It also seemed that Robert Lowe was losing the plot. He had been riling up the Legislative Council about the considerable number of bounty migrants, who had no sooner arrived in the colony on a government-funded passage than they decided to leave for the Californian goldfields. He wanted such men to pay back their free sail to the colony before they left. Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he thought it reasonable to insist that all bounty men, including Parkes and a number of his associates, should also reimburse the government their free fare—even if they were going to stay in the colony. Lowe had turned upon the very people who had elected him, Parkes complained to anyone who raised the matter at his Hunter Street toyshop, where his wife was now doing the lion’s share of the work while Parkes sulked about in his new ‘obscurity’.
But it was his absurd stoush with the popular philanthropist Dr William Bland that proved the last straw for Robert Lowe. Their disagreement began when the Legislative Council was discussing the colony’s first university and suggesting nominations for the senate of that institution. Someone proposed the name of Lowe’s old nemesis, Dr Bland, the man who when he first arrived in the colony had told Lowe he would lose his eyesight. Ever since that erroneous diagnosis, Lowe had been on Bland’s heels, condemning him as a ‘has-been’ who was no more than a wag to Wentworth’s tail. The notion of Bland on the university senate so appalled Lowe he went so far as to use the ‘c’ word in council. Even as the room hushed and nervous looks were exchanged, the forthright demagogue insisted that the appointment of an emancipist would sully the name of the colony and tarnish the very institution of education.
It was one thing to condemn a common criminal but the doctor was a gentleman who had been transported for duelling with another man thirty years ago. Since then he had been a benevolent presence in the colony, often stopping on the street to dispense pills and free medical advice. When Bland learnt of Lowe’s comments he exploded with an apoplectic rage that was matched only by the collective shock of the townspeople. And when Lowe heard that the aggrieved doctor was thinking of challenging him to a duel he had Bland charged with breaching the peace and violating Parliamentary privilege. It was a farce that volleyed back and forth across the papers and courts throughout the spring of 1849. As it did so ‘the deformities’ of Robert Lowe’s body and mind were repeatedly cited as the reason for the ‘vile albino’s cowardice’. The whole episode was too much, even for Lowe’s most loyal supporters and thereafter few could bring themselves to invite the brilliant lawyer and his wife to any of their social gatherings.
The isolation of the Great Gyrator was now complete. Since arriving in the colony in 1842 he had crossed swords with several governors and many of his own sort. He had lured and lulled the settlers one moment only to mock and shock them the next. He had made many friends but discovered in each some fault he felt compelled to expose publicly. He had coaxed the mechanics and hypnotised the Cabbagers, then thought nothing of turning upon the very men who had hauled him in that carriage all the way up George Street. But now, the remarkable Robert Lowe had dared to break the one taboo that bound all classes in the colony. He had dared to suggest that a rehabilitated man should be forever condemned for his convict past—that there could be no redemption for a felon. The sting of that slur was felt by all who shared the doctor’s past, as well as their children. No one wanted such a man among them and so, very quickly and quietly, the colony came to a decision: Robert Lowe must go.
The same paper that carried news of Dr Bland’s successful legal outcome against Robert Lowe also carried the advertisement for Gill’s Family Hotel and the George Street properties. On another page there was also a complete version of Mrs Lynton’s elegy to John Kinchela Junior. William had opened the paper looking for their advertisement but once he had read the widow’s poem he went in search of his father. He found Martin Gill talking with a man about San Francisco. Will showed his father their advertisements and then the florid poem. Both men stumbled over the stiff rhythm and awkward phrasing of the eulogy, until they came to the third stanza, which particularly captured Gill’s attention:
He died, deserving to be mourn’d
As witness all the tears we gave—
My God! That He who life adorn’d
Should die, and fools in folly live.
Gill raised his eyebrows and made a sort of clucking sound. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said giving his son a tight sort of a grin. ‘I wonder which living “fool” is going to inherit all the family fortune now, eh?’ he finished, chuckling to himself as he rubbed his hands together. And with that Martin Gill disappeared into the almost empty hulk of a hotel, leaving a bewildered William looking after his father and wondering what sort of new madness he had just unleashed upon the world.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Under the Hammer
Martin Gill was keen to meet with James Butler Kinchela. He had put the word about town, but those who were willing to help had nothing useful to tell him about the gentleman felon’s whereabouts. Others who might have known were not prepared to encourage further mischief in that regard. Kinchela might be all the things that had been determined in the courts last year, but his brother had just died and people felt compelled to respect the solemnities of that occasion.
On one hot and windy afternoon just before All Hallow’s Eve, it was not, however, Martin Gill who first laid eyes on the man in question, but his eldest daughter. Mary Ann was coming through the kitchen, carrying a mortar and pestle that her mother had requested, when she stopped in the doorway completely stunned by the sight of James. He was dressed in mourning garb and leaning against his cane as he stood in the queue before the shipping agent. She must have gasped in shock, for most of the people in the room, including Kinchela, turned to see the young woman standing at the threshold of the kitchen, wearing a blue-green jacket over her full skirts, her braided hair free of a bonnet, and a large kitchen object in her hands. She blinked several times. It was like seeing a ghost, she thought, her mind racing. It had been several months since their altercation at the Monster Meeting and since then she had torn up each and every unread correspondence in Kinchela’s handwriting that had arrived at the hotel. Since she had convinced herself of the Louisa Aarons matter she had quite successfully managed to dismiss her former suitor as the very worst sort of man.
But now there they both were, standing in almost exactly the same positions as two autumns ago when they had first set eyes upon one another. Only this time, instead of leaning against the bar looking out through the window, the gentleman settler was standing in the queue that splayed out before Robert Ogilby. And, from the particular angle Kinchela had assumed, he was not only looking straight into the kitchen but also directly at Mary Ann.
Kinchela couldn’t help but smile. It might have been his nervousness or the fact that he was delighted to see her, or even her expression—eyes blinking, face awash with rage. He found it impossible to suppress the steady grin that took possession of his face. She looked more womanly than he remembered her from their chance encounter at Circular Quay—and certainly much more so than the very first time he had seen her standing almost in the same spot, more than a year ago, when she had been such a slight young thing. There was a new gravity to her bearing as well as a certain insouciance he found arresting to say the least. James Butler grasped all this within a few seconds as the room seemed to swell about him and then fall to a hush and it felt, to both of them, that they were alone in the room, looking at one another.
And then Martin Gill came striding into the front bar in the company of William and the portly dray man, who was trotting a little behind them both. Straightaway Mary Ann’s brother picked up that something was wrong but before he could do anything Martin Gill seized the moment. ‘A word, sir,’ he growled to the gentleman with the cane, pointing his thumb in a slightly menacing manner towards the back room. All those with some knowledge about who was whom took a collective gasp and turned to look at Mary Ann.
Kinch
ela was taken aback, but not entirely. Two weeks had passed since he had attended his brother’s memorial in the Bathurst district and since then he and his mother had undertaken several significant conversations about his future. His new financial circumstances changed matters considerably, even though his brother had left their brother-in-law with an unpaid debt of some £4000 which would have to be honoured. Even so, the profit from the sale of Hawkwood would now come to him and after years of living in his brother’s shadow James would soon have all the money he needed to do whatever he wished. And yet, John’s sudden passing had been a source of considerable suffering for Kinchela and as he reflected upon all that had been he realised that he must quickly acquire some of his brother’s certitude and do something about his future before it was too late.
Kinchela decided to visit the hotel and face Miss Gill and her father. He had of course toyed with the idea well before he had encountered Mary Ann and her brother at the Monster Meeting in mid-June. During the perilous journey back from Hawkwood he had plenty of time to rehearse what he would say. And yet, Kinchela was ever the tentative country Irishman when it came to such matters and had preferred to write with the hope that this might smooth the path towards reconciliation. But several months of silence and his brother’s recent death had brought him to the conclusion that matters were now close at hand. Coming to the hotel was a risk and anything could happen. But as he had been riding back from his brother’s memorial with Jim Davidson he had learnt about the rumours of Mr Gill’s encroaching bankruptcy as well as the unsuccessful attempts that had been made to match Mary Ann off with one of the rich old gulls in town. Perhaps he might be able to reason with Gill at last, Kinchela thought, arriving at the decision that he must act immediately.
‘Bold and resolute,’ he told himself as he guided his mother’s tilbury to the side of the street and tied up in front of Gill’s Family Hotel. He assumed that the family was in trouble, from what Davidson had said, but he had not expected a shipping agent to be selling fares to California in the once grand dining room. He hardly recognised the room where he had taken so many pleasant suppers the year before. As he made his way past the staircase where he and Mary Ann had previously conspired to meet each evening he stopped for a moment and then looked about for someone who might help him find her. Suddenly he became aware that people were looking at him. Having grown conscious of unwanted attention and the snide asides that followed wherever he went he slipped into the shipping agent’s queue and adopted a certain stance with his cane while he tried to work out what to do. And that was where he had been standing when Mary Ann appeared at the kitchen doorway.
Mary Ann could not believe what she was seeing. Kinchela was just standing there with that foolish look upon his face. The nerve of it, she fumed. Of all the places he could go to buy his passage to California. And why was her father having an audience with the very man whose ruin he had been determined to bring about? Then she panicked, trying to recall if her father had his pistols with him. Her father had little to lose these days, and might be keen to finish the job he had started the year before that early morning out at the Homebush racecourse. For all her loathing towards Kinchela, Mary Ann did not wish for that. And so, after watching the two men disappear into the back of the hotel, she waited a moment and then crept after them. Minutes later she was joined by William, who she beckoned to hush as they both bent to listen at the door.
Gill was already behind his desk when Kinchela stepped inside that small, rather dark room. The younger man insisted upon standing, even after Gill produced two glasses and a bottle of good Irish whiskey and beckoned Kinchela to sit. He poured two stiff drinks and pushed one glass towards his perplexed guest. ‘She looks better these days, don’t you think?’ Gill started. ‘It is interesting to see what time does to a woman,’ he continued, watching Kinchela carefully as the younger man finally took a seat but left the glass before him untouched. ‘So you are planning to take Mr Ogilby’s Cheerful to California, Mr Kinchela?’ Gill asked after a period of awkward silence. James Butler shook his head, recalling with disgust how Gill had spat at his feet outside the Supreme Court. ‘Not the Cheerful, sir,’ he said curtly. ‘I will, however, be leaving for San Francisco in a little over a week.’ ‘Mmmm,’ Gill finished his glass and gestured to Kinchela to drink. ‘And would I be right to assume that you now have plenty of money to take with you?’ he asked, perhaps a little too roughly for Kinchela, who looked incensed by what he considered a vulgar line of questioning from a man he could hardly call an intimate acquaintance, let alone a friend. Still it was the Irish way, Kinchela knew, for a father to ask after the money.
Undeterred Gill persisted. ‘Is it the gold that most attracts you, Mr Kinchela?’ he asked rather abruptly, ‘or the promise of a fresh start elsewhere?’ Kinchela gave a slight nod and put his hand to the back of his neck. The Gills were direct people, Kinchela mused. He considered the man before him as it gradually dawned upon him that they were engaged in marital negotiations. Despite all that had been, Kinchela decided, it was in his best interests to remain courteous. ‘There is a lot of land out there, Mr Gill, from what I have read, and plenty of mouths to feed. Someone who knows about cattle could make do very well,’ he said formally, before pausing to look about the room, ‘and, yes, after all that has happened, a fresh start does look for the best.’
‘I see,’ Gill said, knocking back his second drink in a single gulp before putting it down on the table and refilling it again. He coughed and fixed the younger man with a look as he sized him up. ‘Tell me, Mr Kinchela,’ he asked, chin slightly raised, ‘would you take my daughter with you as your wife?’ Kinchela almost choked on his drink. It had been his intention to raise this very matter with the girl’s father when, or indeed if he could secure such an agreement from Mary Ann, but he had never imagined such a proposal would come from his old adversary. The man’s financial standing must be even more precarious than the rumours suggested, Kinchela thought as he recovered sufficiently to reply. ‘Mr Gill,’ he swallowed, ‘you have given me the clearest possible indication on numerous occasions that such an idea is one to which you are ill disposed,’ he finished, feeling that it was quite within his right to sound haughty.
Gill looked to be enjoying himself. He filled both their glasses and chuckled to himself. ‘This is true, Mr Kinchela. I did,’ and then he followed with a tone that he typically reserved for situations requiring the utmost charm, ‘but I suppose there is no use in any of us drowning in regret over all that has been.’ Kinchela arched his eyebrow and looked away. He thought about the trouble Gill had caused and felt his hackles rise in a way he imagined would have been all too familiar for his older brother. He could imagine John wanting to put this up-start old hand in his place. His brother would have been keen to bring out his riding crop to do so, he thought, but still Kinchela could not muster such a passion. He was curious about what had made Gill change his mind, and could also see that it would help his cause to allow the older man to continue. ‘You will be aware, no doubt, from what you have heard around town, that my family’s circumstances have changed,’ Gill coughed, ‘and not, as you can see, for the better.’
Despite the poor blood between them Kinchela could not help but feel a pang of pity. He remembered his own father’s shortcomings in this regard and the shame of seeing his family’s furniture dragged into the town square back in Kilkenny. His father had not been a particularly proud man but that moment had almost broken him. Kinchela wondered how a much more energetic patriarch like Martin Gill might manage under these circumstances. In such a moment he knew his brother would not only take the upper hand over a man like Gill, but also relish his position. Kinchela didn’t have the same taste for it. Instead he found himself offering, rather kindly, ‘These things can get the better of us all, Mr Gill.’
Gill looked at him in surprise, and blinked twice as he wondered how to proceed. He realised he had never spent a moment alone with the man who he had refused, point blank, as a
possible suitor for his daughter. Now, however, as he sat before that man, Gill realised that what he did know about James Butler Kinchela was that which he had decided for himself. A nabob from the interior, he had assumed, and no doubt the sort of man who had lived around St Stephen’s Green in one of the houses where the young Gill had been caught with the hand griddle. And yet, here he was—the gentleman settler from Moreton Bay—prepared to undertake a conversation with the very person who had shot at him twice and then exerted considerable energy to have him imprisoned. What type of a man was he? Gill wondered. He was not quite the same young buck he had seen enjoying himself in the front bar of his hotel the year before. Then, the settler had looked every bit the sort who would put him in his place as many had done when he had first arrived in the colony, not yet twenty years of age and skinny as a rat. Now?—Gill was not so sure.
The hotelier rubbed his throat for a moment and thought. He had sought this meeting to secure the business transaction he had been unable to line up with old Alexander Moore and that fool Samuel. He had hoped to settle the matter of his daughter and create a few financial opportunities for himself before he left the colony. But he suddenly found himself in a different situation. Gill ruminated for a moment but then tired of chasing his own thoughts. He placed his hands flat on his desk and looked frankly at the gentleman sitting across from him. ‘My daughter has no future here, Mr Kinchela,’ he said firmly. ‘We both know that. In fact, I am fast coming to the conclusion that neither of us do.’ Then he looked at the man he had all but destroyed and did him the honour of speaking straight. ‘You wanted her once, Mr Kinchela,’ Martin Gill continued steadily, ‘and so I am asking you now, as a father who needs to see this matter settled,’ he swallowed hard, ‘if you would take her again.’ Thirsty from this effort, Gill grabbed his whiskey and threw it down his throat.
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