Mrs. M

by Luke Slattery

‘The aim is civilisation,’ he declares. ‘But now it seems open war has broken out. Damned nasty business, what! Like many long wars of the past it is impossible to tell where this one begins. The first cause was likely a trivial thing: the theft of a woman, native or European —’

  Rose laughs unpleasantly.

  ‘John Piper,’ I interject. ‘You should know better. That is hardly a trivial matter.’

  Piper throws up his hands in mock submission. ‘Now, now,’ he says, offering a coy look to me and then Rose. ‘I merely mean to say …’ — he pauses to gather his thoughts and hurries on — ‘that a crime that need not have drawn blood — but a crime nevertheless — has had the most grave, and sanguinary, consequences.’ He takes a deep breath, mops his brow, and is about to continue when he pauses again for a sip of his wine.

  ‘John,’ I say. ‘The soup. It is getting cold.’

  ‘Nothing gets cold in this infernal climate,’ Piper roars. He takes a spoonful and makes a purse-lipped ‘Mmm’ of appreciation. ‘Damn fine, Mrs Ovens!’ he says with a twist towards the kitchen. ‘Now as I see it …’ He gives a leathery cough. ‘Ex-cuse me. As I was saying. Was saying … Oh yes. The natives had not seen an enclosure in their lives until our arrival. Their ancestors do not even possess a word for it. They spy a flock of grazing sheep and think, “What ho! Dinner.” Lamb must be quite a delicacy after’ — he pauses, lips quivering with delight — ‘goanna. Haw-haw. What ho!’ He looks around imploringly. There is a polite chortle from Bigge and Scott. I place a hand on Bungaree’s forearm.

  After another nervous cough, Piper continues, ‘Yes. Well. The settlers, believing in many cases that they are entitled to extreme measures to protect hard-won property, have and will shoot, in their turn, those they believe guilty of theft. They would not ordinarily, of course, kill a white man — even a bushranger — in retaliation for the loss of a sheep. But they see the natives as little more than pests. I am sorry’ — the hands are raised once again — ‘but this is how things stand.’

  Scott reaches for his glass and takes a long, slow sip. Those with full glasses follow him and those who have already drained theirs motion to the servants for more. Piper presses on, ‘Some of the natives, particularly those from the richer areas inland — I presume they are a prouder, fierce race — have retaliated by raiding homes, laying waste, leaving no one alive. It is a dreadful situation. I fear somewhat for the future.’

  As two servants pick their way around the table removing the soup bowls, Bigge opens his small mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again, like a fish gasping for air. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he says finally, ‘my commission is rather broader than this, as you say, grave situation that will in any event resolve itself with military victory over the hostile natives. No, my brief encompasses every aspect of colonial life.’ He moves his hands over his thighs before folding them, leaning back in his chair with a thin smile — just a gash.

  ‘Then you will help to put an end to these dreadful divisions?’ asks Piper as he takes a beef pie from a plate passed around by Hawkins. Adding a dollop of pale horseradish, he shovels it into his mouth as if stoking a fire. ‘Mmm, very good.’ He points to the horseradish in its silver bowl. ‘Excellent in fact,’ he says through a mouthful. He swallows. Goes on. ‘Not too watery. Freshly made. Mrs Ovens. You have struck gold with her. Can I perhaps borrow —’

  Bigge breaks in, ‘Most certainly the ending of social divisions, which have been fomented — quite possibly — by the elevation of one class over others. An end to public waste. No more unnecessary extravagance. These kinds of things.’

  ‘All endings then,’ says the Architect with a narrowing of those green eyes. ‘I mean ending things. Cutting, banning. Banishing. No beginnings. You have nothing new or generous to offer us.’

  ‘To the contrary. The beginning of great things. A new kind of future for men like Macarthur, who has sadly been detained in the country.’

  Bigge raises a glass and the others follow; Macquarie’s is the last glass raised. ‘To a prosperous future!’ toasts the Commissioner.

  ‘God Save the King!’ declaims the Governor powerfully.

  ‘God Save the King!’ echoes the company.

  I feel compelled to ask, ‘You foresee a future based around multitudes of ruminants: sheep and cattle? An agricultural colony serving the Empire?’

  ‘On the export of wool — most certainly.’

  ‘I am an outsider here,’ says Rose. ‘But I have seen much of the world. More, I would guess, than many of you wise gentlemen.’ She inclines her head towards her husband, who murmurs in French. They both smile. ‘I have,’ she goes on, ‘my own perspective.’ She leans forward, training her gaze on Bigge directly across from her.

  ‘You must allow us, then, to see things with your pretty eyes,’ says Piper, taking a thirsty sip from his glass.

  ‘Wool, yes. Pourquoi pas?’ she says with a falling intonation. ‘Your English mills want wool and a growing country needs a source of wealth as a growing child needs nourriture. I wonder, however, about the source of this hostility towards the state. The state built the colony. It still does.’ Turning to her left she gives me a lingering, affectionate look, takes a delicate sip of wine, leaving on the glass a lipstick print like a pressed flower. ‘This meal. Your quarters. Provided by the Government.’ She returns a hard gaze on Bigge. ‘The state — it cannot be all bad.’

  ‘But my government,’ he says flatly, ‘has no wish to continue its support.’ Scott nods, then nods again.

  ‘Will you allow me to continue?’ asks Rose. Without waiting for an answer, she goes on. ‘The smoky huts witnessed here a decade ago by my husband have been replaced by many fine buildings: spacious, beautifully proportioned and finished in stone or brick. Why, Captain Piper here lives in a paradise on the waterfront. Can it be true that he fires shots from four brass cannon to announce the start of his Saturday night revels?’

  Piper throws back his head. ‘True enough,’ he concedes. ‘True enough.’ Then he comes forward, elbows on the table. ‘Your intelligence, madam, is excellent.’

  Says Rose, ‘Have you noticed the pride that the freed take in their little cottages with their well-ordered gardens? Take a poor seed, plant it in fresh soil. How it grows!’

  Macquarie permits himself a contented smile and a few simple words. ‘So young,’ he says with a dark base note. ‘And green. But already straight and tall.’ He turns to me, and I notice the pouches in his jowls where once there had been a plane of firm jaw.

  Glasses are raised. But the salute is aborted by Bigge, who shakes an upbraiding hand at the company.

  ‘That is all very well,’ he crows. ‘But I come here as the agent of a king not a jolly gardener. And the King cares not a jot for the health of the colony, so long as it serves its purpose. Sydney was, is, and will be for some time to come, a place of correction. It is a jail in part; in another part a source of labour for an economy that will in time serve the Empire most ably. I am not entirely sure what end it serves now. Perhaps the ambitions of the good Governor and his wife.’

  ‘Damned harsh,’ says Piper.

  Rose takes a deep breath. Macquarie makes to rise. Looking at each in turn, I spread my hands and lower them slowly to the table. The large, sweet-natured servant in the tight borrowed coat stands behind Bigge with an expression of murderous rage. The Commissioner is fortunate, it occurs to me, that the young man is nowhere near the carving knife.

  ‘If. I. May,’ Macquarie breaks in. My husband has no wish to say anything that could be recorded by Scott and used against him. But his reticence has its limits. ‘I cannot let this rest. I have shared some brief words. You must now permit me to speak at length.’ He regards each man, each woman, in turn. ‘Your opinion, Commissioner,’ he continues, ‘is really no different from that of Macarthur. And others of his kind. I will avoid the subject of politics and say only that I have known many convicts. I have freed hundreds. Perhaps thousands. Few among them have reoffended.
’ He speaks to his hands, placed on the table straight before him, avoiding Bigge’s eyes. I slip my own hand beneath the table and let it rest on his thigh. ‘The felons have been reformed by the system of rewards and punishments,’ he shoots me a quick look. ‘The chief reward being what they so fiercely desire —’

  ‘And that is?’ Bigge interrupts in a high tone.

  Macquarie shifts his gaze from his hands and trains his eyes on Bigge. ‘Their freedom, sir! They have risen up. Some have made fortunes. I see that you would like to keep them down in the world: I cannot believe’ — he shifts in his seat — ‘that you truly mean it. It is very — I must say — un-Christian. But of course you have more time in the colony. We may yet separate you from your prejudice.’

  ‘Well, now,’ says the Architect abruptly. ‘You are dining, Commissioner Bigge, with a criminal tonight.’ There is silence but for the unnerving scrape of a knife edge on china. ‘And I wonder that you have not dined with a number when you have eaten at the halls of the wealthy, though no magistrate will bring them to trial.’

  ‘Outrageous,’ fires Bigge. ‘You have no right to malign —’

  Macquarie holds up his hand to silence Bigge. The Commissioner, remarkably, backs off.

  ‘I see no reason,’ the Architect goes on, ‘why this city might not one day be London’s equal, or at least her rival. You know I have plans for a Chinese pagoda at Newcastle — a lighthouse.’ He will not smile at me, though I know he wishes to.

  ‘A Chinese pagoda at Newcastle?’ snorts Piper. ‘Capital! A lavish touch or two never harmed —’

  ‘Your ambition,’ says Bigge, nodding pointedly with every word. ‘It … is … quite … over … weening … And overwhelming. If not for the clemency of our monarch you would have swung on the gibbet. You have only recently been granted your full pardon — with the completion of the convict barrack, I believe. And yet you assume such liberties.’

  ‘Commissioner Bigge,’ says Macquarie, shielding his architect from blows directed at him. ‘I wonder if you have noticed the fine craft that has gone into the making of your rosewood chair tonight. I possess two of these. I sit here in one; you have the other. When you have a moment observe the exquisite blind fretwork on the panels; I believe it rivals the carvings on some of your best English church choirs. The finials and arches are in imitation of a Gothic chapel. My crest — I hope you will excuse this touch of vanity — crowns the entire ensemble.’

  ‘As a matter of fact I did observe the work. You were fortunate to be able to bring such impressive pieces out from home.’ A yielding nod in the Governor’s direction. ‘Are they newly arrived?’

  ‘No, but they are fashioned by two new arrivals: the convicts John Webster and William Temple.’

  Bigge rises slowly from his chair. His napkin drops to the floor. ‘Well in that case, Governor Macquarie, it is my great pleasure to rest my behind upon your convict chair. One always aims’ — he turns to Scott with a triumphant smile — ‘to keep the felons down.’ He bares a row of neat white teeth, motions to Hawkins to retrieve his napkin, and plants himself back on his chair. I return his smile in the joyless spirit in which it was offered, feeling just a scintilla of regard for the man’s self-possession.

  As Bigge eases back into his chair, Piper’s hand shoots up as if catching a passing projectile. ‘I almost forgot,’ he says reaching into his pocket with a crumpling sound. ‘How damnably vacant of me.’

  All eyes fall upon him as he takes out a folded square of paper bearing the faint impress of print, places it on the table and unfolds it. ‘For those who have not seen,’ he says mischievously, ‘I bring this evening’s Gazette.’ He holds the paper by a corner and displays it like an exhibit. ‘From Howe himself. We, er, spent some hours together this afternoon — a social call from our publisher and he came with a copy of tomorrow’s edition. Well well,’ he smiles tenderly at the page, ‘it features a most interesting ode from our own poet laureate, Mr Massey Robinson.’

  He turns to Bigge. ‘Sir, you will have to bear up for this — stay cheerful. Remain stoical. Howe is in the habit of publishing, from time to time, jolly little satires about the state of things. This one, it seems, has been inspired by your visit.’

  *

  John Piper, a little worse for wear that night, left behind his copy of the Gazette, allowing me to seize it as a souvenir for my little treasury. I found it the next day in the kitchen — my guess is that Hawkins had been reading it before retiring for the evening. Of course the Governor most certainly contributed to Robinson’s squib; had at the very least approved it. I wonder if he didn’t orchestrate the dinner precisely so it could be read to Bigge. Over time, with repeated readings, the creases that it bore that night have deepened into furrows. I am attentive to the object’s fragile state as I open it beneath the pale candlelight. How oratorical Piper sounded that night as he cleared his throat, leapt unsteadily to his feet, and then, with majestic voice, read:

  Happy the convict, farewelling all care,

  Some ripe Sydney land he has found;

  Content to breathe the pure sweet air,

  Of wide New World, clean fresh ground.

  His herds bring forth milk, wheat sways in his fields,

  From his flock comes a splendid attire.

  In summer his forests supply him with shade,

  In winter he gives thanks for the fire.

  Blessed he is in soul, body and mind,

  In sunshine his years slide gently away.

  Happy, that is, til it grieves him to find,

  His Governor besieged, beleaguered — at bay.

  The soldiers, the free, the wealthy and such,

  No friends of the poor convict, the currency too.

  Have allies on high — virtues not overly much —

  In Whitehall that over-loud, overfed zoo.

  So gather around me, I summon good folk,

  Macquarie, your friend, needs your loyalty now.

  Britain’s unfortunates, released from the yoke

  Raise spades, shake chains, shake ploughs!

  Drive foes from these shores as you were once driven,

  The enemies of all we have done, we have given.

  Those who once heard the gavel: we build and we dig,

  Let us farewell a Commissioner not very big.

  *

  As Piper returns to his seat the company — or a goodly portion of it — erupts. ‘An insult,’ cries Scott, red-faced, as he thumps the table. ‘Under the guise of —’

  ‘Bravo,’ roars Freycinet across him, tossing back his fine head.

  The Architect cries out to Piper, who merely shrugs noncommittally, sticks out his lower lip, and says, ‘Printed already, this afternoon I believe …’

  Bungaree’s teeth flash brilliantly as he shakes his head in delight, slaps his thighs as if drumming out a beat, and repeats several times, ‘Commissioner not very big!’

  Macquarie slowly raises his hands, then he claps them together before him. Silence returns to the table. Bigge shifts a little in his chair and says, with redoubled hauteur, ‘Why should I take notice of some verses composed by a criminal. They are a foreign language — they mean nothing to me.’

  ‘Well put, sir,’ says Piper. ‘Good riposte!’

  ‘And yet,’ Bigge goes on with a crooked smile. ‘A recommendation from me to his Majesty and, pffff,’ he throws out his hands. ‘No more Gazette!’

  Rose, leaning behind Macquarie, taps me on the arm and says, with shining eyes, ‘Do you know your Molière? “Un homme sage est au-dessus de toutes les injures qu’on lui peut dire.”’

  ‘English, please,’ barks Scott in her direction.

  I turn towards Bungaree, who seems to be eyeing the Governor’s gilded coat with covetous eyes.

  At this moment three servants emerge from the kitchen with platters of duck, goose and lamb, together with a pink crumbed ham. Following behind, like minions, are red ceramic boats of gravy, round black bowls of apple sauce, and othe
rs of capers. Placed in the centre of the table is a large serving of pickled vegetables and another of boiled carrots and potatoes: not a fine meal but a hearty one.

  From that moment the conversation takes a lighter turn, dying down altogether at the heart of the feasting. For a time the only sounds are grunts of appreciation, the tap and scrape of knives and forks on plates, of wine poured from bottle to glass and from glass into gullet: a medley of sounds that, if one were listening intently beyond the doors yet had no idea of the activity within, might make dining seem a less attractive activity than it actually is.

  As the evening wears on, and a heavy wine from La Malgue replaces the rosato, the range of conversation expands. We hear Bungaree’s impersonations of the Governor, as well as Foveaux and Bligh. He could even do a passable Matthew Flinders, having accompanied the explorer on his circumnavigation of the continent.

  ‘Then we have met before, I think,’ says Freycinet, leaning towards the native excitedly. ‘I was a junior officer in the Baudin expedition. I think … I remember …’ — he raises a finger — ‘the day we met Flinders. Yes of course — I do remember! You were the interpreter. We envied Flinders having the use of your services; there were times when we badly needed them. Bungaree — you must be very old. That was almost twenty years ago and you seem not to have aged.’

  ‘Gooseberry magic,’ replies Bungaree to a round of applause from the men and two sets of lowered eyes beneath long lashes.

  ‘Seriously now, Bungaree,’ Freycinet goes on. ‘You share the table tonight with representatives of two European powers. You have the ear of the Governor and of the man who, it seems, has been sent out to … scrutinise his good work.’

  ‘But you …’ begins Bigge.

  Freycinet snaps forward in his seat. ‘Do not interrupt, sir,’ he glowers. ‘Do you take us all for fools?’

  The Commissioner recoils sharply, as if fearing for his person, even though I have placed the Architect and Scott between him and Freycinet. The Frenchman addresses him directly, as if they were the only two in the room. ‘Rio de Janeiro is a busy port but you would have been wise to inquire a little of the ships flying European colours. If so you would have discovered that the Uranie was bound for Port Jackson and you might not have spoken out so freely about your plans and your prejudices to tout le monde.’