“They do say as one o’ these “ere clipper ships made the passage to Melbourne in just over sixty days,” a black-bearded Cockney observed, to no one in particular. “But they’re Yankee built, seemingly-pity we can’t build the like o”
them over “ere. ain’t it?”
“We can and do,” an elderly man in clerkly garb, standing nearby with his wife and a bevy of small children, hastened to correct him. “This one’s home built, and so’s the
Runnymede
and the
James Baines
comaye, and the
Marco Polo
likewise. They all made runs around seventy days, and the
Marco Polo
held the record for a long while. We started building clippers later than the Yankees, but ‘twas a Scotsman living in Nova Scotia, name of McKay, that first designed them. But he had to build his ships in Boston-I reckon because the British government wouldn’t give him the backing or the money he needed. That’s typical, of course.”
“Too bloomin” true,” the black-bearded man agreed. “But how come as you knows so much about clippers? You a seaman or what?”
His informant smiled wryly. “No,
I’m a shipping clerk-worked in Water Street all my life, for the Black Ball Line and Mr.
Baines till a couple of years ago. Then I went to Pilkington and Wilson, the owners of this ship.” He gestured to the
Spartan.
“Though truth to tell, I always had a notion to go to sea.”
“Well, you’re goin’ now an’ no mistake, ain’t you?” the Cockney suggested. He glanced at his new acquaintance and then, a trifle uncertainly, at the older man’s wife and children.
“B. if you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, with a family like yours I’d have supposed as you’d have thought twice about quittin’ a good job
Wilham Stuart Long
to go gold seekin’. No offense intended,” he added quickly. “It just seems a mite strange to me.”
The shipping clerk sighed. “No offense taken,”
he answered, smiling. “I’m going to better myself .
. . and that doesn’t mean I’m aiming to become a gold digger, sir.”
“You ain’t?”
The little man shook his head emphatically. “No.
I’m going out to work for one of the biggest landowners in the state of New South Wales. A Mr. Henry Osborne of Mount Marshall-a fine gentleman, who went out about … oh, it must be nearly thirty years ago. It’s a long story, but, to cut it short, my father kept an inn in Dungannon, County Tyrone. He did Mr. Osborne a
service all those years ago, and he kept in touch.
When I was taken on by the Black Ball Line, he-Mr. Osborne, that is-entrusted me with filling his shipping orders. And I must have carried out his commissions to the gentleman’s satisfaction, for he offered me employment. I never took up his offer, but-was His smile widened. “We sent our two eldest boys out, and they’ve been urging us to follow them ever since. Such tales as they tell about Mr.
Osborne’s property-his fine house, his cattle and sheep, and his family, too. So one day, the wife and I comwell, we decided that we would take the plunge before we’re too old. You don’t get rich on a clerk’s wages, and we-was He was interrupted by the arrival of a dray, laden with luggage, which was followed a few minutes later by a small procession of carriages.
Bringing up the rear was a barouche, bearing the crest of the Adelphi Hotel on its doors, with a liveried coachman on the box and two porters, in hotel livery, perched on the jump seats.
“The cabin passengers,” the er/while shipping clerk informed his neighbor, who retorted sourly.
“Aye, so I see. Let’s hope they’ll let us on board out o’ this pesky rain when the gentry’s bin disposed of.”
One of the ship’s officers descended the stern gangway to receive the new arrivals with due ceremony, a pair of stewards at his heels, carrying folded umbrellas.
“Don’t mean for
them
to get a duckin’,” the black-bearded young Cockney added, still sour. “Well, when I make me strike at Ballarat, I’ll
hire a couple o’ flunkies to follow me around wiv’ sunshades!” His tone changed and he pursed his lips in a silent whistle as, from the hotel’s barouche, a slim, elegantly dressed young woman descended, gracefully accepting the arm of the ship’s officer, who hastened forward to assist her.
Even from that distance, she was startlingly beautiful. A wisp of a flower-decked bonnet barely concealed a mass of curling dark hair, and, from beneath it, the girl’s small, piquant face, exquisitely oval shaped, was turned in the direction of the waiting line of steerage passengers, clearly reflecting concern. Her voice, raised to question the
Spartan’s
young mate, did not carry to the watchers on the dockside, but its musical quality did, and the bearded Cockney lost the last remnants of his sourness.
“Gawd’s truth!” he exclaimed. “That’s what I call quality-that’s what I call a lady!
She
can have all the ruddy umbrellas she wants, far as I’m concerned. I wonder who the devil she is?”
For once, the knowledgeable shipping clerk could offer him no help, but, overhearing his query, a plump woman with a woolen shawl wrapped tightly about her ample frame supplied the answer. Stepping to his side, she said scornfully, was Tis no use the loikes av you casting sheep’s eyes in dat direction, mister-no use at all. Sure, dat is Lady Kitty Cadogan of Castle
Kilclare-Castle Kilclare in County
Wexford,” she added impatiently, as the Englishman appeared not to understand. “In Oireland!
And I should know, for ain’t I coming from the selfsame place?”
“What
did you say her name was?” He was still puzzled, the bearded lips agape.
Obligingly, the woman repeated it, giving the name four syllables. “Cad-o-gow-an, mister.
C-a-d-o-g-a-not. And her brother will be wid her-the Honorable Patrick Cadogan. He’s her twin brother, so he is, and dey are never apart.
As loike as two peas dey are, the pair av dem. There, see for yourself!” She pointed as a tall, dark-haired young man-as striking in appearance as his sister-descended from the barouche and strolled unhurriedly to join her at the foot of the gangway.
The stout Irishwoman was about to say more when a gasp went up from the waiting crowd as Lady Kitty Cadogan, scorning the umbrella a steward sought to hold over her, came run ning
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William Stuart Long
across the wet dockside toward them. Both small, white-gloved hands outheld, she greeted the now-beaming woman warmly.
“Why, Mary O’Hara, I do declare! Where in the world did you vanish to? I’ve searched Liverpool for you ever since we arrived here. You’ve not forgotten our bargain, have you?”
Thus addressed, Mary O’Hara reddened in embarrassment and dropped a clumsy curtsy.
“No, me lady, indeed I swear I have not. But I was biding wid relations here and-well, one o’ me kin died, God rest his soul, and dere was a wake and-was
Lady Kitty Cadogan cut her short. “Very well, Mary-we’ll let it pass. Suffice it that you are here. Come on now-let us go on board. They are waiting for us, you know, so that these folk can board, and we don’t want to keep them standing in the rain any longer than they must.” The charm of her smile encompassed the rain-drenched line, and many of the glum faces lit up in instinctive response. Lady Kitty put out a hand to aid Mary O’Hara with her cumbersome bundle, but the black-bearded Londoner was before her. Sweeping off his cap, he grabbed the bundle and hefted it onto his shoulder.
“Permit me, ma’am-me lady. You lead on and I’ll follow.”
She thanked him prettily, seemingly deaf to the hissed reproach of the shipping clerk’s wife when he, too, attempted to volunteer his services.
“Keep your place, Benjamin Doakes.
They’ll not let
him
on board ahead of us, you’ll see.”
She proved to be right. One of the Spartan’s
stewards relieved the enterprising young upstart of the woman’s bundle, and, with the officer from the gangway holding an umbrella over her bonneted head, Lady Kitty Cadogan permitted herself to be escorted back to the foot of the gangway, the stout Irishwoman trotting meekly at her heels.
They went on board, vanishing from sight at the entryport. After a brief delay, while the last of the cabin passengers’ baggage was winched up on deck, the drayman turned his horses, and his vehicle lumbered off in the wake of the Adelphi Hotel’s barouche. Then the officer moved to the forward gangway and, with a raised arm and a stentorian bellow, indicated that the steerage passengers’ long wait was at an end. Thankfully the
ragged line surged forward, soaked to the skin but jubilant, humping their rolled blankets and their cooking utensils, their awkward bundles of clothing and their sacks of provisions with cheerful lack of complaint.
They, too, vanished, directed to the dimly lamplit orlop deck in the bowels of the ship and to the tiers of wooden bunks that awaited them, women and children on the starboard side, men to larboard.
Two decks above them, in well-furnished adjoining cabins, Lady Kitty Cadogan and her brother Patrick looked about them with mutual approval.
“If she’s as fast a sailer as they claim she is,” Patrick observed, seating himself on his sister’s cot with a smile, “we’ll not fare badly, Kit. Not badly at all.”
“Better than poor Michael did,” Kitty reminded him, a bitter note in her voice.
“Imagine what it must have been like going out in chains!
And in those days the convict transports took six or seven months to reach Hobart.”
Her brother’s smile faded. “I’ve not forgotten. But-Kit, I’m a mite worried about Mary O’Hara. If she talks-was
“She won’t. She gave us her solemn word, Pat. She’s a good soul and as loyal as they are made-you know she is. Besides,” Kitty spoke with conviction, “she’s coming as my maid, which means that she will have a cabin to herself on the “tween-deck. She will not mix with the others-she’ll not want to.”
“Well, let us hope your faith in her is not misplaced. Because if anyone were to suspect …”
Patrick did not complete his sentence, and Kitty did so for him.
“We might find ourselves in serious trouble. But we’ve always known that, haven’t we? We know we’re taking a risk. But-oh, Pat, English
memories are short, particularly where happenings in Ireland are concerned. They neither remember nor care! And since all else, including the appeal, has failed, what choice is left to us?”
“Not a great deal,” Patrick conceded.
“Damme, I don’t mind risking my neck. I owe it to Michael-that and much more. But it’s you I’m worried about. I wish you hadn’t insisted on coming with me, Kit. I wish you’d go back now. There’s still time, and you-was
William Stuart Long
“We’ve always done everything together,” Kitty returned, her tone calculated to put an end to her brother’s lingering doubts. “The Cadogans stick together, and when it’s a question of a cruel injustice visited on one, the others are in honor bound to use their best endeavors to set matters right. And remember-was She took off the tiny flowered bonnet and tossed her dark head at him in a show of bravado. “I may not be a man, but, faith, I wasn’t known as Madcap Kitty for nothing!
There’s not much you can do that I can’t do as well or better. We-was A knock on the cabin door caused her to break off. “Yes,” she acknowledged.
“Who is it?”
A gray-haired steward entered diffidently.
“Your pardon, sir-m’lady. The master has instructed me to present his compliments and to say that he will be honored if you would both join him in a glass of punch in the saloon, so that he may make your acquaintance, before we cast off.”
“Now?” Patrick questioned.
“If it is convenient, sir.”
Brother and sister exchanged a swift glance, and Patrick inclined his head. “My compliments to Captain Bruce, steward, and be so good as to tell him that her ladyship and I will be pleased to join him.”
The steward departed, and they looked at each other with barely suppressed amusement.
“If he only knew why we are here!” Kitty exclaimed, her merriment suddenly bubbling over.
“It’s amazing what respectability a title confers,” Patrick said dryly. “Well, I suppose we had best make the acquaintance of the master and our fellow passengers, since we shall be seeing rather a lot of them during the next two or three months. Do you intend to put on that absurd bonnet again?”
Kitty shook her head, and her brother put an affectionate arm about her slim shoulders.
“Then come on, little sister, and let us get it over with. It will afford us the opportunity to feign respectability, and I’m sure the practice will serve us in good stead when we disembark in Sydney.”
“I hope it will,” Kitty echoed dubiously, but she assumed a demure expression, belied only by the sparkle in her dark,
ex
pressive eyes, and linked her arm in that of her brother. “If the captain offers us a drink of-what was it?-of punch, we’ll make it a toast to Michael, shall we? A silent toast.”
“That we will,” Patrick asserted. His hand closed about hers, and they left the cabin together.
Luke Murphy reined in his horse and, a hand raised to the brim of his hat to shade his eyes, looked out across the paddock to the cluster of distant buildings that made up the homestead of his father-in-law’s property of Pengallon.
It was, in fact, a small, self-contained village, built up over the years to serve the growing needs of one of the largest sheep and cattle stations in the Macquarie River Valley of New South Wales. The homestead itself had been added to considerably since Rick Tempest had taken possession of the original land grant during General Lachlan Macquarie’s governorship. Now the pleasant, white-painted house consisted of two stories, with wide verandas at front and rear. There were cottages for the laborers and their families, sheep and cattle pens, stables, a large, shingle-roofed shearing shed with pens and sluices surrounding it, and a wool store, a blacksmith’s shop, and a lumberyard adjoining. There was his own cottage-Luke’s gaze went to the familiar stone-and-weatherboard building, half hidden behind its screening gum trees-which, for the past fourteen months, he had shared with his young wife, Elizabeth, Rick Tempest’s only daughter, and … He found himself smiling. Those fourteen months, following his return from the Victoria goldfields, had been the happiest of his life.