The Convict's Daughter Page 7

  If Mary Ann had harboured any doubts about keeping the promise she had made to Kinchela in the upstairs room of the Sportsman’s Arms, her father’s energetic assertion of paternal authority must have strengthened her resolve. The curtain blew in from the window Mary Ann had left open after climbing through it a second time. The bed sheets were dishevelled but it was impossible to miss the smattering of blood on the girl’s pillow. Martin was right behind his wife. He had followed her to put a stop to any tenderness, but when he saw the empty bedroom he turned on his heel and was gone, bounding down the staircase, two, three steps at a time and still in his nightshirt. He shoved his feet into the boots he kept by the door and was away. Margaret heard horse hooves clatter across the yard and from the window glimpsed her husband dashing past, reins hardly in his hands as he spurred his horse up Pitt Street.

  No sooner had Kinchela seen the coach with the girl and her father in it drawing away from the Sportsman’s Arms than he went inside again to ask Healy to assist him with a licence for the morning. Things were getting desperate and he needed to come up with something quick smart, only Healy was not making any promises and the hotel owner was also proving a little troublesome. He was even forward enough to give Kinchela a piece of his mind when the gentleman settler asked for a drink. It was nearly three in the morning, Webb said, and he wanted upstairs with his wife. Still, a gentleman’s money was tempting and he was curious, too, so he agreed to one. Even then, he made his point. ‘You have no right, sir,’ Webb said, crossing his arms across his chest after he had put a glass of rum on the bench, ‘bringing a girl in here like this.’ Kinchela looked up and shrugged, ‘There is no harm to it,’ he said as much to himself as the innkeeper. ‘Why not do it proper then?’ Webb followed on. ‘I have tried,’ Kinchela shook his head and muttered. ‘I asked her father and he’ll have none of it. Flat.’ Then Kinchela lightened, ‘There is no fear of it, you two,’ he said as the two men looked doubtfully at him. ‘It will be done first thing in the morning.’

  Mary Ann was hoping the same thing as she sat once more inside Somerville’s cab making her way back along the Parramatta road towards Homebush in the early hours of Sunday morning. They were now racing against time, she knew, but Somerville sounded confident. He knew where to go and what to do, he said, before closing the door and stepping into the driver’s seat, she was to sit back and think about her wedding day.

  But when Somerville pulled up at the Homebush racecourse, Kinchela couldn’t be found. He didn’t want to unsettle the girl so he got back on the coach and continued on to Cutt’s Hotel where he had a feeling he might find the gentleman in question. He walked around to the kitchen, where a boy was splitting wood for the fire. ‘Is Cutt inside?’ he asked. The boy pointed to the front verandah where the owner was tending to his guests. Somerville took his chance and went right up and explained that he was in something of a delicate situation. Cutt, a rough old Scotsman, who was in the habit of protecting his wealthy clientele, took a note from his waistcoat pocket and handed it over with a curt nod. The old driver brought it back to the young girl in the coach’s cabin. Mary Ann took the note from the old man and read it. Once, twice, and then after the third read she tore the letter into three pieces and threw it out of the coach window where it lay dissolving in the dew. ‘Take me on to Mrs Beaton’s Inn,’ she commanded in a voice thick with disgust and resignation.

  Kinchela was biding his time and betting on a break. He had put a lot on the hope that Davidson would help him put all the pieces together. After all, it had been his idea in the first place. He planned to meet Jim for an early breakfast at the track out at Homebush and get the licence as soon as they could after that. Only they would have to head into town to do that, Davidson explained, and there was a horse he wanted to watch first, so they would have to go up together in the afternoon, after the race. Davidson was starting to feel sorry for Kinchela, who was looking particularly queasy. Hadn’t had much sleep, Davidson suspected, and there was a hint of stale grog on his breath. ‘We can go by gig,’ the magistrate proposed as they found a breakfast table on the verandah, ‘get it done in the afternoon and be back tonight. I’ll even be your witness. How’s that?’ Kinchela nodded, looking a little desperate as he went off to pen a hasty note for Somerville to give to Mary Ann, which he left with the proprietor. Then, as advised by Davidson, he ordered a meal to fortify himself for the day ahead.

  It was a crisp bright morning and the fresh air, along with the fusty residue of last night’s drinking session, encouraged Kinchela’s appetite. He dug into his baked eggs, and was thinking about how to set things right with his soon-to-be-wife when two nearby guests began making such a ruckus that he felt compelled to ascertain the source of their excitement.

  Off in the distance, on the flat land of the plains, just beyond the racetrack about half a mile away or so, a man was galloping towards them on a large, dark brown mount. A mare, Kinchela thought, and in good nick. The rider was hardly in control of her, he noted, but seemed to be going at a cracking pace. You could hear the rumble of the hooves thudding along and this kept up even when the pair disappeared into the winter morning fog. There they were again. Then gone and then back again and now much closer. Closer again.

  Some of the guests were up on their tiptoes, trying to make out what was going on, and there were two young lads in cabbage-tree hats leaning against the railing, cheering the rider on. ‘He’s got to be drunk,’ the younger one snorted. ‘That or pretty bloody mad,’ the other replied. The two lay-abouts seemed to have laid a bet on how long it would take the rider to get to the track and if he would fall before he arrived. Kinchela half-listened. He contemplated tossing a crown into the bet and was feeling his pockets for coins when he stopped short. The man and his mount were in sight again and straightaway James could tell. It was the girl’s father.

  The hotelier’s boots were not strapped up and it looked like he might even be wearing his nightshirt. ‘Good lord,’ Kinchela swallowed as he looked about for heaven-knows-what—a way out, perhaps. He was trying to think about what to say to Davidson, but before his thoughts were even partially formed, tough little Martin Gill was pulling up hard out the front of Cutt’s Hotel. Next minute he was off his mount and bounding up the stairs leading into the verandah. Everything seemed to stall as Kinchela watched Mary Ann’s father push through the crowd and hurl himself towards his table, a pistol in each hand. There was a clatter of plates and a shove of chairs as the rest of the breakfast crowd rushed inside.

  Suddenly, there was only Gill and Kinchela facing one another in the autumn dawn. Kinchela stood and asked for a quiet word with his assailant, but Gill was having none of it. He cocked his weapon, ‘Will I give you time, sir?’ he growled, before he pointed it at the younger man’s head. Kinchela deftly grabbed hold of the muzzle with one hand but this only provoked the gunman further. ‘Let go, sir,’ he barked, ‘or I will blow out your brains.’ No sooner had Kinchela released the weapon than a generous portion of powder exploded from its mouth, bruising Kinchela on the side of his forehead before skidding along the verandah. There was a stir and whinny of horses and then all was still.

  ‘My God,’ Gill groaned, dropping the finished weapon to the ground. ‘I can’t believe I missed you.’ The gentleman settler raised his hand to his forehead where the powder had left a black smudge. ‘Come now, sir,’ he said, but the gunman shook his head. ‘I will finish you, Kinchela,’ Gill snarled as he struggled with shaking hands to cock the second weapon.

  As he did so, the settler took a step away from the table and then another until finally he was standing inside the entry of Cutt’s Hotel. He was looking about for Davidson but spotted another of his brother’s friends, a fellow named Graham Hunter, who had been the Commissioner for Crown Lands in Wellington Valley when James and John had first started there. Hunter was having his breakfast in a corner of the dining room and hoping to keep out of it all, but when Kinchela advanced towards him he acknowledged him reluctantly. ‘H
unter,’ Kinchela insisted, ‘I’ll not stand by and be shot at like a dog.’

  Hunter nodded and stepped from the table before proceeding to where Gill was furiously pacing the verandah, his second pistol at the ready. ‘Sir,’ Hunter coughed at the agitated fellow, ‘we will have to apprehend you.’ Gill shook his head and lifted his pistol, pointing it at Kinchela, who was standing right behind Hunter in the dining-room doorway. ‘I am sorry I have not killed you,’ Gill spat as he took aim at Kinchela’s head.

  At that moment, Davidson, who had been watching the whole thing from the corner of the verandah, saw his chance, seized the weapon and somehow also managed to wrestle Gill to the ground. Seconds later, Cutt was on the gunman, too, and in a flash the two lads wearing cabbage-tree hats also jumped in, hooting as if the whole thing was a great lark. Minutes later, the Commissioner stepped forth to formally arrest the hotelier on a charge of shooting with intent. Kinchela shook his head, ‘No, Hunter,’ he protested. ‘I don’t mean to lay charges.’ ‘Too late, old boy,’ Hunter responded without even turning to look at him. ‘It’s not your decision, disturbing the peace and all that, don’t you know?’

  Minutes later the crowd returned to their tables chattering with considerable excitement. One or two turned to consider Kinchela who was standing with Davidson and watching as Hunter and Cutt led the handcuffed Gill to a small outhouse. ‘He will be able to cool off there for a bit,’ Davidson said with a smirk, but James shook his head. He was in no mood for jokes.

  Meanwhile, as instructed, Somerville had driven Mary Ann Gill on to the establishment of yet another friend of James, a woman named Mrs Beaton, who ran an inn near the Parramatta racecourse. The middle-aged woman was attempting to soothe the young girl with a cup of tea. Neither knew what had just transpired at Cutt’s Hotel, but after the great anxiety of the night before and this second terrible disappointment Mary Ann was close to giving up. Despite their careful plans and her great daring, Mary Ann was still not married, and if James didn’t come through very soon she would have no choice but to return home to her father’s guns. She would then have to face the ignominy of having stepped out with a man who clearly lacked the enthusiasm or ability to see her properly wed. An indignity of this sort, once it got out, could be a hundred times worse than death, Mary Ann thought, particularly in a town like Sydney where her family were well known and a woman’s respectability was everything.

  Mary Ann was still trying to work out if there was any way she might still believe the best of James, when, suddenly, old Somerville came thumping into the front room leaving a trail of mud across the rug. ‘Police are on their way, girl,’ he bellowed, shoving the young girl down the corridor. ‘You best be out and quick smart,’ he said, pulling a window open and forcing Mary Ann through it as quick as he could. One leg, two legs. Out.

  Then, thwuck, thwuck, the girl began running across the wet lawn, her skirts heavy with morning dew as she pushed on, desperate to make a dash for it. Twenty yards or so from the house, Mary Ann turned to see a slim young man in police uniform jumping out the window after her. She pushed off again—faster than before—and was thrashing desperately through the dewy lawn with all her might when suddenly Mary Ann felt her skirts snag and she found herself toppling head first into the long wet grass.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Shooting With Intent

  Eighteen forty-eight was like no year before it and few that followed. When the first steamers arrived at Circular Quay in early May carrying with them London newspapers bursting with bloody tales of winter revolutions in France then Italy, Germany, Poland and Hungary, the unsettled state of the old world suddenly became a matter of ‘vast importance’ throughout the colony. One local newspaper declared with alarm that ‘in less than a few hours . . . a throne had been overturned, a monarchy crushed and a republic established’ in Paris. The ‘heroic people’ had risen up, another proclaimed, and hurled ‘their trembling sovereign from the giddy eminence of his throne’. Suddenly, all over ‘Milan, Berlin and Budapest’ the people were taking to the streets.

  France had sneezed, it seemed, and the rest of Europe had caught ‘the great contagion of liberty’. The entire thing was more of a dream than a reality, another news-sheet mused, although they were just as astounded that it had taken only eighty-five days for the news of these European insurrections to arrive in New South Wales. From what the press were saying, everything had begun in Paris. With winter sharp in the air, the desperate and diminished had pushed through the snow-thick streets, dragging behind them bits of dismantled omnibus and city gigs, which they threw onto blockades already stacked high with trees they had cut down from the city’s parklands. Once news of the poor grain supplies and empty government coffers became common knowledge, thousands more took to the streets and within a few days ‘every gate, every street, lane and court’ was blocked with ‘enormous barricades’. Yet again, French historian Alexis de Tocqueville observed, ‘young France was simmering like a live volcano’. And when Louis Philippe, the Citizen King, fearing insurrection, decided to ban the banquets that had been established to feed his starving citizens a ‘terrible conflagration’ ensued and great plumes of smoke rose from the barricades, colonial readers learnt, fuelled by hunger, rage and desperation.

  Some were saying that it was 1789 all over again. Or 1832. Mobs rallied, palaces were stormed and within hours the King’s troops had all but capitulated. A few days later a man mounted upon a fine black horse trotted along the periphery of the palace to where a throng of hungry people had gathered about their bonfires. ‘The last King of the French has abdicated,’ he called out, only moments before the so-called Citizen King—dressed modestly in civilian clothes—passed along the pont tournant in the company of his ageing wife. All the way, the royal couple were heckled by starving subjects. ‘Vive la Reform’ and ‘Vive la France’ they hissed, except for a lone voice, which dared to call out ‘Vive le Roi’ as the last king and his wife slipped quietly away.

  England, of course, had its own problems. At the Monster Rally on Kennington Common that April, the banners had made all sorts of brazen statements such as ‘Ireland for the Irish’ and ‘Politics for the People’. Some said 300,000 had marched through London for the rally, although the conservative press had been instructed by the government to put the number at no more than 15,000. The same was said about the petition that mad band of ideologues dragged up the stairs of Parliament House. Their leader, the half-crazed Irishman Fergus O’Connor, boasted that they had secured well over six million signatures. Stuff and nonsense, the papers retorted—less than a million, if that—and some of the names were clearly fraudulent, one paper fumed. Still, there was a general concern that the Chartists were growing uncomfortably bold. Change was in the air—even in England, even after the workers had been given a ten-hour work day. Just as well the young British Queen and her ever-expanding family was of sufficient interest to quell much of the unrest that the French nonsense was stirring up throughout the rest of Europe.

  What a year. From France to the Netherlands, Italy to Hungary, Poland and Denmark, monarchs and aristocrats were dragged from their thrones and driven from their estates as articulate artisans took to the streets, inciting workers and students to march against corruption. In Ireland things were as fractious as ever. Yet another potato blight had crippled the country and there were now 800,000 starving and bedraggled Roman Catholic paupers in the village streets and town squares, most too weak to catch whatever crumbs fell from Protestant tables. And with the soil still soft around the graves of more than a thousand emaciated corpses, the spectre of cholera also roamed the land, plucking fresh victims from those who dared to survive.

  These were events of ‘astounding importance’, one rather radical colonial paper wrote, and surely signalled the end of absolute power. It would not be long before ancient edicts, royal decrees and elite privileges were replaced by a forthright press as well as public squares bustling with well-read workers ready to change the world.
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  For most of the colonists in the increasingly respectable town of Sydney, the news-sheets were both appalling and enthralling. It was impossible to avoid the fact that something was going on and yet few were certain about what that was and how to respond. No sooner had news from the first of the May steamers arrived than it became a common practice, for a time at least, for the streets outside the city newspaper offices to throng each daybreak with crowds of men desperate for the latest European intelligence.

  The majority of those in the crowd were the sort of idlers who thought it a lark to knock the brown beavers off the heads of new chums making their way onto colonial soil for the first time. They were tough men, typically much bigger and stronger than those coming in off the boats. Their insolent pride showed in their uniform—rough calico working pants with a striped shirt of some description, often finished with a red or blue kerchief and a cheap hat made of cabbage-tree palm that had a tall as well as a wide brim that was better at keeping the sun out of their eyes than those silly felt things the ‘Jimmy Grants’ arrived in. True some of the Cabbagers, as they were known, had only been babes when they came in the last of the prison boats, but the biggest number were currency lads and the sons of convicts. They nursed their parents’ shame and added to this a longer list of real and imagined insults. With little learning and even less luck, these Cabbagers were all pent-up fury and seething resentment and most of them roamed the streets like a pack of surly farm dogs.