Great Historical Novels (36 page)

There was a chorus of approval.

‘That’s a fine idea, Dickson,’ said Miss Hayter. ‘I could even ask the governor’s wife to put it on the next ship back to London.’

‘Ask her to have it delivered to Mrs Blake,’ said Margaret, ‘she runs the Convict Ship committee. She visited many of us at Millbank.’ Miss Hayter nodded her approval. ‘I know Mrs Blake. We’ll start on it today. It would take our minds off … other things.’

‘I could start on the cross stitch,’ offered Margaret, ‘if we were allowed a lamp or two, Matron.’ The lamp oil was running low so it was now against the rules to light lanterns by daylight, but it may as well be night with the hatch closed.

‘Yes, Dickson, good point. You can’t be expected to stay down here all day in the dark.’

A few women started looked through their patchwork pieces for the pretty scraps they had been saving. Agnes remained sitting with her arms crossed, glowering, and both Georgina and Sarah had returned to their hammocks.

‘So this quilt isn’t for selling?’ Agnes snapped.

‘That’s right,’ Margaret retorted. ‘It’s a
gift
.’

‘Well, that’s a foolish idea if ever I heard one,’ grumbled Agnes. ‘What’s the point in that?’

Miss Hayter said she thought it might do to make a fancy border for the dedication in broderie perse, a type of appliqué made from cutting out a pattern from upholstery chintz and stitching it into place.

‘Has anyone chintz?’ she asked. If anyone had chintz, they were keeping quiet about it. It was expensive cloth and might do nicely, one day, to make into a throw for the back of an armchair, or to pretty up a cushion.

Rhia couldn’t bear for her chintz to be cut up and sewn into a quilt to be sent back to England.

‘We’ll need to think carefully about the design before we start,’ said Miss Hayter.

‘What if it were a medallion design,’ Rhia suggested tentatively, ‘concentric rows.’

Agnes rolled her eyes. ‘Oh shut your trap, Mahoney.’ She frowned. ‘What’s
concentric
anyway?’

‘Stripes in a circle, you fool,’ hissed Nora.

Miss Hayter was nodding. ‘Good, Mahoney. Splendid. If each of you sews one band, then we would have ten strips.’

They passed the time till lunch choosing prints and colours, and whatever was going on above decks was temporarily forgotten. This new quilt was going home. It had meaning.

They agreed that the strips of patchwork would radiate out from the central panel that bore Margaret’s dedication, like a medallion. Two of the strips would be much wider than the others and backed with plain linen and appliquéd with a simple flower motif with each petal sewn from a printed cloth. One of these wider panels would surround the centrepiece and the other would form the outer edge of the quilt.

Rhia took her patchwork and sat beside Margaret at the end of the table. At close quarters, Margaret looked tenser than she seemed at first. She was sewing so quickly that she had almost
stitched an entire letter before Rhia remembered that she had the negative in her apron pocket. She nudged Margaret with her elbow and passed it, beneath the table.

‘By the way,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you for the favour, Margaret, I hoped that you would understand.’

‘What favour. Understand what?’

‘I needed to have some reason for being on deck, so I said I was looking for the infirmary, and that you were ill.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about. I
was
ill. I went to the infirmary just after you left the mess last night.’

If Margaret were already in the infirmary when Rhia encountered Mr Wardell, he would know she had lied.

Margaret bent her head over her stitching and whispered, ‘Albert fetched me from the infirmary, to say I was to be sent below. He was in a state.’ She drew in her breath. ‘Someone’s had the graveyard clay.’

‘What?’

‘
Perished
.’

Rhia stared at her.

Margaret looked back with wide eyes.

‘Who?’ Rhia whispered.

Margaret looked down at her sewing, then she dropped it on the table and put her hand over her eyes.

‘
Who
, Margaret!’

‘It’s your friend,’ she said. ‘Albert found him in his cabin this morning with a knife stuck in his neck.’

Canvas

Michael glanced around him. The small tenancy he’d acquired when Frank croaked it in the brick pit looked different. The letter changed everything.

The young guard who’d dragged Frank away by the boots had rolled his eyes and given an exasperated sigh, as though the poor bastard had died to be obstructive. Michael recalled how he’d clenched his fist, a twitch away from taking a swing. But the boy was only copying his superiors, and the death of a convict was considered an inconvenience. Frank had been five years in the dank coalmines in Newcastle, north of Sydney, before that, so his lungs were like creaking bellows before he went down the brick pit.

Newcastle was on the Hunter, and Michael had written a piece on how Newcastle was originally called Coal Harbour, on account of a rich black seam that was discovered there. An ill-planned (and unsuccessful) Irish rebellion that originated in Castle Hill, near Parramatta, meant that a good many Irish were sent down the coalmines, and the name New Castle stuck. More recently, the riches of the Hunter valley were the cedar trees: the
Governor’s
cedar. The cedar forests were quickly vanishing, from what Michael had heard, in order that all government buildings were panelled, floored and furnished with the stuff. It seemed an unbecoming fate for a tree as majestic and ancient as a cedar – trodden on by men in patent shoe leather.

Frank knew he wasn’t ever going to make it home. He told Michael where he kept the key to this place a few days before he died. It was an attic at the top of the ironmonger’s at the north end of George Street. Luxuries like a single lodging were rare, even amongst the convicts assigned to private service. Most shared digs in the slums in Glebe, on the western reaches of the city. Glebe was a filthy hole – no sewage, no clean water and more bodies to a room than a doss house in the rookeries. It was not the kind of place to make a man mindful of his humanity.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a canvas cot against one wall and a crate for a table at the window. On the crate was a spirit lamp and a pile of pamphlets. Near the window were a few hooks nailed to the bare tongue-and-groove walls. It was all Michael needed or wanted. It had never been home but it was a refuge. He could walk away from here with his belongings in a wheat sack and not look back once.

Michael looked back to the piece of paper in his hand that changed everything. It was still there. It was real. It was a thing of beauty. It bore a crimson stamp that read,
HR Queen Victoria’s
Governor of New South Wales
. His Ticket of Leave. Many considered this slip of paper to represent a transition from slavery to poverty, but Michael had no intention of becoming a lackey to the self-appointed gentry of New South Wales. He was going home and he didn’t even have to work his passage. He had the fifty pounds for his fare, and more besides. All the years of running his one-man press in Maggie’s basement would be paying him in the only currency he valued: freedom.

He smiled as he buttoned his breeches and splashed water on his face from the bucket in the corner. He laced his boots and all the while he thought of Annie. The same sun that was turning its baking glaze from the colonists would be warming the sand at the bottom of his garden at home.

Home.

He walked down George Street as if a tail wind was licking at his heels, coaxing him to trip a jig. He smiled to Dan the draper, who tipped his hat and smiled back.

‘Don’t suppose you know anyone looking for lodgings do you, Mister Kelly? I’ve got a couple of nice clean rooms upstairs if you do. Tuppence a bed a night.’

‘I’m not, Dan. I’m going home. I’ll be sure to put the word out, though.’

‘Going home, eh? Well I’ll be blowed, that’s not something you hear every day. I’ve got some fine merino in. Soft as silk. Should come take a look.’

‘I’ll do that. I’m bound for Dublin and they say there’s more call for wool than linen these days.’

‘You’re a lucky man, Michael Kelly.’

‘Aye.’ Michael’s smile broadened as he continued on his way, enjoying the unfamiliar feeling of being lucky.

Oscar was sitting on the wrong side of the bar with his lunch, a pint of stout, and the usual rabble were lined up either side. Michael felt an unexpected bolt of emotion. He’d miss the company of these hard-drinking dissidents.

‘Afternoon, Mick,’ said Oscar. A chorus of greetings, variously slurred, drowned out Oscar’s Kilkenny lilt.

‘Afternoon, gents. The usual when you’re ready, Oscar.’

Once they’d completed the ritual of remarking on the taste of the brew and someone had blamed the lime, Michael set his jar of stout down on a barrel and packed his pipe.

‘Penny for ’em.’ Will O’Shea had shuffled over to inspect the contents of Michael’s tobacco tin. Michael pushed it towards him and shrugged.

‘Not worth a penny, Will.’

‘Heard from your lad?’

‘Not in a few weeks – should be something from him on the next transport.’

‘Anything goin’ on?’ Will wasn’t much interested in everyday goings on; he was asking after Ireland.

‘Just the usual. Hungry lads up against the weight of the Crown.’

Will shrugged. ‘Been the same for a hundred years. Used to think I could change it too, it’s the fool in me.’

‘If fools are the only men who think it’s worth fighting for, then fools are heroes.’

‘And heroes are fools. So are colonists for that matter. Any man who would build a city without a treasury has to be.’ Even pickled, Will was good for a yarn.

Michael frowned. It was a strange thing to say out of the blue. ‘Now that always gets me. How did anyone trade?’

‘Tobacco, boots, rum, everything was currency, wasn’t it? If you could write a letter or do sums then you could trade. Of course, once the foreign merchants and military started stopping in the harbour, all manner of coinage was in use: ducats, rupees, Spanish dollars, Dutch guilders and so on. It was all taken out of circulation years ago.’ Will’s eyes narrowed for a moment, as though he was trying to decide about something. ‘What a coincidence we should be having this conversation.’ But there were no coincidences with Will, and besides, he was the one doing the talking.

Michael tried not to appear too interested. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Well, I heard a rumour.’ He said no more. It was clear what he was after.

‘Is it worth a pint?’ asked Michael.

‘Oh, aye.’ Will grinned. Once a jar of stout was in front of him and he’d helped himself to more tobacco, he leaned across the barrel and lowered his voice.

‘One of the boys at the Sydney Herald is involved in some …
personal
business, with the wife of the governor’s secretary.’

‘You don’t say?’ Michael took a drag on his smoke, watching Will carefully.

‘Aye. And she told him – under strictest confidence of
course
,’ Will paused to smirk, secrets being only another form of currency.

‘Of course,’ Michael agreed.

‘She told him that the vault at Government House, where they stored the old currency, was busted open. All that foreign silver’s gone.’

‘Is that right? When?’

‘Oh, some time ago.’

Michael nodded slowly. ‘Then there could be some very busy coiners, down the Rocks.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Will agreed.

‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘No reason to.’

‘Well if you find a reason, would you let me know?’ Will agreed that he would, and Michael stood up and drained his stout. He needed to walk.

At the end of George Street the hard glitter of the Pacific stretched out until it hit the wall of the horizon. He was going home, he could afford to be reflective, to be impressed by the achievement of this fledgling city now more than thirty thousand strong. The lattice of streets that traced across the elevated sandstone had once seemed prohibitively foreign, but now the grid was as familiar as the hatched creases on the palm of his hand.

He’d write something about it tonight, in his last pamphlet, about how there was little reminiscent of England or Ireland here, including the promise of reform. The pretensions of class
were cast off like a rotten garment, unfit for clothing an Australian. Three generations could now arguably call themselves Australian, but what did the Originals think of that? It reminded Michael that he hadn’t seen Jarrah in a while.

Jarrah’s people were a different type of prisoner; they were under house arrest. Sydney’s slums leaked filth into their hallowed dirt, which was surely the equivalent of emptying the night soil into St Patrick’s cathedral. This entire continent was the temple of its people, just as Ireland had once been.

5 May 1841

They shut us in the orlop for two days, which means it is three days since Laurence died. Surely he cannot be dead when I can still hear his voice and feel the warmth of his hand? How will Antonia bear it? We are anchored in São Sebastião, Rio, and I must find a way to send a letter. I am waiting for someone to say that it was all a terrible mistake; to receive a note from Laurence.

An extra hammock was hung for me in the mess, which caused a minor riot because Agnes didn’t want to sleep anywhere near me, and Jane wouldn’t swap places with Agnes because then she’d be next to Georgina. And to complicate matters more, no one is brave enough to admit that they didn’t want to be too close to Nora, because her snoring is ear-splitting and probably keeps the pigs and chickens at the other end awake. At breakfast yesterday Agnes threatened Jane with a beating for snoring, even though everyone knew it was Nora. Jane took it out on Georgina, of course. She called her a lardy twit for thinking Australia was off the west coast of Wales. Margaret has been so quiet that it worries me. She worked on her cross-stitch all the time we were below, with her head bent so that no one could see her face. I think she feels more poorly than she will admit. And of course, she knows what happened to Laurence. No one else below does, as far as I know. Miss Hayter must, especially if she is the captain’s sweetheart. I wonder if she shares his bed?