Stranger in Dixie

by James Fearn

  After the exchange of gifts, Richard took Anna’s hand, led her to the tent pole where the mistletoe hung and kissed her. Not to be outdone Harry grabbed Beatrice, pulled her under the mistletoe, and gave her a peck on the cheek. John sat alone smiling at the re-enactment of this old European custom in this outpost of civilisation.

  The afternoon was spent in happy conversation, their expressions of hopes for the future, and for Harry and Richard desperate attempts not to fall asleep. The sun was setting in the western sky when John heard a commotion coming from the direction of the creek just a little upstream. The men went to investigate and were amazed to see dozens of people armed with pots, jars, and bottles, bending down over the stream. Apparently, a short time earlier a dray-load of brandy casks was crossing the little wooden bridge, which collapsed under the weight. The casks burst open as they fell on the rocks, sending their contents cascading downstream, much to the delight of the exuberant diggers.

  Exaggerated reports of the event spread rapidly to other parts of the goldfields and indeed back to Britain. Prospective young miners were lured by tales of a land where gold nuggets lay scattered on the ground for the taking and the streams flowed with brandy. The faraway Australian diggings had acquired a reputation beyond reality.

  It was early in the New Year, and John was hard at work at the diggings, hoping desperately for a change in his fortune. He was working in a shaft some four feet down lost in thought when suddenly towering over him stood Josh at the top of the shaft. ‘Ah bin thinkin’, John. Ah got a pal in the American Consulate in Melbourne. Yer orta go and talk to ’im.’

  Josh’s words challenged John to think more seriously about his suggestion. His friend was obviously interested in their future. And so it was that John found himself three days later walking the familiar dusty streets of Melbourne town with yet a new vision forming in his mind. He found the consulate in a handsome sandstone building in St. Kilda Road, a wide tree-lined track with the makings of a splendid boulevard.

  ‘Carm on in, Mr Francis. Will y’ take carffee?’ inquired the officer in a southern drawl. ‘Oh, thank you,’ responded John courteously although he would have preferred tea.

  ‘Now, Mr Francis, I see you’re fixin’ t’ migrate to the United States,’ said the officer. ‘That’s right. I’m told that there are good prospects in the southern states—Mississippi or perhaps Louisiana,’ responded John. ‘Is that correct?’

  ‘Yeah!’ replied the officer. ‘They’re openin’ up parts o’ Loosiana for cotton growin’ right now. But I tell yer, it’s damned hot out there.’

  ‘Oh, that wouldn’t worry us,’ said John, remembering the time the mercury topped 125 degrees at Forest Creek. ‘Well, if you’re interested, you could contact the sheriff at Mansfield up in the north-west. Mississippi’s got good prospects too, but I’d try Mansfield first if I were you.’

  There followed quite a helpful discussion about Louisiana’s economy and politics, and John began to feel a rising interest in the challenge that lay in a place like the deep south of America. The official did not pull any punches. He spoke of the heat, the humidity, the floods, and the rattlesnakes that made life very unpleasant on occasions. ‘And it’s not all straightforward on the political front either,’ he said. John was most interested in this comment and quizzed him about his meaning.

  After about an hour of conversation, John thanked the official and took his leave. With his mind full of his conversation John set out at a brisk pace to walk over the river to the rectory of St James Church.

  Mrs Stevens, the rector’s wife greeted John at the door like a son and threw her arms around him in welcome. He kept the family up late that night, regaling them with stories of his and Anna’s adventures and tragedies at the diggings. As he was leaving next morning, Mrs Stevens said, ‘Now you tell Anna that I want you both to come and stay with us for a few days before you set out for America. Oh, I say, how exciting! Don’t forget now! Anna and I can go shopping for some nice clothes.’ Thanking them kindly John departed and hastened back to Forest Creek.

  Seventy-two hours later, Anna was listening to John telling her what he had learnt in the city, and they talked well into the night about the proposal. Finally, John took Anna’s hands in his and said, ‘I know our going to America would please you, my dear. You’ve been urging me for some time, haven’t you? If you’re satisfied we can find a better life there, then let’s give it a go.’

  In the weeks that followed, Anna’s emotions fluctuated as she pondered their decision. There were moments when the prospect of a new venture into the unknown excited her tremendously. And there were moments when she grieved at the thought of parting from mates with whom friendship had been forged in joy and in sadness, in success and in failure.

  Human feeling can be a sensitive attribute, responsive to the many forces that impinge upon it. Lack of hope, for example, undermines the will, saps the energy, and demoralises the soul. Years of disappointment and frustration on the goldfields had, had such an effect upon many a young man who had come to make his fortune. And it was obvious to Anna that John’s hope had been rekindled by thoughts of a new start in a different country. The American official’s enthusiasm for the place had apparently fired John’s imagination, and Anna was happy for him.

  The last few days of their time in Forest Creek were lived at a frantic pace. The organisation of their personal affairs, the packing of their few possessions, and the farewell parties with their many friends left them both in a state of emotional exhaustion.

  It was the night before their departure for Melbourne, and Anna had retired early to rest for the long and rough journey southward. After checking the bindings and labels on their travel bags, John too laid down to sleep. ‘John’, whispered Anna, drawing him close to her, ‘we need to talk.’

  John’s mind immediately raced over some of the things that could possibly be of interest to Anna just before their departure.

  ‘I think I’ve done all we have to do to get ready, haven’t I?’ John queried.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure we have,’ she replied.

  ‘But it’s more something personal, John. Something that concerns you and me.’

  John turned his head slightly on the pillow and found her looking straight at him.

  ‘John, I think we’re going to have a child.’

  He said nothing, but wrapped his arms around her in a warm, comforting embrace as their hopes again began to rise.

  The long trip back to Melbourne through the Black Forest climaxed at St James Church in the warmest of welcomes that the young adventurers could have imagined. The few days prior to their departure for America on the New Orleans were spent in shopping, sight-seeing, and celebration. John and Anna were treated like a son and daughter by the most kindly friends they had ever had or were likely to have.

  It was a bright autumn morning, in 1854, when John and Anna arrived at the wharf at Port Melbourne. Several of their erstwhile friends from St James had joined the Stevens to bid farewell to the young couple.

  ‘Come gather round!’ called the rector. ‘Let’s commit our dear friends to the Lord.’ And he began to pray in distinctly audible tones as the small band of his parishioners linked hands in a circle around John and Anna. The seagulls squawked raucously overhead as they darted in and out of the ship’s rigging.

  ‘We commit John and Anna to Thee, O Lord of this world. Vouchsafe to protect them as they go forth from our midst to faraway lands. Give them a good passage across the mighty ocean we beseech Thee, O Lord. Grant that these, our friends, and Thy servants may ever be true and faithful to what is good, and protect them from all that is evil. Prosper them, good Lord in all that they do in the place to which they go. And into Thy safe and secure keeping we entrust them. Amen!’

  A light breeze had sprung up catching the crests of the little waves of Port Phillip Bay so that they danced like ten thousand miniature balle
rinas in the bright sunshine. The passengers, some hurriedly boarding the ship, others nonchalantly lingering on the wharf with friends were a varied lot. Some were obviously ladies and gentlemen of means. The ladies were attired in gowns of fine silk or taffeta and wore magnificent ribboned bonnets. Together with their husbands in morning suits and top hats, they paraded ostentatiously along the pier anxious to be noticed. Numerous porters struggled up the gang-planks under the weight of the voluminous luggage.

  Others, presumably travelling steerage were somewhat scruffy in appearance by comparison and were hauling their own meagre possessions aboard. The salty air tinged with the faint aroma of rotting seaweed from the adjacent sandy beach added to the distinctly nautical ambience. Riding at anchor around the great ship in the choppy water were smaller fishing boats packed with chattering sight-seers.

  John and Anna stood at the ship’s railing. Anna held a coloured paper streamer, which was being gently tugged by the rector’s wife standing on the pier. ‘Cast off!’ ordered the Captain. A huge cloud of seagulls rose into the air as the ship shuddered into motion. A cheer went up from the passengers and the New Orleans began to pull away.

  The long voyage across the Pacific Ocean passed uneventfully apart from the occasional marine entertainment. A school of whales amused the ship’s company for several days as they cavorted in the water around the New Orleans. Anna admitted to being a little scared as the huge creatures nudged the sides of the ship as they played. Aided by fair winds and good weather the south equatorial current brought them into the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico in about eight weeks.

  It was just dawn one morning when the passengers were woken by a loud cry from the crow’s nest. ‘Ship ahoy!’ John ran out on to the deck to see what was causing the commotion. The first light of day had revealed the presence of another ship straight ahead in their course. As the light intensified, it could be seen that the other ship was carrying no sail. She was drifting. ‘Who is she?’ asked John. ‘Can’t tell in this light,’ said the squinting boatswain. The crew stared at her curiously. The possible consequences of a collision had not escaped John’s wild imagination.

  ‘She’s a pirate!’ cried one of the crew in alarm, lowering his telescope. ‘She’s flying the skull and crossbones!’ These seas were well known for the activities of pirates and a feeling of apprehension swept over those on deck immediately.

  ‘Wait a moment!’ ordered the Captain who had by now taken the telescope and was examining the other vessel from bow to stern. ‘There’s not a movement on-board!’ he said in a surprised tone. As the ship was less than one hundred yards away by now, he would have expected the pirates to be bearing down upon their prey grappling hooks at the ready. But the ship was as still as death.

  ‘That’s it!’ cried the Captain. ‘Plague! She’s a death ship! Change course! Hard to port!’ he called to the wheelhouse. There was a lurch as the ship responded and sped away into the morning. John breathed a sigh of relief as he pondered which of the two possible fates would have been worse, plague or pillage and rape.

  The ship’s company finally relaxed when the New Orleans eventually passed through the mouth of the great Mississippi River. To reach the port of New Orleans, the ship sailed slowly north about ninety miles up the river. Other ships of comparable size passed in the southerly direction and barges loaded with cotton and other produce kept pace with the clipper as it sailed gracefully upstream like a queen bee with her attendant workers.

  From the deck, John and Anna noted the marshy terrain with wide bayous running back into the surrounding country. Muskrat trappers in shallow boats searched for their quarry among the reeds. The increasingly denser building on the banks indicated the approach of a busy centre. Indeed, this was the port of New Orleans, one of the busiest in the country.

  Because of her pregnancy, there was an urgency about Anna and John’s travel arrangements, which left them no time to explore the wonders of one of America’s most interesting cities. They would have loved to walk the streets behind the wharf, but the steamboat to Smithport was fired up and ready for departure as they disembarked the New Orleans.

  With a blast from its dual horns, the steamboat was soon under way on the long journey up the Mississippi and the Red which took them deep into Louisiana. John and Anna sat for quite a while on the rear deck of the steamboat, its huge stern-wheel churning the water relentlessly.

  They marvelled at the width of the immense waterway, unimaginable in Australia, one of the driest continents on earth. They gave up counting the many tributaries, large and small, which entered the great river.

  On the distant bank, Anna could see a herd of cows in a fenced field and beyond them a horse-drawn wagon, making its way south. A veritable armada of river craft floated or powered its way past the steamboat. The great steamers with side paddles packed with travellers bound for New Orleans, barges laden with produce from the north, and small fishing boats of all sizes and colours, some at anchor and others being rowed made the river a hive of human activity unknown in the Australians’ experience.

  ‘How y’all travellin’?’ asked the Steamboat Captain who appeared at Anna’s elbow. ‘Name’s Cap’n Sheppard, and this is ma boat, the Lily Belle. Hope y’all enjoyin’ the trip.’

  ‘We’re fascinated by all these boats, Captain,’ said Anna. ‘It really is a busy place, isn’t it?’ she continued in her Irish lilt somewhat broadened by her goldfield’s experience. ‘Oh, y’all from Ireland, are y’?’ queried the Captain with a smile.

  It was nearly seven hours before the steamer reached the mouth of the Red River and a further three before their ultimate destination came into view. The town of Smithport was little more than a wharf on the Bayou Pierre, a small offshoot of the Red River. It served as an outlet for the cotton and corn that were the principal exports of the region and was a convenient shipping head for travellers between the north-west and the south-east. The waiting wagon was soon bumping its way along the stony track towards Mansfield.

  At the end of the uncomfortable journey, the new immigrants with their few possessions and great hopes entered the office of the highest permanent official of the court of justice in the town of Mansfield, the clerk of courts. This was an austere room with bundles of files stacked high on shelves lining its walls. Behind a large desk, sat a thin balding man wearing a black waistcoat and a pair of pence nez clipped to the end of his nose.

  ‘Sit y’self down, Mr and Mrs . . . er . . . ,’ said the official, sorting through his papers. ‘Francis’, interrupted Anna. Looking up from his records, the clerk stared at her disapprovingly. There was a long silence broken only by the rustling of papers as the public servant refused to be hustled in his dealings with these new migrants.

  ‘Ah, here we are!’ he said nonchalantly, fingering the letter that John had forwarded in advance of their arrival in Mansfield. ‘Australia, eh?’ he queried. ‘Y’ve come a hell of a long way, haven’t y’all?’ John agreed, but explained that they had enjoyed the trip and were anxious now to settle down to a life of farming. ‘Y’re lookin’ for a job Ah s’pose. Well, as it happens, there’s a place a mile or so down the road that might take y’all on. Jesse Godbehere runs a plantation,’ said the clerk. ‘You could try ’im. He’s got quite a bit of undeveloped land he’s thinkin’ o’ puttin’ under cotton. I’ll give y’all a letter of introduction.’

  Carrying their two portmanteaux, a carpet bag, and a hat box, the couple followed the clerk’s directions. They walked down the Old Post Road, a wide well-beaten track that ran from the Red River in the south to Shreveport in the north. The extensive potholes reminded John of Collins Street in faraway Melbourne town.

  ‘Here we are, Crosby Street,’ said John, reading the signpost at the corner of a smaller road that led to the east past fenced fields. A short way along the street, they came to quite an imposing iron gate with the name ‘Godbehere’ emblazoned upon it. ‘This must be the p
lace,’ said Anna eagerly. A wide gravelled pathway led up to a grand two-storey house with a large veranda, which protected the lower rooms from the hot summer sun. John stepped up to the door and pulled a dangling rope.

  ‘G’d afternoon, Massa,’ said the young black woman who came to the door. ’Er . . . good afternoon,’ said John somewhat taken aback at the sight of her. This was the first direct encounter with a slave that he had ever had. ‘Is your master at home, miss?’

  ‘Yeah, sure am! Who wants t’ know?’ came a deep resonant voice from within the darkened interior of the house. A tall good-looking man in his early fifties emerged from the shadows and stepped outside the door. This was Jesse Godbehere, Master of the plantation. He had inherited the property from his father ten years earlier and some excellent seasons together with his good management during the past decade had seen him prosper.

  ‘Ma name’s Godbehere . . . Jessie Godbehere,’ he said offering his hand in welcome. ‘An’ who do Ah have the pleasure of addressin’?’

  ‘John and Anna Francis’, said John, handing him the letter of introduction.

  It soon became apparent that the Master was a kindly man. His friendliness towards the new arrivals, his courtesy to the black servant girl, and an open Bible clearly displayed on a small table against the wall of the vestibule impressed John and Anna with his goodness and uprightness. Their initial impressions of this man were a reflection of the meaning of his name.

  ‘Come this way’, said Jesse, directing the servant girl to attend to their possessions. He led them into an ornately furnished sitting room. Elegant rosewood chairs and a settee upholstered in rich floral brocade surrounded a superb Persian carpet that covered a sizeable area of the floor. Not a trace of dust could be seen on the polished wood that was visible around the edges of the carpet. Portraits of family members hung on the papered walls and a beautiful bowl of sweet-smelling magnolia blooms graced the corner of the room beside a large bay window. It was apparent that this was a family of considerable opulence.