave soon. There are situations which...” but she never finished, for Lydia rushed to her and embraced her, crying. Eventually she disengaged.

 “Don't go, but for god's sake, have some sense. What I said – I really want you to think about it.”

 

But Antonia was thinking about it already, because Lydia's words had hit home powerfully. She now knew that, whether it was her own weakness, or her romantic imagination, she would continue to live the dream of Marcus, the one she had created and nurtured. Perhaps she was unrealistic. Perhaps she needed to really, truly, in her heart and soul, her very being, know and understand that Marcus was gone.

 

 “Lyd. You're right. I want to go and see the place. I want to talk to people who knew him, if we could only find them.”

 It wasn't quite what Lydia was hoping for, but would have to do.

 “You would need an escort.”

 “Yes.”

 “He should be an Army Officer.”

 “Yes.”

 “Mr. Huxley knows the area.”

 “Yes, I know.”

 “You would be away some time, possibly, and might be alone with Mr. Huxley. You might get some idea of married life.”

 “Lydia!”

 “Oh for goodness sake, don't get so hoity-toity. It wouldn't be the end of the world. If you're sensible there's no damage to be done and it might put your mind at rest as well as put you in the here-and-now.”

 

It was a serious and preoccupied Antonia who made preparations over the next few days.

  

MORE DISTURBING THOUGHTS

Henry Huxley found himself in a strange situation. He thought he was in love. It was an emotion with which he was unfamiliar, and he found it most disturbing. In his own way, he didn't like to be disturbed. He'd been used to attractive women. He'd acquired quite a taste for them, and they didn't seem to mind him either. There were awkward moments of course. In some ways, India was dangerous. Men had lost their lives to jealous husbands and it had been getting uncomfortable. New South Wales was a happy hunting ground as well. People were the same everywhere. There was always the chance of offspring, but that was hardly his concern. Could be difficult though. That's where married women were better. The child would have a father at least, so to speak. Some of the women were driven back to their husbands as a form of insurance, so everyone was happy.

 

Antonia, though, was different. He hadn't planned on that. She had gotten under his skin, and he found himself thinking about her all too often. He hadn't landed her yet either, and that was always a spur. It had happened before, but he hadn't lost any sleep over it. And there was the matter of Oldham. He tried to put it out of mind, something he was good at. But he could still see the man's honest face and resented it as a rival. You can't compete with a dead man. Beyond criticism, he'll beat you every time, but then, a dead man's not much good as a lover.

 

      

 

 

         

 

       

 

THE JOURNEY

The journey to Parramatta was quite pleasant, the new road built by the Surveyor General, Thomas Mitchell being a great improvement on their humble predecessors. Government House, the new one, dominated the place and was a charming residence. Parramatta had an established air about it, with dignified buildings, workshops and stables all bespeaking good governance and sound administration. Here was the McArthur's house too, though Mrs. McArthur was not in residence at the moment. Perhaps she was off to Camden tending to matters there. The orchards were beautiful and plenteous, while the gardens were in full summer bloom. It was an adventure to be setting off into the bush, and they were well equipped. There were tents, including private accomodation for her. There were provisions, and there were two armed guards to escort them and their small party.  Huxley led with Antonia riding alongside. Behind them were stowed the camping gear, provisions, and seating for any other traveller. The second and third wagons were similarly disposed, but it was by no means certain that the road, such as it was, would be viable at every stage.

 

The Parramatta post was lightly policed and some had vague memories of the expedition. But there seemed to be something irregular about it, according to one of the older gatekeepers.

 

“Seems to me, t'warn't official like. No-one noo much abaht whole thing. Bit of a mystery if y'arst me.”

 

 This was divulged to Huxley, who, when approached by Antonia, relayed the information

 “Gentleman says it was a strange business, precious little known about it, and he can't be of much help” and he whisked her away before either he or the gatekeeper could entertain second thoughts.

 “Do we really need these guards?” asked Antonia.  

 “Yes, we do. You know about highwaymen I presume? These are the Australian version, usually escaped convicts or other desperates.”

 

Unthinkingly she drew a little closer for reassurance. It was pleasant to be perched up high, watching the bush unfurl its dusky green length. The road was quite acceptable in the warm, fine weather and the group had a solid, professional air about it. The scent of eucalypts was pungent and cleansing, while other strange and nameless odours teased and tantalised. The bird life was profuse and in excellent voice, and from time to time the thump of kangaroos passing by was heard.

 

 “You think I'm mad don't you Henry?”

 She didn't use his first name often, and she thought his face, often stern, softened at the sound.

 

 “No, I don't, and I think if it were me in the same situation, and you had promised to marry me, I would want you to keep searching.

 

 “But” he added “I do think it's hopeless. I'm sorry.”

 

 On the cart rumbled, the horses now beginning to pull against the gradient. They travelled in companionable silence mostly, with Huxley occasionally breaking into snatches of song in a pleasant baritone. Antonia was charmed and listened with pleasure. Sometimes, when the going was hard for the horses, she would alight, and pick her way nimbly through the the difficult spots till the horses caught up. The day grew hotter and conversation scarce. Water and dried rations were sufficient for the day, but when evening brought them to the Baulkham Hills, a real repast was provided, there being enough by the way of farmlets, posts and supply drays to procure fresh food. The area's orchards were also yielding fine fruit. It was a heavenly luxury to sit round a blazing, aromatic fire, broiling succulent meats washed down with strong sugared tea and followed by juicy grapes. The tents were stout affairs, and appeared to be semi-permanent, ready for occupancy by any passer-by.

 

 Antonia wondered why they didn't go to a local farmhouse, but Huxley explained that these were few and far between, were not set up for visitors and could bring them into contact with people of dubious character. An area of bush in the lee of her tent was set aside for her comfort, and with a simple wash-stand provided, her fears for her comfort and dignity were eased, and she began to savour, if not actually enjoy, the experience, for her mission was a grim one.

 

 The journey took them then through Castle Hill, where Huxley told her about the Irish uprising, and on to Dural. Another night's camp, and a long haul brought them to an area not far from Solomon Wiseman's farm, near the Parramatta River.

   

“Here we are. We're very close. The road doesn't go much further yet. We'll run into the gangs if we keep going.”

 

Antonia would have been curious to see the gangs at work. Even from here she could hear the dull boom of explosives in the distance, and an occasional metallic chink, like a mallet breaking hard rock. A noise like that could carry a long way on a  still day. She felt they must be at least several miles distant. The road, too, was tightly winding, and the travelling distance could well be much longer than the sound would indicate.

 

 It struck Antonia that Henry Huxley was a more private man than she had thought. Their party was a minimal one, and he had avoided unnecessary contact on the journey. She supposed that this was a form of self-sufficiency desirable in a soldier and thought no more about it.

 

 The small party came to a halt at a point in the road with no obvious characteristic. There was no sign, no blazed tree, but Huxley seemed quite sure of himself. She felt reassured by his confidence and obvious qualities of leadership. As they picked their way through the light scrub, Antonia found herself wondering at the nature of the country. If this were the area where Marcus had disappeared, it also had to be very close to where he had wanted to acquire land. But it looked so sandy, and from time to time she saw evidence that someone had pegged out property, and had dug the beginnings of fences and foundations. They had obviously gone no further, and she was not surprised. Surely Marcus had not been so foolish as to commit himself to land here.

          

   

    

A COUNCIL OF ELDERS

 

Harrington, Isaac and Mathers were an odd trio. Harrington considered himself the social superior of the group, despising Mathers as an ex-convict, and seeing Isaac as a lower rank of serviceman. Mathers was privately contemptuous of Harrington's dullness, but esteemed Isaac's abilities. Isaac found neither of them worth getting worked up about, but considered them both interesting and useful.

Mathers' little office was their meeting place, and tea was their drink.

 

 “I think we all know each other, gentlemen” began Mathers.

Harrington sneered at the servant assuming the airs of a gentleman, while Isaac took the courtesy at face value.

“And I think we all understand our mutual interest” went on Mathers.

“You're talking about Miss Newland, are you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Harrington” he answered bluntly. “What is your interest in her, may I ask?”

“None of your damned business.”

 

Isaac intervened.

“I has an int'rest, I do. Y'see, I like the gel. Fine type. I likes to look out fr setch as her. I likes to talk to er, and I likes the look of er. So I takes it on meself to look out for er. Don't yez feel the same Mr. Harrington?”

“Uh, why yes. Yes, I do.”

He was grateful for assistance from an unexpected quarter, but had no notion that the older man had gracefully rescued him.

“'N you bein a young man, why it's nat'ral y'should feel attached like. Mr. Mathers, you bein't so young – ”

He left the question unspoken.

“No, I'm not so young Mr. Godfrey, but I'm not so old either. I agree that she deserves someone special. I think that's why we're here. No doubt she would have thought her missing soldier was someone special, but that we'll never know. By the way, does anyone think he could still be alive?'

“Impossible” from Harrington.

“Not likely” from Isaac Godfrey.

“I agree. Which brings us to Henry Huxley. People agree that they make a fine couple.”

 

Harrington snorted. Isaac simply said

“Many people.”

“But not all?”

“Not all” agreed Isaac.

“Not all includes me” came from Mathers.

“And me” asserted Harrington vigorously, while Isaac merely nodded the faintest assent. Mathers was fascinated to note the power and the will implicit in Isaac's gesture, against which the hearty protestation of Harrington looked puny.

 

 “So what do we do about it gentlemen? In fact, what do we know about it?

 

 “We all seem to have our suspicions about Mr. Huxley. Perhaps he is not what he seems to be.”

 Harrington couldn't wait.

 “That's not the half of it. I found out that he wasn't married at all in India. Wasn't that his story? Claimed his wife died in childbirth, and he looks after a daughter in England. Just the sort of story he'd tell a soft-hearted girl to elicit sympathy. What's more, he's a regular rake, and devious with it.”

 “And do you think Antonia likes him?”

 Harrington spluttered, while Isaac answered for him.

 “I should think she does. I should think she does. Is it true sir, she smiled on you too? If I's a younger agin, I be lookin fer a smile.”

 

The mollified Harrison became more articulate and answered

 

 “Yes, Mr. er, Godber, I felt we did have an understanding.”

 Isaac doubted it but just said

 “Yis, I thought as much, it's Godfrey by the way.”

 “And Mr. Godfrey has shown me an interesting document, an interesting document indeed. Here it is” took up Mathers.

 

And he produced the land title. It was a goodly grant of land in the area past Dural, almost to Solomon Wiseman's farm, and known as Forest Glen. The Great Northern Road builders were even now forging past the area. It was joint title, and the owners were Marcus Oldham and Henry Huxley. All three were now aware of the significance of this map. Isaac and Mathers already knew and watched Harrington for his reaction.

 

“I knew it. I could smell a rat a mile off. But I never knew the wherefore and the means of it. Now I see it clearly. That expedition was never official. No-one knows who authorised it, there's no official report and the only things that came back were those letters, the document, a picture and the probable story.”

“And what was the story?” asked Mathers.

 “Just that the party was divided, and Oldham was sent into a hornet's nest stirred up by two desperate convicts.

 “Makin Huxley the King David o' the piece, I reckons” remarked the enigmatic Isaac.

 

 Harrington looked puzzled, but Mathers explained

 “When King David, in the Bible, lusted after Bethsheba, he sent her husband off to the hottest action on the front line. He was killed and David looked after his wife, if you know what I mean. And what do you think happened next, Mr. Harrington?”

 “I presume that the natives, having suffered at the hands of two armed convicts, took their vengeance on the first people they came across, being the three that Huxley had sent in their direction.”

 “And those graves. Do you think the natives dug those? Or do you think the good-hearted convicts came back to do the decent thing. Or are you suggesting that Huxley did? He was well-attested to have been with his half of the party up near the road. Surely, if he was managing the whole thing, he wouldn't want to have anything to do with the scene.”

 

Isaac, who had listened intently without saying much, had started to become agitated. The riding crop swished to and fro alarmingly, its pent-up energy menacing. The other two were intrigued to find him so preoccupied. A stout finger jabbed at the plan, and for once, his calm manner evaporated in the face of strong feeling. Mathers and Harrington followed his point, and it was Mathers who spoke first.

 

“By jove, you're on to something. It's not a virgin grant. They've bought up a number of old holdings. And look. There are the names, and some of them hold rank. Do you know anything about this Harrington?”

 

Annoyed by Mathers dropping the honorific, Harrington was about to object, but Isaac cut him short.

 “Get thee on ...”

 Harrington peered carefully at the names.

 “Yes, these are not unfamiliar, and it's coming back. The army has been letting people resign, encouraging them to resign – too many for the job here, and they want to keep only the best.” (Mathers rolled his eyes, but managed not to groan).   

 “Yes, I do know some of these chaps. I know what this is. It's an area where land was given to the soldiers, but when they got there they complained that it was barren and sandy, and unfit for farming. They demanded other land in exchange, and some got it.”

 “Does Huxley seem to you to be the sort of man who would rescue a soldier in distress?”

 

Isaac grunted.

 “Or be sweet-talked into buying a pig in a poke as this purchase would appear to be, at face value.”

 “No, he is certainly not that sort of man.”

 “In that case, it's a mystery.”

 “No mistry. I knows him well. 'E picks dead men's pockets. 'Sides, Mr. Mitchell's gone up that way, explorin. Mr. Mitchell knows somethin about that part o the world, e does.”

 “Are you talking about the Surveyor General? He's just gone through that area on his latest expedition.”  

 “Ay, that I am. Young Tom says they shoulda waited. Land warn't so bad at all. Y'jus has t'dig a little, 'n there it is. Water, water everywhere. Fine farmland. Worth plenty.”

 

Mathers summed up, partly to get his own mind clear.

 “So Huxley may be sitting on a fortune, twice the size of the one he started out with if Huxley is truly dead. And if he wants to marry Antonia, she may be assured that she will have a future. But she had promised herself to Oldham. However, she can't move on until she is convinced of Oldham's death. And that's the purpose of her present journey, to see for herself whether Oldham has perished.”

 “What journey?” cried Isaac and Harrington together, each after his own manner.

 

 “Didn't I tell you? That's why I called this meeting. She set off yesterday for the North Road. There's her and Huxley and a few soldiers.”

 

The riding crop was very busy swishing the air in angry little buzzes. Harrington turned puce, but found words hard to come by.

 

 “Well, I mean to say, what do you think we should do?”  

CONDITIONAL APPROVAL

 

Young Marcus was getting through his early months with flying colours. Lydia had leaned heavily on her friend  for support and comfort, and Antonia enjoyed helping out. But she was not going to allow her life to be turned into one of service, and determined to be firm. Her future was in the balance. There was Huxley, with his promise of security and a partnership which could be a golden one, or a life of meagre service, fuelled only by a sad memory. Or could her original glorious dream yet come true?

 Lydia had dreaded what she knew must be coming, but accepted with good grace Antonia's announcement of her departure on a tour of inspection of the Oldham expedition. She thought it foolhardy and romantic, but eventually gave her blessing.

 “I just don't think she will ever rest until she knows exactly what happened to Marcus Oldham” she told her husband.

 “Damn fool idea at any rate. Young woman going off like that into the wilderness. Never know what sort of people you come up against.”

 “Yes, but she has Captain Huxley for protection, and there are the other soldiers.”   

 “Yes, but who will protect her from Huxley?”

 “Don't be silly. He's not going to try anything on in that situation. It would be far too obvious.”

 “I suppose you're right. But what do you make of it all anyway?”

 His wife sighed deeply before answering thoughtfully.

 “I wish she'd make up her mind and marry him. He's a good man, and they would be good for each other. I think they could have a fine future here or anywhere they chose to go. At some stage you have to stop mourning and get on with life. I think it's about time. What do you think, Great Judge of Character?”

 “I don't know. My clerk – Bill – he said some things which were a bit unsettling. Didn't think he was up to all that much in India, or some such, can't quite remember.”

 “Don't think Bill's up to much in Australia if you ask me. I wouldn't take too much notice of him. He's a little man , and they like nothing better than to bring down bigger men. No, I say she's probably wise to do this trip and hopefully get the lad out of her system. Then she can get on with her life. Maybe she'll come back and help out with Master Marcus.”

 “Yes, dear. I'd like that too.”  

 

    

IN CAMP

The final approach to the grave area could not be made with horses, and a comfortable camp was made as a base. It was a pleasure to watch experienced soldiers construct their shelters and amenities in the middle of the wilderness. Tent bases were levelled, with rain trenches round their perimeter. A fire was set up with small stone rims and a plentiful supply of fuel, and wash basins stood close by  their toilet trenches, with little hills of loose sandy soil set aside for waste burial, her some little distance away for privacy. It was like a miniature town, and was a cheerful rejoinder to the vast and lonely character of the Australian bush.

 

 Again they ate well, and again there was pleasant company round the fire. As afternoon gave way to dusk, the mosquitos took over from the flies on guard duty. The fire smoke helped quell their ardour. She heard that the natives covered their skin with mud to frustrate the thirsty mosquitos, and she marvelled at man's ingenuity. The soldiers told stories, sang songs and played cards to pass the time, and she found their simple company amusing, while Huxley didn't mind at all. She felt that this lack of jealousy was a very good sign, and noted the men's obvious like and respect for him. In the morning, she told herself, she would be in a position to know more.

 

For the first time on this journey, her sleep was not restful. She tossed and turned all night, and was sure she had not drifted off even once. But she also knew that she had many dreams, dreams where she was a child again, keeping out of the way at Sandringham Hall, then she was a young woman governess, but now in charge of the Hall. But her servants were all convicts with broken teeth and leering expressions. What was the point of ruling such a roost?  

 

In the morning she felt dreadful. The air was heavy with electricity, and she could feel the tension amongst the other members of the party, including the horses. Huxley alone seemed calm and unperturbed. She was grateful for his equanimity, but felt all the more awkward. This very morning, when all her energies were concentrated on Marcus, she felt, and, she was sure, looked her worst. She felt bad-tempered, and lacked the energy to fight it. She didn't wish to talk or to have to make an effort.

 

 She freshened up to what she hoped was an adequate degree, and prepared to set off with Huxley.

 

 “Aren't you coming?” she asked abruptly, as she saw that Huxley had made no preparation.

 

 “I feel that you might want to be alone with your thoughts, in this place.”

 She felt ashamed at her churlish manner, and for once reflected on the trouble Huxley had always put himself to on her behalf. But she merely said

 “If that's how you feel.”

 “It is” he answered equably, making her feel even more ungrateful.

 He turned to his subordinate who had been waiting nearby, saying only

 “Escort the lady to the place we discussed. Use the whistle if there's any sign of trouble. I shouldn't think we'd have any.”

 

She still didn't feel like talking, least of all to a junior soldier. They both travelled light, and she had to hitch her skirt clumsily. She wished to god that she could simply wear trousers like the men. How much easier life would be. She turned instinctively from time to time to check her bearings in relation to the peak behind the camp they had just left. It was a considerable walk down into a valley and along its flank. Her soldier guide slowed gradually for no discernible reason, and she wondered if they were approaching the place.

 

They were. The terrain flattened out here. It was the sort of place the aborigines might have used for thousands of years, no trees, just low grass in a clearing roughly circular. On the far side was some disturbed earth, and there were scraps of paper and cloth here and there, not much, but signs that someone had been here. And nearly two years ago, she reflected.

 

 She knew what the mounds of earth must be, and approached them in fear and trepidation. They were neater than she had expected. How odd! She went closer to inspect the first one, and her guard courteously stepped back several paces. There was a little pile of stones. They were mostly crumbly sandstone and almost fell apart in her hand, they were so dry. Some of the pile had collapsed in rain showers, and had turned back into sand. She raked gently with her fingers through the mixture, and felt a dry rustling – a piece of paper!

 

She read a name. It was the briefest dedication, merely “Here lies Joseph Patten, Private soldier 59th Regiment”. She paused a moment, trying to imagine a man she'd never met or heard of, but whose fate had been so inextricably linked with that of Marcus.  She moved on to the next grave, her stomach knotted, and she feeling sicker by the minute.

 

The stones were mixed with a handful of quartz pebbles on the second grave, and again there was the piece of paper. And in that grave lay Kenneth McNair, corporal of the 59th.

Her steps were truly leaden as she approached the third grave. There was a bit more care taken with this grave, and she felt it could only denote the grave of someone of higher rank. Sick at heart and wretched in spirit, she sifted through a larger pile of rocks and sand for the dedication she had been looking for, but did not want to find.     

THE INCIDENT

 

As Marcus closed on the convict gunman, he saw the barrel swing up, and he saw his last moment before him. As he braced for the impact that would take his head off, something crashed in from the side, onto the barrel. Then he was hit, as if by lightning, and he knew no more.

 

He thought he was in Purgatory. He knew he wasn't in Heaven. Maybe this was Hell. There were voices and shapes. There was heat and cold. There was water and there was raging thirst. Sometimes he heard English. Sometimes there was another tongue. He travelled in spirit, and wondered when he would find his home. After some time, he didn't know where his home was, nor did he know who he was.

He could sometimes feel a swaying movement as if he were aboard a ship. He opened his eyes, and saw trees, sky, birds. But he didn't know what to call them. He opened his eyes again and saw different trees, fires and kangaroos.

 

He tried to think who he was and how he had got here, but it was beyond him.  He was hungry, he knew that. Someone gave him a scrap of meat on a bone. It was painful to swallow and his lips felt like old, cracked leather. Water came in a flask or a bottle or a calabash, but he didn't know the names for any of them or what it should come in. His world was one in which food and water were his objectives. Then he tried to stand, and couldn't. Two dark-skinned men supported him and got him to his feet. They spoke fast but he did not understand a word, and when he wanted to say something to them, nothing came. He was puzzled, but his world was a very small one, and he held out his hand for more food. They gave it to him, and watched with broad smiles as he ate. He looked with a dull interest at the large white teeth they showed so easily. They laughed a lot, and somehow this reassured him.

 

 In the days and weeks that followed, he grew stronger in body, and began to understand some of what they were saying. He learned to use a spear and a boomerang and he felt relieved at being able to communicate a little.

 

 He didn't think about Antonia. He didn't think about the Army. His former life was a closed book of which he was not aware. His life was dedicated to the pursuit of possum, bandicoot and kangaroo. He moved slowly in the rhythm of the dance and droned with the men around the campfire, guessing words and actions, and feeling a little slow. He didn't reflect on this, but just accepted it as if it had always been his lot in life. From time to time some of his friends would talk to him earnestly, but he didn't understand the words and concepts if they were not about the necessities of life. He felt happiest hunting and walking.

 

He was getting better at tracking too. He was not as good as they were, but he could see what he should be looking for. He saw that every man left his sign in the dirt. You could tell this one by his bouncy walk, and that one by the limp he'd got after being speared. He learned, too, to walk quietly. His friends were appalled at his clumsiness at first, and spared no pains in making him reach a standard of control that was acceptable. He began to take pride in these achievements and relished their praise. They seemed to call him a name that no-one else had – “white owl”. But this had no significance for him, nor did he realise that he was in any way different from them.

 

 The weeks turned into months and the months into a year. He had become more acute, and a good hunter. He was not aware of being popular, but felt a certain satisfaction in his achievements. He didn't know when it happened, but there came a time when his attention was arrested by a noise. It was a noise like thunder, but it was not thunder. He asked what it was, but no-one wanted to talk about it, but merely avoided the question, and subsequently uprooted and moved off further into the bush, away from the homeland, and away from their own spirits – a dangerous move.

 

 But the noise intrigued him, and when their hunting route brouught them back closer to the same area, he decided to investigate. The noise was frightening, but only occurred now and then. Other noises could be heard, like stones hitting stone. And surely those were men's voices, but what were they saying? It sounded strange and foreign. From the depths of the bush, a pair of blue English eyes goggled at the strange scene ahead. It was the strangest tribe he had ever seen. They all looked so different from each other. Immediately, his gaze was fixed on some very important men. They carried a spear, but it was not a spear. Was it a club? Yes, it seemed to be club, but they held it by the wrong end.

 

 And their cloaks were magnificent. Bright red in colour, he could not imagine what animal or bird they had come from. Their head-dress too, was magnificent, but all was tight-fitting and hard in outline. They moved stiffly, like dancers in a slow corroboree. Most of these people were dressed in drab cloaks and moved slowly, performing various actions. They had removed trees, and were burning the stumps. They were breaking the very rocks with clubs. In front of them was bush, but behind them was a ribbon of dead country looking like a giant path, but without any grass tree or twig upon it. It was like the path down to the waterhole, trodden flat and dead from the passing of so many animals.  

 

Some of the drab men moved freely, but others dragged heavy weights somehow attached to their ankles, and he wondered at the manner of this encumbrance. He watched as if in a dream. It all looked so alien, and so familiar, a dream of long ago, only vaguely remembered, or a scent, an aroma caught on the breeze, never to be caught again. He tried to think about it as he returned to his tribe, but couldn't begin to focus his thoughts. His tribal brothers, once again, did not want to know about it. It seemed that they considered only evil could come from it all.

He took to spying on the strange tribe, spending many hours away from his hunting duties. He knew it was not appreciated, but he felt that it had some meaning for him. He saw how the thunder happened, as the drab tribesmen prepared a charm to place under hard rocks. Having placed the charm, they retreated and hid, whereupon there was a great noise and smoke, as if the rock was struck by lightning. Then pieces of rock tore into the bush, shredding trees, and raining down from the sky. Then the men would emerge and clear away what was left of the rock. Thus, he could see, the dead path would continue into the land of their neighbours.

 

 From time to time, the red-cloaked ones would arrive riding an enormous beast. These must be important warriors. The beast had a head like a kangaroo, but ran like a dingo. Sometimes a group of even larger ones arrived, pulling behind them a container which rolled along the path. He could see that this could not walk in the bush, but needed its path. He was endlessly fascinated, watching these creatures work and their animals carrying people and food and much wood. This was a momentous enterprise, he felt, but what did it all mean?

 

 One day, returning from his road-side vigil, he chanced upon a clearing. It was familiar, and he searched it for its story. There were three small mounds. He could feel the death in them. These were not the places of people who had been sung away properly. They gave off a bad feeling. But again, he was fascinated, in the same way that he was fascinated by the people making the big path.

 

 Each mound had a small hill of sand, which had been disturbed recently. In the sand was a leaf, a strange white leaf with marks upon it. It meant nothing to him. He went to the third one, where there was a similar leaf showing through the stones. He looked at this leaf, and some of the marks arrested his eye. He looked at the marks and they spoke to him. He knew what they said, and he repeated the sound it made.

 

He said

 

 “Marcus Oldham.”

 He liked the sound of it and said it again.

 “Marcus Oldham.”

 He repeated it over and over, without ever knowing its significance. The other marks, however, meant nothing to him. He returned to camp, and spoke the words to his tribesmen. He resolved to return to that place and to see if it spoke to him further.

 

 

  

SEEKING THE ANSWER

 

Hands trembling, she brushed aside the stones of the third grave for the paper she knew she'd find. Snatching it up, she held it for a moment, eyes closed and looking up to the heavens. Her sentry slyly observed her from a lidded gaze apparently directed at the forest, and he feared for her sanity. He vaguely understood the nature of her search, and would have preferred to be elsewhere, rather than to have to look after a distraught woman. What a shame for one such as she to be pining for a dead man.

 

Antonia looked fearfully at the paper, finding it hard to focus because her eyes were wet. There it was! The words jumped out at her...here lies Marcus Oldham...and it may as well have shouted at her. Hope extinguished, she subsided in grief by the grave, and sat numbly for many minutes. Becoming aware again of her escort, she gathered herself, as composed as she could be, for the walk back. She spoke not a word, but merely thought what a stupid miserable place it was to pass from this world into the next.

 

 Huxley was attentive and solicitous, without intruding or questioning. Already, he began to make preparations for the return to Sydney. They could manage only a short journey in what was left of the day, and Antonia didn't feel like rushing off. When her escort, seeing that she was beginning to talk, and had passed the crisis point, joined her in small talk, he remarked

 

“Mr. Huxley seems anxious to be off doesn't he?”

 

An innocuous enough remark, but one which brought back her evil temper of the previous day. He did indeed, she thought, and why the rush? Everything had been done so quickly, and now that she thought back, it was all like that. The gatekeeper at Parramatta was dealt with by Henry, the chat on the road was minimal and the group itself was as small and private as could be managed. She had had to attend the grave alone, with a soldier of lower rank and now she was expected to flee the scene. Well, she didn't want to, and that was that. Why? she asked herself. And her only answer was, because. But that wouldn't satisfy others.

 

 Huxley was furious when she told him. He said little but his face reddened, and a white whorl stood out on the crimson of his cheek.

 

She had come so far to solve the mystery of Marcus. And she didn't feel any happier. Henry wanted her to return post-haste to Sydney, but she felt it was an indecent rush, and wanted to stay a bit longer. In her heart she knew it was just because she needed time to absorb the blow. But she wasn't going to tell Henry that.

 

 “I have matters to attend to” argued Henry.

 “Then attend to them” snapped Antonia.

 

Henry Huxley drew himself up, then thought better of it.

 “What exactly is it you want?”

 

He was good at making her feel guilty, but he was having none of it. On the other hand she felt she needed a good reason to stay.

 

“That place is so lonely, so untidy. It would be disrespectful to leave it like that. I want to go back, to lay some more stones, to tidy the edges and write a proper dedication. Then I would be able to leave it all behind me.”

 “Yes, I can understand what you mean. When do you want to do it?”

 “In the morning.”

 “Not now?”

 “No, I've not been back long, and besides, I want to prepare some things.”

 

Now that she had stated her plan, it gave her something to work on. Even lashing small staves into a simple cross, and carving a dedication filled in with ink occupied her for some hours. She meant to do what she said, and it would buy her just a little more time with the mortal remains of Marcus.

 

 It started to rain in the night, just  gently, and the air smelled sweet in the morning. She had to watch her footing on the moist grass where it managed to sprout in the sand, but arrived back at the gravesite early the next day. Huxley had again forborne to accompany her from delicacy of feeling, and again sent his man to escort Antonia. She had brought the small spade used for establishing the camp site, as a kind of gardening tool. The air was heavy with impending rain, and physical labour soon brought up a sweat, and her breathing soon  became jerky and stertorous. Without a word, her escorting soldier took over, continuing the clean straight line she was cutting as a perimeter.

 

 She reclined gratefully on the grass, chatting brightly to him as an encouragement. He responded well, enjoying her company while not finding the work irksome. Presently, that task was done, by which time she had begun to collect the more attractive and rounded pebbles and stones to place. The plan was to draw the sand all along the perimeter to discourage grass growth, and to further cover the sand with a neat layer of stones, marking out the border in a neat and positive fashion. Having gone this far, she thought she would weed out the growth she saw starting to sprout in the centre of the plot. She now thought she would fill the whole area with sand and stones to prevent any weed growth, for a long time at least. Her new friend was eager to please and set to with a will, vigorously turning up earth from the middle of the plot.

 

Encouraged by her friendliness, and forgetful of their  mission, he suddenly called

 

 “Oops! Don't want to dig to deep. Never know what we'll turn up.”

 At this moment, Antonia's demeanour changed, and he noticed it immediately, regretting his careless outburst. She saw it and reassured him.

 

“On second thoughts, I don't think I mind if something grows in the middle. As long as the edges are clear. We've done a good job don't you think?”

 

She made sure she prattled all the way back, but her mind was racing furiously. As they walked, she checked again the trees and paths she was getting to know, and committed them as well as she could to memory. Back by late morning, she noticed that Huxley had taken pains not to be ready for departure.

 

 “A difficult task I am sure Antonia.”

 “Just a necessary one I'm afraid. But there – it's done, and I feel better for it.”

  She could see him visibly relax.   

   

 “It's tiring though, in this heat. It's so warm and damp, most peculiar. I think I am going to need a short sleep, if you don't think that too indulgent.”

 “No, not at all. I'll wake you a little later.”

 

She left him in good humour and retired to her tent. She waited for a while, then slipped away to her side of the camp, the side where her toilet was situated. She lurked there for a moment, then slipped off amongst the trees.

 

  The rain was beginning again, but just in scattered large drops. She hoped it would hold off till her task was done. It was getting late in the afternoon, and the light would be limited. She moved easily through the light scrub, and it was not too long before she approached the clearing alone. It was eerily quiet, with no-one to talk to, and in the heavy atmosphere there was little bird song either. She picked up the scrap of paper which served as a grave marker and put it in her pocket. She set to work quickly, again feeling sick at heart, but knowing what she had to do to put her mind at rest for once and for all. The soil was sandy, but she was not used to heavy work, and progress was slow. She soon realised she couldn't keep up her frenetic pace, and after a brief pause, decided to work steadily. If it was her fate to be discovered, so be it, but she wouldn't concern herself with that possibility for the moment. She set to again, turning the earth and sand aside onto her newly created pebbled verges.

 

 Again she paused for a rest, listening intently as she did so. She heard nothing. But as she listened, she had the strange feeling that she was being watched. She told herself that this was just her over-wrought nerves playing tricks on her. Then she told herself that if she were being watched, there was nothing she could do about it anyway. In this fatalistic mood, she set to work again, almost forgetting, in her concentration, her original purpose.

 

It seemed to take an age, but eventually the little spade met something dull and unyielding, not sand and not stone. She scraped with the blade using it like a hoe, drawing back dirt to expose some blue cloth. Further she scraped, till she came to a glimpse of red. It was cloth, and it was the hem of a jacket. Not long now. She just wanted to get it over with, as quickly as possible. Up higher on the garment scraped the spade, till a sleeve appeared. Again, she followed the contour of the sleeve, right to the cuff and beyond. Buried for nearly two years, there wasn't much to see, but Antonia knew what she was looking for.

 

There were bones and remnants of skin. The outline of a hand was discernible, apparently folded over another hand. The left hand, on the arm she had first uncovered, was on top. It was the one she wanted. She left the grave and walked away, gulping in fresh air and steeling herself for the next part. Taking a deep breath she darted to the grave and knelt down, holding the spade very low on the handle, near the blade. With it she scraped away a bit more dirt. With the handle, she hooked up the cuff of the sleeve, bringing the ghastly, dessicated, bony remnant of a left hand into full view.

 

She blinked and peered. Then she dropped it down, walked away for several more draughts of air and returned. She looked again.

 

 She had been told back in Sydney that if a body were to be discovered after such a long time, there would be nothing that even a mother could recognise. But Antonia had thought back to their pledge to each other back in the old country, and she remembered so clearly how they had exchanged rings. She remembered slipping his over his gnarled finger nail, the one damaged in the childhood climbing accident. It was the left hand, of that she was sure. Here were the nails. From the top, a thumbnail, then one, two, three, four finger nails, all oval and intact. None gnarled. She hoisted the other hand up with the handle as well, just to be sure. Then she inspected the left hand more closely. This was not Marcus. A surge of elation rose in her, but was quickly dampened by the thoughtful “What if they had merely put the wrong names on the graves?” She realised she would have to check the other two. She had that feeling of being watched again, then a shadow fell across her path. She lurched in fright at the wild face in front of her, brown as a coconut. A coconut with two bright piercing eyes.

 

Isaac put his hand out for the spade and immediately commenced work on the second grave. It was not quite such hard work for it was a shallower burial, and when he understood what she was looking for, he undertook to lay out the evidence for her to check. There was no doubt at all in her mind. Marcus had not perished here.

 Now she began to wonder at Isaac'sarrival.

 “But why are you here at all?”

 “You has friends Miss Antonia, what cares about yer. We's come t'look arter y'like.”

 “But why would you think I need looking after?”

 “Cos we knows things you doesn't.”

 “Such as?”

 “Here's where Mr. Oldham bought the land.”

 “Yes, I know.”

 “In partnership  with Mr. Huxley.” He watched for her reaction.

 

 “Oh.”

 

“Huxley had a gent's agreement. He war t'sell to you.”

 

“But the land is so poor.”

 

“Ay, but for them as knows, there's water below.”

 

“Did they know that? Yes, they must have known, they're not fools.”

 'You're right there” said another voice – the voice of Henry Huxley.

 He had obviously been standing there, by the edge of the forest, for some time. He looked grim, dressed in in a dull-coloured cloak which sheltered him from the rain and concealed his military identity. Slung comfortably in the crook of his arm was a menacing-looking musket.

 

 “Is it true Henry?”

 “The land? True enough, yes.”

 

“Where is Marcus?”

 

“Well, that's a mystery to me now. I thought he was safely resting, but you seem to think otherwise.”

 

“He's not here. So where is he?”

 

“He won't be far away. But I shouldn't think he would be in any shape to help.”

 

“We've met before, haven't we?” he demanded, advancing threateningly on Isaac.   

 

 “We has indeed, Peter Penhallurick.”

 

Huxley started, and stared as if at a ghost.

 

 “So that's where you come from. Yes, I remember, always taking too much notice of other people's business. Doesn't do anyone much good in the end. We're going to have to make a few decisions here aren't we?”

 

Isaac at this point started to move. Slowly, and armed only with the swishing riding crop, he advanced on the menacing Huxley, his piercing eyes never wavering. Closer he approached, with Antonia now fearful of the consequences. The crop rose and flicked like an angry snake, faster than Huxley could swing the gun barrel. The pain of the strike loosened Huxley's grip, but he didn't drop it. Jumping back to give himself room he received more painful blows but now had Isaac lined up. As his finger tensed upon the trigger, a figure erupted from the bushes behind them, and a war-club smashed down on Huxley's wrists, dashing the exploding gun from his grasp.

 

 Huxley's footsteps could be heard for some time as he retreated towards camp, his hopes and plans dashed for the moment. In the clearing stood three people, while below them lay the three dead men. Isaac and Antonia were stunned, wondering who their rescuer could be. In the early evening light, Antonia could see that his kangaroo-cloaked figure was strong and manly. His beard was full and his countenance wild. He stared at Antonia until she felt awkward. She didn't know whether to thank him, or what their fate would be. Did he have companions waiting in the bush close by? Still he stared at her, frightening her with his savage sun-burnt face and uncouth manner. He still held the club in his right hand, and in his left hand he grasped an upright spear. Unable to look him in the face, she dropped her gaze to the spear, and there, grasping the primitive weapon, was the strong hand with its, one, two, third fingernail down gnarled and thickened, by an ancient mishap.

 

 She looked again into the man's heavily bearded face, and sought his eyes. There they were, the eyes of another world, the world of English mists and fogs, the grey-blue eyes of a white man. Confused, for he still offered no sign of recognition, she reached for the spear. He released it and she handed it to Isaac. She took his left hand and lifted it to hers. He, too, gazed down at her soft, white hands. She slipped the ring from her finger and placed it above his. He touched the ring, then felt its shape, then he put it over her finger. He repeated the action, then once again. As he did, she felt the rain start again, which she had not been expecting. But it was not rain at all. It was the first of the many tears Marcus Oldham was to shed as his old life began to reappear.

      

 

 

 

 

 

A HASTY RETREAT

 

The men at the campsite didn't know what to make of it as Huxley reappeared. His hand was bleeding and his wrist looked  to be damaged. Silently, he prepared the horses, and loaded as if for a journey. Without a word he leapt into the seat and drove the horses out into the gathering gloom, headed for Sydney. Still awaiting his reappearance they were surprised to find a strange trio emerging from the bush. Antonia looked a wreck, a stout man with blue eyes and a wild man were with her. The native looked confused, trying to make sense of the words Antonia was speaking. The soldiers too were confused, because this man was an unusual native, lighter skinned than many and with a less attenuated figure than they generally showed. He could not take his eyes away from Antonia for long, and when he did, his interest would be arrested by commonplace articles, a pen, brush, a dish perhaps.

 

 “I don't care where Mr. Huxley is” said Antonia.

 

 “I'm staying here till I decide what to do.”

 

“Do you think we should follow him?” asked one of the soldiers.

 

“We can't. He's cut the traces on the other horses. Besides, I wouldn't like to cross him at the moment. He's not our problem. I can't believe it though. Can you?”

 

Antonia spoke as to a child, but was not sure that she was understood. He spoke from time to time, but in an aboriginal tongue they couldn't understand. She motioned in a sign language to say that she would be there in the morning, but again, signs of recognition were not forthcoming. He seemed to be about to speak, and he did. He suddenly reached into Antonia's pocket for the leaf he saw protruding. He pointed to it, and, amongst the words of his graveside identification, found his name, and said

 

 “Marcus Oldham.”

 

She tapped his chest and repeated the words

 

“Marcus Oldham.”

 

She took his hand and placed it over her breast, saying

 

“Antonia Newland.”

 

He repeated the words perfectly.

 

 Then she pointed away from their camp and said

 

“Go home.”

 

The men were shocked, but Isaac understood. This was not the Marcus she had known in England, and if she were to get him back, she would have to be delicate. A preoccupied, light-skinned native walked slowly away that evening.

 

 Morning found him on his haunches, by the fire, waiting. There were more words, and Antonia could sense the re-emergence of identity with every word, every object remembered. He liked to look at her hands as well as her face. He was intrigued too by the mirror they brought him, and he was interested at the smooth skin and pink face of one of the soldiers. He watched the man shaving and expressed a desire to do the same, so a ceremonious affair eventually found a more svelte personage gracing the bush. He liked what he saw in the mirror, and said only

 

“Marcus Oldham.”

 

Other words began to follow, and the look in his eye became more focused by the day. They kept this up for a week, and he spent less time with the tribe and more with Antonia. He could follow most conversations and was re-learning English fast. The soldiers had found emergency traces for the horses, borrowed from a road gang supply cart passing them on the road.

 

 Through this vehicle they sent news of their situation back, and in due course received a request for information concerning Huxley.  

 

The few travellers on the road, soldiers and inn-keepers had all been surprised at the lone figure driving his horses hard on the road back. He had seemed unsociable and self-sufficient. In Sydney, he had ignored those few who saw him in the next couple of days, after which he was not seen at all. He never reported back to the regiment. No-one knew what had happened, but surmised that his unofficial engagement to Miss Antonia Newland may have suffered a setback.

 This was confirmed when the little party eventually arrived back in Sydney. Arriving back at Parramatta, Antonia was able to procure Marcus a red jacket which pleased him greatly. He spoke slowly, but with increasing fluency. For better or for worse, Antonia was determined to marry as soon as possible.

 

 Antonia determined to take matters into her own hands. She immediately set  Marriage proceedings in place, against the protests of Lydia and others. Installed in decent Officer's quarters, Marcus was nursed  by Antonia, and his rehabilitation brought him, by degrees, closer and closer to his old self.

THE ELDERS RE-CONVENE

Although Antonia didn't know it, her Committee of management had re-convened and its members were discussing her future. There was a decided air of satisfaction almost amounting to smugness as Mathers, Harrington and Isaac met, this time having invited Tom along as well.

 

“A toast, gentlemen” called Mathers raising a sherry “to our special enterprise.”

 “To our special enterprise” they responded variously with sherry and tea.

 “A special thanks to Isaac for his efforts” added Mathers.

 

 “I wouldn't have had the guts” he went on.

 “Unfortunately I couldn't get away from my regimental duties” cut in Harrington.

 “Speech” demanded Tom, looking at Isaac.

 The riding crop swung lazily from side to side, and Isaac looked quite at peace with the world. He was about to speak.

 “Job's not done yet” was all he said.

 “What do you mean?” was the chorus, or the gist of it at least.

 “I means, I doesn't see young 'Tonia livin er life out up there, aways from everthin she loves.”

 

Tom was first to agree, closely followed by Mathers then Harrington, but all were agreed.

 “What exactly does she love, then?” asked Harrington. “I thought it was about land.”

 Mathers took over.

 “I don't think so. Land is just a symbol to her. Would you not agree,  gentlemen, that Antonia is an adornment to the colony? Does a lady put her diamonds away for safety, or does she wear them from time to time.”

 “Some ladies just put them away.”

 “You know some strange people Mr. Harrington. What good does a miser's money do? Look at us. We all play our part here, and we agree that Antonia should play hers, here, in Sydney, where she can do some good and be appreciated, not in some god-forsaken pile where she'd be Queen of the convicts.”

 

After a pause he added

 “Is that what you meant Isaac?”

 A nod and a smile was all he received for his trouble.

 “Any ideas, anyone?”

 “I think so” came from Tom.

 And it was a very good idea.

A CUNNING PLAN

 

Gone were the longboats that plied the harbour on their pastoral symphony, but the fleet of wagons that transported them bumping and jolting along the Botany Road was not dissimilar in composition from that earlier group at North Head, but vastly expanded. Tom was again the organiser. Everyone approved, for there would be the best of music, food and entertainment, and not a few were eager to see the white native, the man who had returned from the dead, as they perceived Marcus.

 

Through the swamps and light forest they rode, till they emerged at Little Coogee. Rolling shoulders of green pasturage dotted with grazing sheep swept to the edge of the mighty Pacific Ocean, crashing endlessly on the rocks below. The scent of wild grass was heady, and seabirds swooped and dived along the face of the cliffs. The wagons were drawn up to form a wind break for the musicians, who lost no time in partying, while others walked, sketched, talked, ate and drank and played board games.

 “How strange” said Antonia to Marcus, as they sat on the headland gazing out to the infinite azure of the mighty Pacific, “that this, to me, is Australia.”

 “In what way, strange?” asked Marcus.

 “It's just that Australia is a country known for its strange animals, gum trees, heat. You know what I mean Marcus. You know better than most people. It's my home now. And we have your land. We can make something of it I'm sure, but when I sit here, I just find I would hate to never see the ocean again. I just love this wild place, it does my soul good.”

 

The prospect of moving to Forest Glen was not a pleasing one. After all their trials and tribulations, Antonia suddenly felt the lure of land was not all it had seemed to be. Solomon Wiseman might enjoy it up there, but she was sure it would be many a year before it was fit for civilised company. She would miss Lydia for one. And where Tom was, there would be music and entertainment. There was talk of a new Government House somewhere back in Sydney. Stately villas were springing up along the harbour in greater abundance, and free settlers were changing the character of the colony. She wanted to be with people, life and laughter, not locked away in a battle with the elements that would age her before her time, she was sure.

 

 “Marcus, I'm having second thoughts.”

 He blenched, and she feared for a moment that she might have upset his equilibrium, that she might have somehow tipped him back into the shadowy world from which he had so recently emerged.

 “About marriage?” he managed to grind out through a set jaw.

 She burst out laughing.

 “No. After what I've been through to keep you, you're not going to wriggle out of it like that. No, Marcus. I'm talking about Forest Glen, the bush, land and farming. I'd just...”

 

 And here she stopped as Marcus raised a finger to his lips.

 “I promise we'll talk about it soon” was all he said.

 

The centrepiece of the afternoon was about to unfold. It was the horse race. They had set out from Hyde Park where some horse racing was under way, and they had resolved to carry it on at the picnic. Some modest barriers were set up and a course, of sorts, was prepared. Marcus agreed to ride someone's horse, the owner a nonentity overshadowed by his horse's personality. He was never in the hunt, but by dint of good management and astute choices, had given himself a chance of winning. It meant taking a jump shortcut which, it was plain for all to see, was nigh impossible.

 

Sure enough, the reluctant beast refused the challenge, and Marcus rolled in spectacular fashion from the saddle, to come to rest on a perfectly comfortable patch of grass. Half hoping for something like this, the crowd nevertheless oohed its alarm. Marcus rose, looking dazed, and gazing in a distracted fashion into the wilderness. Antonia flew to his side. What foolishness was this, to jeopardise everything, to risk relapse, to gamble their futures?

 

 As she arrived, he looked completely wild, but was talking. What was he saying?

 

While the rest looked on from a distance, he smiled and said

 

“If I can't win the race, I'll win the acting prize” and he laughed all the more as she pummelled him in her relief and fury.

ON COURSE

 “Is it soon?”

 

“Is what soon?”

 

“You said you'd talk about it soon.”

 

“What?”

 

“Forest Glen, the land, farming.”

 

“Makes me feel tired. Not inspired. You like your friend Tom, don't you?”

 

“Yes. He's good for a party. He's fun.”

 

“Isn't fun frivolous Antonia?”

 

“The more I think about it, the more I think we need frivolity. Look how good

today has been – for everyone.”

 

“Yes,it has. Did you think I was good on that horse?”

 

“Yes, you know you were. Everyone could see it. You looked beautiful.”

 They were on the way back to Sydney, and the sun was getting low. Fruit bats were winging in their thousands to their favourite feeding places, changing guard with the sea birds retreating to their nests and perches.

 

 He reined the horses in and the wagon rolled to a halt.

 

 “See this? Pretty flat, pretty dry. Water nearby, not far from the beach. I'm sure they're thinking of making a new track here. People need to have their frivolity.”

 

“Bread and circuses?”

 “There'll be more and more people coming. More and more land opened up, even if it's not us farming it, and these people will need their entertainment, their frivolity.

 

“But they won't pay for these things.”

 

“Won't they? Tom's doing well with his music.You know how folks chase gold, but look who makes the money. A few diggers and more shopkeepers.”

 

“What do you have in mind?”

 

“Land near Coogee. Rear and train horses mixed with orchards. A carriageworks to go with it. Racehorses, work-horses, pretty ponies for the children. Snappy traps, sturdy drays. Trained and exercised down on the sand.”

 

“Can we afford it?”

 

“Now that everyone know's there's water at Forest Glen, the land there will be more than enough to set us up. It won't be Sandringham Hall, but it will have a lot more life about it.”   

    

 

EVER AFTER

 

In the fullness of time, a fine establishment consolidated itself on the Coogee bluffs. Here Marcus trained horses of select breeding some of which would appear at the new Sandy Course at Randwick. Other handsome horses were sold to those discerning buyers willing to pay for quality and training. The sands of Coogee drummed to the hooves of the Oldham horses year in and year out.

 

The Jacksons had no more children, but enjoyed raising young Marcus in the shadow of his eponymous godfather.

 

 Tom, the flautist, rose in the service of music in the colony, often conducting the Band and any orchestra available. Although he loved Australia, the pull of Europe was strong, and he returned to pursue his playing on the Continent.

 

Harrington saw action in New Zealand and India before returning to England, still unmarried.

 

Mathers moved out of government service, and with his smooth manners and understanding of the the newly developing society, made a good living catering to the new bourgeoisie.

 

  Antonia had her land, her man, and her children, two boys and a girl, true children of the South, free in spirit and generous in nature.

 

She was truly  grateful for her lot, and she said as much to their gamekeeper, timekeeper, trainer and steward. He just smiled and said “Ay” as the riding crop swished speculatively to and fro.

 

Out in the South Seas prowled a sleek schooner. It was a well-organised ship which bespoke power and money to the natives of that area. That was its captain's intention, for his purpose was to persuade, cajole, bully or threaten them into the hard work that whites didn't want to do. Convict labour wouldn't last forever, he could see, and slavery was now on the nose. The captain was a confident leader, liked and respected by his crew, but even they could see that he carried emotional scars from some nameless vicissitude.

 

His name was Joe Jenkins. It wasn't the name he was born with, but he had grown used to alliterative names. And whenever he could, he charted his course through Sydney Town.

 

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