The Opal Dragonfly

by Julian Leatherdale

  Isobel reached the bottom without incident and snuck across the saloon, still half in shadow. What was that? She could hear voices in the breakfast room opposite. She froze. Had her father stopped for something to eat? Was he in there now taking his soft-boiled eggs and kippers? Surely not. Her pulse raced at the thought of him discovering her dressed like this. But the voices were women’s, the parlourmaid Sarah and Mrs Bedford, the housekeeper.

  Isobel crept to the back door. There was not a soul about so she crossed the courtyard at the rear of the house as fast as she could. And there, waiting for her by the service wing, was James with two horses, bridled and saddled, ready to ride, just as she had asked.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Miss, but all the ladies’ saddles are being repaired,’ James informed Isobel as she approached. ‘Have you ever ridden astride before?’

  Two years ago her brother William had forgotten to collect Isobel and her mother in the gig from Appin rail station. They had been forced to borrow two horses and ride to the family farm on gentlemen’s saddles. It had been an exciting and unforgettable experience and one they had kept as a secret between themselves. ‘Yes, yes, I have. Once.’

  ‘Well, at least you’re dressed for it.’ James tried to suppress the subversive grin that threatened to break out across his face at the sight of Miss Macleod in her brother’s clothes. Isobel could not blame him. She wished her dressing up was just a childish game to be enjoyed and made light of rather than a desperate resort to spare her father’s life. She dismissed the suspicion that James was fibbing about the ladies’ saddles as a last-minute ploy to spoil her plans.

  ‘I will be fine, thank you, James.’

  Far from being a game, Isobel knew that dressing up as the opposite sex was a breach of the law. Less than a month ago she had read in Papa’s copy of Bell’s Life about the arrest of a sailor off HMS Pandora for the criminal offence of ‘appearing in female apparel’ near Church Hill. The man had fought off the arresting constable and then ran into St Philip’s Church nearby to harangue the congregation! It took six constables to finally take him down to the police watch house on Cumberland Street where a large angry mob, outraged at this injustice, had gathered and beaten the police with bludgeons and fence palings. What a city, thought Isobel. Sodom under the Southern Cross. Was London such a pit of depravity and lawlessness?

  Isobel approached her lovely chestnut mare. She had ridden April many times and was familiar with her temperament. The mare seemed to study Isobel curiously as she climbed into the saddle but did not shy away. ‘There, there, good girl,’ Isobel crooned.

  Isobel was a good rider. With her right leg hooked over the high pommel of a lady’s side-saddle, she knew the correct way to sit squarely across April’s back and keep the reins even so as not to unbalance her horse’s muscles. But this! This straddling, with both feet in the stirrups and her knees and thighs gripping April’s flanks, this felt so different. The flesh-and-blood engine of her horse thrummed through her body as she had never experienced before. She was in control of April in a manner not normally conceivable as a lady rider.

  James mounted the piebald gelding and they cantered out together along Rosemount’s grand carriageway. The crenellated roof of the stables could be seen in the distance, obscured behind a grove of oaks. Isobel looked back. A flock of roseate clouds loomed over the harbour and the façade of the great house was painted gold by the rising sun.

  Rosemount’s estate had been carefully planned so that when visitors approached it from the front gates they passed through a landscape of tall trees and boulders that blocked views of the water. The carriageway then turned sharply out of these woods to reveal the full panorama of house, gardens and harbour in one moment of epiphany. The visitor beheld a white mansion facing the sea as starkly beautiful as an Apollonian temple on a clifftop above the Aegean. From the ridgeline down to the beach, the estate was a wedge of startling emerald green, flanked by olive-grey eucalypt forest and pale sandy scrub on either side.

  Isobel felt the sting of tears in her eyes. This place had been her home since she was ten and yet she never tired of its beauty. But today the act of looking back had its own peculiar poignancy. Would her father ever lay eyes on Rosemount again? Would she? She could not decide if this glorious vision of her home bathed in fire was an apocalypse or a beacon of hope.

  ‘Come on, girl, no time to waste,’ she whispered in April’s ear as she leaned into her neck and, with a sharp prodding of heels, goaded the mare into a gallop up the last stretch of driveway before they melted into the blue shadows of the forest with James close behind.

  Chapter 3

  LACHLAN SWAMPS

  The sun was now well above the horizon as James and Isobel cantered along the Old South Head Road, their shadows close beside them. Between the trees, Isobel caught glimpses of the harbour, sparkling silver in the morning light, and heard flocks of parrots explode into the sky with their noisy hosannas.

  Though the muscles of Isobel’s thighs and knees ached with the uncommon exertion, she barely noticed, so elated was she by the sensation of freedom in the saddle. For minutes at a time she forgot her fear, lost in the rhythm of riding and the rush of wind in her face. But then she would suddenly be filled again with dread and sorrow, her heart galloping inside her chest and her mouth dry from surges of panic at the thought that she would arrive just in time to hear the fatal shot.

  ‘Over there!’ shouted James, pointing to where some twenty or so horses were tied up beneath a clump of paperbarks. Further up the road they could see at least a dozen cabs parked on the turf with their drivers standing in a circle, smoking. Isobel was outraged.

  ‘It seems like half of Sydney has turned out for this show!’ she cried, choking back tears.

  They rode in under the trees about thirty yards down the road from this gathering.

  ‘You can go back now, James,’ said Isobel. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  ‘With all respect, Miss, I think it’s a bit late for that,’ grinned James. ‘It is just as well I am leaving for the goldfields in a few weeks and will not need your father’s reference. I’ve come this far. I’m not leaving you alone now.’

  Isobel did not have the heart to argue. She nodded her assent as they dismounted, tethering the horses out of sight, and made their way into the bush.

  Lachlan Swamps formed part of a large low-lying marshland with a chain of freshwater ponds, close to Sydney Town. With the Tank Stream now too polluted and small to adequately supply Sydney with clean water, Governor Darling had commissioned an engineer, Mr Busby, to superintend the digging of a bore from the swamps to Hyde Park to feed the town’s water carts.

  The ground sloped away sharply from the road, thickly wooded with paperbarks and tea-tree with a profuse undergrowth of swamp grasses, bracken and palms. James went ahead, scrambling down the slope, and began to clear a path as best he could. In her usual female garb Isobel would have made slow progress, but in trousers and boots she easily managed to keep up. They soon found a winding narrow track through the undergrowth but the ground grew soft underfoot as they advanced. In places it was impassable, flooded by stretches of dark tea-coloured water, and they were forced to turn back. Flashes of sunlight winked as they passed under the forest’s canopy that arched over them like a vaulted cathedral ceiling. Isobel’s nostrils were filled with the tang of tannin, mulch and decay.

  Away to their left they heard men’s voices and spied a party of six moving through the trees in single file. It was obvious these men had found a sturdier track heading towards the duelling ground. Isobel and James changed course to follow them. The track came out into a grove of old paperbarks, their soft bark flaking away like dead skin. The thick liver-spotted trunks leaned drunkenly at all angles, tethered only by twisted roots in a flat sheet of swamp water stretching as far as the eye could see. In this unruffled silver-green mirror, amid islands of waterlilies, a second identical forest hung upside down. The place struck Isobel as eerie, alm
ost holy, with the occasional screams of waterfowl and their panicked flurry of wings breaking the deep silence.

  Then they both heard a murmuring of voices ahead. Through the congregation of ancient trees, Isobel spotted a group of men moving about on higher ground. She saw Dr Finch first, smoking a cheroot, laughing and talking with the seconds, Lieutenants Manning and Godfrey. She presumed the good doctor was present in his capacity as surgeon. Isobel was astounded. To think she had dined with him only the night before and he had not said a word about this morning’s fateful event. There were about a dozen other men milling about in frock coats and high hats, chatting amiably. A manservant had set up a camp stove and was serving cups of coffee. This hardly seemed the setting for a deadly contest; it had the pleasant, unhurried air of a country race meeting.

  And then Isobel saw the two men at the centre of the drama. Mr Davidson sported a black Prince Albert hat, dark blue jacket and gold quilted waistcoat. He wore his hair long touching his collar and smoked a cigar. Such a dandy! She sneered at his vulgarity. Her father was dressed in his finest green frock coat, mustard waistcoat and favourite brown felt bell-topper. He stood alone, his face unnaturally white. To Isobel, he had aged a hundred years.

  Crouched behind one of the paperbarks with James, Isobel gradually became aware that the entire grove had now filled with onlookers. ‘What’s that?’ she whispered, motioning towards a knot of men to their right who appeared to be exchanging handfuls of silver and notes.

  James’s face flushed red. ‘I’m afraid they’re laying bets, Miss.’ Isobel stared in horror. How could men be such monsters?

  She looked back at the duelling ground. Up on the hill there had been a sudden shift in the temper of the scene. The milling crowd of men had split into two groups who now stood in silence watching the main actors.

  Her father, the challenger, and his enemy, the respondent, stood back to back. Isobel saw the seconds each holding one of her father’s French pistols. In a stiff clockwork manner they approached each other, swapped the pistols over and closely inspected each other’s weapon. Satisfied that both pistols were properly primed and cocked, the seconds handed them to the duellists.

  ‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ a voice commanded. The two men, still standing back to back, nodded. ‘Very well then, on my signal.’

  ‘It has begun,’ James exhorted his mistress in an urgent whisper.

  Now, now, now. It was time for Isobel to act, to put a stop to this obscene farce, to save her father’s life. But she could not move. She was stuck inside a whirlwind of pure terror.

  Chapter 4

  THE SECOND SHOT

  Isobel heard the first shot ring out through the paperbark grove. Only then did she realise that she had closed her eyes. A return shot followed. She opened her eyes again to see her father and Mr Davidson standing some twenty paces apart. There was a sharp burning smell in the air. The pistols hung limply by their sides.

  ‘Two misses,’ shouted the same voice that had opened this deadly drama.

  Here was Isobel’s opportunity. Her plan from the start had been to shame her father and all these men into abandoning their horrible ritual. She had managed to come this far disguised in male clothing but now she would reveal herself. Flinging aside her brother’s hat, her beribboned hair would be unveiled as she dashed up the hill. ‘Stop, stop this at once!’ she would scream at the top of her lungs, running to embrace her father.

  She had played out this scene in her head many times. It would require great courage, she made no bones about that. But she hoped that at the critical moment the heat of her anger would melt away any scruples or fear and impel her forward with the force of a steam locomotive. Isobel understood, perhaps for the first time in her life, how her father’s righteous temper empowered him to take on all the fools of the world.

  But she had underestimated the power of her fear. It was simple enough to rehearse acts of courage in your thoughts. But when it finally came to the deed itself, that was a different matter. What held her back? Shame. Shame that blazed inside her like a bonfire. Oh, how utterly wretched it was to be a weak, defenceless woman, valued only for her ornamental education and not her convictions! Tears of impotent rage burned in her eyes.

  The men on the hill had reloaded the pistols and now checked them as before. ‘What do you want to do?’ whispered James urgently. Ever since his elevation to the position of stable boy at one of the grand houses on Woolloomooloo Hill, James had taken a practical interest in the sports of his gentlemen superiors: fox-hunting, trout fishing, kangaroo shooting, even the twenty-five rules of the Irish Code duello. James had explained to Isobel that if a dispute about which party had given first offence could not be resolved by the seconds then the matter must proceed to two shots, or to a hit, if the challenger required it. He suspected the Major, as the challenger, had insisted on a second shot, and possibly even a hit to conclude the matter with honour. Once the battle was joined, neither man could honourably walk away without firing his weapon. In a pistol duel, ‘dumb shooting’—or firing in the air—was strictly prohibited. ‘If no apologies are offered,’ James had explained, ‘then any wound that agitates the nerves and makes the hand shake must end the duel for that day.’

  What utter foolishness this all seemed to Isobel. Was it possible that women would resort to such nonsense if they had the choice? She hoped not. Women expressed their public displeasure with the slightest arch of an eyebrow or blush of a cheek. Or they communicated through a coded language of folding or unfolding fans, or the strategic placement of their cutlery at dinner parties. Then there were the elaborate rules that governed the endless rounds of visiting, leaving one’s card and being ‘at home’ or ‘not at home’. Women’s business was not conducted on the field of combat but at the card or tea table, in the sitting room and drawing room. Isobel could not imagine women ever taking up pistols and swords to settle their differences.

  ‘At your pleasure, gentlemen,’ announced the voice, inviting them to take their second shot at their own discretion. The reloaded pistols had been returned to the duellists. Isobel saw her father’s face, as grave and deathly white as the profile of a marble statue. Who would fire first? If the Major missed then he must stand and receive the second shot from his opponent. The same went for Mr Davidson, who no longer looked so cocky. His face ran with sweat and he hunched his shoulders as if he might pull his head inside his collar like a tortoise. The scene would be comic if it was not so deadly serious.

  Both men raised their arms and took aim. ‘You are a rascal and a blackguard, sir!’ the Major barked at his opponent.

  ‘And you are a bully and a fraud!’ shouted the other, his voice squeaking like an off-pitch violin.

  Isobel could see the tremors that passed through the bodies of the two men like galvanic shocks, their legs and arms shaking as if palsied. This spectacle was unbearable to watch: Isobel’s proud father reduced to quivering humiliation. She felt her blood begin to stir. To think that Papa was willing to face death, to place his own honour above the welfare and love of his family! How could she ever forgive him?

  And that was the spark that lit the wick of her rage. Before James had time to say anything more, Isobel broke cover from the paperbark grove and charged up the hill. Her brother’s hat flew off without any assistance from her and she felt the morning air cool on her scalp. The next few seconds were a blur. Voices shouted distantly like the sound of surf pounding on a beach. Her own ears were deafened by the crashing tide of her pulse. The trees, the sky and the absurd tableau of her father and his friends and enemies standing in a swamp were smeared across her vision as she hurtled onto the duelling ground.

  At the last moment she saw her father’s face tilted towards her, his eyes wide with shock. did he know it was her, his favourite daughter, Isobel? The pistols both exploded, the roar and stink of the gunpowder overwhelming at such close range. Isobel saw her father’s head snap back, his bell-topper falling to the ground as his body reeled and crum
pled, a jet of blood springing from his throat.

  Mr Davidson too was wounded, the shot grazing his skull and puncturing his hat. But Isobel saw nothing but the body of her father on the ground. The scream from her own throat sounded like nothing she had ever heard before, a cry of such pain it was enough to sunder her whole world in two.

  ISOBEL

  1838 TO 1849

  Chapter 5

  A BIRTHDAY PICNIC

  JANUARY 1847

  The day before Isobel turned thirteen, her mother’s gift to her was a precious hour or two (‘Just you and me, my sweet’) enjoying a picnic in Rosemount’s gardens. The Major was away in England again, this time to oversee the sea trials of his new ‘boomerang’ screw and lobby the Colonial Office for more pay. despite Papa’s promise to bring her a present from London as compensation for his absence, Isobel was disappointed, and she knew this picnic was her mother’s way of assuaging her feelings.

  It was perfect picnic weather, a hot summer’s afternoon without a scrap of cloud in the boundless cerulean. With her brothers and sisters otherwise occupied, Isobel had her mother’s undivided attention, a rare treat. The servants had laid out the rugs and hamper in the shade of Rosemount’s grotto: rhubarb pies, macaroons, cream puffs, lemon-cheese tarts, sandwiches and, as a birthday surprise, Isobel’s favourite—lollipops. The cool alcove was the family’s favourite refuge from the summer heat and provided a royal box view of the harbour with its leisurely parade of yachts, luggers, cargo ships and paddle-steamers. The grotto took advantage of a natural sandstone overhang at the water’s edge, with its seats and ceiling artfully carved by the architect Mr Verge’s masons. Over the brilliant jade waters of Elizabeth Bay, the two low-slung green islets Clark and Shark lay permanently at anchor in the middle distance, with North and South Head, majestic gateway to Port Jackson, framing the ocean beyond.