by Téa Cooper
No, cockatoos with crests as golden as the midday sun.
Two
Sydney, NSW, 1853
After 265 days aboard ship Stefan von Richter stepped off the gangplank and onto Australian soil, leaving behind the misery that had haunted him since they’d fled Vienna.
Chickens clucked underfoot, pigs snuffled through the refuse where vendors stood and shouted their wares. A ripe stench caught in the back of his throat, making his eyes water and his lungs snatch.
A series of dilapidated sandstone steps led away from the gin dives and warehouses fringing the quay but with his large travelling trunk, botanising box and specimen case, he’d need the services of a barrow boy.
An assortment of folk dressed in drab and tattered garments milled between over-filled carts, carriages, horseshit and noise. A mangy tortoiseshell cat and a three-legged dog rummaged in blood-soaked dirt beneath a butcher’s stall. And beyond, a skinny, freckle-faced urchin balanced on one leg, clinging to a lamppost, eyeing him with dubious curiosity. Shading his eyes from the midday sun he raised his hand and before he’d even framed the words the lad sidled up to him.
‘Need some help wiv that lot, Gov?’ The lad inclined his head towards his luggage. ‘Where you headin’?’ His face looked as if it hadn’t been washed in weeks and a line of grey dirt traced the back of his neck, nevertheless his eyes shone bright, reminding Stefan of someone he’d long forgotten.
‘The Berkeley Hotel, Bent Street.’
‘Opposite the public fountain.’
He glanced down at the crumpled notes in his hand. ‘Quite right.’
‘Be back in a tick. Gotta get me barrow. Good job I spotted you.’
‘A bit of extra height gives a man an advantage.’
Avoiding a goat tethered to a lopsided cart the lad darted away over a series of festering rubbish heaps with the speed of one of the famed marsupial rats and vanished into the seething mass of humanity.
Within moments a tattered barrow nudged against his thigh and in a flash the boy had his belongings neatly stacked. ‘Can’t take this lot up the steps, doubt you’d make it either with that limp, we’ll ’ave to go round the back of the warehouses and cut across in front of the Fort. Stick wiv me and you won’t get those boots wet.’ He set off at a gallop without waiting for an answer.
Fifteen minutes later, Stefan stood outside an impressive three-storey sandstone hotel inhaling his first dose of fresh air since the ship docked. If his walk from the quay was anything to go by, the Berkeley Hotel must be one of the finest buildings in the colony. He pushed open the door and made his way to the desk. He didn’t miss the flicker of recognition when the clerk’s eyes lit on his uniform.
‘Captain, may I say how happy we are to see you gracing our humble establishment. I cherish my memories of the Baron’s visit.’
Stefan brought himself to his full height and clicked his heels. When the barrow boy’s face broke into a wide grin he realised his mistake; he was in Australia, not rubbing shoulders with a bunch of ageing European diplomats. He removed his shako and ran his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I take it you received my instructions, Herr Sladdin?’
The clerk interlaced his long white fingers and bowed his head. ‘Indeed, indeed and we have set aside the Baron’s suite.’
‘Gut.’
‘And should you be interested our gaming tables are in operation tonight if you have a mind to try your hand.’
‘Not tonight. I have an invitation.’ In fact, he had a raft of them and letters of introduction which would have to be attended to before he could settle the matter closest to his heart.
‘And you will be travelling, as the Baron did?’
‘I will. I have been assigned the privilege of transcribing his New Holland Journal and preparing his notebooks for publication.’ As a sop to compensate for the musket ball in his leg which rendered him less than useless.
Sladdin gave an obsequious bow and dangled a long shanked key between his thumb and forefinger. ‘May I escort you to your rooms?’
Scrawny but determined, the lad elbowed his way between them, and with a flash of cheek in his coal-black eyes, stood on tiptoes and grabbed the key.
‘Watch it.’ Sladdin shot him a look that would have curdled cream and darted around the desk, pushing the lad aside. ‘I’ll see to it.’ He bent to lift one end of the collector chest and it landed with a resounding crash, just missing his toes.
With a grin of triumph, which lasted only until Sladdin landed a well-aimed boot on his backside, the boy hefted the chest onto his shoulder and went scuttling up the stairs.
‘Follow me, Captain. The Baron’s suite, on the second floor, has a delightful view. I trust it will be to your liking.’
As long as it was clean it would do, although he’d put money on the harbour miasma if the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
Once they reached the top of the stairs Sladdin slithered around the boy and threw open the door with a theatrical flourish. He crossed the room and drew back the heavy velvet curtains, letting the light stream in. ‘Through here we have the bedchamber.’ A connecting door revealed a well-sprung bed with snowy linen.
‘Gut. Danke schön.’
‘I can arrange accommodation for your manservant on the third floor …’
‘I am travelling alone.’
‘Don’t leave the trunks unattended, boy, bring them here.’ The chest clattered onto the floor at the end of the bed and the lad skittered out of the room. ‘Would you like me to arrange a reputable manservant?’
‘I have no need of one. What you can do, however, is have hot water sent up along with some black coffee, and make some enquiries for me regarding a decent mount and a packhorse. I intend to travel to Wiseman’s and explore the Hawkesbury district. I hope to see something of your remarkable flora and fauna.’
‘Perhaps the Baron will be joining you?’
‘Sadly, no. He now holds a diplomatic position at the court of Tuscany.’
‘Delightful. I could perhaps be of some service to you.’ Like a magician Sladdin produced a flyer from his inside pocket and dropped it onto the table. ‘May I suggest the Curio Shop in Hunter Street.’
The man’s oily subserviency made his flesh creep. ‘Would you excuse me. It took an eternity to disembark and I am late for an engagement.’ He pointedly held the door wide and Sladdin bowed and scraped his way out. Before he had the opportunity to turn the tow-headed urchin reappeared bent double, lugging his trunk.
‘Where d’you want this?’
‘Under the window will do just fine.’ He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a coin and flicked it high in the air. It disappeared into the lad’s pocket before it had finished spinning.
‘Anyfing else, Capt’n?’
‘That’ll be all for the time being. I might have something for you tomorrow. Where will I find you?’
‘Just ask him downstairs.’ He made a fine imitation of Sladdin’s wringing hands and winked. ‘Hang around the public fountain most days—tips are good. Lotsa toffs use this place.’
‘Off you go then.’ A guttersnipe he might be but he had half a brain by the sound of it. There was something about the lad that made him smile.
About to toss out the flyer Sladdin had left on the table the headline caught his eye.
Visitors to Sydney should not leave without calling upon The Curio Shop of Wonders at 84 Hunter Street.
What in heaven’s name was the clerk up to? He smoothed out the paper and moved to the window where the light was better.
Skins of native birds, beasts and reptiles well-preserved and ready for setting up. Fur and feather rugs made up or made to order. Entomological specimens and requisites, carved emu eggs and other beautiful souvenirs. All kinds of taxidermical work executed in the finest style.
Fascinating. Truly fascinating. The clerk must have a finger in every pie and he had picked his mark. He very much wanted to see these strange animals in their natural habitat and the prospect of enhancing
the Baron’s journal with a display of taxidermied specimens, when it was published, would appeal to the population of Vienna who continued to be besotted by all matters New Holland.
He folded the flyer and tucked it into his uniform pocket. There would be plenty of time the next day to take a walk around town; meanwhile he had several weeks of shipboard grime to dispense with and a ball to attend.
By the time he’d availed himself of the hot water and changed into his dress uniform the sun had dipped below the buildings. Having locked the door behind him, he made his way to the ground floor. Sladdin was nowhere to be seen and not a carriage in sight.
True to his word however, the young lad lurked near the fountain, picking at the patchwork of scabs on his knees. He shot to his feet. ‘Do anything for you, Captain von Richter?’
The use of his name took him by surprise; Sladdin had simply addressed him by rank. He raised an eyebrow.
‘Gotta know who you’re dealing wiv.’
He’d picked the intelligence in his eyes right enough, even though he reeked of stale fish and a few other odours he’d rather not dwell on. ‘And who am I dealing with?’
‘Albert Peregrine Burless, at your service.’ He executed a bow, that would have stood him in good stead in Prince Metternich’s circles, and clicked his bare, blistered heels together.
‘Very well, Herr Burless. Make sure you are available tomorrow morning.’
‘Bert’ll do, Captain. Can’t ’ave people finkin’ I got ideas above me station.’
Until he had a decent bath and found a pair of boots that was highly unlikely to happen. Still he couldn’t fault him for trying.
‘Guten Abend, Bert.’ He turned, searching for a carriage. If he didn’t get a move on he’d be making a spectacle of himself arriving late at Government House.
‘If you cut through the inner Domain you’ll get to the Governor’s quick smart.’
And how would Bert know where he was heading? ‘What makes you think …’
‘The scrambled egg gives it away.’ He gestured to his epaulettes and the surplus of braid adorning his redundant uniform. ‘Lights have been blazing for hours and there’s a stream of carriages. Better off on foot.’
Stefan struck out down the street in Bert’s wake where, unless he was very much mistaken, there was a distinct improvement in the night air, nowhere near as odorous as down near the docks. His lips twitched at the memory of the Baron’s observation that the Antipodes housed some of the worst smells in the universe.
He had no idea where Bert would lead him. Well away from the Berkeley Hotel and the sandstone monstrosities the townsfolk liked to admire. To their right the fort loomed, a useless cardboard-like edifice more suited to a child’s toy box than any real defence.
As they rounded the corner a castellated, turreted gothic edifice appeared. Bert skirted the vehicles crowding the carriageway and surrounding access road.
‘What’s the escort worth?’
‘Nowt.’ Bert disappeared into the shadows without waiting for another tip, a further point in his favour.
By the time he reached the doorway the reception line stretched the length of the hallway but fortunately the governor, Sir Charles FitzRoy, spotted him and waved him to his side. ‘My pleasure to welcome you to our shores, Captain von Richter.’
‘The pleasure is entirely mine.’
‘It must be nigh on twenty years since the Baron was here. I trust we will have the opportunity for further conversation.’
‘I have no doubt of that.’ He took his leave and made his way into the ballroom where beribboned girls and powdered matrons glided across the floor, eyelashes batting against flushed cheeks like large moths seeking entry to a candlelit soirée. Whatever had possessed him to attend? Weeks aboard ship starved of female company, no doubt. Would he ever learn?
Unable to catch one of the waiters circulating between the variegated lamps and wreath-encircled columns, he crossed to the tall doors standing open onto a terrace framing the view of the gardens. The moon cast a silvery sheen over the plants, giving them a ghostly almost incandescent glow, and the balmy night air carried a hint of eucalyptus and salt from the harbour.
‘Captain.’ Sir Charles’s hand rested on his arm. ‘I have managed to escape for a few moments. I’d very much like to hear the news.’ He led him outside and down some steps to a sandstone bench overlooking the harbour.
‘Letters and dispatches and six-month-old newspapers leave much to be desired. I believe you were with the Prince when the chaos erupted in Vienna.’
He’d hoped to leave the memories of the March Revolution and Prince Metternich’s subsequent escape behind. As Chief Minister, Prince Metternich bore the brunt of the hostility to the Hapsburg’s oppressive rule. Deserted by his friends and unwell, he turned to the Baron for assistance. We escorted him, and the Princess, through the mobs in Vienna and thence to Holland, and on to England. It took us almost a month to make our way to London. Fortunately no one suffered any lasting injuries.’ His leg gave a sympathetic twinge and he rubbed at his thigh.
‘You are being modest. I am well aware of the part you played. Your wounds have healed satisfactorily?’
‘Indeed they have. I have simply acquired a little extra baggage.’
‘They couldn’t remove the musket ball?’
‘No. It’s left me with a slight limp, nothing more.’
‘And the Prince has now returned to court after his exile and the Baron is firmly ensconced in Florence.’
‘As Austrian Envoy Extraordinary, ambassador to the Grand Duchy of Tuscany.’ Sir Charles appeared to have a very up-to-date knowledge of the circumstances despite his request for news. ‘And he finally married so his travelling days are over. I am acting as his amanuensis, charged with the task of reworking his diaries and copious notes of his travels here in Australia and preparing them for publication.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the sweep of gardens surrounding the residence. Only the fresh scent of the eucalyptus trees hung in the breeze. ‘I also have another reason for gracing your shores, a more private matter.’
‘And you require my assistance?’
He inclined his head. ‘The Baron received a letter from an old acquaintance, a mineralogist by the name of Professor Johann Menge who found what he believed to be a precious stone.’
‘In the colony?’ Sir Charles groaned. ‘What sort of precious stone?’
‘An opal.’
‘For goodness sake. The country is currently in the grips of gold fever, inundated with an increasing stream of fortune hunters. At this precise moment in time I would prefer to keep the matter quiet.’
‘And so would the Baron. Unfortunately, Professor Menge passed away and the stone has yet to be authenticated. He believed it to be the first found in Australia.’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘Where is this opal?’
‘That is where I hope you can help. Before Professor Menge died he sent it to an acquaintance of his, one Thomas Bishop, perhaps you know of him? I believe he resides in Sydney. I have been asked to collect it.’
‘Thomas Bishop. Indeed, I do, poor man.’
His stomach sank. If Sir Charles was going to tell him some misfortune had befallen Bishop their entire plan would be shot. ‘Poor man?’
‘Such a sad story. His wife died most unexpectedly, in a tragic house fire. Only days after my own wife.’
‘Please accept my condolences.’
‘I miss her very much.’ Sir Charles stared out across the water at the rising moon for a few moments before turning back to him. ‘Mrs Bishop was a charming woman. Mr Bishop has removed himself from the city, something I quite understand, upped sticks, and bought land in the Hawkesbury district, not far from St Albans.’ The Governor slapped his hands together as though dismissing the whole affair. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to my other guests. I’d very much like an opportunity to speak at greater length.’ He stood and gazed down at Stefan. ‘Don’t get up.’ Sir Charles too
k the steps two at a time and disappeared into the throng of dancers.
Three
Mogo Creek, Hawkesbury, NSW, 1853
‘Della, get back here.’
Perhaps one day Charity would accept that she was no longer a child and was capable of looking after herself but today wasn’t the day and somehow Della doubted it would ever come.
‘There’s another storm brewing and you’ve got chores.’
‘I won’t be long.’ The never-ending round of jobs could wait. Tidda was more important. She hadn’t seen her for days.
‘There’s a pile to finish before Gus and Dobbin arrive.’
Ignoring Charity’s carry-on, Della continued along the meandering path she’d created to the spot where the creek billowed into a swimming hole. High in the spreading branches of the whispering she-oaks, red-tailed black cockatoos perched cracking the cones and sending their aromatic shells showering onto the ground below. Nothing else broke the deep, timeless tranquillity. Here she found the solitude she craved.
No sun shone on the creek and the clouds had begun to mass into tall thunderheads beyond the hills. The atmosphere, heavy with the peppery scent of the native flowers and eucalyptus blossoms, made Della’s head pound and her muscles tense. That and the fuss Charity was kicking up because Gus and Dobbin were due. She picked her way across the rocks, careful not to slip on the velvety moss.
Earlier in the day she’d spotted a mass of apple-berries on the twining vines. She hadn’t seen the Darkinjung women for weeks and they always came for the berries, on their way to the birthing sites up in the hills beyond the ridge. She hadn’t seen Jarro either, or any of the boys.
A neat little pile of droppings on top of one of the rocks and the waft of Tidda’s sweet grassy smell meant her friend was close at hand. She picked up her pace, then stopped as a pitiful cry of a young child broke the silence, followed by a flurry of movement and some hushed words.
She rounded the bend and there, in the clearing, saw a huddle of women and children, their dark faces fearful, their eyes wide and staring.
