by Robin Adair
“What on earth are they doing?” asked Miss Dormin, pointing to a line of people waiting to poke their heads in turn through a horse collar.
“Oh,” said the patterer, “it’s to see who can pull the ugliest face—it’s called ‘grinning.’”
“Some of those men look familiar.”
“That’s because you are looking at a wayzgoose.”
“A what?”
“A wayzgoose—a printers’ picnic. You recognize some of those gentlemen from The Gleaner or some other journals you’ve visited.”
“What an odd word, wayz . . . whatever! What does it mean?”
“Well, originally it was about a master printer entertaining his craftsmen at St. Bartholomew-tide, on or about August 24. In Europe, this marked the beginning of the season of working during the day by candlelight. Here, of course, it could mark the start of the season of relying less on candles.
“Wayz is an Old English word meaning ‘stubble.’ So a wayzgoose was a bird that fed on a field of mown crop stubble. Goose, if you can obtain it, is still the traditional main dish at a printers’ picnic. And Sunday is one of the rare times they can take a few hours off to celebrate. Anyway, strictly speaking they can all say that, after a fashion, they are keeping Sunday observance. The men are all members of a chapel—that’s what their craft guild is called. It harks back to early printing’s strong links with the church. A printers’ leader is even still called the ‘father of the chapel.’”
Dunne excused himself and approached a compositor he knew. When he returned, he explained, “I wanted to know if there were any other American printers in town who may have known more about Abbot’s life. The answer was that there are none. But I learned that he was an extremely skilled typesetter and press-man. And ...”
He noticed that Rachel Dormin had been humming a doleful air. “What tune is that?” he asked.
“Oh, it is just a sad song I once heard. Your mention of a celebration aligned to the saint’s day brought it to mind. It could be regarded as odd to picnic and play at any time connected with that saint or his day. It should perhaps be sad remembrance.”
“Why so?”
“That was the day in 1572 when Catherine de Medici instigated the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre and thousands of French Huguenots died.”
“And your song is about that?”
“No, not that, but about something else that was evil. It was about a dank debtors’ cell in the Fleet Prison in London. Inmates sitting on the straw-covered floor with their legs in irons called it ‘Bartholomew Fair,’ as a parody, a gallows humor allusion to the famous real fair of that name held every year at Smithfield.”
Dunne remembered the fair, and the grim prison, from his Bow Street days. Then Miss Dormin began to sing, quietly but sweetly:Cutpurses, cheaters, bawdy-house doorkeepers,
Room for company at Bartholomew Fair.
Punks, aye, and panderers, cashiered commanders,
Room for company, ill may they fare.
She ended on a clear, long note. “They sang that because they were in the vile cell for the crime of debt. They felt that other, real criminals should not be free.”
The patterer shook his head. “How on earth do you know all that?”
“Oh, I had an aunt who lived in Farringdon Street. I would hear the singing as I passed the jail and she explained it all. How she longed to leave that sadness.” She waved a hand in an arc encompassing the town. “Perhaps all in Australia should regard St. Bartholomew as their patron saint—especially the prisoners here.”
“Why do you say that?”
Miss Dormin frowned. “Recall how St. Bartholomew was martyred. He, too, was flayed.”
She looked across at her companion. “Do you know what is the strangest thing?”
Dunne shook his head.
“Well,” she continued, “it is that always, from the time I was a little girl, I wanted to go to a magic island. Here is too vast to comprehend. Perhaps what I had in mind is something more like that small island to the west of Jack-the-Miller’s Point and Dawes’s Battery. Perhaps it is enchanted.”
“Perhaps it is,” said the patterer with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “But you might have trouble communicating with its main inhabitants. They’re goats.”
Considering the young woman’s sudden change of mood, as well as not wanting to speak unproven ill of the dead, Dunne refrained from telling her what else the man at the picnic had told him: The late Mr. Abbot was rumored to have had a special reason for becoming self-employed. Gossip had it that he had been dismissed from The Gleaner for attempting blackmail. But, thought the patterer, what valuable secrets could Abbot have known? How could he have made such threats? And how did the story tally with Dr. Halloran’s avowed desire to help the man?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
No, no—surely not! My God—not more of those damned whores! Never have I seen worse women.
—An Officer of Marines’s first impression of female arrivals on the convict transport Lady Juliana (1790)
ACROSS TOWN, ON THE FRINGES OF THE DISREPUTABLE ROCKS, A fat but very strong woman approaching middle age had completed an energetic caning of the pale, bare buttocks of an officer of the proud 57th. As he eased on his regimentals, she bade him a courteous farewell and took the gold coin he had handed her to the downstairs parlor. She wiped her brow, for she had found the exercise more than usually exhausting.
Madame Greene (she had no other known name) was a madam and she was always green. That is, she conducted a brothel and, by a strange compulsion, always appeared from head to daintily shod toe in garments of various shades of green. Lately she had even begun to dye her hair green.
She was a very lawless lady and very rich. The latter condition and the importance of her services more than counterbalanced the former. Madame herself was no longer an active whore—she did not count punishing naughty soldiers as whoring—but from the front room of her big house in Harrington Street she controlled a platoon of prostitutes just as strictly as any army officer from the nearby barracks drilled his soldiers. Except on such occasions as that very morning, when she would come out of retirement to perform delicate extra services for special clients, her role was to act as commander-in-chief.
Madame really ran two brothels. One, in back rooms, was for the lower orders willing and able to pay only a few shillings for a quick roll. The other, upstairs, was more lavishly appointed and was reserved for the gentry, officers, well-to-do merchants and professional men, who could pay more for their pleasures.
Madame herself was almost respectable, just another trader in an essential commodity. Prostitution was frowned upon officially, but permitted in fact. There was a decided imbalance in Sydney town between the numbers of men and women. There were few free immigrants of the fairer sex and only one in seven convicts was female. Overall, the ratio of male to female was three to one. The government acknowledged tacitly that the men needed sex with women, and so turned a blind eye to them paying for it—if only to avoid the unmentionable alternative, men having sex with men.
So Madame Greene’s only problem was keeping up her ranks of girls. She sighed often about the misconception that there was a constant supply of experienced whores on every transport that arrived. The truth was that most women who were now “on the town” had not been whores before coming to the colony. Prostitution was not, in itself, an offense punishable by transportation.
Madame recruited distressed women by any means. If they went along with her plans for them, she pampered them. If they resisted, she had “breakers,” men who raped them into submission.
Few questioned her methods, or her background. She liked to describe herself as a free arrival, not a convict, in the First Fleet. She always said she arrived in 1788 on the transport ship Friendship . What she did not explain was that she completed the voyage in the belly of her mother, a prisoner impregnated by a crewman or a marine guard—her mother had never been sure which.
Young Gre
ene soon worked herself up from being on her back to being on top. Her business boomed. Now she even rented out her top-story rooms for people to view in comfort the prisoners being turned off the gallows of the jail-yard below. It was one good reason to call her establishment the “High House.”
The now saddle-sore soldier had been her only customer that day. Normally business was suspended on Sunday mornings, which gave the girls time to rest from the attentions of what Madame described as “hop-harlots” and, once a fortnight, to receive a medical examination. It was not an official requirement, but the mistress of the house was sensible about such matters. Venereal disease was among the colony’s greatest scourges, so she kept her girls as clean as possible. Hard though it was, she tried to persuade them, and their customers, to use what were delicately called “preservatives.”
She did care, of course, about the unfortunate by-product of a client tumbling his seed in the wrong place at the wrong time. It put a girl out of the line and was a nuisance. It could be, and usually was, remedied. But even worse was the threat of diseasing someone who might be very angry and vengeful, and no longer a source of gold.
Madame Greene’s musings on the subject were, appropriately, interrupted by a maid (who really was one, in both senses) tapping on the parlor door and announcing, “Ma’am, the pox doctor is ready to leave.”
Madame shook her head and tut-tutted. “Elsie, love, don’t call the medical gentleman that. It’s rude. Send the bugger in!”
She liked this doctor. Some of the other medical men in town either wanted to sample the wares or else were sniffy about the business. Like that Jim Bowman. Well might he have cleaned up the Rum Hospital and got rid of the rogues and rapists there, but he didn’t approve of her and refused to call. She wasn’t surprised when he became inspector of all hospitals, too high and mighty for any ordinary work, and married an Exclusive. She didn’t miss his airs. Nine years or so, it must be now. Lord, she could harbor a grudge!
Dr. Thomas Owens, black medical bag in his gloved hand, entered and bowed. “Dear lady, your flowers are blooming.”
“Good, I should hope so,” said Madame Greene. “As one professional to another, would you care to see my latest prick-sheaths, just arrived from Europe?”
Owens winced at the crudity, then gave an enthusiastic nod. She produced a polished casket, rather the size and shape of a cigar box, and opened it to reveal its contents. With the keen eyes of connoisseurs, both admired the treasures. Most poor men in the colony, or those few who cared, would use prophylactics, or “yard-cases” as they were also crudely and boastfully called, made from pig’s or sheep’s bladder, shaped and sewn tightly with tiny gut stitches. Madame intended her prized consignment for her gentlemen. Instead of intestine, these were made from fine, fabric-thin soft leather or proofed silk. There were gay silk ribbons for tying them securely. Surely they would bring several guineas each.
“Look at ’em,” she said proudly. “The very best French riding coats.”
Owens smiled. “You know, of course, that the French call them redingotes anglaises?”
“They would, wouldn’t they?” She snorted. “Bloody Froggies! Any old road, these splendid preservatives of mine will help take care of any misguided poxed meat-wands.”
Owens paused, then nodded grimly. “Certainly the plague of the disease must be defeated at every turn.” He rose abruptly, extending a paper bag. “Have a lozenge.”
Madame Greene absently took one and popped it into her mouth. She didn’t feel like a comfit, in fact. She even toyed with the notion of delaying the doctor’s departure and seeking his counsel. For even though she was only forty, she was feeling progressively unwell. Of late she regularly had an aching head and muscles, felt nauseous and passed water a lot.
When she looked in the mirror she saw that her skin was clear and her eyes bright, but that her face was paler than it should be. She was faithfully taking the medicine Dr. Owens had earlier prescribed for her, but it didn’t seem to help. She was, if anything, worse.
Madame was usually proud of her looks (apart from her weight) and energy. She loved theater and appeared at masques, concerts, balls—any entertainment where they were likely to ask her to dance and sing.
With a smile and a bow, the doctor was gone. She had missed her chance. Rather sadly, she chewed and sucked on the sweetmeat. Then she winked at Elsie. Oh, well—she had risen to be queen of the High House, the best bordello on Gallows Hill. Stuff ’em all!
CHAPTER TWENTY
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought . . .
—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 30 (1609)
MISS DORMIN RECOVERED HER GOOD HUMOR AS SHE AND THE patterer walked away from the wayzgoose and across the park. Farther south, approaching the park’s extremity, they found a large open space being used for a game of cricket, about which endeavor she professed to Dunne her ignorance.
“You underestimate the influence of a feminine touch in this game,” said the patterer.
“Do I, sir? How is that?”
“Well, let’s examine the match before us.” He pointed to a player who was carrying a wide bat, wearing a tall black top hat and facing the bowler. He explained how this man’s headgear indicated that he belonged to a military side. The fieldsmen and bowler were in more motley attire; some were barefoot and hatless while others wore straw hats or kerchiefs on their heads. Long blue ribbons around hats or waists identified the soldiers’ rivals. “They are civilians,” said the patterer, “as their informal garb indicates. There’s nothing casual about their play, however. They invariably win over the soldiery.”
“I fail to see the feminine influence,” Miss Dormin reminded the patterer.
“Ah, well. As to that, consider the manner in which the attacking player bowls. He is not allowed to perform his action with the arm raised above the shoulder—that would be called overarm. Now, in England about five or so years ago, a young lady was bowling, under shoulder level of course, to give her brother batting practice. This young lady, a Miss Christina Willes—or Willis, it escapes me—soon discovered that her skirt was a handicap to her action. So she bowled over the shoulder—and claimed his wicket! Her brother was impressed with the new delivery, but was barred by officials from using it in competition. If the method is ever recognized, you may claim that one of your sisters showed the way.”
Miss Dormin suddenly pointed to one of the fieldsmen. “Why, if it is the military team’s identifying garb, is one of the civilian players wearing a black top hat?”
Dunne consulted another spectator and soon reported back. “It is as I suspected. When that man in the hat bowled earlier, he claimed three wickets with consecutive deliveries, a rare occurrence. The tradition is that the third man to fall honors the bowler by handing over a hat as a trophy. Thus the feat is known as a hat-trick.”
They stood in companionable silence, watching the match.
We must make an attractive couple, thought Dunne, as he felt Miss Dormin’s gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. He wondered if she could feel his heart, so near. He glanced surreptitiously sideways; why, this profile, through the fluttering loosened ribbons, was as perfect as the other.
Then something extraordinary happened. The batsman cleanly connected to a delivery and the ball scooted along like a bouncing cannonball—right toward the patterer and his companion. Dunne shot out a foot in front of the young woman to deflect the oncoming ball, but his heel caught in a pothole.
She, however, reacted more successfully. In one fluid movement and without even relinquishing the hold on her escort, she flicked off her bonnet and, reaching down, neatly scooped up the ball into its crown. The players and spectators applauded.
“That, sir,” said Miss Dormin, as she rolled the ball back to the nearest player, “that is a hat-trick.”
He laughed as they turned away from the cricket match and back to
ward the heart of the town.
“I know what you are,” said Miss Dormin suddenly as they strolled. “But who are you?”
So Nicodemus Dunne told her about how he had been brought up in the southern English port of Weymouth by a kindly guardian who treated him well. His foster-father was a retired senior army officer. No struggling retiree on half-pay, he seemed a wealthy man who knew important people in London. The young Nicodemus had more than once seen communications coming to the house bearing what seemed to be royal seals, and he knew from overheard conversations that his foster-parents had close links to a General Garth.
They had never told Dunne anything about his true parents, whom the boy had never known. All he did know was that he was born in the year 1800. After a time, anyway, his curiosity faded. The Dunnes were generous and had him educated broadly.
The patterer told Miss Dormin that Dunne Senior had wanted him to enter the army. That ambition failed in the face of his foster-son’s keen interest in the legendary Bow Street Runners. This was the police force molded by justice of the peace Henry Fielding, famed as the author of the comic epic The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling. (Dunne at times idly wondered if he himself had been a foundling.) Henry’s sightless brother, John, who later took over leadership of the Bow Street Runners, was the celebrated “Blind Beak,” a magistrate who claimed he could identify 3,000 miscreants by their voices alone.
Miss Dormin frowned as the patterer repeated the story he had told Governor Darling and the others at the barracks about his own fall from grace. He explained that since transportation, after four years of much lighter service than most convicts were subjected to, he had been given his ticket of leave. This was because he was classified as a Special—the name given to some educated felons. Before parole, he was assigned to work at The Gazette, where he had first met Captain Rossi. In about a year, Dunne told her, he would be emancipated—if he kept his hands, and his nose, clean.
