Alas there was no piano in the home so George could not show off his skills, but he produced his flute and accompanied me as I sang ‘Annie Laurie’ and then ‘Villikins and his Dinah’, standing in the little room and prancing as Mrs Foley had taught me, flicking my blanket this way and that as if it were an embroidered and tasselled shawl.
Jane laughed out loud in astonishment. ‘Do you know, I have seen a great lady of the stage sing that very song, and dance exactly as you have done! But Rosa, you are every bit as good!’
‘I will lay a wager,’ I replied, ‘that the great lady you have heard is Mrs W.H. Foley. It was she who taught me.’
And so it was. It turned out that Jane had been taken in to Nelson by her husband and there they had seen my old teacher perform a melodrama and sing her favourite song. Jane said Mrs Foley was probably still in Nelson as she was billed to play for a season and perform three new plays. How my heart beat at the news. How I longed to step again onto a stage where the audience were decent folk, not the drunken, bawdy riff-raff we had been performing to in Australia. I had almost forgotten the joys of acting a part, learning new lines, the camaraderie of a cast of actors working on a new play. Perhaps Mrs Foley would take me into her company! When we arrived in Nelson I would go to her. Bully would surely favour the idea of my earning good coin in a well-respected company.
So I dreamed. Bully had other ideas entirely.
A night or two later, Bully announced that he and I were invited to dine with the Askews. George was to stay camped alongside the ship to maintain order among the crew: a pitiful idea, as George had no control over Bully’s rough and surly fellows. I would have done better, young woman though I was. Mary the nursemaid came with us; she would not have been safe at the camp without Bully. Over our leg of mutton, and potatoes from the garden, Bully announced that he would not be visiting Nelson after all, but would continue down the coast in a day or two, in order to call in on the goldfield crowds.
‘My wife is a great favourite with the diggers,’ he said, laying his thick arm heavily on mine, ‘and my cargo of provisions will fetch a better price there.’
‘Oh,’ I cried. ‘I had set my heart on Nelson!’
‘Well, un-set it,’ was all he said to me.
I sent a desperate glance to Jane, who sighed but could make no comment in front of her husband.
A moment later Bully turned to Mr Askew. ‘I wonder if I might ask a favour?’
‘Of course.’ Mr Askew’s voice was a little guarded. Bully had asked more than one favour already, and repaid none.
‘I would like to take my family for a picnic — a farewell of sorts — and wondered if you might lend us your yacht?’
Mr Askew looked even more doubtful. His yacht, Waterwitch, provided the quickest way across the bay to the start of the track that led in to Nelson. The bridle path around the coast took days, and in bad weather was impassable.
‘Just for the afternoon,’ smiled Bully, laying on the syrupy charm that seemed to fool all and sundry. ‘A last happy hour or two before George and the baby leave us.’
I turned to Bully in astonishment. ‘What can you mean? We haven’t discussed this. George and the baby? What nonsense is this?’
Bully Hayes shot me the most furious of glances. He could not abide being crossed in front of others. He rose from the table, patting his mouth with Jane Askew’s fine linen napkin. ‘We will discuss this back at the ship,’ he said. ‘I will not have you question me in front of our good hosts.’
With the most perfunctory thank you he steered me to the door. Somehow he managed to secure the promise of the yacht for the next day.
For some minutes we walked back along the sand in silence. Mary, as confused as I — and embarrassed, no doubt — walked quickly ahead. Suddenly I stopped and faced Bully. The moonlight shone on a scene of great beauty — a silvery sea and the black outlines of majestic trees — but I saw only his dark eyes glittering in a pale, moon-washed face.
‘You cannot rule my life as if I were your pet dog to come and go as you bid,’ I shouted, too distressed to be fearful of the consequences.
‘I can and I will,’ he returned. ‘You are my wife …’
‘I am not!’
‘You are my wife if I say so.’
‘You had another wife before me. You cannot hold me bound by law!’
‘I can and I will,’ he repeated, gripping my arms fiercely. ‘George will go to Nelson with Mary and the baby. He has agreed to this. They are only a nuisance aboard ship. We will sail to the goldfields and you will perform where and how I dictate.’
‘You hate the goldfields!’ I wailed.
‘These ones are by the sea. I can ply my trade while you perform in the public houses. We will make good money.’
The wretch was proposing to set me up in a ‘house of entertainment’ and leave me to the whims of those rough diggers, earning money for his trading ventures! I could see the whole unhappy scenario.
‘I will not go with you,’ I screamed. ‘You must let me go my own way!’
He pressed his lips together and brought his face close to mine. I tried to recoil from the madness I saw in his eyes but his hands gripped my arms like iron clamps. He said not one word more, but turned me towards the encampment, dragging me with him.
When we were within earshot of the crew he spoke, but more quietly. ‘It will only be for a year or two, Rosa.’ (A year or two?) ‘We will make me a fortune and I will buy a better, bigger boat. We will sail to foreign parts. You will like that.’
Did he really believe that I would enjoy the life he proposed? Did he care? A great sob tore through my body. Bully gave me a quick shake as if to bring me to my senses, and shoved me towards our little lean-to on the shore. There he left me and sat drinking with his men.
What despair racked me then! What fear! For an hour I sat on the sand, unable to think, unable to move. As I stared across the black bay I saw a tiny flicker: lamplight, I suppose, at a distant farmhouse. I stared and stared, willing it to keep alight. That pinprick of light became, to my troubled, lonely soul, a tiny flame of hope. I breathed deeply, slowly, as one does on stage when emotion threatens to undermine good performance. There must be a way! I began to plan.
An hour or two later I crawled over the sand to where George lay rolled in his blanket under an awning rigged from one of our sails.
‘George!’ I whispered. ‘George, wake up!’ I held my hand over his mouth to silence any cry, then brought my lips close to his ear. ‘How could you agree to such an evil plan?’ I hissed. ‘Surely you know how much it would hurt me to leave the baby.’
George’s eyes rolled in alarm. It turned out he had agreed to nothing. Bully had consulted no one. Indeed George was dismayed at the thought of having Mary and Adelaida under his care. As well he might be. Poor George did not have a way with infants and found young Mary simple and uneducated. He had always ignored her in an embarrassed sort of way. In nervous whispers we agreed that when the time came for George to leave, I would somehow secretly contrive to leave too — if not travelling with him, then joining him later in Nelson.
‘Mrs Foley is performing in the town,’ I whispered. ‘I will ask her to hide me. Look for me there.’
George nodded solemnly. Possibly he was hurt to think that Bully found him dispensable. His manner was quiet and withdrawn. I had hoped for outrage. I realised that I could not hope for much assistance from that quarter.
‘He is your husband, Rosa,’ he said quietly. ‘If it were not for the baby I would advise …’ His voice trailed away. His hands, I noticed, were trembling, perhaps from cold, but I suspected a stronger emotion. He would not look squarely at me. I began to doubt the wisdom of confiding in him.
All night, I lay awake planning. I gathered a few personal items together and made a bundle of them, hidden among the baby’s napkins and clothes. I made sure the bodice I wore was the one with my two gold nuggets sewn into the seam. This might be the moment when they would be sor
ely needed. I kissed them through the fabric and sent a prayer to Maman and Papa: ‘Help me in my hour of need!’ I felt a powerful excitement, tinged with fear. In a few short days, if all went well, Rosa Buckingham would disappear. Captain Bully Hayes would never find her, search as he might.
My fervent prayer was answered, but in a manner so dreadful it is almost too painful to relate.
SCENE: Croixelles Harbour and the Askew’s yacht Waterwitch
All is lost!
[Archivist’s Note: This harbour is now spelled Croisilles. It is to be found a little north-east of Nelson. E. de M.]
The morning dawned clear and cool. From the bush, birds sang as if this was to be a glorious and happy day. The sun rose from behind the hills to warm our chilled bones. Bully had the men working at sunrise. He was in jovial mood — his rage of the night forgotten, it seemed.
‘Well, the old brigantine is in much better shape,’ he said as we ate our bacon and bread by the campfire. ‘We will be on our way in a day or two.’ He gave little Adelaida a chuck under the chin, slapped Mary on the backside, which made her jump and blush, then shouted over his shoulder, ‘George! Shake a leg, old fellow, the day is half over!’
He strolled over to where George Buckingham was scraping at his whiskers with a razor. George looked up at him with apprehension, cutting himself in the process. I feared he would give me away, but he remained silent.
‘George, my good friend,’ said my husband, smiling in the most familiar way and squatting beside the trembling fellow, ‘the time has come for the parting of the ways. You are not a seafaring man. Your talents are more suited to the gentle folk of Nelson than to the roaring goldfields.’
George glanced at me, then quickly back at Bully. He nodded dumbly.
‘I want you to pack your trunk this very morning,’ said Bully, as if this was the most natural of requests. ‘We will have a picnic — just our little family here …’ He gestured expansively towards me, Mary and the baby. ‘And then we will deliver you to the other side of the bay where you may arrange a ride in to Nelson.’
George cleared his throat. Again he gave a quick glance towards me. ‘But Bully,’ he said in his high, clear voice, ‘I have worked the goldfields before, as you know. I could come with you.’
‘You need not remind me of that time,’ said the Captain dangerously. ‘I know only too well …’ He was remembering of course the severed ear; the farce.
George spread his hands, a simple, hopeful gesture. ‘Ah Bully, that’s all in the past. A bit of fun.’ He risked a crooked smile.
‘Well it is not in the past for me!’ roared Bully. ‘We no longer have space aboard for you. Will you pack your trunk, man!’
We all jumped. The baby started to cry. Bully walked back to his men without another word. No mention of Mary and Adelaida. But later in the morning, as Bully was setting off to walk to the Askews’ to pick up the yacht, he muttered to me, ‘See that the nursemaid is packed and ready along with the baby’s things.’
He said it gruffy, knowing what he asked, knowing that he was treating George poorly. Let alone his so-called wife and child. I was astonished that he could imagine it would all go smoothly. Captain Bully Hayes believed his own charm would always override poor planning. Not this time.
I pretended to go along with his orders. By the time he returned with the yacht Waterwitch, Mary had packed her few belongings. As many as I dared of my own possessions were hidden among the baby’s clothes and the food for the picnic.
Bully tried to keep the party jolly: chatting and laughing and calling for a song as our little sail took the brisk wind and we headed out across the bay. George remained pale and silent. No doubt he would soon be feeling ill.
We were well across the bay, heading towards the few houses on the opposite side, when the wind freshened. There was no sudden squall as Bully would later claim, but the water became rough and George was indeed miserable and seasick. Bully, sitting in the stern, manned the tiller while I managed the boom, swinging it this way and that when Bully gave the order.
‘By the way,’ said Bully casually to poor, green-faced George, ‘Mary and the baby will come with you. You don’t mind keeping an eye on them in the meantime? The goldfields are no place for a nursemaid and baby. I will see that you are properly recompensed.’
We all knew Bully Hayes too well to dream for a moment that any recompense would be forthcoming.
For once in his life George lost his temper. ‘You have no right to ask me that!’ he shouted. ‘It is bad enough leaving me alone like this. I will not take the baby! Oh!’ He heaved his guts out over the side, but then immediately returned to the fray, his eyes streaming, head wagging back and forth. ‘Turn back, turn back!’ he cried. ‘I will not take care of your child. You cannot make me! Turn back!’
He half rose from his position in the prow and grabbed at my rope, causing the boom to swing across, clipping Mary painfully. She dropped Adelaida into the slopping water in the bottom of the yacht. The boat rocked violently, taking in more water. Bully roared at George to sit down or he would have us all in the water.
‘I’d rather drown,’ sobbed George. ‘Turn back. Oh Bully, take me with you!’
In a rage Bully seized one of the oars and used it, one-handed, to thrust at George. ‘You owe me a favour, George Buckingham,’ he growled, ‘after ruining my reputation on the Arrow. Do you think for a moment I would take you near gold diggings again? Now sit down.’
Again he thrust with his oar at George, catching him in the chest and forcing the wind out of him. George slumped unevenly on his seat. At the same moment I was reaching for poor screaming Adelaida. Both movements proved too much for the yacht. The rocking and the rough sea caused a great deal of water to rush aboard. Bully had joked as we set out that we must all sit quiet as the boat was sitting low. He should have known, seaman that he was, that George’s trunk, the picnic basket and four full grown people were too much for the little craft. But he was determined to stick to his plan. Now we all gasped in alarm as we saw water rush aboard with every new wave. Under our sodden feet, she was sinking! Mary, in a panic, rose from her bench screaming, and grasped at Bully’s arm. He shook her off angrily, but his face was ashen.
Faster than you could say a Hail Mary, Waterwitch sank. Silently, heavily, down she went. We were all were tossed into the sea: the picnic basket bobbing away; Mary screaming that she couldn’t swim; me tearing at the ties of my heavy skirt while holding the baby’s head above water. Oh, it was horrid pandemonium.
George seemed to have lost his mind. He swam at Bully, tore at his coat and started beating him over the head. George could swim: despite his seasickness he had no fear of water. He tried to pull the oar from Bully’s grasp. While I struggled with Mary and Adelaida, those two men fought each other! I believe Bully gave George a tremendous clout with the oar: I have only a hazy memory of it, but I heard a crack and a pained grunt. Did George swim away then? Or sink immediately? I lost sight of him.
‘Bully, Bully!’ I gasped. ‘Bring the other oar over here! Mary cannot swim!’
I had guided her arms to the oar, which she clung to as if to a lover, but that slender pole was not buoyant enough to support all three of us. By now I had managed to divest myself of my dragging skirt and jacket, but keeping the howling baby afloat was difficult in the rough seas. ‘Bully!’ I shouted.
Bully was not a good swimmer. He heard me, I am sure, but took no notice, choosing to keep the other oar to himself, the coward. Did it cross his mind that this was a convenient way of ridding himself of all encumbrances? Perhaps. But I think the truth of the matter was that he feared drowning, like many seamen, and panic overcame any nobler instincts.
He swam away from us, away from his own child, towards the shore, pushing the precious oar ahead.
I have always been a strong swimmer. As a child I took to the waters of the Mediterranean like a fish. At first I felt hopeful that I could guide the three of us safely to shore, which was not f
ar away.
‘Kick, Mary, kick!’ I exhorted her, but she was too frightened to listen. In her thrashing she loosened Adelaida from my shoulder, where the poor mite clung, screaming. I left Mary and the oar so I could snatch at my dear baby, but a wave washed her out of my grasping fingers. Oh, if only her clothing had not been so sodden! If only I had removed her shawl before I freed myself! Adelaida, my sweet, brave little girl, disappeared, sinking from my sight. In despair I searched the water, riding each wave to get a better view. Again and again I dived beneath the surface, but no shadowy form could I see, no drifting white shawl, no tiny reaching hand. From one quick moment to the next, the sea took her.
Alas. Oh black despair!
When I turned back towards the shore, there was no sign of Mary or the oar. As I rode the crest of a wave I thought I could see Bully, much nearer to land. No sign of another soul, nor of any floating thing which might assist me. By now the current was taking me out rather than in. As I floated, weak and desperate, I decided my best chance would be to go with the drift and see if I could make land at the far curve of the bay, where a line of rocks reached a finger of hope to this lonely, bereft swimmer.
It was rage, I believe, that gave me the strength to reach land. Rage at Bully Hayes and his mad decision to rid himself of George and Mary and my dear Adelaida; rage at his cowardly abandoning of us all. If he had stayed close when the yacht sank, perhaps the baby might have been saved. Together surely we would have managed. Alone, there was no hope. Adelaida was gone. Every time I rode the crest of a wave I searched for a sign. A scrap of clothing, a spread-eagled little body. Once I thought I saw her dark curls floating, and swam in hope towards the patch. Even her drowned body would be something. But it was a rope of black seaweed, not my poor daughter.
Keeping my eye on that line of rocks, I drifted in the chilly water. Then, when I judged the time right, I kicked out with all the strength I could muster, fighting the current, gasping mouthfuls of air when my head rose above the waves.
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