Remember Me
Page 43
John nodded. ‘And your father too, Mary. He is another good man, and I’m proud to be taking you home to him.’
‘What’s that?’ Boswell asked, picking up the tail-end of the conversation.
‘Just telling Mary I sailed under both her uncle and father, sir,’ John said. ‘But then you know that.’
‘Bozzie,’ Mary said reprovingly, ‘is that why you were so adamant I had to go on this boat?’
His smile was a mischievous one. ‘Would I entrust such a precious cargo to just anyone?’ he asked. ‘I spoke to several ships’ masters before I found Job. I wanted one you would feel at ease with.’
They filled their glasses again and Boswell made the men laugh with a very funny account of what he called ‘his Cornish jaunt’ the previous year.
Mary was happy just to watch and listen. It was good to see the way Boswell sparkled as he told a tale. He had a gift of being able to describe a scene and the people there so well that the listener entered into it too. She was going to miss him, but her trepidation about going home was gone now. Cornwall was where she belonged.
It was after ten when they finally left the tavern to walk to the boat. John carried Mary’s box, walking a little ahead with Moyes, while Mary followed, holding Boswell’s arm.
‘Leave me here,’ she said to him as they got to the boat. ‘Don’t come aboard, you must go back to meet up with James as you promised.’
The wind had blown itself out and the rain had stopped. For once there was no fog, and the moon and stars were clear and bright, making twinkling lights in the inky river. The sound of water slapping gently against the hull reminded her poignantly of that other desperate voyage, something she hadn’t thought of for a very long time.
‘Will you be all right?’ Boswell asked her, his customary confidence deserting him.
‘Of course I will,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘The sea holds no terrors for me.’
Boswell caught her by the forearms fiercely, his face suddenly more youthful in the blaze of a lighted torch by the boat. ‘If ever you need me, send a message,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘You take care of yourself, Bozzie,’ she said. ‘And say goodbye to James, Bill, Nat and Sam. Tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to celebrate their freedom.’
Mary heard Moyes or John cough and knew they were waiting for her to go aboard. ‘Goodbye, my dear friend,’ she said, kissing him again, this time on the lips. ‘I shall never forget you. You gave me back my life.’
She left him quickly, not trusting herself not to cry. As she reached the deck she turned and waved just once. He was just standing looking up at her, the silver buttons on his coat and his gold watch-chain glistening in the light from the torch. He raised his three-cornered hat and bowed majestically, then turned and walked away.
‘Will you miss London?’ John said at her elbow.
Mary turned to look at him and smiled. She had a feeling that his real question was would she miss grand people like Boswell, not the city itself.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said truthfully. ‘I’m glad I’ve seen it, but I prefer a simple life, and people I can be myself with.’
Suddenly, she had the oddest feeling of having been here before. Puzzled, she looked around her, but in the darkness she could see little but the gleam of brass and the whiteness of coiled rope.
‘What’s the matter?’ John asked. ‘Don’t tell me a born sailor like you is disturbed by the movement beneath your feet?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, then laughed because John’s Cornish burr was enough to jog her memory. The smell of river water, and a man who attracted her, completed the picture from the past.
She was on the deck of the Dunkirk, a girl in rags and chains, setting her heart on an officer with a faint Cornish accent.
‘Let me show you to your cabin,’ John said. ‘You’ll get cold up here.’
All at once Mary felt completely liberated, far more so than when she was released from Newgate. She was going to a cabin, not the hold. Tomorrow at dawn they would set sail, she would eat meals with Moyes, John and the other seamen. And she could use a spoon if she wanted to, because no one here would mind. They would drink rum and swap sailing stories, and she would be the men’s equal.
She began to laugh as she climbed down the steep steps to the cabins.
John stood at the bottom with her box in his arms and laughed too. ‘Are you that happy to be aboard?’ he asked, tawny eyes twinkling. ‘I’m very happy about it. But we expected you’d have had enough of ships to last a lifetime.’
‘I thought I had too,’ Mary replied, with laughter still in her voice. ‘But this one feels like I’m already home.’
Postscript
I confess that I never looked at these people without pity and astonishment. They had miscarried in a heroic strug gle for liberty; after having combated every hardship and conquered every difficulty.
The woman had gone out to Port Jackson in the ship which transported me thither and was distinguished for her good behaviour. I could not but reflect with admiration at the strange combination of circumstances which had brought us together again, to baffle human foresight and confound human speculation.
An extract from Watkin Tench’s journal, 1792
Afterthoughts
It was hard for me to leave Mary on the deck of the Anne and Elizabeth. I had become so attached to her that I would have loved to have written an entirely fictional account of her falling in love with John Trelawney on the voyage home. I would also have loved to have taken you to view the joyful reunion with her parents in Fowey, and later to go on to a romantic wedding for her and John, then the birth of a couple of healthy, bonny babies.
But Mary’s story is a true one, and though I have added my own imagination to her personality, her friends and the many hardships she endured so bravely, I have stayed within the historical facts about her and the other main characters who played major roles. Therefore it would be wrong to misrepresent her life after leaving London.
Sadly, nothing is known of what happened to Mary after returning home to Fowey. We know she did collect her annuity from the Reverend John Baron, and this gentleman also wrote to James Boswell on Mary’s behalf to thank him for his kindness, and recorded that she was behaving herself. But there are no records of marriages, births or even deaths that set her firmly in Fowey.
But I think such an intelligent and daring woman would not have wanted to stay for ever in a place where she was gossiped about. If James Boswell’s account of her family’s legacy was true, and there is no reason to doubt it, I think she would have moved away, maybe even overseas.
I do believe too that a woman who was liked and admired by all the men close to her would have married again. I certainly hope she found a good man, and had other children.
James Martin, Sam Broome (who was also known as Butcher), Bill Allen and Nat Lilly finally got their pardon in November, soon after Mary left London. They went straight from Newgate to see James Boswell to thank him for his kindness.
Sam did join the New South Wales Corps, and went back to Australia. Nothing is known of the other three. But I like to think that James Martin either returned to Ireland, having made enough profit from his memoirs to breed horses, or went off to America.
As for James Boswell, sadly he died on 17 May 1795. His family cancelled the annuity to Mary, and although he recorded in his diary that he wrote four pages about ‘the Girl from Botany Bay’, these pages have never been found. But I am sure James rests happily knowing that The Life of Samuel Johnson did indeed become known as the very best biography of all time.
Watkin Tench went on to become something of a hero. He was captured in France, and supposedly escaped from the prisoner-of-war camp. He reached the rank of Major-General. I smiled when I discovered he married an Anna Maria Sargent. Sargent was my maiden name, and my father was a Royal Marine. Watkin and Anna Maria had no children of their own, but adopted his sister-in-law’s four
children when her husband died in the West Indies.
Watkin Tench’s journals survived along with those of many other officers who went out to Australia with the First Fleet, and there is no doubt that he was an intelligent, compassionate and fair-minded man.
Mary never divulged who Charlotte’s father was, for Lieutenant Spencer Graham was my own invention. Some people think Watkin Tench was responsible, but I doubt that very much, for he would surely have recorded his anguish at seeing Charlotte’s burial at sea.
I like to think that the good men on that First Fleet, whether felons, officers or Marines, would be proud and pleased to see what a wonderful country Australia is now.
Who knows, maybe Mary slipped back there under another name and her descendants are still there, as brave and resourceful as she was.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Remember Me
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
Chapter nineteen
Chapter twenty
Chapter twenty-one
Chapter twenty-two
Postscript
Afterthoughts