Shortly after sunrise on the 4th of November, just a fortnight after smelling the earth of Van Diemen’s Land, we reached the entrance to Port Jackson—the great rocky “Heads” of the harbor of Sydney Town. Captain Ross fired a gun for a pilot, the flags were hoisted up a flagstaff on the hill above the South Head, and we then began the wait for the pilot’s boat.
I was near sick with excitement for I had been up since five watching from the poop. Everything looked so beautiful in the early light—the pink sky, the foam-laced waves, the sun fingering the dark horizontal rocks of the cliff-face. Tom joined me in time to see the pilot’s brig approach and draw alongside, and the pilot climb aboard. The wind had shifted to the south-east—a favorable wind, said Captain Ross, to take the Odyssey through the Heads and into the harbor.
And so indeed it proved. Within minutes, the motion of the ship to which we had grown so accustomed changed. The deck suddenly seemed oddly stable and the unladylike seaman’s stance I had perfected over the past five months—legs apart and braced—no longer necessary. The Odyssey was gliding and the full loveliness of the great expanse of water became every minute more apparent. Tom quoted only one line of poetry as we slid past the numerous bays and inlets and the little green islands and beaches of white sand. He breathed the words: “O brave new world.”
5.
When I went below to change my gown in preparation for going ashore, the younger of the two women who had laughed at Ruth was standing at the foot of the companionway. She was wearing a purple silk gown and one of the new high-crowned French bonnets and doubtless thought herself very elegant. For the first time in over two months she spoke to me: “Journey’s end, Miss Bennet, and everyone’s turning out in new trim.”
I complimented her on her bonnet and hurried on. I was still unsure what to wear—I did not wish to appear too fine beside Ruth and Mrs. Bushell. When my box was first brought up from the hold, I had taken out my best silk gown but now I determined to wear my plain white India muslin, and for a hat, an old-fashioned straw bergère that Aunt Gardiner had given me, and Kitty had fresh trimmed with ties of white ribbon.
It was wonderful to perform the simple tasks of changing my gown and brushing my hair without having to hold on to the side of my cot. I wished though that I could see more of myself in the little looking-glass. My face at least looked healthy—tanned from the past fortnight of fine weather—and I now employed one of Kitty’s tricks, pinching my cheeks to bring color into them. I longed to leave off wearing my spectacles but did not dare. I was beginning to feel light-headed from lack of sleep and from not having eaten any breakfast.
By the time I went up on deck again, Ruth had joined Tom. She was wearing what I knew was her best gown, a red cotton print, and a red ribbon in her hair. Both she and Tom were very excited. Tom said that the Odyssey would soon be dropping anchor in Sydney Cove: “You can see the town now, Miss Mary. The mate’s just been pointing it out to us—the principal buildings. You can see Government House—the white building with the verandahs—you can see the flagstaff and the big tall pine-tree—can you see?”
I said I could, but at first it was no more than a vague outline. The light though was remarkably clear and soon I was able to discern streets and rows of houses on the hill beyond the Government House, with several handsome buildings—mansions of honey-colored stone set in gardens of what looked like European shrubs. To the right of the cove were a great many warehouses and wharves. On the ridge above the town I espied a windmill. I was surprised at the extent of it all, but the town struck me as standing apart from the surrounding gray-green countryside. The mass of buildings seemed to be staring out at us—staring out to sea. I fancied I could smell peppermint.
“You look mighty fine, Mary.” Ruth had turned her attention from the shoreline to my person.
I said anxiously: “But not too fine, I hope.”
She laughed, lowering her voice. “Look at Mama.” She nodded to where Mrs. Bushell stood on the starboard side of the deck. “Took me ’bout half an hour to do her hair.”
Mrs. Bushell was wearing a gown of pearl-gray superfine that would not have disgraced a gentlewoman and holding aloft an ivory-handled gray silk parasol. She wore no hat, however, and her hair looked very unbecoming. Normally she wore it loosely coiled but Ruth today had plaited it up into a sort of coronet and the upswept style emphasized the downward trend of Mrs. Bushell’s face. (She had reached the age, alas, when habitual expressions begin to leave their mark.) There were spots of color on her cheeks. I wondered whether she was wearing rouge.
She was watching the wharf with such an intensity of expression that I felt for her, despite my dislike. I had an impulse to go to her and say something pleasant but I did not act on it, fearing another rebuff. (I now look back on that as a failure of charity on my part—a failure I regret, for there was dreadful disillusionment awaiting Mrs. Bushell in Sydney Town.)
“Look, Mary!” Ruth was pointing towards the wharf Mrs. Bushell was so intent upon. “I think I see Peter.”
But it was not until we were being rowed ashore in the jolly boat that I could see him. Even then, until he smiled and waved, I could not be completely sure. He was standing beside another man of a similar height and build, and they were both wearing cabbage-tree hats. From a distance, Peter and his father looked horribly alike.
How to describe our meeting?—the confusion of it—the rush of emotion that made me nearly faint—and on all sides, the sights and sounds and smells of a foreign place. After sixteen months, it was inevitable there was a shyness, but Peter looked so much browner, his teeth showing white in smiling, and under the ugly cabbage-tree hat, seemed such a stranger.
He took off his hat briefly and embraced me, and then it was Mrs. Bushell’s turn and Ruth’s. Meanwhile Mr. Bushell stood by, impatient to be introduced. “So this is the blushing bride!” he roared. “This is Princess Mary!”
If I had not had Peter’s arm to hold on to, I am sure I would have fallen. Some of the other passengers were coming up. Old Mr. Cudlipp looked to be as dazed as myself. He had a straw hat jammed on his head and was staring around.
Ruth was now eager to introduce Tom to Peter, and there followed a short parley as to the best way of getting to Tom’s brother’s farm at Toongabbie. I heard Peter say: “’Tis very near Parramatta. I could take you there—I have to go back this evening.” He then explained how he had driven to Sydney without knowing even that the ship had arrived. “I had some business here.” He smiled at me. “But that can wait.”
During this exchange, Mr. Bushell stood rattling the change in his pockets. “Are we all set then?” Belatedly, he offered Mrs. Bushell his arm, telling her to put away her parasol: “Don’t want to poke someone’s eye out, do we?”
And even though it was now nearly midday and the sun very hot overhead, Mrs. Bushell obediently closed up her parasol.
We set off for the George Street store, which Mr. Bushell informed us was a mere hop, step, and jump away. The Cudlipps accompanied us, walking ahead of Ruth and Peter and myself. I heard poor Mr. Cudlipp say: “Where are we, Tom? Where are we now?”
I was tempted to ask the same question of Peter. I had now reached such a state of light-headedness that I could not properly take anything in. Ruth was chattering away happily on Peter’s other arm—telling him how seasick she had been at the start of the voyage and what good sailors Tom and I were in comparison: “They was eating and drinking and walking around when the rest of us were sick as dogs.”
I said: “I confess to feeling sadly unsteady on my feet at this moment.”
Peter drew my arm more closely though his and said he remembered how strange it felt to be walking on solid ground after so many months at sea. And when Ruth continued to talk and I stayed silent, he bent down his head to peer under the brim of my bergère: “Still there, love? Don’t fret yourself. We’ve not far to go now.”
BUSHELL’S EMPORIUM read the Gothic gold letters on the fanlight over the double door
s. Mr. Bushell punched one door open and then as an afterthought held it wide so that we could all pass through. It was a relief to step out of the sun into the cool interior, but the smell of the merchandise was overpowering. The shop seemed to sell everything—coffee and tea and tobacco and rum, and pepper by the bag and spices. There were shelves crammed with bolts of cloth and long tables set out with shoes and slop clothing and pyramids of candles and soap. I discovered later that they even sold gunpowder.
Mr. Bushell waved a hand at the meek-looking man behind the counter and led us through to the adjoining room—a parlor also full of shop goods—crates of china and glassware packed in straw, bed quilts and chamber pots, and boxes of knives and forks. Mrs. Bushell would have sat down upon a horsehair sofa but her husband stopped her. The sofa was also for sale.
Next thing, he was unlocking a door with bars on it and telling us all to follow “quick smart.” We then entered a dining room where a large cedar table was set up and where at last we were permitted to sit down.
Surely a more disparate group of people never broke bread together than the seven of us seated round that table! (I have to say though that the bread was excellent, freshly baked, and there was butter and new-laid eggs and fresh fruit and coffee with cream—all the things one longs for aboard ship.) Peter made sure we were all well supplied while his father talked—and talked.
We heard all about the store and the house, how they were both built of stone because thieves could pick holes in bricks. He drew our attention to the stone chimney-piece and the stone emus standing sentinel on either side. In a curious way, he reminded me of Mr. Collins: There was the same reverence for things—the cost of things. He told us how he had paid the mason “a pony” to carve the emus. Towards the end of the meal, he emptied the change out of his pockets and we were given a lesson on the new currency of the Colony—the coins known as “dumps” and “holey dollars” and how much exactly they were worth.
Old Mr. Cudlipp seemed to revive after he had eaten and he too became talkative. He told Mr. Bushell how Tom had had his hair shaved off when crossing the Line: “’Tis quite grown back now—you can see it is quite grown—but ’tis not the same.” He patted Tom’s head affectionately. “It used to be more curly.”
Mr. Bushell stared at Tom: “Had your head shaved, did you?”
Tom with his usual frankness explained the circumstances, whereupon Ruth piped up: “There was another young man what they set upon but Tom offered to take his place—which was mighty good of him, I reckon.”
Mr. Bushell now stared at his daughter. He had paid her scant attention before, tweaking her hair ribbon and telling her she looked like a Bushell. “Mighty good? I call it damned foolish.”
Peter spoke then. He asked Tom about his brother’s farm at Toongabbie—whether it was near the New Ground.
Mr. Bushell cut in before Tom could reply: “Toongabbie! That place’s now good for nothing—soil’s completely useless—the whole place’s been farmed out.”
I saw Peter was looking annoyed and Mr. Bushell must have seen it too, for he said: “Well, it’s the truth. No sense hiding from the truth.” He turned back to Tom. “They used to send the convicts there—the ones left over from assignment. Your brother a convict, was he?”
Tom colored and glanced at me. “He was, sir. Yes.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of—I was one m’self.”
Mrs. Bushell now spoke for the first time: “There were convicts on the Odyssey—twenty of them. Miss Mary was very frightened of them.”
It was my turn now to be stared at and I felt my heart beat, but Mr. Bushell rounded on his wife instead: “What’s all this “Miss Mary,” for god’s sake? Ain’t she one of the family now?”
Peter was talking to Tom again, repeating his earlier offer to drive him and Mr. Cudlipp to Toongabbie. “If we leave at four, we can get you and your father there before dark.”
Tom thanked him and there was talk of fetching their box from the ship, whereupon Mr. Bushell said: “You’ll get your box, never fear—one of m’men’ll take care of that. But there’s no call for Pete to drive you—you can get the stage—the stage leaves from the Rose and Crown at four sharp—”
“Sir.” Peter spoke quietly but firmly. “I said I’d drive them, sir.”
Father and son now looked at each other. Mr. Bushell shrugged. “Suit y’self.”
With that, he got up from the table and walked off. Mrs. Bushell went out after him and for half a minute nobody spoke. Old Mr. Cudlipp was peeling an orange. I had a mad desire to laugh. I looked at Peter sitting across the table. He seemed his usual imperturbable self. He smiled at me and said: “Want to see the church we’re going to be married in?”
It was by far the best part of the day—the visit to St. Phillip’s Church. I was overjoyed to escape the company of Mr. and Mrs. Bushell and no longer felt light-headed, having eaten a substantial luncheon. Ruth and Tom accompanied us—Mr. Cudlipp having stayed behind to rest—and as we walked up along George Street, Peter pointed out the various buildings and said how Governor Macquarie had had all the streets new-named and finger-posted.
I was surprised to see so many soldiers lounging about. It put me in mind of Meryton in the days of the “scarlet fever.” And I was also surprised at the number of smart bow-windowed shops and the expensive wares therein displayed—jewelry and handsome English furniture. Many of the women looked expensive too—expensively dressed—but conversely there were people who looked to be quite poor. I noticed several shabbily dressed children running about. And there seemed to be no happy medium either in the carriages I saw—they were either shiny new barouches or mean little painted carts. But the place had an undeniable vitality—a sort of vulgar seaport charm. Tom said that it reminded him a little of Plymouth.
St. Phillip’s Church was a shock, however. It did not look in the least like a church, having at one end a castellated clock-tower, and at the other, an odd-looking roundhouse resembling nothing so much as a giant mustard-pot. Between these two excrescences, the church itself was a low stone building with multi-paned windows of clear glass.
Peter smiled down at me. “What do you think, Mary?”
I hesitated, having discerned more than a little pride on Peter’s part in things Colonial. “Well, it’s not—it doesn’t look much like a church.”
“No.” He was laughing. “It’s been called the ugliest church in Christendom.”
“I reckon it looks friendly,” said Ruth.
The only shadow on my afternoon was the appearance of a party of natives, a man and two woolly-haired women, who were walking up Church Hill as we were coming down. They were dressed in a most outlandish fashion, the man especially. He was wearing a battered old bicorn hat and a brass-buttoned military jacket with a single tarnished epaulette. The jacket was unfastened and beneath it he wore no shirt—I could see his bare black chest—and his trousers were full of holes. He was barefoot, as were the two women. The latter were both covered—half-covered—with striped cotton blankets.
Peter scarce had time to tell me not to fret myself—that it was “only Bungaree”—before they were upon us. And now to my horror I saw that the man was approaching Peter, smiling broadly and with his hand outstretched. Peter looked equally pleased. They shook hands and next thing Peter was wanting to introduce Bungaree to me—Bungaree and his two wives, Matora and Cora Gooseberry. I could hardly believe it!
Fortunately, Tom stepped into the breach, shaking hands all round. I made a great effort then. I said, “How do you do?” Whereupon Bungaree swept off his greasy bicorn hat and—with as much grace as Mr. Wickham—executed a low bow. “How do you do?”
He spoke the words with a perfect English accent, and it was only when everyone laughed that I realized he had mimicked my own voice.
But I then heard something that shocked me even more. He was asking Peter for money. “Can you lend me a dump, sir?” Turning to Tom: “Tuppence to buy bread?”
Peter was emptyin
g his pocket of change and Tom bestowed some pennies on the women, who in turn handed them to Bungaree. Another courtly bow and some jabbering from the women and the whole party moved off.
I then heard Peter say to Tom that Bungaree was a “very clever fellow” with a fine sense of humor: “He can take off all the old Governors from Hunter to Bligh—imitates ’em all perfectly—and he’s a fine sailor too—been right round Australia with Matthew Flinders.”
I was amazed that Peter could so admire a bigamist and a beggar. And I think Ruth was also a little shocked. She had hung back during the entire exchange. Now she touched my arm and pointed back up the hill. I saw that one of the women had divested herself of her striped blanket and was dancing about, completely naked, waving the blanket above her head like a flag.
On our return to the George Street house, we were met with the news that our boxes had all been brought up from the ship and that old Mr. Cudlipp had woken from his nap and was calling for his son. Tom hurried off, after which the housekeeper—a roguish-looking young woman—informed Peter that Mr. and Mrs. Bushell were “resting upstairs” and that Mr. Bushell had given the order they were not to be disturbed.
A peculiar look passed over Peter’s face—annoyance and amusement both, or so I fancied—and he said with a slightly heightened color, “Sorry about this, Mary.”
“Oh! I quite understand. Your mother must be very tired.”
“Mama is always tired,” said Ruth. And after the housekeeper left the room, she turned to Peter with a stifled giggle: “D’you reckon they’re really resting?”
“You watch your tongue.” But I saw he was finding it hard not to laugh.
Ruth made a face. “So when are you two planning to get married?”
I said: “The banns must be read for three successive Sundays—”
Peter spoke at almost the same time. “What’s it to you, miss?”
“I don’t want to live here longer’n I have to. I want to live at Parramatta with you and Mary.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 32
