The Travellers E-Book

Vivian Stuart

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

Seitenzahl: 410

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The eighth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country built on blood, passion, and dreams. The new governor leads the colony with great efficiency, yet, life is still hard and burdensome. Once again, an attempt must be made to conquer the Blue Mountains — because beyond the large mountains, it is said that there are fertile plains and plentiful pastures. This had been Jenny's life-long dream, and now, her son Justin was on his way there. Was the dream finally about to come true? Rebels and outcasts, they fled halfway across the earth to settle the harsh Australian wastelands. Decades later — ennobled by love and strengthened by tragedy — they had transformed a wilderness into a fertile land. And themselves into The Australians.

Leseprobe

The Travellers

The Australians 8 – The Travellers

© Vivian Stuart, 1982

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2021

Series: The Australians

Title: The Travellers

Title number: 8

ISBN: 978-9979-64-233-6

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

CHAPTER 1

Since early morning on Saturday, May 12, 1810, crowds had been gathering at every vantage point between the observatory and South Head to witness the departure of Commodore Bligh’s three homeward-bound ships.

Divided between the Hindostan and the Dromedary were the officers and 345 other ranks of the regiment that —although now designated the 102nd—had long been known to the colony’s inhabitants as the Rum Corps. With them were over two hundred women and children, most of whom had been in tears when the order came for them to embark. Their muted cries and their waving handkerchiefs brought a feverish response from those on shore, and Jenny, standing with Frances Spence among the packed crowd of watchers, felt her own eyes fill as she waited.

H.M.S. Hindostan, wearing the commodore’s broad pennant at the main, was the first to get under way, her signal guns booming in response to the salute fired from Dawes Battery and her seamen manning the yards. It was impossible to identify Justin among the press on deck, but when the frigate worked out of the anchorage and started to make sail, she saw him—or imagined she saw him—go racing up to the foremast head and raise a hand in salute.

“They say,” Frances Spence observed, thinking to distract her, “that they will make a fast passage, Jenny ... under five months, Captain Pasco told my husband. But I doubt whether even that will be fast enough for Colonel Paterson. I saw him when he went on board the Dromedary. He was a shadow of himself and so lame that his wife had to support him. I confess I felt sorry for him and wished that he might have been left here to end his days in peace. After all, he had no part in the Rum Corps’s rebellion, had he?”

Jenny turned to look at her. Frances, she thought, seldom had a bad word to say of anyone, and like so many of her countrymen, she was the soul of kindness and generosity.

“Andrew always liked Colonel Paterson,” she said thoughtfully. “But he was a broken man after that duel he fought with Mr. Macarthur. That was why he took to drink ... Andrew says he was never free of pain.”

“God grant he may reach England safely. Although—” Frances sighed, her blue eyes troubled, “what evidence he can contribute to Colonel Johnston’s trial passes my comprehension. And indeed I am unable to understand why only Colonel Johnston is to stand trial and Macarthur—who we all know was the real instigator of the rebellion—goes scot-free.”

“Andrew said His Excellency told him that Mr. Macarthur would certainly be put on trial here, if he returned,” Jenny supplied. She smiled without amusement. “And Commodore Bligh, during his enforced sojourn at Long Wrekin, made it quite abundantly clear that he intends to bring all the rebel officers to trial if he can, once he reaches England. I believe he consulted the new advocate general, Mr. Bent, as to the legal position—particularly in regard to Mr. Macarthur—and was told that it was a matter for the Colonial Office.”

“Have you met the Ellis Bents, Jenny?” Frances asked curiously.

“Only at the Governor’s ball, when you pointed them out to me. I’ve never spoken to either of them.” Jenny turned again to watch the departing ships, as first the small Porpoise and then the lumbering Dromedary weighed anchor, On the wharf, the pipes and drums of the 73rd played them away, and the guard of honor presented arms. Andrew was in attendance on the Governor, and she recognized his tall figure among the group of officers surrounding the viceregal couple. Mrs. Macquarie, she saw, was talking to Mrs. Bent, and ... yes, her eyes had not deceived her. Henrietta Dawson was with them, and Lucy Tempest stood a few yards behind her, twirling a frilled parasol and seemingly engrossed in conversation with one of the Governor’s young aides.

“Henrietta is very friendly with Mrs. Bent,” Frances said, following the direction of Jenny’s gaze. “They are birds of the same feather, I think ... certainly they are united in their disapproval of Their Excellencies’ attitude toward those who did not come out here of their own free will!”

“Then they must have found the Governor’s ball somewhat distasteful,” Jenny suggested.

“Indeed they did,” Frances agreed. “But I confess I enjoyed it immensely.”

“So did I ... entirely thanks to you, Frances. If you had not made me that lovely dress, I should never have found the courage to attend, despite Andrew’s urging.”

“My dearest Jenny!” Frances put an arm affectionately about Jenny’s slim waist and hugged her. “I am only too delighted that I had the wit to think of it. You spend far too much time and work much too hard on that farm of yours ... why do you not let Tim buy the place from you? You could come and live here. I declare to God, life is, from now on, going to be a joyous thing in Sydney ... and the emancipists like ourselves will be permitted to enjoy it on an equal footing with the officials and the free settlers, according to our rank in life and our character. The new Governor has decreed it publicly.”

“Yes, I know he has. But—” Jenny sighed.

Frances ignored the interruption. “There will be a spate of marriages,” she predicted. “Men who have lived for twenty years with the poor souls whom the Reverend Marsden has designated their concubines will, for a paltry fee of three pounds, give them respectability. And they say that His Excellency intends to make Simeon Lord a magistrate. You’ll see, Jenny, that will be the thin end of the wedge-even the poor Irish will soon have priests and a church of their own.”

“That would make you very happy, would it not?” Jenny hazarded.

Frances inclined her shining dark head. “It would restore my faith in God and in all humanity,” she admitted gravely. “Not,” she added, with a taut little smile, “not that I hold any brief for Mr. Lord, save as the thin end of the proverbial wedge. The source of his wealth would not bear too close an inspection, as we all know, but he has used his money well and greatly to the benefit of this colony. I’d not begrudge him his reward for that.”

Jenny said nothing. Justin had spoken of Simeon Lord to her, had described him as a rum trafficker, but ... how many of the colony’s respectable citizens could plead innocence of some involvement in the liquor trade? Even Mr. Campbell and Commissary Palmer were said to have imported illicit cargoes on occasion; Frances’s own husband had held shares in the Corps officers’ syndicate, and had not Tim Dawson once owned and operated a whiskey still? Below her she saw the three ships moving swiftly now as the brisk westerly wind filled their sails. The Hindostan had her forecourse set and men aloft, loosing the main and mizzen. Soon Justin would be gone, and ...

As if reading her thoughts, Frances said, “Shall we take the phaeton and drive out to South Head to watch them go, Jenny? The Governor’s new road is excellent—we could be there before them.”

“I ...” Would it just be prolonging the agony she felt, Jenny wondered, or would the sight of her, waving him farewell from the cliff top, offer her son encouragement and a memory to hold during the long voyage? She was conscious of a nagging pain in her side as she turned to look at Frances; the pain was intermittent, but she had spun round too sharply, and a jolting ride behind Jasper Spence’s spirited trotters would probably make it more acute, yet ... “I’d like that,” she said. “If it is not giving you too much trouble.”

“We have servants to spare us trouble,” Frances answered dryly. “Come on, Jenny, my dear.”

Seated beside Jenny in the elegant phaeton, Frances returned to the subject of selling Long Wrekin. Clasping one of Jenny’s hands, she said with gentle insistence, “You are not well, are you? Oh”—before Jenny could deny it—“I know, I’ve been watching you. Those broken ribs of yours haven’t healed properly, have they?” “It takes time,” Jenny protested lamely. “Have you thought about selling the farm—thought seriously, I mean?”

“Yes, I have, truly, Frances. And I’ve talked about the possibility to Tom and Nancy Jardine.”

“Tim would buy you out tomorrow,” Frances asserted. “And he would keep on the Jardines—he always promised he would. Would they mind?”

“Not if I sold the place to Tim. And William could stay there, if he wanted to.”

“And Rachel attend school here, with Julia and Dodie,” Frances said. “Jenny, Andrew wants you with him, does he not? If he transfers to the veteran company, you will have to give up the farm.”

Andrew did want her to give up Long Wrekin, Jenny thought—for her own sake, as much as for his. He liked the new Governor and was anxious to serve under him; Justin also had sought to persuade her before he left ... why then, she asked herself guiltily, did she vacillate? William was the only member of her family who might object, and his objections could easily be overcome, if he were permitted to stay on the farm. And the Jardines, she knew, could be trusted to care for him.

She glanced round at Frances, who said, again uncannily, as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, “Jenny, I am not thinking of Tim Dawson’s interests, only of yours, believe me. Oh, I will not deny that I should enjoy your company if you were here in Sydney—I should, and the more so, now that Abigail has gone back to Yarramundie. I miss her and little Dickon very much. But you ... Jenny, you are my oldest friend! Indeed, you were my only friend when I first came out here, and I cannot bear to see you looking so thin and tired. What has Long Wrekin to offer that you are so reluctant to leave?”

Jenny sighed. “I suppose ... oh, independence, the life I know.”

“Life in Sydney has much to offer now,” Frances reminded her. Jenny flushed unhappily.

“I am not accustomed to leading a social life. I’d be ... out of place. What have I in common with ladies like Mrs. Macquarie and Mrs. Bent? Dinner parties, balls ... Frances, it is different for you. You were bred to such things, I was not. Do you not know that the Governor’s ball was the first I ever attended in my life? And the dress you made for me was the first ball gown I ever saw, much less owned and wore!”

“You will have more in common with Mrs. Macquarie than you realize,” Frances said. “She is truly a charming, kindly, and most warmhearted person, and like you, she spent all her early years in the country. Think about it, Jenny. Sydney will not offer only dinner parties and balls—the Governor talks of encouraging horse breeding by setting up a racecourse. He has plans for Aboriginal schools, country fairs, new settlements, roads ... a new hospital, and even a botanical garden, open to all.”

“I cannot but applaud such plans,” Jenny conceded. “Only ...” She caught her breath, thinking of Long Wrekin, of the breeding stock and the rich acres of grassland where she could wander at will; of the great flowing river she had come to know so well, and of the native people living by its banks, many of whom had become her friends.

True, working the land was hard, but it was rewarding; true, the Hawkesbury might flood and spread destruction in its wake; crops might fail, prices fall, the livestock might die, as Sirius had died, and a year’s toil yield little or no profit. But it was her life, she thought obstinately; the only life she had known for over twenty years, and it had given her contentment and a generous measure of freedom. And besides, the dream she had cherished, inspired so long ago by Governor Phillip, was at yet unfulfilled ... the dream of those interminable pastures that must, she was convinced, lie beyond the Blue Mountains, if only a way could be found to scale and cross their formidable, unmapped peaks.

“I want one day to drive my flocks and herds over the mountains,” she said, and realized that she had spoken the wish aloud only when she saw Frances eyeing her in surprise.

“There is no way over the Blue Mountains, Jenny. Perhaps there never will be.”

“Governor Macquarie is building roads,” Jenny said. “He’ll not rest content with the colony as it is, hemmed in between the Blue Mountains and the sea. He will send people to find a way.”

“Yes, I daresay he will,” Frances agreed. “But think of all those who made the attempt and failed. Governor Phillip, Governor Hunter, Dr. Bass—even poor Colonel Paterson, in his youth—Surgeon White, and any number of the marine and Corps officers and men. Captain Tench, Colonel Collins, Lieutenant Dawes, the young engineer—what was his name? Bunyan? Banner?”

“Lieutenant Barailler,” Jenny supplied. Frances was right, she reflected; there had indeed been many brave attempts to cross the tree-clad, trackless mountain barrier, and all had been compelled to admit defeat. Tim Dawson had gone partway with one expedition, after the discovery of Governor Phillip’s missing wild cattle by Henry Hacking, a onetime petty officer of H.M.S. Sirius. Hacking had succeeded in penetrating further than most until he, too, had consumed all his provisions and been forced to turn back. But he had named the fertile valley, where he had traced the wild breeding herd, the Cow Pastures.

“I do not think,” Frances said, “that the mountains will be crossed in our lifetime, Jenny. And you should think of yourself—even a few months’ rest would improve your health, I feel sure. You owe it to Andrew to take better care of yourself ... and to Justin.”

Undoubtedly she did, Jenny knew. They were nearing the end of the new carriage road, and the coachman reined in his horses. On the cliff top a small crowd had already collected, and several horse-drawn vehicles were drawn up by the roadside, their passengers descending to join those who had come on foot or on horseback. Jenny smiled.

“I’ll think seriously about selling Long Wrekin to Tim,” she told Frances as they, in turn, alighted. “But even if I do sell, I truly do not want to live in Sydney—much as I should like to see more of you, my dear Frances.”

Wisely, Frances Spence did not press her. Linking arms, they made their way to the edge of the crowd, which, as soon as the convoy was sighted, became a forest of waving handkerchiefs, the cheers and shouts mingling with the crash of surf on the rocks below. All manner of people had come to see the three ships on their way, Jenny observed, a number of them soldiers of the Corps, now wearing the dark-blue facings of the veteran company in place of their old, distinctive yellow. There were women and children with them, many of the women in tears, and seeing them, Frances said pityingly, “More of Mr. Marsden’s concubines, I fear, whose men did not seek the blessing of the Church on their union.”

And now abandoned, Jenny thought, to exist and bring up their children as best they might without the support their departing soldiers had provided ... small wonder the poor souls were weeping. She looked at them sadly, and then her attention was distracted by a party of mounted officers of the Governor’s regiment, who came cantering up, scattering the folk on foot as they made for the best vantage point on the summit. There was a girl with them, riding sidesaddle, and it was she who, with complete disregard for those standing in her way, led what almost amounted to a cavalry charge to the gates of the signal station. She was laughing aloud as she did so, urging her escort to follow her reckless progress, and Frances drew in her breath sharply.

“Glory be to God!” she exclaimed, in a shocked voice. “That is Lucy Tempest! What can Henrietta have been thinking of, to permit her to come out here with those young men?” She added, when Jenny stared at her in mute bewilderment, “Since Abigail left, I found Lucy too much for me, and I confess I was relieved when Henrietta moved to the new house in Pitt Street and invited Lucy to go with her. But she is not a bit like Abigail, and lately, I am afraid, she has become very headstrong and concerned only with her own pleasure. Henrietta was full of complaints because of her behavior at the Governor’s ball. Perhaps you noticed it? She was the toast of the Seventy-third’s young officers and, to my mind, made quite a spectacle of herself on their account.”

As she appeared to be doing now, Jenny thought and wondered, a trifle cynically, for how long Henrietta Dawson would tolerate the girl. Doubtless, as she had done when Abigail O’Shea had been her guest at Upwey, Tim Dawson’s wife had supposed she was enlisting the services of an unpaid nursemaid, who would relieve her of the care of her three young children when they were not at school.

“Come on,” Frances urged, grasping her arm. “The ships are here—we shall have a splendid view of them if we move over to the left.”

Jenny went with her and forgot Lucy Tempest and the unfortunate women and children the Rum Corps was leaving behind. The three ships of the convoy were clearly visible in the blue waters of the harbor below them, skimming like white-winged seabirds across its ruffled surface, with all sail set. Then they wore in succession, the Hindostan majestically in the van, to bear away from the headland, and with the wind astern, all three headed for the open sea.

For the open sea and the great Pacific Ocean, for the perilous passage round the Horn to Rio de Janeiro and thence to England ... Jenny waved and cheered with the rest, but she felt as if the departing ships were taking her heart with them, her vision blurred by unshed tears and her hand trembling as she waved.

What would Justin find when he landed in England, she wondered desolately. England was a country still at war, and Justin, if the Royal Navy accepted him, would go to war in one of the King’s ships—as his father had done before him, and Andrew, too. Had she been wrong to let him go—to encourage him to go? Would he ever come back, would she see him again, or was he lost to her, as so many others were lost?

A signal hoist was run up to the Hindostan’s masthead and greeted by a roar from the watchers on the cliff top. “Farewell!” they chorused. “Farewell and a safe passage!”

Frances took Jenny’s arm. “They’ve gone,” she said gently. “They’ve gone, Jenny.”

Lucy Tempest sat in sullen and rebellious silence as the Dawsons’ swaying coach bore her toward the Hawkesbury and what she deemed to be exile at Yarramundie.

Seated opposite her—for the greater part of the long, tedious journey, and also in silence—Henrietta Dawson fanned herself vigorously and stared out, with lackluster eyes, at the passing countryside. The Governor’s fine post road had progressed as far as the Parramatta settlement, but after leaving the township, the way was by bush track, potholed and dusty, over which even the well-sprung and elegantly appointed carriage was slowed to a snail’s pace. Its lurching and bumping made Lucy feel physically sick; she longed to ask Henrietta Dawson to call a brief halt, to enable her to recover, but in the circumstances, she could not bring herself to ask even so small a favor.

Henrietta had, she told herself bitterly, treated her with great injustice. Previously, when they had both been under Frances Spence’s hospitable roof, nothing had been said concerning her conduct or her friendship with the Governor’s young aide, John Maclaine, and his brother officers. True, she had been discreet—or perhaps careful would be a more apt description—and the kindly, tolerant Frances had not criticized or attempted to rebuke her. But ... Lucy gave vent to a petulant sigh. Because the Spences’ household had seemed dull after Abigail had gone, she had eagerly accepted the invitation from Henrietta to remove to the new house in Pitt Street.

The house was large; it was only fifty yards from that occupied, in some state, by Commodore Bligh prior to his departure, and the Dawsons—at least when Timothy was there—entertained lavishly. She, had supposed, quite incorrectly as it had turned out, that Henrietta would permit her as much freedom as she desired. Instead, within a week of moving to the Pitt Street establishment, Timothy Dawson had gone back to his farm at Upwey and his wife had retired to bed, suffering from some imagined malaise.

Lucy flashed her erstwhile hostess a venomous glance. The parties had ceased, and she had been expected to undertake the domestic management of the house, to play the part of governess to Henrietta’s three spoiled children and virtually to withdraw from the social scene, at a time when dinner parties, picnics, and balls were suddenly much in vogue.

Of course, looking back, she was forced to admit that she had been foolish to accept Archie MacNaughton’s invitation to dine and play cards in his quarters. She had known that his bosom friend, Philip Connor, would be there, and that Philip was a wild young man and a bad influence on both Archie and John Maclaine. All three had been reprimanded for riding into the crowd at the South Head, when they had gone to watch the sailing of Commodore Bligh’s convoy ... some malicious person had reported the incident, and His Excellency had lectured them severely. They had intended no harm, Lucy recalled. Certainly she had not—all they had wanted to do was to give poor Jamie MacAlpine a rousing farewell, because after the trouble he had brought on himself with Mrs. Macquarie’s maid, the Governor had ordered him home in disgrace.

But, as always, a wretched spoilsport had taken exception to their youthful high spirits and made an official complaint, and like Jamie, they had found themselves in trouble. They had even been warned that they might share Jamie’s fate and be sent home, and in view of that, Archie MacNaughton should have known better than to let his card party degenerate into a brawl.

Yet it had started innocently enough. They had enjoyed a splendid buffet supper and had played several hands of whist, in good but not boisterous spirits. She was the only girl, and ... Lucy glanced again at Henrietta Dawson’s shuttered, unresponsive face and repeated her sigh. She had tried to explain, but Henrietta had refused to listen.

“You are a deceitful little wanton, Lucy,” she had accused, “and an evil influence, from which I must protect Julia and Dodie. I shall take you to Upwey, and your sister can send someone from Yarramundie to escort you there as soon as possible. Let Abigail control you, for I cannot!”

But she was not a wanton, Lucy thought glumly. She had not known—for how could she have known?—that Philip would behave in the manner he had. It was true that he had drunk more than he usually did and that he had been intoxicated when he had suggested to Archie MacNaughton that they should invite two more ladies to join the party. She had endeavored’ to dissuade them, and so had John Maclaine, and ... perhaps they had not tried very hard. Mainly because, of course, they had supposed that Philip meant that the invitation would be restricted to ladies. It was probably his original intention, but clearly he had not realized the lateness of the hour or paused to ask himself how many ladies were likely to be abroad so long after darkness had fallen.

Afterward, shocked into sobriety, he had admitted that he had knocked and rung bells at the doors of several officers’ homes and, receiving no response, had gone further afield and, unfortunately for them all, had encountered an elderly emancipist and the young woman with whom he cohabited on their way home.

And ... Lucy’s mouth tightened, as she relived the unhappy scene that had followed. Philip had invited the young woman, Elizabeth Winch, to his quarters; she had refused and run from him in terror, and Archie had gone in pursuit of her, armed with a paling that he had wrenched off an adjacent fence. The frightened girl had taken refuge in the house of a man named Holness, who, in his nightclothes and with his wife at his back, had attempted to bar the way to her pursuers. Archie and Philip had promptly set upon him with their paling, and ... Lucy shuddered. By the time she and John Maclaine caught up with them, the wretched Holness was lying in a pool of blood, with his wife on her knees beside him, screaming hysterically that he was dead and that the officers had murdered him.

Inevitably, the affair had caused an appalling scandal.

Archie and Philip had been placed under arrest and were now awaiting trial in the Criminal Court, and although both they and John Maclaine had done all in their power to keep her name out of it, the fact that she had been present could not be hidden from Henrietta. And, Lucy thought bitterly, Henrietta’s reaction had been equally inevitable. Having endured a veritable spate of reproachful criticism and wildly exaggerated accusations, she had been informed of her impending banishment to Yarramundie, and now, for all her pleas and tearful promises of more circumspect behavior in the future, she was on the first stage of the journey back to the place which, above all others, she hated.

And it was unjust. She had not killed old William Holness; she had not incited or encouraged Archie MacNaughton and Philip Connor to attack him—quite the reverse, in fact, since she had done all she possibly could to stop them. Her only crime, if such it could be called, had been that she had dined in Archie’s quarters without first seeking her hostess’s permission to do so.

“You crept out, without so much as a word,” Henrietta had railed at her. “Yet you must have been aware that I would never have consented to your dining unchaperoned in Lieutenant MacNaughton’s quarters, had you told me of your intentions.”

That was true, admittedly, Lucy had to concede. But, on the other hand, she would not have been tempted to do anything of the kind had Henrietta continued to entertain in the new-Pitt Street house, instead of pretending to be ill and spending all her days and nights in bed. It had been so unbearably boring, cut off from the society of her friends and with only the Dawson children for company, day after endless day, without even the prospect of a picnic or a drive in the carriage to break the monotony.

But ... Lucy stifled a sob. It would be infinitely more boring at Yarramundie, isolated, cut off from civilization, with Abigail giving her lectures and the hateful Kate Lamerton openly disapproving and both of them caring only for the wretched little Dickon, who could neither speak nor hear a single word. At least Julia and Dorothea and Alexander, the Dawson children, could talk ... She sniffed audibly, and risked another covert glance at Henrietta, annoyed to see that the older woman was sitting with closed eyes, feigning sleep.

There was Luke Cahill, of course—as far as she knew, he was still working at Yarramundie. Lucy brightened. Luke was a handsome fellow, and when she had been with the Boskennas on the property, she had found him attractive and good company. They had both been very young, though, and Luke was a ticket-of-leave man, which— despite his good looks and his education—meant that there was an unbridgeable social gulf between them. He ...

The carriage lurched into a pothole, jolting both its passengers from their seats. Henrietta called out angrily to the coachman and resumed her seat, looking ruffled and resentful. But her eyes were open; she could not go on pretending to be asleep, and Lucy launched into another attempt to gain her sympathy.

“Mrs. Dawson, please will you not consider letting me return with you to Sydney? I give you my word of honor that I will do everything you ask of me. I truly am sorry for what happened, and I—”

Henrietta did not let her finish. She said icily, “We have been into all this before, Lucy, and I see no reason whatsoever to change my mind. You have abused my hospitality and betrayed the trust I reposed in you. You are to go to your sister at Yarramundie, and there is no more to be said on the subject.”

“But Mrs. Dawson, I can’t go to Yarramundie!” Lucy exclaimed. “I ... it will kill me to go back!” “Why should it?”

“I ... I have nightmares about it. Mr. Boskenna tried to shoot me, you know. He aimed his musket at me, and—” The ready tears, always a potent weapon where Frances and her husband and even Abigail were concerned, came welling into Lucy’s dark eyes. The Reverend Caleb Boskenna had indeed sought to take her life; he had been appointed as their guardian when they had first come out to the colony, and wicked man that he was, he had gone to horrifying lengths in his endeavor to wrest their inheritance from them. Lucy started to recount the sorry tale, but once again Henrietta cut her short.

“I know what the Boskennas did. But it was all a long time ago, and you should forget it, as Abigail has done.”

“Abigail wasn’t there when Mr. Boskenna tried to shoot me—it’s easy for her to forget. But I cannot ... Oh, please, Mrs. Dawson, I beg you not to send me back! If you don’t want me with you in Sydney, would you not permit me to stay at Upwey? I’d work, I’d keep house for Mr. Dawson, I’d do anything, just so long as I don’t have to go back to Yarramundie.”

“I could not trust you at Upwey,” Henrietta returned acidly. “You have lied and you have deceived me and you have behaved quite shamelessly. You will be permitted to stay at Upwey only until Abigail sends for you ... and I trust she will do so with all possible speed.”

“Oh, please ... you do not understand. I—”

“On the contrary, I understand only too well.” Henrietta’s tone was repressive, her eyes cold. “I want to hear no more, so be silent and allow me to rest. You know I am not well.”

She closed her eyes, to Lucy’s chagrin, and settled back in her seat, affecting sleep. Angrily, the girl turned her gaze to the carriage window, but there was nothing to see, save an endless succession of gum trees, which bordered the track on one side, and the river, behind its precipitous bank, on the other. And even the river was lost to sight, as it curved and the track ceased to follow it but instead, rougher and dustier than ever, took a more direct line. The sun was sinking, the shadows beginning to deepen; in less than two hours, they would arrive at the Dawsons’ property at Upwey and there would be no escape. Henrietta would tell her husband what had led up to this cruel banishment from Sydney, and she would be held a virtual prisoner until Abigail sent for her. How could fate be so unkind?

Lucy started to sob, her small, piquant face buried in her hands as the coachman, finding what appeared to be a comparatively smooth stretch of track, whipped his horses into a canter. The carriage rolled sickeningly, and once again she was hard put to it to control her rising nausea.

“Oh God,” she prayed, in a tense whisper. “Please God, let there be an end to this torment. Let me go free ...” The end, when it came, was not what she had anticipated and certainly not the outcome for which she had been praying. The right rear wheel struck some unseen obstacle, the spokes shattered, and the cumbersome carriage came crashing down onto its axle-ends, as the right front wheel buckled under the strain and the horses panicked.

Beyond Lucy’s line of vision, the coachman was sent flying from his box, and the four horses, no longer under any restraint, bolted in terror. For about sixty or seventy yards they contrived to drag the carriage in their fleeing wake; then the heavy vehicle turned over, bringing the two hindmost horses down with it, and Lucy found herself flung violently against the splintered wood and smashed glass of what had once been the right-side door.

Bruised, bleeding, and badly shaken, she picked herself up, her ears assailed by a terrible, high-pitched screaming. At first she supposed it to be coming from one of the horses trapped by the traces beneath the wreckage, but when she managed to lever herself across to the opposite door and peer out, she saw that the two lead horses had broken free and were galloping away down the track. The other two lay silent and motionless; one, as nearly as she could judge in that first, frightened glance, with its neck broken, the other with what was left of the central carriage shaft impaled in its side.

And the screaming went on ... Weeping and choking from the dust, Lucy lost her grip on the windowsill. She slithered back into the interior of the carriage, and then horror was piled on horror when her gaze lit on the twisted form of Henrietta Dawson pinned down, as in a vise, by the shattered floorboards and by one of the heavy metal springs that had once cushioned the body of the carriage from the worst shocks of the ill-kept roads.

It was Henrietta who was screaming, the bemused girl realized, her mouth open and gaping, her eyes dark with agony.

“I’ll get you out,” she promised wildly, tearing at the boards. “But please don’t scream—I can’t bear it. I’ll get you out if you’ll just stop screaming ... oh, please, listen to me!”

But Henrietta did not hear her, and to Lucy’s dismay, the coachman did not come in response to her own feeble cries for help. He, too, she supposed dully, had been killed or was too badly hurt to move from wherever he had fallen. In the dust-obscured interior of the overturned carriage, she could not see the extent of Henrietta’s injuries, but she knew that they must be severe when, withdrawing her hands, she saw that they were heavily bloodstained, as were the floorboards she had been vainly trying to drag aside.

“Help!” she sobbed. “Please, won’t somebody help me! Won’t somebody come!”

But, as before, there was no response, and Henrietta’s screams went on and on, beating on her brain and driving her to hysterical despair. She managed at last to prize loose one of the floorboards, but the rest defied her puny efforts, and try as she might, she could not shift the metal spring that, she was able to ascertain, had fallen across the injured woman’s thighs.

It was impossible to free her; she had not the strength, Lucy recognized, and Henrietta Dawson would die if aid were not soon forthcoming. Perhaps, instead of continuing the abortive struggle, she should climb out of the wrecked carriage and go in search of help. This appeared to be an isolated spot, but ... Upwey Farm could not be more than five or six miles away, and there was a chance that one or even both of the lead horses might still be in the vicinity. And on horseback, five or six miles would be nothing.

Lucy scrambled unsteadily to her feet. One of the padded seat cushions lay on the floor of the carriage; she had not noticed it before, but ... with something like this to break her fall, there would be less risk of a sprained ankle or more bruises when she clambered out through the window and attempted to lower herself to the ground. She picked it up, surprised by its weight, and was endeavoring to maneuver it to the aperture above her head when Henrietta’s screams were redoubled, and ... Lucy turned, tried beyond endurance, when she realized that the injured woman was screaming accusations. They were hurtful, unjust accusations, and they were leveled at her.

“This is your fault! You are ... deserting me when I need you! In God’s name, Lucy ... you cannot leave me like this! I should not ... have been here if it had not been for your wanton behavior, your excesses! And now you are running away!”

“I am going to fetch help,” Lucy cried indignantly. “I’m going to find Mr. Dawson.”

But the flow of accusation, of reproach, could not be halted. Henrietta put out a hand to grasp Lucy’s skirt, dragging her back.

“You shall not escape! If you try to run away, you will be caught ... I shall see to it that you are. And you will be sent to Yarramundie, do you hear, Lucy? You are a wicked, wanton girl, and I will not have you in my house. Let Abigail have you, let her punish you! She is your sister. It is for her to control you ...”

Lucy’s control snapped. In a swift surge of pent-up anger and resentment, she thrust the heavy cushion into Henrietta’s face and, with all her remaining strength, held it there, choking with sobs.

The screams abruptly ceased. Henrietta did not struggle. She released her hold on Lucy’s skirt, brought her hand up to tug weakly at the cushion, and then her hand fell, and a terrible, brooding silence seemed suddenly to envelop the interior of the wrecked carriage.

Horrified at the realization of what she had done, Lucy pulled the cushion away, frantically calling Henrietta’s name. But there was no response; a white face and slowly glazing eyes looked back at her, and she knew that her tormentor was dead.

Bile rose sickeningly in her throat. Somehow, she managed to choke it back and clamber out through the shattered glass of the window, from whence she slithered to the ground, careless now of what injury she might do herself. There was no sign of the two lead horses, which she had hoped might return, and she set off down the rutted, dusty track on foot, fear and guilt lending her wings.

After a while, all sensation of time left her. Numb with shock, she stumbled on through the gathering darkness, only dimly aware of her surroundings and of the direction she must take, tripping blindly over exposed tree-roots but always picking herself up and staggering on.

When Timothy Dawson and two of his convict workers came riding toward her, Lucy would have passed them by, but Timothy, recognizing her, dismounted swiftly and caught her in his arms.

“Lucy—Lucy Tempest! For God’s sake, child, what has happened, what is wrong? Two of the carriage horses came into the yard with their traces broken an hour ago. Has there been an accident?” He shook her gently. “Lucy, it’s Tim Dawson. You were with my wife, were you not? Tell me where she is, for pity’s sake!”

But Lucy could only sob incoherently and point, with a trembling hand, in the direction from which she had come. Finally, realizing that she was too shocked to tell him more, Timothy lifted her onto his saddlebow and rode on. They found the carriage a short while later, and one appalled glance into its interior confirmed all his worst fears. Compassionately, he sent Lucy to the farmhouse with one of his men.

Two days later, Jethro Crowan arrived with Luke Cahill to escort her to Yarramundie, and Lucy, conscience-stricken and still deeply shocked, accompanied them without a word of protest.

The newly dug graves of Henrietta and the coachman reproached her as she rode past them on Luke’s saddlebow, but she had wept without ceasing during the past two days and had no more tears to shed. The funeral service, conducted by the Reverend Cartwright, had been an ordeal, and she shivered involuntarily as she recalled the words he had spoken as Henrietta’s coffin had been lowered into its last resting place.

“She was a noble and well-intentioned lady, who will be sorely missed, not only by her sorrowing husband and children, but by the whole community ...”

A stifled moan escaped Lucy’s tightly pursed lips, Luke’s arms closed pityingly about her. He had matured into a big, handsome man in the intervening years, leaning back against his muscular chest, she took comfort from his strength and gentleness.

By comparison, Archie MacNaughton and Philip nor were, she told herself bitterly, arrogant and irresponsible boys, whose friendship had brought her nothing but misery ...

CHAPTER 2

On the morning of September 8, the convict transport Canada lay off Port Jackson Heads awaiting a change of wind to bring her into the harbor. Just before noon, Andrew Hawley went out to her in the pilot cutter, accompanied by the harbor master, Robert Watson, and other port officials.

It was the ship’s second voyage under government contract to the colony. She was a roomy two-decker of 403 tons burden whose master, Captain John Ward, had a better reputation than most for dealing humanely with his unwilling passengers and, according to Watson, landing them in good health. This voyage was, it seemed, to be no exception. The master reported with satisfaction that he had made a fairly fast passage of 169 days, calling at Rio de Janeiro and the Cape.

“One hundred and twenty-two female felons loaded, sir,” he told Andrew. “And I shall be putting ashore one hundred and twenty-one, all decently clad, well fed, and free of disease. The only deaths we had were of a poor, aged woman who should have never been considered fit for transportation, and the wife of a noncommissioned officer of His Majesty’s Seventy-third Regiment. She, God rest her soul, departed this life only two days ago.”

Andrew nodded his understanding. “What was the cause of the deaths, Captain? Old age, presumably, in the first ... but what of the other?”

He had asked the question purely as a formality, in order to report on the matter to the Governor, but to his surprise, the gray-haired master became guardedly evasive,

“You had best speak to my surgeon, sir,” he advised “I’ll pass the word for him, if you wish. The husband—that is, the widower—is on board. Sergeant Major Campbell, commanding the draft for the Seventy-third. They were men who were left behind in Portsmouth when His Excellency’s convoy sailed last year.”

“Was there not an officer in command of the draft?” Andrew inquired.

Captain Ward shook his head. “I understand the officers came out in the Anne.” He gave precise details and then added soberly, “Mrs. Campbell’s death leaves two small children motherless. But Campbell told me he has an older stepdaughter already in the colony, so doubtless she will care for them once they go ashore. Now, sir—” He gestured hospitably in the direction of the after companionway. “If you and the harbor master would care to join me in my day cabin, we can dispose of the necessary formalities over a few glasses of Madeira, and then you can have a word with the surgeon.”

The surgeon, when Andrew was introduced to him an hour later, proved only a little less evasive on the subject of Mrs. Campbell’s death. He, too, was an elderly man, with a nervously hesitant manner, and while seemingly more than willing to discuss the general health of the transport’s women passengers and even to wax eloquent on the advantages of the antiscorbutics he had prescribed for them, he was reluctant to give any details of whatever malaise had cost Elspeth Campbell her life.

“I was exceedingly sorry to lose her,” he admitted, eyeing Andrew anxiously as he spoke. “She was a fine woman, and to die when in sight of her destination ... well, that was ironic, was it not? She was one of the few who really wanted to come out here. Mainly, I suppose, on account of the daughter who is already here and of whom she was very fond. But that may be a blessing, of course—the captain will have told you that Mrs. Campbell has—had—two small girls on board?”

“Yes,” Andrew confirmed. “He told me that. But ...” He was still puzzled. “Was the poor woman ill for long before she died?”

“No. She was pregnant—six months pregnant—but perfectly healthy. Her demise was ... it was sudden, Captain Hawley. Mrs. Campbell was brought to bed prematurely and of a stillborn child.”

Normally Andrew would have left the matter at that. There were always deaths on board convict transports, he knew. Deaths from infectious diseases, malnutrition, ill-treatment, and even, on occasion, from judicial hanging, when convicts attempted mutiny ... and women died in childbirth. The Canada’s surgeon had done well, and his care must have been exemplary for so few lives to have been lost on the nearly six-month passage; but something about the older man’s manner made Andrew persist. The thin, stoop-shouldered surgeon was clearly ill at ease, Andrew sensed, and now, having said all he was seemingly prepared to say on the subject of Mrs. Campbell’s death, he appeared anxious to turn to another topic—any other topic, so long as it did not concern the sergeant major’s wife.

Finally he spoke of the war, of England’s new hero, Lord Wellington, and of the terrible losses in the previous year during the retreat to Corunna.

“But His Lordship showed them what British troops are made of at Talavera,” the old man asserted with pride. “And General Beckwith’s force took Martinique, as I expect you will have heard, capturing two of Bonaparte’s Eagles, and—”

Andrew broke in with quiet insistence. “Doctor, I think I should have a word with your sar’nt major, if you’ve no objection, before I return to the shore.”

“I ... er, why yes, if you wish. I’ll send for him. I ... er, did Captain Ward tell you? He had asked me to say nothing. There’s no proof, and Campbell’s a fine soldier, well respected by his men.”

“Captain Ward told me nothing, sir,” Andrew said. “But I fancy it might be as well if you were to do so. Of what is there no proof?”

The surgeon eyed him in dismay. “Why, that ... er, that is to say, the poor woman, Mrs. Campbell, had certain injuries which were not, in my view, caused by a fall. She claimed that she had fallen. But ...” He shrugged unhappily and went on, with obvious reluctance, to describe the injuries.

Blackened eyes, a broken nose, and severe bruising of the lower part of her body seemed unlikely in the extreme to have been the result of a fall, Andrew thought, as he listened, and he asked crisply, when the old surgeon came to the end of his recital, “But you and Captain Ward decided that there was no proof that her husband had assaulted her?”