Mrs. M

by Luke Slattery

  Bigge, reddening conspicuously, his mouth set into a rictus, consults with Scott in low tones. Without turning my head, I let my eyes slide to the faces of each guest to gauge the mood of the table. My husband, I notice, also surveys the company. The Architect is staring absently at the glossy black window as if he means to escape at the first opportunity. The Freycinets conspire in low tones. Bungaree prods a picked-over bird with his fork, gazing deeply into the carcass as if searching for omens there.

  Resuming his conversation with Bungaree, Freycinet presses, ‘Surely your people, they remember a time before we Europeans. What exactly do they recall?’

  ‘We are happier then,’ Bungaree says, lifting his gaze from the bird and smiling serenely. ‘Everything belonged to everybody. Nobody belonged to nothing. There were no walls …’ His picks up the napkin, wipes his hands and returns it to his lap.

  ‘That was our great happy time,’ he goes on, swaying a little in his seat. ‘We followed the fish, the kangaroo, picked oyster and mussel from the rocks, gathered food from the bush. Now we come to the town to beg for white man’s bread and grog. Our women sleep with your men, and they change. There is some bad spirit in that business.’

  Bungaree casts a pained look towards Macquarie, and then me. There are points of light in his velvety eyes. He tries to go on. He shakes his head. Looks down at his plate.

  Piper says, ‘Do go on, Bungaree. I for one accepted this invitation not realising it would prove to be a veritable symposium. But now that it has become one you must have your say and we must listen intently. We are all, are we not, your guests in one way or another.’

  Bungaree hesitates. He looks to the Governor not so much for approval as courage.

  ‘We were free,’ he goes on in a low voice. ‘But you have made us like your …’ — he points to the door of the dining room — ‘your servants. Your slaves. Only the Sky spirit Baayami has power to make a man a slave.’ And then, after a pause, ‘Are you great spirits? Or are you demons who steal the spirits of the healthy and return them sick and dying? We are sick — and we are dying.’

  ‘And a terrible situation it is,’ says Piper. ‘But we have cleared the land. Created wealth from it. And now we feed a growing population. Progress — my good man.’

  ‘Is the land yours to take the wealth from? I know that you will not go away, and you will not be beaten by our spears and our sticks. Do you know our name for you? It is your word. Musket. I will not raise my spear against you. I am for peace. But if you stay, you must promise to be good spirits. Not bad.’

  Scott, with the expression of a man who has reached for an orange and unwittingly bitten into a lemon, says, ‘Surely our French friends have been giving the natives volumes of Rousseau to imbibe?’

  ‘I think you will find Rousseau was Swiss, not French, though he thought and wrote in French,’ returns Freycinet. He swirls his wine in his glass, but does not raise it to his lips. ‘And I doubt you have read a word of him in French or any other tongue.’

  ‘Well, well! Another taunt, what!’ Piper bellows, before raising his glass and draining it.

  ‘If I can add something,’ Freycinet goes on, looking in both directions for approval — not a given, necessarily, as the evening is drawing on. ‘To be honest I do not take this talk of lost native innocence overly seriously. I believe I know this race a little better than most, having seen much of the natives of New Holland in 1802 — and since that time I have seen les indigènes of many places, all subtly different. I recall their murderous melees. You witness them here at the Cove. They have become gladiatorial sport — entertainment? I would much prefer a life of culture to life in a state of Nature. Life in a state of Nature is short.’

  Bigge and Scott exchange a quizzical glance. Piper suppresses a yawn.

  ‘What I mean to say,’ Freycinet goes on, ‘is that I would rather the services of a ship’s surgeon than a sorceress — no disrespect to Gooseberry.’

  A few murmurs of assent.

  ‘But our native friend is getting, I think, at another idea of innocence. The native people here — if I may, Bungaree? — seem content with the little they have. They are no more noble than we Europeans. But I think they are, or were, happier.’

  ‘Only do not stand between Bungaree and a bicorne,’ snorts Piper, stirring up a round of uncertain laughter.

  The Architect, who has been drumming the table with the heavy end of his bread knife, breaks in. ‘If we have found another Eden at this place — and what better place — then how do we retell the story in Genesis?’ he asks.

  ‘It is not your story to retell,’ says Bigge. ‘It belongs to the Holy Father.’

  ‘Bear with me awhile …’ The drumming continues. ‘This land is richly forested. Its oceans teem with fish. The air is good. The climate kind. It is a Garden of Eden. Can innocence, once lost, be regained here? And goodness? It is a jail, of course, but of a peculiar kind. A jail that began as a place of exile. And yet it is a jail that promises a new beginning.’

  ‘Your point being …?’ says Piper.

  ‘My point? I am not so sure if I have a point. It is late … There is just this. America was founded by men and women in whom the fire of faith burned brightly. Sydney Cove was settled by sinners. From which of the two New Worlds will the better world grow? I sometimes wonder.’

  ‘A question,’ I am forced to interject, ‘that has no immediate answer. None that we can possibly give. Although it is interesting conjecture.’

  ‘And what of your view, Elizabeth,’ says Rose reaching a hand across the table. ‘You have been the perfect hostess. But you do have a view, do you not?’

  Ordinarily, I would not allow myself to be drawn on such a sensitive subject in official company. But if Bungaree can speak so candidly — I do not pretend for a moment it was easy for him — then I shall too. ‘For myself, and speaking only for myself,’ I begin, turning towards the Governor, ‘I have never been able to conceive that there was justice and equity on the part of we Europeans in seizing lands desired by us when others have a much stronger — at least older — claim. Do the natives possess it? Can they unroll a title deed? No. But it matters naught — they inhabit it. I should think the noblest course of action would be to offer some generous terms to the natives. We are wealthier than they, and yet all we give them are trinkets.’

  I turn to face Bungaree, but his eyes are downcast and he says not a word.

  John Piper, a little deep in drink though never less than genial, breaks in. ‘Very well said. Bravo to all! A very philosophical night. Speakers of three nations: the English, the French and the, er, Indian. Most illuminating. Now on a lighter note, I am in the possession of some curious gossip from the town. It seems that Campbell that old rascal —’

  ‘Will you excuse me,’ asks an appropriately roseate Rose Freycinet, flushed with excitement. ‘Or us. I have a feeling the conversation will soon take a colourful turn. Mrs Macquarie and I prefer more sober diversions. We would like to take a walk on the verandah.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ says Piper. ‘Don’t concern your pretty heads. Look here,’ he leans forward. ‘I am also in the possession of some very fine cheroots. Now back to the Campbell business …’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Rose leads me with a rustle of skirts down the half-lit corridor. On the way I notice that a picture — a still life of many-coloured fish native to these parts — hangs askew on the wall. Someone must have shouldered it, a little drunkenly, while on a secretive reconnaissance.

  My sense of disorientation only deepens when we step into the soft night air.

  Rose tugs at my sleeve and we hurry on.

  In no time at all we have skipped down the stairs of the verandah and left the garden behind. We set out towards the Domain along a sandy path by the light of the fat moon. Rose leads the way. Bats chatter — uproariously — in the figs.

  Turning back, almost tripping in the process, I catch sight of a guard in a snow-white shirt recently releas
ed from serving duties and, in the darkness, the swelling glow of tobacco alight in his pipe bowl. He tilts sideways as he follows our movements along the winding path. But he dares not pursue.

  ‘Rose,’ I hiss. ‘What on Earth is going on?’

  She stops as the harbour comes shimmering and magnificent into view. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Very little,’ I reply as the moon is swallowed up by storm clouds. We continue along at a slower pace.

  ‘Yanadah,’ I say.

  ‘Yana …?’

  ‘Native word for moon.’

  I let my eyes linger on her gypsy face in its frame of black hair. There is just enough light to catch the swivel of her eyes as they reach for a thought.

  ‘Strange,’ she says. ‘La lune. The moon. Those two words — so close. And then, what was it? Yanadah. So distant.’

  ‘Distant like this place.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she says in an urgent tone, as if dismissing something from her thoughts. ‘But we must not delay.’ She reaches out with both hands. She cups my face. A bold gesture. A bold woman. Slowly, she turns my head towards the harbour’s entrance. Then she steps back.

  ‘Look again. What do you see?’

  ‘I see the garden, the near shore, the far shore, the inky harbour between. Some ships anchored there. Your own, the Uranie, lying at anchor towards the Heads.’

  ‘And where were we several days ago? Dawes Point.’

  ‘Something is afoot!’

  ‘The Uranie makes ready to sail,’ she says excitedly. ‘I have reason to fear. Listen carefully to what I have to say …’

  My unsettled mind spins.

  ‘Freycinet will inform John Piper by morning. He will explain that we are anxious to avoid the trade winds. And we are anxious for ourselves. I am speaking about the presence of Commissioner Bigge.’

  I withdraw and shake my head.

  ‘Yes, Bigge. As we talk here in darkness and seclusion plans are being made by evil men to harm your husband. And your architect — I am sorry, but he is finished! Bigge — it is a wonder he did not make an announcement tonight — plans to have him prosecuted on charges of misusing public funds.’

  ‘What public funds?’

  ‘That I do not know. Perhaps’ — she flutters her hand impatiently as if I were detaining her on a trivial matter — ‘the barrack.’

  ‘But he had no access to funds. He was merely the architect. This is just another way of needling the Governor. And how, in any event, do you know all this?’

  ‘Our suspicions were aroused in Rio. Since then we have purchased many ears about the colony. Bigge, though small, speaks,’ and here she drops to a whisper, ‘very, very loudly. I wonder, Elizabeth,’ she takes my hand again, ‘if we do not have more agents in this town than you. The Irish would rise up in an instant if we were to return with three more ships.’

  I withdraw from her grasp. ‘I think you flatter yourself. It may lead you to overstep. Remember Ireland in 1798. I say this as a friend.’

  ‘They talk here of Vinegar Hill; I say this in the same spirit. But listen. There is no time for this.’ She comes forward. ‘Elizabeth, if your husband does not resign he will be removed. You must find a way of urging him, using all your womanly skill, towards the former course.’

  ‘It is unconscionable. He offered his resignation two, maybe three, years ago. His request was denied by Bathurst. Surely they were not planning, all those years ago, to send out a commissioner in order to publicly demean him — and to diminish his cause?’

  I will never know the answer to that question and I no longer care. The effect was the same, whether it was contrived or not.

  The clouds untangle themselves from the moon. The waterway silvers.

  I usher Rose forward to the sandstone refuge — my chair — and we sit together.

  It is here that I learn of the plan — initiated by which party I know not — to stow the Architect aboard the Uranie, to transport him by stealth from the colony. I wonder, even now, at the audacity of it.

  ‘But it is preposterous,’ I burst out. ‘No ship is allowed to leave this harbour without a Government vessel beside it, and a prior inspection, to ensure that nothing of this kind occurs. There is talk aplenty of men kidnapped from The Rocks and forced into service on traders heading north. But honestly I believe it is a myth.’

  She raises her hand and says coolly, ‘You must lower your voice.’

  I nod in compliance. She goes on, ‘You forget that I joined Freycinet this way. Or perhaps you do not know. I thought Arago made some mention …’ She shakes her hands. ‘No matter. You see my husband had a small compartment built for me on the Uranie, hidden from sight. I came aboard at Le Havre in men’s clothing, disguised as a cabin boy. I spent the better part of the day in that small though perfectly comfortable space — as large as a maid’s chamber — and showed myself only when we were well at sea. You should have seen the faces,’ she smiles a little conceitedly. ‘The men — they looked as if they had seen a goddess step from the heavens.’

  ‘And this is where you would stow the Architect?’

  ‘There is nowhere else. Your English soldiers will give the Uranie a cursory inspection at dawn. They may well have heard the story of how I came on board, but they will not think to interrogate our men as they have no French. And if they were to ask — if they have heard my story — we will take them to the cook’s storeroom and say, voilà, it has been converted to this use.’

  ‘And he is willing — ready to take on the risk? The Architect.’

  ‘Quite willing. You heard the tenor of the conversation tonight. Even if your husband and you were to escape official censure, he will not. He will be placed under arrest tomorrow or the day after. Suppose he is reprieved — he will be fortunate to see out his days in obscurity on a parcel of poor land among mosquitos and hostile natives. There will be no more work for him of an architectural nature. He will wish himself dead.’

  ‘But if he is caught attempting an escape, what then?’ I ask. ‘You say he is to be tried. Would he in addition be charged with resisting arrest?’

  ‘Perhaps you underestimate the man. Is it not the case that if he had lost against Sanderson he would have been as good as dead?’

  ‘And what of the risk to you?’

  ‘One that we are prepared to take. We think the man a hero! Freycinet would dearly love to offer passage to you and the Governor as well,’ she goes on quickly, ‘but there is room for only one in the secret compartment. He believes you have a story to tell that will awaken the world. Remember, he was here in 1802. He cannot believe how far the lowly have risen. Christ, he believes, would have been on the side of the convicts.’

  The Son of God. Where is he now, I ask myself.

  ‘The only practical risk, we are convinced, will come when he is rowed early in the morning from the cove just inside the Heads. We must pray that none of the fishermen witness the departure. But to guard against it Arago has purchased fresh fish from these men today and paid with six bottles of calvados. There will be no fishing from that place tomorrow.’

  I look out to the black waters lapping at the rocks below. Three, perhaps four, lamps aboard the Uranie cast ribbons of light rippling towards us. I am quite speechless.

  I feel the ache of his absence even though he is most vividly present. On the eve of our separation it occurs to me, with as much certainty as I have about anything in my upended life, that I have loved him; loved him for years. It is only with the imminence of his loss that I feel free to use the word.

  ‘You mentioned on the night we met that you were reading The Princess of Clèves. Have you finished it?’ Rose inquires.

  ‘Just last night.’

  ‘What did it say to you at the very end?’

  ‘I’m not so sure … There has been so much incident of late in my own life. A sad end, certainly — resignation. Failure. Failure of love.’

  ‘At school in France we were taught that it w
as a novel about the struggle between duty and love. But I think it talks to each heart about generosity … the generosity of true love. A love that renounces possession. That loves in solitude.’

  We fall silent. And then, with a sigh, I raise myself wearily from my stone chair at the end of the Earth. I offer her a hand. She shakes her head.

  ‘No need for gallantry here,’ she says. ‘We are not at the court of Henry II.’

  ‘Rose,’ I come closer. ‘A favour?’

  ‘Anything you ask.’

  ‘Later tonight I will give you a letter for the Architect. It will list the names he needs to contact if he is to make his way to safety. Your destination is Marseilles is it not? Or Le Havre?’

  ‘First, Marseilles.’

  ‘Better there, a commercial port. Le Havre, I am told, groans under officialdom.’

  ‘Very well. He leaves us at Marseilles.’

  ‘And yet a hundred ships from all the world come to that port each day. On them will be adventurers aplenty keen to take advantage of the reward that will ever be on the Architect’s head. If he flees the colony on the eve of his arrest, even on spurious charges, he can never return to his homeland. Bigge is clever: he will have him pursued for resisting arrest. France will not serve well as a permanent sanctuary. He has no friends there — barely speaks the language. But I know a place. My homeland will throw its arms around him.’

  There is a heavy footfall and the soft crunch of leaf and twig underfoot. I spin around to catch sight of another mop of raven hair, this much shorter, and an echoing splash of crimson.

  ‘Mrs Macquarie?’

  I know the voice.

  ‘Brody.’

  ‘Madam.’ A sober bow of greeting. ‘Mrs Freycinet.’ Another. ‘The evening is ending well enough. No more disputes or jousts.’

  ‘What of Bigge and Scott?’ I ask as we pick our way back to the house.