Sarah spread her small hands in a gesture of finality. “Benjamin Doakes, thanks be, will relieve me, at long last, of the bookkeeping.
He is trained to it-he worked for the Black Ball and the White Star shipping lines all his adult life, whereas I …” She smiled wryly.
“Well, I had to pick up the rudiments as best I could, Jenny. And with all the land Henry now owns-and the new sheep runs across the range-it’s become too much for me.”
Which was scarcely surprising, Jenny conceded, her admiration for her charming, gray-haired hostess growing. Sarah Osborne had, as a young girl-younger, by several years, than she herself was now-abandoned home and family and friends to follow her husband to an unknown land, just as she was being called upon to follow William, in a few short weeks, to India. And Sarah had not hesitated. She had followed her heart and the man she loved, on a journey that had taken her halfway round the world.
Again, uncannily, as if she had read her guest’s unspoken thoughts, Sarah’s hand closed about hers, and Jenny sensed both understanding and sympathy as the older woman said softly, “Your husband is a fine man-and a brave one, Jenny.
Henry’s nephew, poor young surgeon Alec Osborne-the one whose effects William brought here-wrote to us of the gallantry the Light Cavalry Brigade displayed. And your William has been chosen from amongst those gallant souls to receive the highest award Her Majesty the Queen can bestow … the new medal, the one that is to be known as the Victoria Cross. He is worth any
sacrifice, Jenny.”
William Stuart Long
“Yes,” Jenny agreed, her voice choked.
“I know he is, Mrs. Osborne.”
“And you will not change him, child. He’s not cut out to be a farmer, whatever Henry says. Soldiering is in his blood. Perhaps, in his own good time, he may come to it-he may want to come back to the colony. But I doubt whether that will be for a very long while yet.”
She doubted it, too, Jenny thought resignedly, but she looked back at the beautiful cottage the Doakes family were to occupy and then, her eyes misted, to the tall figure of her husband, riding at Henry Osborne’s side, his handsome dark head thrown back in laughter at some jest his companion had made.
They reached the little township of Dapto half an hour later, and the Osborne cavalcade wound its way along the single main street, to join a procession of other worshipers on foot, on horseback, and in traps or drays like their own, all heading toward the church.
Greetings came from all sides, friendly and respectful-the Osbornes, Jenny swiftly realized, were universally popular and known to everyone.
A gray-bearded stockman, his face deeply tanned and his smile warm, came to meet the dray, gallantly sweeping off his wide-brimmed hat as he assisted Sarah Osborne to alight.
“This is Noah Wrightson,” Sarah said, when Jenny joined her. “He was with Henry when he drove the first mob of cattle from here to Adelaide in-when was it, Noah? Thirty-nine?”
The old man’s smile widened. “Aye, ‘twas in the December o’ thirty-nine we set off,” he confirmed. “Eight of us, there was, ma’am—me an’ Mr. Henry, three convict lads, an’
three abos. An’ we hadn’t no maps nor roads to follow in them days. Took us four months, it did, but we got “em to Adelaide.
Over eight hundred head o” cattle
an’ a flock o’ nigh on the same number o’
fat wethers, an’ they all was in good condition when we drove “em into the township!”
“And he’s never tired of boasting about it, are you, Noah?” Sarah accused indulgently.
“Course not, Mrs. Osborne, ma’am,” the old stockman answered, unabashed. “No more’n Mr. Henry, when there’s new folk to listen.” He eyed Jenny curiously, and then, as William finished tethering his horse and came striding over to them, his faded blue eyes lit up. “Ain’t that the gentleman they was writin” about in the Sydney newspapers? Him that rode in the cavalry charge in the Crimea an’ lost his arm?”
Sarah Osborne performed the introductions with easy grace, and, when the old man shambled off to greet her husband, she said, lowering her voice, “He’s a great character, old Noah. Like Henry, that daring drive to South Australia was the foundation of his fortune, and at one time he owned as much land as we did. Sad to say, however, he has only a few acres left now… . Sunday is the only day when the poor old fellow is sober. Well, I can hear the organ. We had better go in. Girls-was She turned to call to the two pretty daughters who had accompanied them in the dray, both of whom were chatting to friends. “It’s time we went in … your aunt Marshall is playing the organ voluntary, and she’s always upset if we’re late for it. Put Benjy’s hat straight, would you please, Judy dear? And make sure he has his collection money.”
“I do have it, Mama,” her youngest son protested indignantly, displaying a bright new penny in his small, grubby paw. “And why do I have to wear my hat when I only have to take it off in the church?”
“Because it is seemly,” Sarah told him. “Your papa is wearing his, isn’t he? And so is Colonel De Lancey. Be a good boy and do as I bid you.”
With her family mustered into an orderly procession, servants bringing up the rear, Sarah Osborne took her husband’s arm and led the way into the small, stone-built church. It was cool and dark inside, the wooden pews and rush-matted upright chairs swiftly filling, and, directed to a seat at William’s side, Jenny smiled at him before dropping to her knees in brief and silent prayer.
The organist-a thin, gray-haired woman in sober black, evidently a relative of
Sarah’s-turned in her seat to acknowledge the arrival of the Osborne party with a brisk, approving nod and then launched into a spirited rendering of the Old Hundredth, which brought the congregation to their feet.
The rector of Dapto, also black-robed and gray-haired, made his entrance as the organ recital came to an end and, in a pleasantly accented Scottish voice, began the familiar service of
William Stuart Long
Morning Prayer with an exhortation to the assembled worshipers to seek forgiveness for their sins.
“Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness and that we should not dissemble nor cloak them before the face of Almighty God our Heavenly Father … but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent, and obedient heart, to the end that we may obtain forgiveness of the same by His infinite goodness and mercy. …”
My heart is obedient,
Jenny thought.
For all I dread the prospect of leaving Australia and going to India, I will go, because that is what William my husband asks of me. Yet I am afraid, and with each day that passes I am more reluctant and my fears grow.
She sank again to her knees, very conscious of William’s tall, imposing person at her side, as the rector declaimed, “We have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against Thy holy laws . .
. and there is no health in us. But Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us miserable offenders. …”
Jenny whispered the words after him, her eyes tightly closed. “Spare Thou them, O God, which confess their faults. Restore Thou them that are penitent. According to Thy promises declared unto mankind in Christ Jesu our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for His sake, that we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the glory of Thy holy name… . And give me the courage, O dear Lord,” she added earnestly, “to say, as Ruth said, “Whither thou goest, I will go” and to mean it, with all my heart.”
Throughout the service, Jenny found herself silently repeating her prayer for courage, and the rector’s lengthy sermon fell, so far as she was concerned, on deaf ears; but the act of prayer, performed in such surroundings, gave her consolation and fresh hope. She joined, happily enough, in the Osborne family’s belated luncheon, and later, after riding round the sheep paddocks with William and their host, took part in a lively game of charades that the younger members of the family enthusiastically organized following dinner.
That night, as she lay in the sanctuary of William’s embrace, after his tender lovemaking, she began to believe that her prayer had been answered, since her fears for the future seemed, at last, to have faded. But then, to her bitter dismay, with sleep came a nightmare so hideous that she wakened, sobbing uncontrollably, her body drenched in perspiration. Like the dream she had had when William had been in the Crimea, on the eve of his regiment’s fatal charge on the Russian guns, every detail was so clear that she felt she had been present in reality, and it took all the resolution she possessed to refrain from waking her sleeping husband in order to describe the vision that still filled both mind and senses.
Jenny drew a long, shuddering breath and somehow managed to stifle her sobs, as William slept on, undisturbed and seemingly as deaf as she had been to the rector of Dapto’s sermon earlier that day.
In the dream, she had been crouching beneath the shade of a great, gnarled tree-of a species she had never seen before-and there had been a wide, fast-flowing river some distance below her. Boats, their brown lateen sails in flames, were aground on what had appeared to be a sandbar. The boats, rough, cumbersome wooden craft, were filled with dead and wounded people comsoldiers in red coats, and women and children, too crying their agony aloud, as volleys of musketry and the boom of cannon rent the sultry air.
She had huddled, petrified, beneath the tree, Jenny recalled, stunned and powerless to move, as the ghastly slaughter went on and screams and cries of the wounded in the boats gradually faded into silence. There were men all about her hiding place-men with dark faces, some in blue-and-scarlet uniforms, others in
flowing white garments, with turbans on their heads, and … as the firing ceased, she had watched them run to the river’s edge and wade across to the sandbank, to complete the killing at close quarters with spears and sabers or, in some cases, with their bare brown hands.
Then the terrible scene had vanished, cloaked by darkness, but … just before the nightmare ended and she had awakened, she had seen the dawning of a new day, and-almost more horrifying than what had gone before-heralded by the
William Stuart Long
loud beat of wings, a vast flock of obscene, bald-headed birds had descended from a bloodred sky to waddle, squawking and quarreling, on the boats with their lifeless cargoes.
Surely, Jenny thought, seeking desperately for consolation as she relived her nightmare-surely such horror was not possible? India, William had told her repeatedly, was at peace, a well-governed, orderly country now that the Sikhs had accepted British domination by right of military conquest. Warriors from the Punjab now served in the East India Company’s armies. There were strong garrisons of British troops throughout all three presidencies, and with them native regiments, both Moslem and Hindu, of long and proven loyalty, devoted to the British officers who commanded them.
“They fought with us in the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns, Jenny,” her husband had said. “They fought and died with us, just as so many did in Clive’s day. And whilst some of the native princes may not like yielding up their autocratic powers, they have been well compensated. And their people have every reason to be grateful, because they are spared from tyranny and misrule and now enjoy the Company’s protection.”
William must know, Jenny told herself. All his adult life, from the age of sixteen, had been spent in India, in the Company’s service. His opinion was based on firsthand experience, and he was nobody’s fool. Her own baseless, panic fears had conjured up the nightmare, and … despite the similar dream she had had two years ago, about the Light Cavalry Brigade’s charge and
William’s part in it-a dream that had proved so unaccountably accurate-she had never supposed that she possessed the gift of … what was it called?
Second sight. Indeed, until tonight, she had had no other similar dreams or visions of the future, and the one she had just endured was … merciful heaven, it was too hideous, too farfetched to be worthy of serious consideration, least of all
William’s.
For all this reasoning, during the days that followed, Jenny was tempted to tell William of the dream; but each time she was on the point of doing so, she uneasily decided against it, fearing that he might misunderstand and attribute it to her reluctance to go with him to India. She did not suffer the nightmare again, and by the time they took leave of the Osbornes and returned to
Sydney, the memory of it had faded, at least to the extent that she was able to dismiss it as a figment of her imagination.
Benjamin Doakes and his wife and family arrived at Marshall Mount the day before her and William’s departure, and Jenny enjoyed the celebrations that marked their arrival and their installation in the refurbished Pumpkin Cottage, with which, clearly, they were delighted.
They had made a very fast passage, the onetime shipping clerk announced with pride, on board the White Star clipper ship
Spartan,
reaching Sydney in eighty-five days.
“She is a beautiful vessel, ma’am,” he told Jenny. “Built in Aberdeen by the Hood yard, with no expense spared. You’ll see her when you go back to Sydney. And no doubt you’ll meet the titled lady and gentleman from Ireland-Lady Kitty Cadogan and her brother, the Honorable Patrick, from Castle Kilclare in County Wexford, who took passage with us from Liverpool. A handsomer, livelier pair it’s never been my good fortune to meet, ma’am … and not a bit of swagger to either of them. I’m sure the society folk in Sydney will be eager to make them welcome.”
The names of the two young Irish aristocrats who had incurred Benjamin Doakes’s admiration meant nothing to either William or herself, Jenny reflected, but-since titled immigrants were rare in colonial circles-she did not doubt that Sydney society would indeed be eager to make them welcome, particularly if, in addition to being titled, they were also wealthy and socially inclined.
The long ride back to Sydney was less fatiguing than the outward journey had been, partly because William-as if he, too, were regretting their imminent departure from their homeland-set a more leisurely pace, savoring the beauty of the countryside and the miles of wide, untamed bush through which their way led them.