The Convict's Daughter Read online

  The following morning the two men continued their ride east and Kinchela mused further over the idea. He would be hard put to bring further shame upon the family name in America and who knows he might even make good out there, perhaps even well enough to put his mother on firm footing again. His head was full of the stories Hawkins had recounted the night before, about the size of the nuggets men were scooping from the rivers and the great crowds that were flooding in from all over the world. The place sounded even more treacherous than the colonies and Kinchela couldn’t help but wonder how much of it was true. Probably a lot of wild talk, he thought. It would pay to ask around and see what the newspapers had to say before he did anything, but still, the idea of a fresh start far from Sydney held a certain appeal.

  That afternoon Kinchela farewelled Hawkins and took the path out to the Walkers’. The man had come up in the world, he noted as he followed the perimeter of Walker’s property, and noticed how it was now fixed with solid wooden fences and that the stock on the other side looked as plump and safe as any in those parts. Wonder how many men he has out at dusk keeping an eye on his future, Kinchela mused. Instead of the modest hut that Walker had been living in the first time he and John visited in 1847 there was now a fine looking cottage with a commanding view over an expanse of lawn and some distant paddocks. It was all his land, Kinchela thought with a twinge of envy. This had been what he and John had worked for. As he was tying up Surus, Walker came out of the house, followed by a woman with her sleeves rolled up, as if she had been cooking. He’s got himself a wife too, Kinchela thought, as he greeted the wealthy landowner.

  The two men talked for several hours and just before dark Mrs Walker came out and insisted Kinchela stay. She wouldn’t see anyone on the roads at night, she said firmly. Walker was pleased with the terms Kinchela outlined for the rest of the run and the two men quickly reached an agreement. That settled, the older man wanted to know what the two Kinchela boys were going to do next. After all, they had been among the first in these parts. ‘Isn’t it time you got yourself a wife?’, Walker asked as he poured a drink for his wife and guest. Kinchela smarted and wondered if Walker had been reading the papers. He looked away and reddened but when he caught his host’s gaze he found no irony or contempt in his expression. ‘Now then, John,’ the hostess said, having noticed Kinchela’s discomfort, ‘you will embarrass our guest.’

  The last time anyone made such a suggestion to Kinchela it had been Jim Davidson, more than a year ago, and it had got him into a world of trouble. And yet the idea still held some appeal. A wife, Kinchela thought for the second time in a year. He would have to sort himself out and if he did decide to go to California there were few who would be prepared to come on such a journey. And then it occurred to him. He knew one person who needed a fresh start as much as he. The only woman in fact who he had given any thought to since he had been up north. His brother would have few chances of stopping that match in America, and he wouldn’t need to, for he could hardly shame the family from such a distance. Kinchela quickly put the idea away and picked up the drink Walker had poured for him. He smiled graciously at his hosts before taking a swig and turning to admire the splendid view of the Walkers’ expansive estate.

  Governor FitzRoy was popular throughout the colony. Some liked his fast four-in-one carriages and tight-fitting uniforms, while others appreciated the athletic way he held himself. He was often slightly aloof but always in the most stylish fashion, and in a way that could also appear avuncular, if required. In short, the Governor of New South Wales was what most colonists considered the very embodiment of manliness. The death of his pretty wife less than two years ago in a tragic carriage accident, where he had held the reins in his own hand, had given him a tragic air. There were a number of colonists, particularly among the womenfolk, devoted to their well-connected and rather handsome governor. But recently, FitzRoy had disappointed a host of influential people, and several more sympathetic papers were finding it hard to resist making certain observations. In particular, the events that had taken place at Government House after the winter rally at Circular Quay had put a great number of people off side.

  Robert Lowe was not helping matters either. After the rally the wily Weathercock had marched up to Government House in the company of ten or so committeemen. They had been appointed by the crowd and more than three thousand people had kept close behind their representatives, following them all the way from the harbour up to the gates, intent upon knowing that their petition was going to be hand-delivered to the governor himself. But FitzRoy had manned the outer perimeter of his property with troops and had been extremely reluctant to even open his doors to the party, forcing the great mob to wait in the rain for several hours before he deigned to acknowledge their existence.

  To talk with Lowe was one thing, in the governor’s opinion. Although he could not stand the strange-looking man, he recognised that the elected member of the Legislative Council was educated and erudite. Lowe was one of them, but among the contingent intent upon giving him their so-called petition, were a number of men FitzRoy considered beneath his station. How could he, the Queen’s representative, possibly hold audience with a group of shopkeepers and pamphleteers? Captain Innes had also informed him that several of these men held convictions for crimes they had committed upon these very shores.

  But FitzRoy had a sense that it wouldn’t do to let them rot out there in the rain. He looked out to where hundreds were crouched under their infernal cabbage-tree hats, some trying to smoke their pipes beneath the incessant downpour, while others slouched about looking too idle for their own good. He would have to do something, he thought, peering across the lawn at the vast body of working men standing before the troopers and their bayonets. It had to be something that would sound well enough in his next report to the Home Secretary but would also quell the mood. After some consideration, FitzRoy sent his senior officer to inform those awaiting his company that he would meet with six appointed delegates the following afternoon at two o’clock.

  It did the job, Innes reported back. The tension dispelled and the mob dispersed. But something felt off, and next afternoon when Robert Lowe returned in the company of Parkes and Lamb and three other men, the mood in the governor’s residence was decidedly tense. FitzRoy was in a difficult situation, for he had already reassured the people of Port Phillip that the Hashemy would not infect their colony. What could he now, in all honesty, say to those over whom he most closely presided, with whom he daily resided, when Earl Grey insisted that the boat be processed in Sydney? He would need to stand firm, the governor knew, for there was nowhere to give, no way to buckle. Just to make sure he had stationed a few guards in his kitchen and ordered a squadron of mounted troops in his stables.

  FitzRoy stood aloof, regarding the party with cool disdain. It was Robert Campbell, the popular young merchant with an honest face, who presented the governor with their petition. ‘There are close to seven thousand signatures to this petition, your Excellency,’ the native-born freemason said placing the large roll of yellow paper in the hands of the slightly perturbed governor. ‘We would ask that you forward these resolutions from the people of this colony directly to the foot of the throne.’ The committeemen made murmurs of solid agreement, as FitzRoy sucked in his breath and puffed out his chest, running one finger along his eyebrow before nodding curtly.

  Lowe, who had been watching the exchange carefully, felt the matter too mannered and interjected. ‘There is one particular resolution, your Excellency, upon which you may desire to give some answer now,’ he began in what FitzRoy felt was an unnecessarily high-minded tone. The governor looked Lowe up and down, and imagined, for a moment, what it might be like to take the sword hanging on the wall of his study and slice the bookish worm from crown-to-navel. He coughed rather abruptly and replied. ‘You will inform those by whom you were deputed, that this is obviously impossible.’

  Several other men in the party rushed to speak but the governor raised his hand. �
��I am not prepared to enter into any further discussion,’ he finished, turning his back upon the party and looking out the window to a day that was thankfully a little brighter than the last. There was a long silence, which became increasingly awkward as FitzRoy stood unwavering in his disdain. The party looked about at one another and Lowe signalled they should depart—leaving their impertinent petition lying untouched upon the governor’s desk.

  As they walked towards the gates Parkes thought he saw steam pouring from the stables. He asked the party to stop a moment and listen. None were sure at first, but after a moment Campbell was certain he heard the sound of hooves inside the darkness of the governor’s stables, as men tried to manage their mounts. ‘He’s got troops in there,’ Lamb said, shocked. Lowe nodded gravely, ‘And no doubt they are ready to fire on all of us if the mood turns.’ Lamb shook his head in disgust as the men proceeded past the sentries at the governor’s gates, towards the Royal Hotel, where the remaining committee members were waiting for them with a large party of hangers-on.

  The mood was thick with drink when the delegation finally arrived at the hotel. All sorts of rumours had been flying about, none of which put FitzRoy in a complimentary light. ‘The governor had a police guard in the pantry,’ one fellow told Parkes, who raised his eyebrows and asked if FitzRoy thought they might steal the silver. He had been right, though, Lamb told the group—there had been troops in the stables. The committee also received confirmation that guns had been trained on Circular Quay the day before. ‘It is just like Peterloo,’ Lamb muttered darkly. ‘Imagine if they had been given the order to fire? They would kill us for folded arms and steady eyes,’ he scowled, recalling the Peterloo Massacre in 1819 when the British cavalry had charged upon peaceful demonstrators and stunned the nation by murdering so many innocent civilians. The poet Shelley had shared such disgust and mourned the moment in a poem that had quickly become famous. Hawkesley shook his head and stood up, gesturing to the room. ‘And if then the tyrants dare,’ he growled loud enough for those in the back bar to hear, ‘let them ride among you there, slash and stab and maim and hew, what they like, that let them do.’

  Lowe nodded. On this point he did, in fact, consider the committeeman correct. Rather than reason with them as gentlemen, the governor had been willing to cut them down in the street. He had seen them as nothing better than a wild mob. They really had no choice, Lowe thought, but to rise like Shelley’s ‘lions after slumber’. He stood to join Hawkesley. ‘The time has come,’ the white-haired lawyer declared, ‘to shake our chains to the earth like dew’. But, he thought as he considered the great gathering of men now staring back at him with steely expressions, he had better assume command, and steer the mood in the right direction, otherwise he might end up with blood on his hands.

  Lowe turned to Hawkesley, ‘A long column in tomorrow’s paper should start us off on the right foot, don’t you think, Mr Hawkesley? If the governor fails to consider us proper British subjects and gentlemen, perhaps we might point out a few of his own shortcomings. The governor’s rudeness, and all that,’ he finished with a shrewd smile. The men looked at one other and Hawkesley scratched his chest. ‘I will be talking of “The Battle of New South Wales” in the Advocate, Mr Lowe,’ he said, knocking back his stout and sounding firm.

  But Angus Mackay picked up the scent and saw the sense of it. The committee would play straight into the hands of the settlers if things turned violent. ‘Perhaps it might be best to say something about the repulsive chill we received from the governor,’ Mackay suggested, ‘and how he gave us a reception that was aimed at disgusting not only the delegation but all of those in New South Wales who share a loathing for the boat and its vile cargo.’ ‘Mmmm,’ Lamb nodded, catching the mood. ‘If only the governor had shown us even a little warmth of temper.’ Henry Parkes chimed in with a mischievous glint in his eyes, ‘Surely such warlike preparations were entirely unnecessary’, he grinned, ‘All those pickles in the pantry,’ he mused, ‘and nothing more than a small party of respectable men who only intended to present the governor with the feelings of his people?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The Camel’s Back

  It was 18 June 1849, just three days from Mary Ann’s seventeenth birthday and thousands were returning to Circular Quay for a second Monster Meeting. This time, however, the sun was shining and Sydney-siders were keen to celebrate the anniversary of that famous victory of Waterloo while also sending a firm message to the governor. Mary Ann had promised her brother she would not leave the hotel alone but after the excitement of last week’s rally and all that had been in the papers, it had been easy for Mary Ann to persuade Will to join her. Brother and sister made their way through the Rocks and onto the quay where they were quickly caught up in the hustle and bustle of the rally. There were men selling ‘cigars and a light for a penny a piece’ and young boys carrying trays of ginger pops. The ‘Triumphant Car of Defiance’ had returned to the quay and the usual suspects—Robert Campbell, Henry Parkes, Dr Aarons and Robert Lowe were milling about the vehicle preparing to make their speeches.

  There were already thousands more about the quay than the first Monster Rally, and while the heavens had wept over the great insult of the convict boat and its shameful human cargo, then, ‘the Australian heavens’ were now ‘smiling and rejoicing’ as even more ‘British freemen’ rallied to the quay determined to demand their rights. At least this is what Mr Parkes declared as he strutted about the roof of the omnibus—delighted that so many shared his aspirations for the colony. The mood was lively but also tense for the governor’s cavalry were present and had been told to wear their sabres unsheathed. As they rode among the families and well-dressed workers, the swords of the governor’s men glinted in the sun.

  Not that this was enough to deter Dr Isaac Aarons, the eccentric apothecary from Pitt Street. He had just scrambled onto the deck of the omnibus—keen to put the accused, the Right Honourable Earl Grey, the Colonial Secretary, on mock trial. ‘Is the defendant guilty of tyranny and faithlessness, or not guilty?’ the wily old man called out as hundreds respond with jeers of ‘Guilty! Guilty!’ ‘Yes indeed,’ the doctor enthused, ‘and in this matter the governor’s discourtesy is comparable to the single feather in that famous Persian tale . . . you remember the one?’ he asked the vast audience with an amused expression, ‘It appears ever so delicate as it floats this way and that—but when it finally alights upon a burden already stacked high,’ the doctor gestured dramatically, ‘it is enough to cause the over-laden camel to completely collapse.’

  Mary Ann and Will found a small patch of lawn just across from the docks where they could see and hear the speakers. It was exhilarating to be part of such an occasion, Mary Ann thought although it was true to say that she was also enjoying the women’s dresses and her first public outing in some time. It was a blessed relief to be out of the cloistered confines of their Pitt Street hotel, where both her parents were on edge, to say the least. Will was standing close by, with both hands thrust into his pockets, chewing his lip as he listened to the speakers. He was keen to hear Robert Lowe who had just taken to the omnibus roof, announcing that after his meeting with the governor last week he had returned to the people determined to ‘bell the cat’.

  ‘The shame of it,’ he called out to the thousands before him. ‘How could an old Waterloo hero like FitzRoy so fear a delegation of twenty-three gentlemen that he was prepared to incite the colony to a scene like that of the bloody field of Peterloo?’ The people ooh’ed and ahh’ed as Lowe daringly reduced the governor’s dignity to a plaything. After a few moments of such banter, the People’s Idol collected himself and declared more solemnly that the time had come to talk of America. Not in the sort of whispers that were most often done around these parts, he insisted as he raised both hands, ‘but in a passionate and forthright manner. I am not asking you to be rash,’ he explained, ‘but you must know that we are at the beginning of a great struggle, and in order to go through that successfully
we must have the example of America clearly in our minds.’ Many in the crowd nodded and a good number also cheered. ‘The injustice that was forced upon the Americans was not so great,’ Lowe continued, ‘as that which has been forced upon us. And I feel it is my duty,’ he finished, ‘to tell you that if we are to succeed at all we must have the example of America before us.’ There was much furious agreement among the assembly, although Mary Ann also noticed several timid sorts looking over to the far end of the quay where the cavalry had organised themselves into a single formation.

  Mary Ann looked about at the great sprawl of people, as Will listened intently to Robert Lowe and tried to imagine what it would be like to be American. Native-born, cornstalk, currency lad, he mused. Those terms sounded good, but more often than not they were used to remind him of his station as someone who was not entitled to the land grants of a sterling settler or the righteous indignation of an emancipist. What about his birthright, the fifteen year old mused, surely, those who had been born in the colonies deserved as much, if not more than those who had come here? As Lowe continued to enthral the crowd, Will began to wonder if he might have more of a chance in America. True, he had heard that San Francisco was a mess and there was trouble in the new town, but there was something about that chaos that excited him. At least they had a little passion over there, he thought, trying to imagine those around him rising up to cast the Hashemy convicts into the sea, as the Americans had done with all that tea. Little chance. Men like his father were more interested in turning a profit from such a cargo, he thought, when, suddenly, he heard his sister gasp. He turned and saw Mary Ann searching—frantically—for somewhere to hide.