The Gold Seekers (17 page)

“Indeed I do,” the Governor asserted. His round, tanned face twisted into a wry little grimace. “He was engineer of the Snake, the infernal, belching paddle-wheeler in which Their Lordships saw fit to convey me to the Gambia! In all honesty, Captain Broome, I cannot claim that our relationship was particularly cordial—like you, I am a sailing ship man. But you say he’s married?”

“Yes, sir, he is. Er—” Again Red hesitated, uncertain of how much it was prudent to reveal of Captain Lucas’s matrimonial affairs. Finally, he said, without expression, “His wife is considerably younger than the captain, sir.”

“The old dog! I shouldn’t have thought it of him. But—” Fitzgerald sighed. “I must pay him a visit. I’d intended to do so today, but my damned paperwork caught up with me. And my wife must call on Mrs. Lucas, too. You say young Surgeon Martin has arranged for her to be accommodated at the hospital?”

“Yes, sir. At the captain’s wish, I believe.”

“Well, she will be on hand to visit him,” the Governor concluded. “And talking of visits, Broome, I should greatly appreciate the opportunity to visit your ship. She’s a Symondite corvette, is she not?”

“Indeed she is, sir. Eighteen guns and a crew of a hundred and sixty.” Red went into detail, then added, “A visit from Your Excellency will be most welcome.”

“Good.” Governor Fitzgerald was beaming. “Then tomorrow forenoon, if that suits you. It will give me a chance to exercise my barge crew. Ludicrous, isn’t it, that after all these years our communication with the port of Fremantle is still by oared boat on the river? Just as it was in Admiral

Stirling’s day! God knows, I’m no lover of steam-powered vessels, but a small paddle-wheeler would be a great convenience. I’ve repeatedly pleaded with Her Majesty’s Colonial Office for funds with which to purchase one, but”—his smile faded—“they are of the opinion that a road would cost less. The trouble is that I’ve no labor to put to work on it.”

“But the colony has applied for convicts to be transported here, has it not, sir?” Red asked with some surprise.

Fitzgerald nodded. “A retrograde step, in the eyes of Sir Charles Fitzroy and the wealthy squatters of New South Wales, I concede. But a necessary, even a vital one for us, Broome. From the outset this colony has been held back by lack of labor. Western Australia’s population—in an area almost as large as Russia—is only about five thousand, and it’s going down, damme, not up. The initial error, which has since been compounded, was in the type of settlers who were permitted to come out here. They had to be free and possessed of means, and those who proposed to purchase land and farm it were required to bring indentured laborers with them. And so they did, most of them. But with land officially priced at one pound sterling an acre and wages unavoidably high, it wasn’t long before the laborers deserted their employers and bought farms for themselves.”

With a profound sigh the Governor rose to his feet and started to pace the room, quoting prices, the losses incurred by the sandalwood trade, and a disastrous fall in the price of wool, which, at sixpence a pound, scarcely sufficed to pay the wages of a shepherd.

“When I took office, in February of ‘49, Broome, I found this colony in a state of depression, stagnation, and despair. We held a crisis meeting, at which it was almost unanimously decided to petition the Secretary of State, Earl Grey, for the establishment of a regular penal settlement. It was authorized by an orderin-council, but to date we have received only two shiploads of convicts, although more have been promised. The first transport, the Indiaman Scindian, with seventy-five male convicts on board, made the passage in eighty-eight days and arrived here before word reached us that they were coming! In consequence, the first public work they undertook was the building of a jail in which to accommodate them … and it is not finished yet. We have a most industrious young engineer in charge of the work—Harry Wray, of the Royal Engineers—but we still lack skilled labor. And our damned Fremantle road has to wait until cottages for the prison staff are completed and a roof and a second story are added to the prison itself.”

Captain Fitzgerald halted, coming to a standstill facing Red. “Forgive me, Captain Broome, for airing so many of my grievances, but”—his smile returned—“it is a relief to get them off my chest, to a sympathetic listener.”

“I was here in ‘29, with Governor Stirling, sir,” Red told him, “and I served for a year on his staff. So I have some idea of the problems you have had to face.”

“Then you are a sympathetic listener indeed!” The Governor’s smile widened. “That calls for a drink, I fancy, before we are summoned to partake of the invariable roast mutton at luncheon.” He crossed to a cupboard and brought out a decanter and glasses. When two glasses were filled, he raised his in solemn salute. “To the colony of Western Australia—may it make progress at last, by the efforts of those men who come out here in chains! Damme, Sir Charles Fitzroy can say what he likes—without the felons shipped out in their thousands to Port Jackson, his colony would not be where it is today! And neither would Victoria, for all Mr. Latrobe’s clamor for independent statehood! And be damned to the editor of the Inquirer, who has opposed me at every turn!”

A soft knock on the door heralded Mrs. Fitzgerald. Entering the bookless library, she bestowed an affectionate kiss on her husband’s cheek and took the empty glass from his hand. “Luncheon is served, my dearest,” she told him. “And I feel sure that poor Captain Broome has heard enough of our troubles for one day. So let us confine our luncheon conversation to the good things, shall we? I shall not mention the damage white ants have done to this house or the fact that the roof leaks. Instead”—she reached out a hand to take Red’s, her smile courageously cheerful—“we will count our blessings, starting with the success Mr. Barrett-Lennard has made of his vineyard. And—oh, yes, we are giving an evening

rout here tomorrow, Captain Broome, to which you and your officers are most cordially invited.”

She led the way into a small, somewhat shabbily furnished dining room and waved Red to a chair. True to her promise, she kept the conversation on an optimistic note throughout a substantial and well-cooked meal and, on learning that the Governor intended to pay a visit to the Galah the following day, eagerly begged to be allowed to accompany him.

“We shall be honored, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” Red assured her. “And perhaps your son Charlie might care to inspect my ship also.”

“You can have no idea what you are letting yourself in for, Captain Broome,” the Governor warned with a boyish grin. “But provided Eleanora promises to control him, then thank you, we shall all three of us look forward to calling on you and your ship’s company tomorrow forenoon.”

The meal over, Red took his leave. He called at the small civil hospital to inquire for Captain Lucas and was told that the sick man was holding his own.

“I don’t know for how long you intend to remain here, Captain Broome,” the principal medical officer said, “but your passenger is in for a long convalescence, I’m afraid. His health is likely to cause concern for two or three weeks yet.”

Red hid his relief at this news. He paid a brief visit to Captain Lucas, finding him comfortably installed in an upper-story room, with a view across the Swan River and with few complaints regarding the treatment he was receiving. Of Dora Lucas, however, there was no sign, but Red was not unduly worried until, upon his return aboard the Galah, Tim Broome informed him glumly that Francis De Lancey was still absent.

“He’s sent no word, sir,” the young first lieutenant grumbled. More cheerfully he added, “Our repairs are completed; we’ll be able to sail whenever you wish, sir.”

Red nodded his approval. “Well done, Tim. I’ll aim to sail the day after tomorrow, then, if we get all our men back. Tomorrow, though, we’re to have an official visit by the Governor and his lady, so I’ll be obliged if you will do what you can to make ready for their reception.”

“It’s short notice, sir,” Tim demurred, “and with one watch ashore, but—I’ll do my best. The Governor’s a post captain, isn’t he?”

“He is—but a very human one, so don’t worry.” Red clapped a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “And his wife is charming. You will have the opportunity to make their acquaintance socially tomorrow evening. We are invited to a rout at Government House.”

Despite the short notice and Tim’s foreboding, the viceregal visit was an unqualified success. Captain Fitzgerald, his son Charlie skipping eagerly at his heels, made a lengthy inspection and, when it was over, offered congratulations, which, Red sensed, were at once sincere and a trifle envious.

“I never commanded a Symondite,” he admitted. “But, damme, I wish I’d had the good fortune to do so! You are to be commended, Captain Broome—she’s a fine ship, with a first-rate ship’s company.”

Apart, Red thought bitterly, from a missing second lieutenant and five seamen of the port watch, who would have to be rounded up before he could sail. But he accepted the Governor’s compliment gratefully, and after entertaining his guests to luncheon in his newly reclaimed day cabin, he ordered the side party to muster, and Captain Fitzgerald, with his wife and son, was piped into his barge with due ceremony.

“Do not forget our party this evening, Captain Broome,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said as Red bowed over her hand. “We are expecting you and any officers you can spare from their duties. And I think you will enjoy yourselves. We have a capital pianist—a Mr. Hamersley—who plays most lively waltzes and quadrilles. There is, alas, not much space for dancing, and there won’t be until our new reception room is built. But perhaps when you next call here, it will be finished and in use.”

It was a valiant hope, Red thought, liking the warmhearted, friendly woman even more than before. She had much to contend with, but her spirit was unquenchable.

That evening the longboat took him upriver, accompanied by Tim and two midshipmen, in addition to a small party under the master-at-arms, whom he had detailed to round up the missing men of the port watch. He had issued

no instructions as to Francis De Lancey, intending himself to seek for him at the hospital when the Government House rout came to an end; but Tim was angry, and as they disembarked at the boat jetty, Red said reassuringly, “Don’t worry—enjoy yourself, for God’s sake! Our sailing’s been notified. The lad will leave it till the last minute, I don’t doubt, but he’ll be back before we sail.”

“I wish I could share your optimism, sir,” Tim answered explosively. “But I can’t. The infernal young fool has got it badly, and I’m afraid the lady in question has no conscience.”

His mood lightened, to Red’s relief, when they were ushered into the Government House drawing room, to find assembled there a lively party of some sixty or seventy members of the colony’s society, among them a bevy of pretty, smiling young girls and the promised Mr. Hamersley performing at the piano with considerable skill. Dancing was on a carpeted floor and somewhat restricted by the number crowding onto it, but Tim and the two midshipmen swiftly found themselves partners, and leaving them to do the best they could in the limited space, Red went in search of his hostess.

He found her presiding anxiously over a lavish buffet set out in the adjoining anteroom, and she greeted him warmly. “I’m delighted that you could join us, Captain Broome. Alas, the turtle soup I had planned to serve seems to have gone off, or am I imagining it? Be so good as to taste it for me, would you please?” She offered him a spoonful, her plump, charming face flushed and apprehensive.

Red did as she had requested and shook his head regretfully. “I fear you will not be able to serve this, ma’am. It has turned high.”

“I was afraid it had. Thank you, Captain Broome.” In response to her gesture a servant whisked away the soup tureen, and Eleanora Fitzgerald gave vent to a sigh of exasperation. “One tries, but in this climate it is not easy. Well, I can only hope that our guests will be satisfied with the fruit cup; at least we have fruit of every kind here, and it grows prodigiously. Oh—” She broke off, clicking her tongue apologetically. “I almost forgot. There is a letter for you, delivered from New South Wales in the mail. Communications between here and Sydney are few and far between, so it was fortunate that the letter arrived before you sailed. If you will come into the library, Captain Broome … my husband left it on his desk to give to you as soon as you arrived.”

Red followed her across the darkened hall, conscious of a feeling of elation. The letter, he told himself, must be from his mother, who, it seemed, had received the news of his impending arrival in time to write to welcome him. Mrs. Fitzgerald put the sealed envelope into his hand and thoughtfully turned up the oil lamp burning on the Governor’s desk.

“I will leave you to read it,” she told him. “Come back and join in the dancing when you are ready.”

The library door closed behind her, and Red drew up a chair and broke the seal on his letter. It was in his father’s handwriting, he realized, as he spread the thin sheet out on the desk and moved the lamp closer to enable him to read it. And unlike his mother’s lengthy, news-filled epistles, which usually crisscrossed the pages and occupied the margins also, this letter was very short.

My dear Red,

It is with great sadness that I write in the hope that this will find you in Perth. I have to tell you that your dear mother and my beloved wife died peacefully in her sleep a week ago, after a long and painful illness, which she bore with courage and fortitude.

Your letter, with news that you anticipated sailing for this colony in command of H.M.S. Galah, was delivered the day before she departed this life and gave her immense joy. Your name was on her lips when the dear, sweet soul breathed her last. I was with her and can vouch for this.

Without seeking to reproach you for your long absence, I cannot pretend, for her dear sake, that I do not regret it.

May you have fair winds and make port here very

The letter was signed “Your affectionate father, Justin Broome.” And, Red saw, the writing suddenly blurred and almost indecipherable, the date was April 10, 1851.