“It is fitting, therefore, that this colony should extend a hero’s welcome to Lieutenant Colonel William De Lancey, late of Her Majesty’s Eleventh Hussars and the elder son of His Honor Justice George and Mrs. De Lancey of Sydney.
“It is understood that Colonel De Lancey, who was awarded brevet rank, has been recommended by Lord George Paget, second in command to the Earl of Cardigan, for the new medal for gallantry, which, at Her Majesty’s express wish, is to be known as the Victoria Cross.
Although this gallant officer was reluctant to discuss the deed which led to Lord Paget’s recommendation, it seems that, despite being himself severely wounded, he risked his life in an, alas, abortive attempt to save his servant from death or capture at the hands of a party of Cossacks.
“The colonel did, however, tell our correspondent that he had intended to sell his commission and return to Australia as a settler, but he was offered command of a Bengal native cavalry regiment by the directors of the Honorable East India Company, which offer he has accepted.
“He and his bride, the former Miss Jennifer Broome-only daughter of Captain Justin Broome, Royal Navy retired, of
Elizabeth Bay, and the late Mrs. Broome-will be taking passage to India following their honeymoon, which, we understand, is being spent in this country.
“A description of their wedding at Sydney’s garrison church was published in our last edition, before the above facts became known to us. But doubtless our readers will forgive us if we conclude this report by quoting from the poem, recently written by Lord Tennyson, the poet laureate, to commemorate the epic charge.”
Edmund paused, an oddly tense expression on his tanned, good-looking face. But his tone, Luke noticed, as he continued his recital, was still resentful.
“Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred …
“Cannon to the right of them, Cannon to the left of them, Cannon in front of them,
Volley’d and thunder’d
…
Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred
-”
His voice broke and he seemed to lose his place, but recovering himself, he went on: “Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die… .
William Stuart Long
“And they did that, by God!” Edmund rose, still with the unfolded newspaper in his hand, and, pacing the room from fireside to window, went on reading the poem seemingly at random. He concluded: “When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made … Noble six hundred!
“Honest to God, Father, what chance did I have when entering the lists with Will De Lancey?”
His father did not answer him. Instead he declared flatly, “Well, I’m not contesting my seat at the election for the new Assembly, and that’s final. I think you owe it to us-to your mother and me, Edmund-to stand in my place. Think about it, boy.” He added, with a faint smile, “You will be in no danger of meeting Jenny and her husband at any of the garden parties or routs in Sydney, if that is what is worrying you. They’ve gone to Marshall Mount, to the Osbornes’. Will told me that one of Henry Osborne’s nephews was a surgeon in the Crimea, to whom he was indebted for his recovery-which, I gather, was for some considerable time in doubt. The poor fellow-the surgeon, that is-contracted cholera afterward and died, and Will, it seems, promised that he would deliver his effects to the family. After which, of course, he and Jenny will be off to Calcutta.”
Edmund said nothing, and an awkward silence fell, which was broken by a loud knock at the door and the entry of the midwife. Luke sprang to his feet.
“Is it over, Mrs. Lee?” he asked
eagerly, praying that it was.
The woman shook her head. “You’ll need to ride to Bathurst for the doctor, Mr. Murphy,”
she told him, tightlipped. “I’m not able to do any more for your wife. The poor young soul is exhausted, and … it’s a breach presentation, you see. It needs the doctor’s skill now.”
Luke’s heart sank. All his earlier fears returned full force to torment him. He bit back the reproaches he had been about to utter and made for the door, but Dickon was before him, indicating that he would go. No one, Luke knew, could match
Dickon’s horsemanship; the big man would cover the intervening distance faster than he himself could, but … nevertheless he hesitated.
“It’s my place to go, Dickon,” he began.
“I … Elizabeth’s my wife, and-was
The midwife put in quickly, “She’s asking for you, Mr. Murphy, and Mrs. Tempest thinks it may calm her if you go up and sit with her for a while.”
“I can see her?” Luke felt Dickon’s strong brown hand close about his in wordless sympathy, and then the big man was gone, the door swinging shut behind his retreating back. Rick Tempest exchanged a few whispered words with the midwife, then turned to Luke.
“I’ll write a note for Dickon
to take with him-you go to her, Luke boy. And tell her-tell her we’re thinking of her.”
Luke waited to hear no more. He ascended the narrow wooden staircase to the upper floor, taking the steps two at a time, sick with apprehension, the elderly midwife following breathlessly at his heels.
“Quietly, Mr. MurphyI” she called after him. “You’ll scare her if you go rushing in hell for leather like that. The poor young thing’s scared enough as it is.”
Luke slackened his pace, cursing himself for a witless fool. He entered his wife’s room on tiptoe, his stomach churning, fearful of what harm her long labor might have wrought. But she lay very calmly in the big bed, her small face flushed and damp with perspiration and her eyes closed. Her mother, seated in a chair beside her, bent forward to wipe the beads of moisture from her daughter’s brow before yielding her place to Luke.
“Elizabeth, my dear,” she said softly.
“He’s here-Luke’s here.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes, and Luke was appalled by the pain he read in them. But she managed a brave little smile and held out a hand to him, the smile momentarily lighting her face into a semblance of pleasure at the sight of him.
“It’s … it’s taking a very long time, Luke. I don’t know why. Mrs. Lee says .
. . she says the doctor will help me when he comes.” Her voice was faint and the smile faded, as a spasm of pain wrung a cry from her. “I …”
Her strong white teeth
William Stuart Long
closed over her lower lip, stilling its trembling and stifling the cry. “I hope it … will be over soon.”
“So do I, my dearest love.” Luke ignored the chair and dropped to his knees beside the bed, clasping her hand in both his own. He loved her so deeply, but-for all he would have given his right arm to help her-there was nothing he could do. “Dickon’s gone for the doctor-he’ll be here soon, Elizabeth.”
He longed to hold her to him, but a warning glance from Katie Tempest banished the thought. Instead he leaned forward to plant a kiss on her cheek, shocked anew to feel how feverishly hot her skin had become.
“I love you, darling,” he told her huskily and, recalling her father’s message, added wretchedly, “We’re all thinking of you comyour pa and Edmund and Dickon, of course.”
But Elizabeth seemed not to hear him. Her heavy lids fell, and from behind him her mother whispered, “Let her sleep, Luke dear. If she can sleep until the doctor gets here, perhaps she will recover her strength.”
“Yes, I-if you say so.” Luke clambered awkwardly to his feet, gently disengaging his hand from hers. For a long moment he stood looking down at her, sick with pity, unable to reconcile the frail little figure on the bed with the lively, happy girl who had been his wife. Elizabeth had always been so strong and full of spirit, he reflected glumly, putting him to shame often by her effortless skill on horseback, her knowledge of the stock, her boundless energy and enthusiasm. And they had wanted a child, but … He drew in his breath sharply. Not at this price, not at this cost to its mother.
“She’ll be all right, won’t she?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Mrs. Tempest, Elizabeth will be all right?”
Katie Tempest led him to the door.
“She will be all right in Dr. Morecombe’s hands, Luke. But it is a-well, a difficult birth, you see. Mrs. Lee’s done her best, she-leave her to us now, Luke. As I said, it will help if Elizabeth can sleep.”
“Yes, I know, I-was Luke choked, unable to give voice to all he wanted to say. “It’s Elizabeth who-who matters. Even if the baby is-was He could not go on, but, with swift understanding, Katie Tempest inclined her white, neatly braided head.
“She matters to me, too, Luke. Try not to worry, my dear
lad.” Before closing the door, she added practically, “It’s suppertime. You should try to eat. Tell my husband to see that you do.”
The door closed softly but firmly behind her.
Left alone, Luke stood leaning against the stair rail, listening tensely for any sound coming from the room he had just left. But there was none. He had wasted so much time, he thought-time that he and Elizabeth might have spent together. They had had only a little over a year together, but he had wasted much longer than that in his futile pursuit of the man, Jasper Morgan, who had murdered his brother Dan. He had followed Morgan’s trail from the Turon River to the Victoria goldfields, obsessed with the longing for revenge. The hunt had ended at the Eureka Stockade at Ballarat, and Morgan had met his end there, it was true, but not at
his
hands. A stranger had fired the shot that killed him, while he himself … Luke felt bile rise in his throat. He himself had kept his lovely Elizabeth waiting, and only on his belated return to Pengallon had he claimed her as his wife. He-
“Luke!” It was Edmund’s voice, and his brother-in-law came up the staircase to his side. “The meal’s ready. Father says you’re to join us.”
“Yes, all right.” Numbly Luke followed him to the dining room, lamplit now, as the darkness closed in. “The doctor-Dickon’s not back yet?”
“No.” Rick Tempest’s tone was gruff.
He plied his carving knife with the skill of long practice, deftly cutting slices from the leg of lamb on the table in front of him. “Even Dickon couldn’t make it this fast, and Morecombe will come in his trap. They’ll be another hour at least.” He held out a piled plate.
“How is Elizabeth?”
Luke took the plate, scarcely conscious of what he did. He bit back a sigh. “I
don’t know, sir. She seemed-oh, God, poor little girl, she seemed very tired. Mrs. Tempest said she would sleep until Dr. Morecombe arrives. I-I hope she can.”
“Yes, let us hope so.” Rick Tempest finished his carving in silence, and, when he seated himself at the table, he changed the subject with considered deliberation. His talk, addressed mainly to Edmund, was of the recently appointed governor general, Sir
William Stuart Long
William Denison, whose record in
Tasmania-where he had previously filled the office of lieutenant governor-had made him almost universally unpopular.
“He’s a dry sort of fellow,” Rick
Tempest opined thoughtfully. “And he seems to be convinced of his own Tightness, whatever the verdict of the citizens of Tasmania. He opposed the cessation of convict transportation, for one thing . .
. and he waxes very eloquent on the question, given half a chance! I had to listen to him for a solid hour the other day, when he gave me chapter and verse on the reasons why he fell out with the Hobart judiciary. But-was He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“I fancy what really made so many people dislike him was the support he gave to that sadistic swine John Price, the late commandant
of
Norfolk Island. He and Bishop Willson were in a state of open warfare on the subject of Price, but then the British government stepped in and ordered Norfolk Island to be closed down as a penal settlement and the convicts transferred to Port Arthur.”
“Which no doubt pleased the bishop,” Edmund suggested. “And the Catholics of Hobart.”
“Indeed it did,” his father confirmed. “Norfolk is to be handed over to the Pitcairn Islanders when the evacuation is completed. The Pitcairners, as you probably know, are the descendants of the Bounty
mutineers, who fled there from Tahiti. Worthy folk, I am given to understand, despite their origins, whose refuge has become too small for them.” He rose, gesturing to the sideboard. “More lamb? What about you, Luke?”
Luke shook his head. The food he had attempted to eat had come near to choking him, and it took all his composure to remain at the table while both Edmund and his father took second helpings. But he restrained himself, and Rick went on, “However, Governor Denison had the last word where Price was concerned. No sooner was his Norfolk Island appointment terminated than Denison gave him the post of inspector general of penal establishments in Victoria. With the connivance”- Rick’s tone was faintly sarcastic-“of the acting governor, Colonel Edward Macarthur.” He pushed his plate away and, in an attempt to draw Luke into the conversation, went on, “You’ve heard of his father, John Macarthur, haven’t you, Luke?”
Luke attempted to collect his scattered thoughts, aware that his father-in-law was trying to distract him from the anxiety that, on Elizabeth’s account, kept him in silent torment.
“Yes,” he admitted uncertainly. “He was an officer in the old New South Wales Corps, wasn’t he, and led them in a
rebellion against Governor Bligh?”
Edmund gave
vent to
an amused laugh. “Well, that’s putting it in a nutshell, Luke old son! Apart from leading the Rum Corps’ rebellion, Macarthur
introduced purebred merinos into the colony-the first man with the wit and forethought to visualize the benefit that would accrue from the venture. At one time he owned more land and more sheep than the rest put together. He …”
But Luke was not listening. He caught the sound of hoofbeats and, thrusting his untouched plate aside, said in a cracked voice he scarcely recognized as his own, “They’re here, sir-Dickon and Dr.
Morecombe.” He was at the window, peering out into the darkness. “Yes, that’s the doctor’s buggy, thank God!” Relief flooded over him, and, without waiting for the other two to join him, he picked up a lamp and went stumbling to the front door. “I’ll let him in.”