The Patriots E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The fifteenth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country made of blood, passion, and dreams.   After being accused of high treason, Michael Wexford seeks revenge upon those who took everything from him.   It is 19th century Australia: Irishman Michael Wexford is unravelling his existence in the penal colonies after defying the justice system. Considered a criminal beyond reform or redemption, Michael plots his revenge. Meanwhile, siblings Kitty and Patrick Cadogan venture out to the Norfolk Island in search of their brother, praying that he is not the miscreant everyone makes him out to be.

Leseprobe

The Patriots

The Australians 15 – The Patriots

© Vivian Stuart, 1985

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

Series: The Australians

Title: The Patriots

Title number: 15

ISBN: 978-9979-64-240-4

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

–––

This book is dedicated to the memory of a young Australian, Charles Zylberberg, known to me as “Brave Charlie”, who, very sadly, lost a gallant battle against cancer.

To me, Charlie was the epitome of gallantry; I felt privileged to know him, and I shall never forget him for the courage he displayed in that long struggle which, in the end, took his young life.

Acknowledgements and Notes

As always, I acknowledge very gratefully the guidance received from Lyle Kenyon Engel in the creation of this book, as well as the cooperation and help of the editorial, research and publicity staffs at Book Creations, Inc., of Canaan, New York, and in particular that of my editors, Philip D. Rich and Glenn Novak. I also greatly appreciate the friendship and encouragement so generously given by Marla and George Engel, Carol Krach, Jean Sepanski-Guarda, and Mary Ann McNally.

I should like also to put on record my appreciation of the help given me by my British publisher, Aidan Ellis of Aidan Ellis Publishing Ltd., by Dell USA and Macdonald Futura UK, the paperback publishers, and by the distributors of the Australian editions, Doubleday Australia and Hodder & Stoughton Australia. On my recent visit to Sydney I had reason to be most grateful to Ian Parry-Okeden of Radio 2UE, to the Sydney booksellers in general and to Selwa Anthony in particular, and to the staff of Doubleday Australia for their hospitality and support. It is my hope that I shall be able to join the bicentennial celebrations in Sydney in 1988, reliving the story of the characters, both real-life and fictional, that I wrote of in the first book in The Australians series, The Exiles,while being reunited with my much-loved Australian family in Hunters Hill and my good friend and invaluable Australian-based researcher, Vera Koenigswarter.

The main books consulted included: The Australian Encyclopaedia. Angus & Robertson, 1927; The History of Tasmania. J. West, Dowling, 1852; Transported: Christopher Sweeney, Macmillan, 1981; History of Australia. Marjorie Barnard, Angus & Robertson, 1962; The Gold Seekers: Norman Bartlett, Readers Book Club, 1965; New Zealand: Richard Horsley, T.C. & E.C. Jack, 1912; Australian Historical Monographs (various titles): edited by George Mackaness, Ford, Sydney, 1956; Notes of a Gold Digger: J. Bonwick, 1852, reprint; The Indian Mutiny in Perspective: Sir George MacMunn, Bell & Sons, 1931; Government State Papers (Lucknow and Cawnpore): edited by G.W. Forrest,

Military Department Press, Calcutta, 1902; The Sepoy War: Sir Hope Grant and Henry Knollys, Blackwood, 1873. I have also taken the liberty of adapting, from one of my earlier works, material pertaining to the Sepoy Mutiny of 1857-8.

With the author’s generous permission, I made extensive use of Punishment Short of Death by Margaret Hazzard, Hyland House Publishing, Melbourne, 1984. This meticulously researched history of the penal settlements of Norfolk Island gives a view of the last commandant, John Price, that is not perhaps shared by everyone, but which my own research has led me to conclude is correct. Commandant Price emerges as one given the power of life and death over the “incorrigible” convicts and committed to “punishment [only] short of death,” which he exercised to the full. By the standards of the period and granted the character of the convicts sentenced to penal servitude on Norfolk Island, a harsh regime had to be maintained; nevertheless, from the evidence available—including that of some of the convicts themselves and of the island’s onetime chaplain—Price does appear to have erred on the side of severity.

I have fictionalised some of the diaries kept and books later written by Norfolk Island convicts, including that of Mark Jeffrey, and condensed these into a single record, which nonetheless is based on fact. For a factual account of the Norfolk Island penal settlement from beginning to end, however, I warmly recommend Mrs. Hazzard’s book.

My book, like the others in The Australians series, is written as a novel, with fictional characters superimposed on the historical narrative. The adventures and misadventures of the real-life characters are based on fact, and I have not embroidered or exaggerated the actions of any of them, save where it was expedient to dramatize these a little to avoid writing “dull” history. For the background information pertaining to the Port Arthur Penitentiary I am indebted to Vera Koenigswarter; the account of the escape by steamer is, however, fictional.

Finally, my thanks to my book supplier, Conrad Bailey of Sandringham, Victoria; to Ian Cottam for the loan of books; to Kenneth Wrightson also for books supplied; and to Ada Broadley for her unfailing help and support in the domestic field.

Prologue

September 1828

The S.S. Pyramus, bound from the port of Liverpool to Sydney, New South Wales, wallowed sluggishly in mountainous seas, the howling, gale-force winds driving her remorselessly off course to the Irish coast.

Securely battened down though she was, and with only storm canvas set, she seemed, to the only passenger who had ventured on deck, to be in imminent danger of foundering. Henry Osborne clung with numb fingers to the rail on the weather side of the upper deck, regretting the impulse that had led him to leave the warmth and comparative safety of the cuddy. But its smoke-filled airlessness and the pungent fumes of the alcohol some of his fellow passengers had been consuming had induced such queasiness in his stomach that, fearing this might overcome him, he had decided to go in search of fresh air.

Certainly it had cured his seasickness. But now, he reflected ruefully, he would have to remain where he was until wind and sea abated—or until the infernal ship capsized—for to cross the deck to the companionway from which he had emerged would be to risk life and limb to no avail.

The Pyramus, he had been assured when he had booked his passage, was a sturdy, seaworthy brigantine of close on five hundred tons burden, well found and under the command of an experienced master, and, until the storm had struck, he had had no reason to doubt that she was everything the shipping agent had claimed. Indeed, he—Henry braced himself, clutching at his precarious handhold as the ship heeled suddenly, to plunge into the trough of a towering wave, her bluff bows and most of her fo’c’sle vanishing momentarily into its depth.

Tons of icy water cascaded across the deck, soaking him to the skin and threatening to sweep him off his feet. As the water drained slowly away, he heard the master bellow an order through his speaking trumpet to the two men at the helm. The wind seemed to Henry to bear the words soundlessly away, but evidently both helmsmen understood the import, for, between them, they spun the wheel and brought the ship’s head to the wind. Her bows rose, shuddering, and he felt the deck lift beneath his feet as, with an ominous creaking of her straining timbers, she gained the crest of the following wave and plunged on.

God in heaven, Henry thought, his stomach heaving anew, why had he embarked on this voyage halfway across the world? What mad, ambitious dream had led him to sell his farm at Dromore, in Ireland’s County Tyrone, in order to go out to Australia as a settler? True, his two elder brothers, Alick and John, had gone out there as naval surgeons and had urged him to follow them, stressing in glowing terms the prospects the colony offered to young men with the will to work and some capital behind them.

They had taken land grants—John at Garden Hill, sixty miles south of Sydney, with Alick nearby, at a place he called Daisy Bank—and he had the required capital with which to set himself up. He had a thousand pounds, raised by the sale of his farm, but—The Pyramus heeled over once again, flung almost onto her beam ends, and it seemed to Henry an interminable time before she righted herself and, pitching heavily, struggled on.

He groaned aloud, not caring who heard him. Worst of all, he reminded himself miserably, he had been compelled to leave behind his betrothed, the lovely Sarah Marshall, because of her parents’ objections to his decision to emigrate.

“Your future is too uncertain, Henry my dear boy,” the old rector of Dromore had told him, when he had endeavoured to plead his case. “Our daughter has been gently reared, in a safe, secure home background. Sarah is not suited to the rough life of a pioneer, in the wilds of an unknown land, such as she would be called upon to face were she to become your wife. It is out of the question and I must forbid it.”

“But we love each other, sir,” Henry had protested. He had added, although to no avail, that he would never have considered leaving his native Ulster had he for one moment supposed that Sarah would be forbidden to accompany him.

“You should have thought of that possibility,” the Reverend Benjamin Marshall had answered uncompromisingly, “before you sold your land, my dear young man—and before you had advanced your plan to emigrate to the point of no return.”

He had been every sort of fool, Henry told himself bitterly, remembering Sarah’s tears and her stricken face when he had paid his final visit to the rectory to bid her farewell. They had clung together, both of them too heartbroken for any words, and finally, when he had had to tear himself away in order to catch the Liverpool packet, she had whispered brokenly that she would wait for him. He heard her voice now, above the roar of the wind.

“Send for me, dearest Henry, when you are settled and have made your way in New South Wales. I will come, I swear it—whatever my parents say, or however long it may be!”

He wanted to believe her, but. . . Sarah Marshall was a beautiful, appealing girl. There would be suitors aplenty, after he had gone—men with better prospects than his had ever been. There was the lawyer, Patrick Hare, and a brace of well-off farmers, once his friends—Damien Hamilton, who was kin to Sarah’s mother, and, devil take him, Guy O’Regan, who would have a clear field now that his closest rival had left Dromore, with scant prospect of a speedy return or—

A rending crash from somewhere above his head interrupted his thoughts, bringing his attention abruptly back to the present. Henry watched with horror as, silhouetted starkly against the grey, scudding storm clouds, the foremast lost the single sail it had borne and, split off at the cap, came hurtling down to the forward part of the deck in a welter of torn rigging and shattered spars.

The crew reacted with swift courage in response to the master’s shouted urging, and Henry found himself caught up in the rush of men. Someone thrust an axe into his hand, and he hacked and tore at the wreckage with the rest of them, blind instinct guiding him, as the ship swung dangerously, broadside on to the pounding waves, the whole deck awash.

Their frantic efforts succeeded at last. The shattered topmast went by the board, and, relieved of its weight, the Pyramus answered to her helm, the pumps slowly ridding her of the water she had shipped.

Henry stood back, exhausted, aching in every limb, his hands blistered and bleeding. The master paused briefly beside him, his lined, weather-beaten face creased into a mirthless but approving smile.

“Good work, mister,” he said. “Thanks for your help.” He added, the smile fading, “We’re going to put in to Belfast to have that topmast replaced. It’ll add a week or ten days to your journey, I’m afraid . . . but then, we ain’t none of us in that much of a hurry, are we?”

He stumped on, the speaking trumpet again raised to his lips as he bellowed a succession of incomprehensible orders. Henry stared after him, unable at first to take in the meaning of what he had been told; and then, suddenly, his heart was singing.

A week in Belfast—ten days, perhaps . . . time enough, God willing, for him to ride back to Dromore and renew his pleas to Sarah’s parents. Time enough, even if they again refused, to wed her without their consent.

The hand of God had surely brought him back, and the Reverend Benjamin Marshall could scarcely deny that it had been the hand of God that had preserved him, with the Pyramus and her passengers and crew, from the fury of the storm.

The Irish coast was in sight and the wind had abated when Henry Osborne limped back to his cabin in search of dry clothes and a much-needed glass of brandy in the cuddy.

It was another sixteen hours before the Pyramus entered Belfast Lough and he saw again the familiar grey buildings of the city. He wasted no time in going ashore and, on a hired horse, set off on the long road to Dromore. Through Lisburn and Lurgan, skirting Lough Neagh, he rode, urging his jaded hireling with voice and heels to a furious pace. The animal was incapable of further effort when he reached Dungannon, and it was raining steadily when, wet and tired, he pulled up in darkness outside a hostelry on the outskirts of the town.

The landlord, a cheerful, hospitable fellow, made him welcome, supplied him with an excellent meal and a comfortable room, and, for the first time since leaving the ship, Henry was able to relax. His clothes were again soaked, but he had had the forethought to bring a valise with him, and he handed over his outer garments to be dried, satisfied that—provided the morrow did not bring more rain—he could present himself, respectably clad, at the rectory next day.

As good fortune would have it, the following morning dawned bright and clear. He donned his best suit and, fortified by a substantial breakfast, set off eagerly on the last twenty miles of his journey, mounted on a more willing horse and leaving his still sodden cape and jacket steaming before the inn’s kitchen fire, on the landlord’s promise that he could redeem them on his return to Belfast.

Henry reached Dromore in the early afternoon, and after stabling his borrowed horse, he presented himself at the rectory. To his joy, the doorbell brought his adored Sarah in person to admit him, and when she went, half swooning, into his arms, his joy knew no bounds.

“Oh, Henry—dearest Henry, you have come back!” Sarah cried, as he held her tenderly to him. “I am so happy, I scarcely know what to say.”

Henry, too, was momentarily bereft of words to express his feelings, but when Sarah led him by the hand into the withdrawing room, where both her parents were seated, he was dismayed when—as Sarah had done—they took it for granted that he had returned for good.

“So you have thought better of the foolhardy notion of emigrating to New South Wales,” the old rector said, beaming his approval. “My dear boy, I am more than pleased.”

Henry faced him unsmilingly. “No, sir,” he denied, “I have not. The voyage is delayed and my ship is in Belfast to effect repairs to damage inflicted in a terrible storm in the Irish Sea. It is only by God’s grace that I am here, Mr. Marshall and—” He hesitated and then plunged in. “Sir, I swear that the hand of God brought me back to Ireland to—to plead with you, once more, to permit your daughter Sarah to wed me. I love her, sir, more than life itself.”

The rector eyed him from beneath furrowed brows. He exchanged a questioning glance with his wife, as Henry stammered out a breathless description of the storm and the loss of the Pryamus’s foretopmast.

“Then it is your intention to continue the voyage, when the ship—when the Pyramus has completed her repairs?”

Henry inclined his head, jaw jutting obstinately.

“Yes, that is so, sir. She will sail within the next ten days, and I—Mr. Marshall, I beg you to allow me to take Sarah with me as my wife.”

“Ten days, you say?” Again the Reverend Benjamin Marshall glanced across at his wife, receiving an almost imperceptible nod in reponse. He sighed heavily. “That does not give us much time to arrange your wedding, does it, my boy? But . . .” He repeated his sigh, and Henry, realizing suddenly that his plea had been successful, put his arm round Sarah’s slim, muslin-clad shoulders.

“I suppose,” the rector said resignedly, “that it can be done and that, in these—ah—circumstances, one reading of your banns will be sufficient. I shall have to inquire, I—” His expression relaxed and he held out his hand.

Henry took it thankfully, his heart full. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall—thank you. I will not be unworthy of your trust, sir—Mrs. Marshall—I give you my word.”

Judith Marshall smiled at him, tears in her eyes.

“It will not be the lovely wedding we had hoped for our daughter, Henry,” she reminded him. “But if, as it would seem to be, it is God’s will, then so be it. Certainly it is nothing short of a miracle that brought you back here.” She rose from her chair and embraced both Henry and her daughter in turn, the tears now flowing freely.

Henry was deeply moved. Over luncheon, which he took with the family, he talked at length of his plans.

“I have the money from the sale of my smallholding—a thousand pounds, which Alick and John assure me will be an adequate sum with which to set up as a farmer in the colony. I shall be given a grant of land and convict labour to work it. The money will amply suffice for the building of a homestead and the purchase of stock. It is in the form of a draft, cashable in Sydney and—” Intending to display the draft, in proof of his words, Henry felt in the pocket of his coat and found it empty. Horror-stricken, he recalled that he had been carrying the precious document in the pocket—not of the jacket he was wearing, but in the heavy outer cloak, which . . . He drew in his breath sharply. Which, thrice-damned, careless fool that he was, he had left with the landlord of the inn in Dungannon!

His bright, happy dream abruptly faded. Without capital, what future could there be for Sarah and himself in New South Wales? He would be a virtual pauper, dependent on his brothers. He . . . Somehow he contrived to talk on as if nothing had happened, keeping his anxiety hidden. Plans for the wedding were proposed, discussed and agreed upon. It would take place at the Dromore parish church on September 11—two days before the Pyramus was expected to sail—provided the question of the banns could be cleared up; and Sarah and her mother would work day and night to make her wedding dress, calling in her sisters, if need be, to help them with their task.

The meal at long last over, Henry excused himself. He took lingering leave of his affianced wife, and giving the impression that he intended to go to his own parents’ house in nearby Dernaseer to acquaint them with the news of his forthcoming nuptials, he mounted his horse again and rode, as fast as the animal would take him, back to Dungannon.

Darkness had long since fallen when, stiff and weary, he dismounted outside the inn. As before, the landlord greeted him with cheerful warmth, inviting him into the taproom and pouring him a glass of whisky laced with spices, a wide grin on his homely face. Then, before Henry could state the reason for his return, he laid the crumpled bank draft on the counter between them.

“Well, now, would it be this that brought you back so swiftly, young sir?” he questioned. “Sure, you had no call to worry—we are honest folk here. ’Tis a mite damp, I’ll grant you, yet it’s quite legible. But—” His grin widened, as Henry put out a visibly trembling hand to pick up the precious draft. “I’d not carry a valuable paper such as this on my person, by the faith I would not! And you just about to set sail for Botany Bay, if I remember rightly. ’Tis asking for trouble, so it is.”

Chastened, Henry gulped down his drink, relief loosening his tongue. “I have been foolish,” he confessed. “I . . . but how else can I carry it? It is my capital, it’s what I need to set myself up—to set my wife and myself up on a farm out there.”

The landlord refilled his glass, then poured himself a generous tot of the same warming mixture, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You could use it to buy trade goods, sir,” he suggested practically. “Before you leave Ireland. From what I hear, the folk in Botany Bay are in sore need o’ such goods—of silks and satins and woven cloth—aye, and of fine Irish linen, too. It has all to be imported, a seafaring man was after telling me a few weeks ago, and it sells for three or four times its cost, if it’s shipped out to Sydney Town. I doubt the master o’ your ship would ask you a large sum for carrying bales o’ linen, and it travels well.”

Henry stared at him, impressed by what he had said. It was an excellent suggestion, he recognized, and a thousand pounds would buy a fair quantity, but . . .

“It’s short notice . . . and I should have to get it to the ship,” he began. “She’s due to leave port in just over a week.”

“The mill here would supply you, sir,” the landlord assured him. “And they would attend to the loading, too, I fancy, if you were to explain the circumstances. The mill manager’s a friend o’ mine. I’d gladly give you an introduction to him in the mornin’, and you could fix things up in a couple of hours.”

He was as good as his word, and the next day, the mill manager, pleased by so large a sale, readily agreed to arrange for Henry’s purchase to be sent to Belfast and loaded aboad the Pyramus.

“You need concern yourself no further with the matter, Mr. Osborne,” he asserted. “The bales will be packed up, and they’ll be stowed on board your vessel by the time you rejoin her. The mill will pay transport costs, as a discount for your prompt cash settlement, if that is satisfactory to you.”

Elated, Henry agreed that it was eminently satisfactory. He signed over his draft and, with the landlord’s good wishes ringing in his ears, set off once again for Dromore and the family home he had never expected to see again.

The wedding, for all the haste with which, of necessity, it had been arranged, was the happiest day of his life. Virtually all the inhabitants of the little town attended the service, together with his and Sarah’s families and friends, and, as he watched his bride walking up the aisle toward him on the arm of her eldest brother, Henry’s heart swelled with pride.

Sarah, he thought, had never looked more beautiful or more desirable, and her wedding dress, with its billowing skirts and its daintily ruched sleeves, set off her loveliness to perfection. From behind the veil that covered her face, she was looking up at him with a shy smile curving her lips and her dark eyes aglow, and he put out his hand to take hers as the rector started to read the wedding service.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church . . .”

Henry Osborne bowed his head, and as the old rector’s deep, resonant voice woke echoes from the stone walls of the little church in which he had worshipped since his boyhood, he breathed a silent prayer of his own.

“Merciful Father in heaven, of Thy compassion my life was preserved and I returned here to claim my beloved Sarah to wife . . . let me not fail her in the far-off land to which we must journey. Grant us fields to sow and reap and cattle to breed, that we may by our toil enrich the land and render it prosperous for our children to inherit in the fullness of time. Bless our going, O Lord, and bring us safely to our destination—” The rector’s voice broke into his consciousness.

“Henry Archibald, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Henry lifted his head. In a firm, strong voice he answered, “I will!” and the answer came from his heart.

Forty-eight hours later, entered in the ship’s books as Mr. and Mrs. Henry Osborne, he and his bride boarded the Pyramus, the brigantine hove up her anchor, and, with both their families and many of their friends waving from the wharfside, they stood together on deck, waving too, as the sails filled and the long voyage began.

***

Spring, 1856

The three-masted White Star Line clipper S.S. Spartan, under charter to the Government Emigration Department and bound for Melbourne and Sydney, lay alongside Liverpool’s Water Street wharf, a long line of steerage passengers patiently waiting permission to board her.

The first feverish rush to the Australian goldfields had passed its zenith, but more than half those picking their way, with varying degrees of difficulty, through the dimly lit warehouse leading to the dock were bound for the diggings in Victoria. The rest were poor Irish emigrants, whole families of them, delivered—in some cases weeks ago—by the steam packet from Dublin and driven, by the continuing effects of the potato famine, to seek indentured employment on the sheep and cattle stations of the now thriving colony.

They bore their worldly goods with them, men, women, and children, stumbling blindly over the mass of cordage and the heaped-up cargo that filled the warehouse. Bent under the heavy bundles with which virtually all were burdened, they were hard put to it to dodge the incoming and outgoing cargo slings that swung constantly above their heads, and they were roundly cursed by the stevedores if they tripped or strayed out of line.

But their ship was in sight, and they gazed at her in awe. The Spartan was the newest vessel of the Pilkington and Wilson White Star fleet, built only the previous year to an American design by the Hood yard in Aberdeen. Seen through the thin haze of a Mersey drizzle, with the distinctive swallow-tailed house flag of a white star on a red ground flying from her mainmast head, she made a splendid sight. Her sides were painted green, with much gilded scrollwork and a gilt streak running their length, and her sharply raked bow was adorned with a magnificent figurehead, depicting a Spartan warrior, helmeted and armed with a spear.

Emerging at last onto the dock, those at the head of the line exclaimed in admiration, oblivious to the increasing downpour, which, now that they were no longer protected by the roof of the warehouse, threatened to soak them.

“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—aye, 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 Liverpool 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 this new acquaintance and then, a trifle uncertainly, at the older man’s wife and children. “But, 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 to go goldseekin’. No offence intended,” he added quickly. “It just seems a mite strange to me.”

The shipping clerk sighed. “No offence 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 Marshall Mount—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 commission to the gentleman’s satisfaction, for he offered me employment. I never took up his offer, but—” 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—well, 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—”

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 erstwhile shipping clerk informed his neighbour, 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 a 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’syoung 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 woollen shawl wrapped tightly about her ample frame supplied the answer. Stepping to his side, she said scornfully, “ ’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 Kildare in County Wexford,” she added impatiently, as the Englishman appeared not to understand. “In Oireland! And I should know, for amn’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-n. And her brother will be wid her—the Honourable 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 running 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—”

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 entry-port. 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-lit 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—”

“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’s 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 has failed and the appeal is delayed, 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—”

“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 cruel injustice visited on one, the others are in honour bound to use their best endeavours to set matters right. And remember—” 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—” A knock on the cabin door caused her to break off. “Yes,” she acknowledged. “Who is it?”

A grey-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 honoured 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 only he 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 bonnent 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, expressive 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.

1

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 labourers 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.

Elizabeth—beautiful, golden-haired Elizabeth of the soft voice and the shy, gentle charm—was all he had ever dreamed of in a woman. He worshipped her, and now—he felt a sudden tightening of the throat. Now, to make their marriage complete, Elizabeth was about to give birth to their first child. She was no longer in their cottage; a week ago, at her mother’s insistence, she had moved into the homestead to await the birth, cossetted and fussed over by her family—although, according to the midwife’s calculations, she was not due to be brought to bed for at least another week or ten days.

Luke’s smile faded. He had gone on with his work, as an antidote to the anxiety he felt. The station was still shorthanded, although three of the older men, disillusioned in their search for gold, had returned a couple of months ago to take up their former employment. Even so, there never seemed to be enough of them to cope with the demands of the vast acreage and the livestock Pengallon supported. This year had seen the largest wool crop the station had ever produced; and when the shearing was completed, the fleeces had to be sorted, graded, and baled, ready for transport to Sydney—a long, hot, backbreaking task that had engaged virtually all his time for the past six weeks.

Grading wool was a skilled job; he was not yet as expert as his brother-in-law, Edmund, or even, come to that, as his wife, and the recent drought had caused dust to be collected in the fleeces after the sheep had been washed, with detriment to the wool’s quality. But at last it was over; the wool crop had been loaded onto the ox-wagons in its tightly packed bales, ready to be shipped out to England in Claus Van Buren’s new clipper ship . . . in time, it was hoped, to reach London before the first sale lists closed.

Missing that list, Luke had learned, could spell disaster, since it would entail months with the entire cargo warehoused, at great expense, and a possible fall in wool prices before the next sale was scheduled. Even so, he was thankful to be free of the oppressive heat and stench of the sorting shed. It was still hot enough, in all conscience, and his ride out and back from the far paddocks had taken all day, but . . . he had been in the open air, alone and without the need to keep up the pretence of being carefree in front of the other men.

Once again Luke felt his throat tighten. He was anxious on Elizabeth’s account, for her pregnancy had put a severe strain on her, and the doctor—the experienced Dr. Morecombe, of Bathurst—had warned him that certain complications were a possibility, when her time came. He had not fully understood Morecombe’s guarded explanation, but evidently Elizabeth’s mother had, for it had been she who had issued what amounted almost to an ultimatum, when he had wanted the birth to take place under their own cottage roof.

“You want what is best for her, Luke,” Katie Tempest had said unanswerably. “And I want her under my eye. I had a difficult time when both she and Edmund were born, and I lost two babies, you know. We don’t want that to happen with Elizabeth, and God forbid that it should.”

“Oh, no!” he had echoed, shocked and robbed of argument. “Of course not. God help me, I did not realize.”

He wanted the child—they both wanted the child, to set the seal on their loving, happy union, but. . . Luke swore under his breath as, with the swift approach of dusk, a horde of stinging insects appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to lay siege to his face and arms. Irritably, he brushed them away and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. There was a line of fencing he had intended to inspect, but it was half a mile away, and both he and his mount were bone weary. The fence would have to wait until tomorrow; he would check the water trough in the brood mares’ paddock—there was time to do that—and then call it a day.

Elizabeth would be in bed when he got back to the homestead, but they would have an hour together, while she ate her evening meal and before her mother banished him from her room, on the plea that she needed all the rest she could get, to prepare her for her coming ordeal.