The Far Horizon (19 page)

PART FOUR

Chapter Twenty-Eight

It was now over eight months since John McArthur had left England to return to New South Wales; and Lord Bathurst was still being inundated with letters from the colony’s Exclusive faction who continued to dip their pens in bitter gall to send him their relentless complaints about Governor Macquarie.

Although now it was not only to the Colonial Office they were sending their infuriated letters, but also to influential people of the ruling class as well as to Members of Parliament.

England was almost bankrupt due to the cost of its long war with France; the poor were even poorer, and even the rich were finding it hard to stay rich. The crime rate continued to rise, and threats of a ‘
people’s revolt’
to bring down the government were escalating.

The shadows of the French Revolution still darkened the corridors of Whitehall and Westminster and those Members of Parliament who were constantly being heckled in the House of Commons and threatened by their constituents on the street, were now using the letters from the Exclusives to save themselves from all accusations of incompetence.

In Lachlan Macquarie – the Exclusives had gifted these politicians with the perfect scapegoat to detract attention and blame from themselves. And as the man himself was twelve thousand miles and half the globe away, how could he refute any of it?

Their first public accusation against the Governor of New South Wales was the horrendous
financi
al
cost
to the United Kingdom for his building programmes.

‘It seems…’ one politician declared, ‘that convicts transported to the antipodes no longer find themselves arriving in a
penal
colony
– but in a place to rival
one of Europe's finest cities!
’

They even charged him with being responsible for Britain's rising crime, insisting that many of those soldiers who had limped home from the blood-soaked battlefield of Waterloo, and with no other employment available to them, had consequently and deliberately gone out to commit crime in the hope of being transported to Macquarie's promised land.

One soldier, they claimed, had received his sentence of transportation with a nod of thanks, then left the court singing, ‘
Too-ra-loo-ra-lay, I'm off to Botany Bay.
’

Lords Harrington and Castlereagh and many others would not tolerate hearing a single word against Lachlan Macquarie, whom they had all known personally; nor would the King who, as the Prince of Wales, had also known General Macquarie fairly well in earlier days.

Of all the people least affected by these accusations was Lachlan Macquarie himself, because he knew nothing about them; but Lord Bathurst was in a turmoil. As Colonial Secretary he had to
do
something to quieten those complaining politicians, but what?

Then it came to him – an
inquiry!
He would send someone out to New South Wales to conduct an
Official
Inquiry
into the state of the Colony. That usually kept the bleaters quiet for a time, and would also save him the bother of having to respond to their irritating questions in the House until – ‘the
official Inquiry
is completed.’

Although, Bathurst was a wily enough politician himself to know that he had to cover his own back from all sides. So when giving his final instructions to the man that Whitehall had chosen to carry out the Inquiry, Commissioner John Bigge, Lord Bathurst warned him sternly:

‘Under no circumstances are you to let Governor Macquarie know the real reason for your arrival in New South Wales. Under no circumstances is he to know that this is an
official
inquiry into his governorship on behalf of the Colonial office.’

‘So what
is
the main purpose of my inquiry,’ Bigge asked, ‘underneath the
official
reason of a routine inquiry into how the settlement is progressing?’

‘The main purpose of your inquiry is to find out if New South Wales still fulfils its purpose as a penal colony for felons. Transportation should be a sentence that every felon fears, and therefore it should act as a terrifying deterrent. New South Wales is an outdoor prison camp, a receptacle for offenders, but is Governor Macquarie running it as such? That is what we need to know.’

‘And the emancipists?’

‘The emancipists are a
very
thorny issue,’ Bathurst replied. ‘It’s because of his treatment of the emancipists that we are having this inquiry. Macquarie claims to have selected people for top civic posts according to their
merit
and
ability
– surveyors, architects, doctors – stating that many of the free settlers do not possess the knowledge or ability needed for such posts, so I shall look forward to your own unbiased view on that, Mr Bigge.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

*

The ‘unbiased’ face that Commissioner John Bigge had shown so artfully to Lord Bathurst was a false face. He had no intention of supporting any Governor who was too soft on the lower classes of humanity.

And Bathurst knew that. How could he not know it? John Bigge had been chosen for this commission due to his background as a law graduate from Christ Church, Oxford – as was Henry Goulburn – undersecretary to Bathurst. That was his first step inside the door. The second was his colonial experience in the West Indies – and a man reputed to have been ruthlessly tough on colonial slaves was unlikely to be soft on convicts or ex-convicts. Lord Bathurst was sure of that.

At the same time, in the opinion of John Bigge, Lord Bathurst was every bit as deceitful as his political masters, but they were paying him a fat yearly salary to carry out this inquiry – much more than the yearly salary they were paying Governor Macquarie to rule the colony. So, adding all these things together, John Bigge was in no doubt about the report the Colonial Office wanted him to bring back to them from New South Wales.

Not that John Bigge would find it too difficult to do their bidding. Having already read through some of the governor’s dispatches and documents about New South Wales, John Bigge concluded that his sympathies lay solely with the free settlers, and not – most certainly not – with Governor Macquarie.

Now 39 years old, John Thomas Bigge came from a Whiggish family in Northumberland – a family that aspired to be as gentrified as the true Tory aristocrats of that northern county, while looking down on the lower order of the inhabitants – and in that respect and with those social pretensions, John Bigge had much in common with the Exclusives in New South Wales.

A bachelor of pernickety tastes and fastidious manners, of average height and light build, his face had a softness in its features that did not support his strong, prominent nose.

It was a face that was known well to the people in the plantation colony of Trinidad where he had previously served as Chief Justice for five years, and where armies of black slaves toiled for their white masters in producing one-third of the British Empire’s sugar, as well as earning enormous profits for the absentee British landlords of huge estates which were run by overseers and their henchmen who were experts in the use of the whip, the dogs, and the cage.

At the time John Bigge had been Chief Justice there, Trinidad had been, and still was, a society of severe punishment and exploitation of over 350,000 slaves, a society in which John Bigge had lived for five years as a practitioner of justice, and served out that justice with such distinction he received a commendation from the governor.

And this was the man considered the most suitable to lead an official inquiry into Lachlan Macquarie’s ‘
paternal’
governorship of a convict colony in New South Wales.

*

In Australia, coincidentally, and blissfully ignorant of what lay ahead, Lachlan Macquarie was busy overseeing the construction of a new town he was building, and which he had already officially named
Wilberforce
– in honour of William Wilberforce who, for years, had been pleading in the British Parliament for the abolition of slavery in all of His Majesty’s dominions.

‘Do you think Wilberforce will succeed?’ George Jarvis asked.

Lachlan nodded. ‘Yes, I think he will, eventually.’

After a pause, George said ruefully, ‘I don’t think he will, no matter how hard he tries. There is too much of it, all over the world, too much slavery.’

Lachlan was in too much of a good mood to disagree, now that he could see the town taking shape.

‘Well, whether he succeeds or not, George, the people of Australia need this new town, and what better or more deserving man to name it in honour of, than a great man like William Wilberforce.’

As they headed back to their military-style white tents near the site of the town, Lachlan added, ‘And it’s not just Wilberforce who is making the fight against slavery, George, he now has a growing force of similar-minded abolitionists supporting him. Men of influence dedicated to their cause. They will succeed in the end, I am certain of it.’

After a long silence, George said quietly, ‘I hope so.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Governor and his party had been away for two weeks, causing Mary Neely to go through her days restless and miserable. Every day without a chance of seeing George Jarvis seemed as long as a year.

Every evening she walked alone through the private gardens at the back of Government House and fed her memories.

Here, on this path, he had spoken to her of the poetry of Khayaam.

And here, he had plucked a red rose and given it to her. All roses had originated in the East, he had told her. All the roses all over the world had descended from the Persian rose.

So many evenings, and so many walks when her love for him had grown stronger and stronger. Maybe it was because he was foreign and different that she always seemed to see him through an enchanted haze. But he was beautiful, so beautiful.

And here, down this path here, just a few nights before he had gone with the governor to Wilberforce, they had strolled side by side in silence for some time, as if talk was unnecessary, as if just being in each other’s company again was more than enough.

But for her, it was no longer enough. The physical need burning inside her had become a constant ache.

And then here, at the end of this path, he had turned to go back … it was deep twilight, but knowing how darkness falls so suddenly in Australia he put his hand on her arm to guide her, and she stopped and stared up into his eyes, her heart bursting, and all she could say shakily was, ‘Oh, George …’

In the silence he did not move nor question her, as if he didn’t need to. She lifted her face up until their lips were just a few inches apart and again she said shakily, ‘Oh, George …’

It was not until he kissed her and his arms closed tightly around her waist that she knew he felt the same love and passion for her that she felt for him, so long unspoken and restrained by both of them.

The brief twilight suddenly vanished into night and it was heaven in the darkness, heaven in this garden of sweet smells and happiness, heaven to feel his lips on her neck and his hands holding her body as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

And he might not have let her go, if a night animal had not rushed past them in the darkness and a bird in a branch some way off had not sent out a piercing squawking screech which seemed to bring George back to his senses and he suddenly moved her away from him, holding her at arm’s length saying seriously, ‘I think we should go back … I think that was Mrs Ovens calling you.’

She half laughed in her disappointment. ‘George, that was a parrot! And you know it was.’

‘Well, it sounded like Mrs Ovens to me,’ he said, and took her hand to lead her out of the heavenly darkness of the garden and back to the lights of the house.

And the following morning he was gone, at the crack of dawn as usual, because Governor Macquarie always liked to start his day early.

She walked in loneliness back through the empty garden to the house, despondency in every line of her figure, as it had been since the day George had left.

In the days that followed her thoughts wandered as she lost herself in wonderful dreams, love being an absorbing passion.

Silent and languid, she carried out her duties with calm efficiency, but seemed so low in energy that Elizabeth looked at her keenly.

‘Mary, is there something on your mind … something that is distracting you?’

Mary looked up, a blushing colour coming in her face, making her look very young and very sweet, and her wonderful golden hair was just beautiful. Oh, how Elizabeth envied that glorious hair.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Are you not well?’

‘I have a slight headache,’ Mary confessed.

‘Would you like to take a short nap?’

‘Oh no, thank you, Ma'am, I would prefer to keep busy.’

For some moments silence reigned, but all the while Elizabeth's eyes remained on Mary's face. She had been a spirited and angry girl when she had first arrived here, angry at the injustice of her transportation, but over time that anger had faded and Mary had changed into a calm and happy girl … and Elizabeth knew why.

Smiling, Elizabeth reached across the table to pat Mary's hand. ‘Never mind, dear, the Governor will be back soon.’

*

‘Now look here, m’girl, you’ve got to stop all this moodiness of yours,’ Mrs Ovens chided. ‘Not a word can anyone get out of you these days, too wrapped up in yourself, and where’s the fun for us in that?’

Mary had entered the kitchen to refill her water glass before going to bed, hoping the kitchen would be empty, allowing her to slip in and out, but Mrs Kelly had come over from her own kitchen and the two cooks were plonked at the table together in preparation for their nightly chat and rum.

‘I’ve been busy,’ Mary replied.

‘Oh, ay-up, hear that, Mrs Kelly? I don’t like your tone, Mary,’ Mrs Ovens remonstrated. ‘Busy? Too busy to talk to me now, eh? Oh, you’re getting airs above your station, girl, all this time upstairs with m’lady has turned your head.’

Mrs Ovens took a quick gulp of her rum – for some reason it was making her very annoyed at life tonight instead of soothing her. Or maybe it was just this damnable heat!

‘And remember, m’ducky, if I was to make complaints to m’lady about you, it wouldn’t be those pretty colourful frocks you’d be wearing every day – it’d be straight back to Mrs Kelly’s kitchen and you back to wearing convict’s yellow, same as all the other girls over there.’

Glass in hand, Mary stared stunned at Mrs Ovens, her face white to her lips.

‘And what would your handsome hero think of you when he saw you in that, eh?’ Mrs Ovens asked crankily. ‘You was already upstairs and wearing one of the dresses m’lady gave you when he first saw you, wasn’t you?’

A second later the glass slipped from Mary’s hand and fell to the floor. Never again could she bear to wear that repulsive convict’s yellow.

‘Handsome hero?’ Mrs Kelly sat forward. ‘What handsome hero? You’ve told me nothing about this, Mrs Ovens! Who is he?’

But Mrs Ovens wasn’t listening to Mrs Kelly, she was staring down at the broken glass on the floor and then up at the tears flowing down Mary’s face.

‘What’s to-do now, Mary, what’s to-do?’ cried Mrs Ovens in alarm. ‘Why’re you crying like that – who’s upset you?’

‘It’s him – that George Jarvis,’ Mrs Kelly butted in, sudden realising. ‘He’s the handsome hero! He’s the one that’s broken Mary’s heart and made her tears flow like a river.’

Mary wiped a hand over the tears on her face. ‘He knows I’m a convict …’

‘Course he knows,’ said Mrs Ovens, ‘same as everyone else knows you’re a convict. That’s why I warned you not to get too attached to him.’

This only made the tears in Mary’s eyes flow even faster. Mrs Ovens jumped to her feet and went over to her. ‘Oh, come on now, m’lovey, come on now … you know I was only teasing about complaining to m’lady and getting you sent back to the kitchen!’

She made Mary sit down on a chair and then lifted her apron and began to gently wipe Mary’s eyes and wet face with it. ‘There now, m’lovey, there now …’

‘And look at the way that George Jarvis treated poor Rachel,’ Mrs Kelly butted in, still in her own world of suspicious thoughts. ‘He treated poor Rachel something disgraceful he did.’

Mary pushed Mrs Ovens hand and apron away – her blue eyes staring at Mrs Kelly in shock.

‘George and Rachel? In what way did he treat Rachel something disgraceful?’

‘By ignoring her completely, as if she wasn’t there, always too busy to even notice her. And I tell you, Mary, it was only due to my own long nights of prayers that Rachel finally fell in love with that soldier from the 73
rd
instead.’

‘What soldier is this?’ Mrs Oven asked eagerly, sniffing a new romance in the air. ‘He’s not an officer is he?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Mrs Kelly tutted. ‘No officer would have anything to do with a convict girl. No, he’s just a soldier, a regular soldier, looking for a girl he can love and leave …’

Mary left them to it, gossiping away, but when she reached her small room and sat on her bed, reality hit her hard, and she was no longer a dreaming girl in love, just a servant, a
convict
servant.

*

Two days later a messenger arrived by horse informing Elizabeth that Governor Macquarie would be returning the following morning.

And with that news Government House immediately came alive and busy. Maids fluttering here and there with dusters, gardeners more brisk in their work in the gardens; Mrs Ovens in a flap in the kitchen making meringues and whipping cream and experimenting with a new sauce supposed to taste delicious with wild duck. Everywhere there were happenings; everyone stirred up with more life in them, because the Governor was coming back.

He came back the next morning. February was the hottest month of summer and the heat of the day was already rising. All the windows were open onto the gardens and the sweet scent of summer roses permeated the air inside the house.

As soon as Lachlan entered the hall, Elizabeth greeted him as if he had been away for years. Standing back a few paces Mary dropped a curtsy to Governor Macquarie. He smiled and spoke to her, as he always did, briefly but friendly.

The rest of his party followed him inside and the hall began to fill with people: Major Antill, James Greenway, John Campbell and a number of officers, … and finally George Jarvis who had been waylaid on the steps by Joseph Bigg and was the last to come into the hall, holding a wooden cage containing a sleepy-eyed parrot with beautiful pink and blue plumage.

‘George – you are incorrigible!’ Elizabeth laughed, looking at the bird.

‘I thought she would make a nice friend for Bappoo,’ George replied. ‘A friend who might appreciate his calls of “
ello darlin”
more than the gardeners do.’

‘But, George, what if she learns to say the same thing back?’ Elizabeth asked worriedly. ‘Did you not think of that? And if the two of them start squawking the same thing to each other all day long then Mr Byrne will certainly find you and probably kill you.’

Laughing, George's eyes turned to Mary, but she looked past him as if he was a stranger, her blue eyes as clear and as blank as the summer sky.