The Convict's Daughter Read online

  Some of the governor’s favourite inmates were trusted with the care of Keck’s beloved birds—ducks, turkeys, parrots, gulls and crows—all of which were housed in elaborate aviaries from whence exotic warbles and wails, clicks and shrieks were said to express the only sounds of real distress that ever came from the gaol under Keck’s governance. Two emus wandered freely through the gardens, as did two pet monkeys. Each evening the emus, the monkeys and the inmates were all returned to their cages and locked up for the night. Otherwise, during the day, all three might roam as they wished. It was even said that several prisoners were allowed to pass in and out of the gates at the governor’s pleasure as long as they returned each evening. Instead of the corn hominy that represented the prisoners’ staple diet in most institutions at the time, inmates were encouraged to donate this humble fodder to Keck’s livestock and use the income they had earned from their toils to purchase—at a generous mark-up—butter, bread, milk and meat from the prison store. In the evening this same place of commerce became known as the grotto, and it was possible to purchase not only hot roast dinners but also two lethal forms of ‘rum’ nicknamed blue- and black beard.

  Keck had it made. He resided just within the walls of the gaol, in a rather splendid stone manor, which he shared with his wife and brood of children and which was generously equipped with several large rooms for entertaining. Resplendent in his fine plum-coloured waistcoats and top hat, the prison governor was said to enjoy every pleasure his position, and the profits he turned from it, could conceive.

  After his day in court, James Butler Kinchela was led through the dark tunnel that ran from the courthouse to the gaol. There he was required to provide the prison clerk with his age, height, education and place of birth as well as his religion. These details, along with his conviction, were carefully noted in the columns designated for that purpose. After surrendering his possessions to the administrators, Kinchela removed his clothes and suffered the indignity of a bath at the hands of one of the wardens. He was then dressed in prison garb and taken to a tall, whitewashed building with three tiers of stairs, curved walls and high ceilings, known as A Block, where he hung his hammock and slept among the vagabonds who were likewise accommodated in Henry Keck’s institution.

  On his fourth day at Darlinghurst Gaol Kinchela was led to the work shed by a turnkey who wanted to see how well the new inmate might weave cabbage-tree hats. As they walked together the prison guard quickly realised that Kinchela was a gentleman and immediately informed the prisoner that there were numerous comforts a man in his position might enjoy—provided he had the funds. By the evening Kinchela was comfortably ensconced in the governor’s quarters exchanging fond recollections about St Stephen’s Green with Mrs Keck and her daughters, and enjoying the governor’s enthusiasms for everything from birds to bassoon playing, monkeys and mazurkas.

  Of those who came to visit Kinchela during his so-called incarceration, Jim Davidson was most warmly welcomed into the Keck household. He came to visit at least once, sometimes twice, a week, although Kinchela suspected that he might have grown a little sweet on Keck’s second daughter. They were taking a turn around the prison garden one afternoon when Jim revealed that he had received a letter from John. ‘I see,’ Kinchela said, trying to subdue a pang that his brother had responded to a letter from a friend before replying to one of the many he must have received from his own flesh and blood during the same period. ‘And?’ Kinchela asked, pretending to be distracted by one of Keck’s monkeys happily attacking a bunch of scurvygrass. ‘He has been busy in the Bathurst parts it seems, and had to head up to Hawkwood for some urgent business with a potential buyer,’ Davidson replied. ‘He has affairs to settle, he said, and was looking to come back on one of the Moreton Bay steamers soon enough, but he doesn’t know if he will be back before the appeal.’ ‘Well,’ Kinchela eventually replied after the monkey scurried off into a nearby plot of chicory, ‘if anyone can drag this appeal out until John returns and rid me of my money in the process it will be Holroyd.’ ‘Mmmm,’ Davidson mused, looking away as he did so, for he was not sure that even the great John Junior could help James now. Let alone if he would want to.

  Meanwhile Robert Lowe was having a most marvellous time. He was caught on a swell of his own brilliance and becoming ever more compelling in his argument and articulation, both in the court and public domain. Occasionally he surprised even himself, for far from being discouraged, he found the vitriol heaped upon him quite energising. These insolent colonial fools reminded him of the physical torment he had endured during his school days. Now, however, the tables had turned and he had the upper hand and the moral high ground, and it was profoundly satisfying to carefully craft the demise of the very sort of men who had once terrified him. It was, therefore, of little surprise to him that he was able to quickly convince the full bench of the Supreme Court that there was no legal merit in undertaking a retrial of the Kinchela case. He would, of course, tolerate an appeal, he informed Manning one afternoon when the young judge stopped him in the corridor, but was quite confident that this too would come to nothing. ‘Nonetheless, Holroyd has every right to persist in this matter if’, he finished with a confident smile, ‘he feels it is in his client’s best interests.’

  But Holroyd wasn’t so sure. Nor was his client really giving him much direction. Every time he visited Kinchela in the room next to the governor’s main office with the intention of keeping the prisoner up to date with certain legal precedents he had diligently unearthed for the benefit of their case, Kinchela greeted him with resigned indifference. On one occasion when he was taken into the front parlour of Mr Keck’s private residence, he found Kinchela listening to a new composition on the pianoforte and refusing, point blank, to discuss any of the legal matters with Holroyd. And later when Kinchela had walked him to the front gate, he had the front to ask Holroyd if he might have some fresh reading matter for him to peruse. ‘Keck is the heart of generosity,’ Kinchela explained, leaning forward to confide to his counsel, ‘but for some reason he has a pronounced aversion to literature. He won’t have books or news-sheets in here at all, although no one has any idea why.’ Holroyd was not in the habit of supplying his clients with such materials, but he felt something of a debt to this man for the way he had handled his trial, so he had the boy in his chambers run up a parcel with a pile of issues from last year’s London Punch. The later editions included a new story that was being published, chapter by chapter in each issue, by William Makepeace Thackeray. Holroyd thought it droll and hoped it might keep his client’s spirit from dipping too low.

  The truth was that Kinchela had cast an eye over one or two of the local news-sheets and decided he was better off inside ignoring the whole thing until his older brother returned. Whatever their differences, John would want the family name restored and once he was bent to the task of fixing things, everything would fall into place again. Of that James was sure. So really, what else was there to do, but wait, Kinchela thought, spying a vacant hammock hanging between two trees. He might as well pass his days tolerably well and to do that he would allow himself to enjoy the extraordinary intrigues of Thackeray’s new work—Vanity Fair: A novel without a hero. And so, as the world beyond Darlinghurst Gaol grew colder and more engrossed in the forthcoming election, Kinchela became increasingly preoccupied with the scandalous conduct of a cunning orphan named Becky Sharp, who was intent upon hooking a handsome officer named Rawdon Crawley, who had more than a slight penchant for cards.

  Several days later, Kinchela was coming in from an afternoon on the hammock and was about to head upstairs to prepare for an early evening game of Klaberjass with Mrs Keck and her daughters, when one of Keck’s domestic staff informed the new guest that Mr Alex Green required his immediate presence at the Eastern Gate. The life drained from Kinchela, but he followed the servant to the gatehouse on the opposite side of the prison. It was a fair walk and all the while Kinchela puzzled over what the town ‘scourger’ might possibly want with him.
Perhaps it was some sort of hoax, Kinchela mused, for he had heard that the governor could be something of a trickster.

  When Kinchela arrived at the Eastern Gate he immediately recognised Green by the large scar that ran down the side of his face. The town hangman was shuffling back and forth in a rather excited way and rushed towards the prisoner when he saw him approach. ‘Mr Green,’ Kinchela said curtly. Green pointed past the gate. ‘A lady,’ he said with a leer before looking again to make sure she hadn’t disappeared. ‘A lady, come to see you, and a young one, too,’ he grinned. Kinchela nodded with some relief and thanked the hangman before stepping beyond the gaol gate to greet his mysterious visitor.

  Mary Ann was standing with her back to the gaol, studying the trunk of a nearby tree with great interest. There was a moment of rather awkward silence as Kinchela walked towards her. Mary Ann self-consciously tended to her bonnet. ‘It is polling day today,’ she began as Kinchela drew closer, ‘and the crowds in town are considerable.’ Kinchela listened but also quickly looked about him. He was pleased to see the girl but held some fear that her father and those infernal pistols might suddenly disrupt the fragile equanimity of his current circumstances. He cast another glance around as Mary Ann rushed on. ‘They have put troopers in front of the banks and there are police stationed everywhere,’ she said before stopping and waiting for him to speak. As the silence grew Mary Ann began to wonder for a terrifying moment if she had ventured all this way for someone who was not, in fact, entirely pleased to see her.

  Kinchela sensed her discomfort and frowned a little at his own rudeness. ‘Well,’ he began awkwardly, ‘you have given me a surprise, I must say,’ he thrust his hands in his pockets as he gave a sort of involuntary shrug. ‘You are the last person I ever expected to see. How on earth did you get up here?’ Mary Ann gave the slightest smile. ‘The town is full of campaign speakers,’ she explained. ‘And my father is much distracted by the crowds about the hotel.’ Kinchela whistled. The girl had pluck—that was for sure—and she was also looking much more alluring than the last time he had seen her during the trial when she had been wearing that dreadful dark garb. ‘I don’t suppose it was hard to get the gateman to do your bidding,’ he said, tossing a quick glance towards Green. Mary Ann shared a look of amused repulsion for the scourger and then focused her attention on the prisoner. Kinchela shook his head in amusement. He felt curiously nervous around her and was also acutely aware of the compromising position that she had yet again placed herself in—for him.

  ‘Well,’ she continued, when the silence became a little more comfortable, ‘I have come to tell you off.’ And then in response to Kinchela’s perplexed look, she added, ‘for missing my sixteenth birthday,’ pouting so prettily that Kinchela could not help but smile. He pulled two empty hands from his pockets to signal his penury but then as a quick afterthought added, ‘You know, I’ve the beginning of a new book you might like. Cracking read, in fact.’ He rushed on, keen to amuse her with the winding tale of Becky Sharp and her not-so-gallant Captain. How their secret marriage so aggrieved his rich aunt that she disinherited the newlyweds and forced them to make their own way without any good society. ‘But you see,’ he added, ‘I’ve only got up to the Christmas issue of last year’s Punch and I’ve a mind the story will go on another six months or so,’ he said, ‘so we will have to wait until the next boat comes with the latest issues.’

  ‘We could make it up,’ Mary Ann suggested, keen to keep the mood lively and capture some of the frisson that had infused their first conversations at the hotel. She was also more than a little intrigued by the story. ‘What would you like to happen to the newlyweds?’ she asked. ‘Well,’ Kinchela said uncertainly, as he cast about for an idea. ‘It is a shame Becky Sharp has all those ways about her, when she is so smart and pretty and also . . .’ he added as he watched Mary Ann blush, ‘that her husband is such a bounder.’ Kinchela thought another moment before adding more quietly, ‘Perhaps she would be better off if they had never met or,’ he said, dropping his gaze to his boots, ‘if she forgot him altogether.’

  Mary Ann focused on her gloves so he wouldn’t see her face. Sensing her disappointment, and not sure what else to do, Kinchela took a step forward and, much to her surprise, reached out and lightly touched the young woman’s arm. ‘Mary,’ he said with the sort of gentleness he usually reserved for a new prize stepper, ‘I don’t know how I might speak with you on this,’ he said, with such seriousness that Mary Ann looked up in surprise. She had never heard him sound so solemn. ‘I have had much time to think on it all,’ he said, searching her face, ‘and honestly I don’t know why you would ever want to look upon me again. I certainly didn’t think I would ever see you again.’

  Mary Ann darted a quick glance at him and then returned to her gloves. ‘I see,’ she replied quietly, taking pains not to meet his gaze. ‘And do you think Mr Crawley would be better without the troublesome Becky Sharp?’ she asked tartly. Kinchela jerked his head at the impertinence of the question and realised he had yet again been charmed by her direct way. He grinned and rubbed both hands together before putting both to his lips.

  ‘Well,’ he began, a little more playfully, ‘she does have a lot of spirit, that one,’ he replied, ‘as well as a certain way of finding trouble wherever she goes. And I can’t help thinking that she must be his equal, or perhaps even a little cleverer . . .’ he mused as he watched the young girl take in his words. ‘So now you make me think of it,’ he finished with a grin, ‘yes, I have no doubt that Becky Sharp will draw Crawley into all sorts of mischief.’ He watched Mary Ann’s brow grow heavy and full of frown before he hurried on. ‘But, you know,’ he said taking another step towards her, ‘I suspect some people fit together—so they might as well work out how to make do.’ He smiled as Mary Ann’s expression began to lift and lighten. ‘After all,’ he finished, ‘a man like Rawdon should be honoured Becky thinks him worthy of her . . .’ he trailed off, not sure what else to say. Mary Ann looked intently at Kinchela and then spoke with such solemnity that the older man was yet again taken aback. ‘I am quite sure, sir,’ she said in a steady voice, ‘that Rawdon Crawley is entirely worthy of such an honour.’

  Kinchela felt hopelessly humbled. After all the awkward disappointments of their thwarted romance this young girl was still prepared to look upon him. No one had ever thought so much of him, he realised, nor stood by him, and for that moment he felt unable to do anything but stand before Mary Ann and take in the great force of her conviction. Eventually he swallowed and spoke, his voice almost a whisper. ‘I will never let you down again, Mary,’ he said simply. ‘That is, if such an opportunity to prove that to you should ever come my way.’

  Mary Ann gave an almost imperceptible nod and then reached out to place a gloved hand upon Kinchela’s shoulder. Only for a moment though, for within a second she was tossing her head and giving him a mischievous look. ‘But, I suppose, James,’ she teased, ‘you know that book better than I, so I will have to take your instruction about the characters and their fate.’ Kinchela grinned and the pair stood, smiling at one another until, after the smallest time, Kinchela swallowed and said, ‘I shall be delighted to recount to you all that happens with this story the next time we see one another, Mary, and I hope by then,’ he added slowly, ‘we will be somewhere more fitting for husband and wife.’

  Mary Ann nodded again and the two figures stood beneath the bows of one of the few trees that still remained on the windblown rise of Woolloomooloo Hill. Suddenly, Mary Ann became aware of the encroaching darkness. ‘I must go,’ she hurried, ‘heaven knows what my father will do if he discovers I’ve disappeared again.’ And with one quick grin, she was gone, hurrying down the pathway into town, as Kinchela stood watching her small figure trail along the side of the prison wall and then disappear into the falling dusk.

  As Mary Ann made her way from the gaol a smile played upon her lips. James was still her own, she thought. She had been right to make her way up to the gaol. And she
had held her own. She had not stepped inside the compound, nor stooped to the depths of her early sojourn via Mrs Kelly’s during their failed elopement. She could hold her head high and know that her bold adventure had merited sure rewards. All the shame and suffering of the past months had suddenly dissolved. She had the answers she was seeking and one way or another she was now assured that she would also have the future she wanted. With James.

  As she descended into town, however, Mary Ann became increasingly aware of the menace that polling day had brought to the streets. She would need to be on her wits, she realised, as she eased herself into a party of five or six domestic women heading in the direction of Hyde Park. Just in front of her was a group of rough and ready men shoving and jostling one another in a loud and fractious way. The mood was most unpredictable, she thought.

  When she reached the edge of the park Mary Ann suddenly stopped in shock. Through the darkness she could just see men in uniform, some carrying buckets and others chasing Cabbagers, who were scattering—this way and that—as fast as they could. The mood was chaos and she had only taken a few steps before a heavy lad who was trying to escape from two policemen pushed roughly past her and knocked her to the ground. Mary Ann crouched in the dark where she had fallen for several minutes as she tried to make sense of her surrounds. In the far corner of the park she could just make out a squadron of mounted troopers, who looked to be organising themselves into formation. Somewhere in the centre, a giant structure was ablaze, its bright orange plumes and sparks spuming high into the night sky. ‘The polling booth,’ she whispered to herself, as the smoke swirled about her. ‘It’s been set alight.’ How long, she wondered desperately, before the park itself was engulfed in flame?