The Convict's Daughter

by Kiera Lindsey

  After his triumph at Moore’s auction rooms, Martin Gill had been hiding out along the Punchbowl road, in his father-in-law’s old farmhouse, to be precise. This had been vacant since McCormick and Mary Riley had moved into town as they had, thus far, failed to attract a tenant. Gill hated the place but it was far enough out of town to put him at arm’s length from Mr Lewis Samuel & Co. He could bide his time and raid McCormick’s vegetable garden for supplies while waiting for the right opportunity to present itself. As things stood, Gill knew he was facing the debtor’s prison or worse if he was caught in Sydney. He had also come to the realisation that it would be impossible for him to buy a berth to California in person. Nonetheless, his recent victory and the wad of notes secreted away about his person imbued Martin Gill with confidence. Something would turn up.

  And so it did, that very afternoon, when his eldest son arrived at his grandparents’ farmhouse. He and Mary Ann had heard everything at his office door, Will explained once he had greeted his dishevelled looking father. He knew his father was planning to skip town for San Francisco, he said right off, and that he would need to do so very shortly if he was to keep out of the courts. Will was prepared to buy his father’s passage, but in return, he insisted, his father would buy two other passages: for himself and Mary Ann.

  Gill rubbed his chin as he thought it through. He wanted to keep the money for himself and had been hoping Kinchela would assume the financial costs associated with his eldest children. Given all that occurred between himself and Mary Ann, he could not see how they could possibly undertake such a voyage together. Truth be known, Martin Gill had also come to the realisation that he wanted to arrive in California unencumbered by family. He was, after all, a man who knew how to survive—whatever the stakes. He would be better without any hangers-on. He wanted to be on his own.

  ‘There has been a cooling off between your mother and I that is true,’ Martin Gill responded as he started feeling about for a loophole through which he might yet wriggle. ‘But,’ he said with a forced sigh, ‘I can’t see fit to take your mother’s eldest children away.’ Will shot his father a look of disdain and shook his head. ‘She wants us out of her hair,’ he replied, ‘or bringing in money of our own, and, as things stand,’ he continued, ‘you know as well as I that Mary Ann is unlikely to find any work in Sydney, let alone a husband. So you see,’ the young man continued, ‘the best we can do is make our own way and, as we can’t find Kinchela to cover our fares, it looks like you will have to pay our way.’

  Gill fixed his jaw and the two men sat in silence while the father continued to look for a way to untangle himself from his son’s clever stratagem. After a while Will spoke again. ‘Look at it this way, we can settle Mary Ann with her gentleman and as soon as we find our fortune we can send money back to Sydney too.’ Martin Gill scowled. He didn’t much like the idea of being stuck with his son or, even worse, sending money home to his estranged wife and father-in-law. Still, he could see the sense of the girl’s match and a family connection with a gentleman might secure some advantages, particularly in a new territory where no one knew him. But before his father could come to his own mind, Will stood up abruptly, ‘I am your only chance,’ he said impatiently, ‘and I need the money today,’ he finished, thrusting forth his hand.

  ‘All right,’ Martin Gill finally conceded as he removed one of his boots and extracted from it a good wad of notes, ‘but mind you book us a proper cabin—and don’t be too clever making up a name—there are times when it is cannier to tell the truth, especially when no one thinks you would dare.’ Will nodded. ‘I’ve looked at the shipping lists,’ Gill continued, ‘there are six boats leaving for San Francisco in the next month,’ he added returning his boot to his foot, ‘and only the Bee and the Sabine still have berths, so you will need to make haste.’

  And that was precisely what William did. He made his way back into town along the pockmarked Punchbowl road as fast as his pony would allow. It was growing dark by the time William Gill arrived on York Street but he dedicated the last of the daylight hours to making enquiries as to the whereabouts of James Butler Kinchela. He went to the Adelphi but they could tell him nothing, so he visited several of the better hotels, where Will had a feeling his sister’s suitor might be, but no one knew anything. Eventually, Will headed back to the Kent Street cottage feeling increasingly anxious about how to proceed.

  He knew he would have to square his new plan with his mother before he presented it to Mary Ann. Margaret had made it clear she didn’t think much of Will keeping in cahoots with her husband, ‘a lot more trouble than he is worth,’ she had recently cautioned him, ‘and likely to make even more trouble for us all if he can.’ Will knew his mother would rise at the mere mention of her husband, especially once she realised that Will had been with him. It might be best to keep their bargain to himself. He also had an inkling that Mary Ann would say no if she knew where the money was coming from—let alone that she would have to travel with her father.

  When he arrived home Margaret made her son wait until their meal was finished and the table cleared. Whatever he had to say would be heard by all in the room, she insisted, signalling to her parents to brace themselves for some new horror. Will looked about his family, both grandparents as well as all his five siblings and his mother were all crammed into the small hot room. He suddenly felt acutely aware of their reduced circumstances. He had been selfish to imagine that he and Mary Ann could leave their family at such a time. He would say nothing, he decided, and instead use his father’s money to help those he loved right in front of him. But then he looked at Mary Ann who was wiping the last of the dinner dishes dry. She had been even more restless since the family had moved to Kent Street. And withdrawn. He recalled the shine to her eyes when they had eavesdropped at their father’s door. There was something he had to do. Will took a deep breath and began.

  Well before he could finish, however, Mary Riley chimed in. ‘Well Margaret,’ she said firmly, ‘I’m thinking it is the only way for the two of them, at least for Mary Ann wouldn’t you say?’ Margaret sniffed but said nothing as she turned to her father. McCormick mused, ‘Well, you know, some are saying it is better to be Irish there than here. And who knows,’ he said pointing his chin at Will, ‘perhaps Dick Whittington, here, might yet make us all rich.’ Then McCormick considered Mary Ann. Margaret looked at him and sighed before turning to her eldest daughter. ‘Well?’ Margaret asked. ‘Is this how you would have it?’ There was a touch of lightness to her otherwise stern voice. ‘Sailing off to meet a man who has already caused you such a world of trouble?’

  Mary Ann flashed her brother a look of profound relief before replying. ‘Yes,’ she said with surprising certitude, ‘it is. If you would have it yourself?’ she asked, but then without waiting for a response she rushed on, ‘There will be Will and I to keep an eye on one another and, you said yourself that we are not much use to you here.’ The room was still and all eyes were on Margaret. After a moment Mary Ann continued with a wry smile, ‘After all, I am now also of the understanding that none of my father’s previous suitors wish to court me, so perhaps at last I might be finally free to marry Mr Kinchela.’

  The following morning William Gill made his way down Pitt Street, past the family’s old hotel where a FOR LEASE sign had been nailed to the front door demanding that ‘all enquiries be made directly to Mr S. and L. Samuel’. The fifteen-year-old boy pushed through various passengers bustling about the quay. After talking to a group of lightermen busy unloading kegs from a small boat, Will learnt there were three different rigs set to depart for California in the next day or so. He had no idea which one might be Kinchela’s sail, so he wandered about the dock, sizing up each vessel.

  The Phantom was a small, square-sterned cutter with one deck and a single mast and no figurehead. She must have been one of the smallest on the quay. Will looked at her uncertainly. Surely Kinchela wouldn’t take his chances on something like that, particularly now that he had come into m
oney. So he walked on to find the Gleaner, docked at the next quay. She was much bigger and a schooner, too, and as Will watched passengers milling about he got a sense that she couldn’t be taking more than thirty passengers. So he stopped one fellow, a well-looking tradesman, and asked him if he knew any of those who would be sailing with him. The man shook his head. He had not heard of a gentleman named Kinchela, but then that didn’t mean much, he added, for he was travelling steerage, and such a man was likely to have himself a cabin. He would want to be about it, the man added, for the boat was set for the evening tide. Will thought he should wait, but he also knew he would have to put his father’s money on their own passages and look to the Lady Howden. So he stood awhile, straining to see who might be about the deck of the Gleaner, but, when he had nothing to show for his efforts after an hour, made his way to where the Howden was anchored.

  The Lady Howden was a large, 300-ton brig that had sailed into Sydney Harbour from Van Diemen’s Land in mid-September, allowing its master, the well-groomed Henry Chalk, to enjoy a leisurely spring season as he drummed up business for his next voyage. His ship was capable of taking just under a hundred passengers and was certainly one of the bigger brigs docked at the quay. Will sized up the two tall masts and solid sails as well as the way the Howden sat in the water. It was probably the sort of ship a gentleman like Kinchela would prefer, he thought, although there was no sight of him. He learnt from one of the crew that all passengers had been required to board two days earlier, for the Howden would be sailing out on the morning tide.

  Surely Kinchela must be somewhere on the quay, Will thought. But after waiting around for most of the afternoon, he reluctantly decided to head into town and buy their own passage otherwise he knew he would risk finding all the berths booked. Casting several last-minute backward glances, William Gill made his way up to Macquarie Place where a man named Wilkinson was selling freight and passage on a fast-sailing American brig named the Sabine. With £35 of his father’s money the young man purchased a first-class cabin for ‘Mr and Mrs Gill and Son’. As his father had instructed but with a little twist to confuse the creditors, if necessary. Then Will made his way back to the Kent Street cottage to report upon his various successes and disappointments.

  The Gleaner was scheduled to sail that night and the Howden on the morning tide, Will explained to Mary Ann, who was busy ironing a stack of napkins Margaret had salvaged from the old hotel. He could not say which boat had Kinchela on board although he had a feeling it was the Howden. He had, however, booked their cabin, he said with much satisfaction. ‘Now nothing can stop us leaving on the first Friday in December,’ he added cheerfully. ‘We will be drinking tea with Mr Kinchela in San Francisco early in the new year,’ he grinned before looking up and noticing that Mary Ann was maintaining a steady focus on the task before her. ‘Even if we can’t find Kinchela before he sails tonight or on the morrow,’ he rushed on, ‘we can put a letter on both vessels. If that doesn’t find him, it will be delivered to whatever post office has been set up in San Francisco.’ Will trailed off, as he noticed how Mary Ann kept pushing the heavy iron across the square cuts of cloth, ‘Yes, Will,’ she said with a quiet voice, ‘that would be well enough’.

  A moment later, however, Mary Ann gave up the dreaded pile of ironing and sat down to compose two letters of similar length for Will to take down to the Gleaner and the Lady Howden. Once the letters were sealed and Mary Ann was just about to hand both to her brother, she decided that she must venture down to the quay with William, just in case. So brother and sister stepped out of their weatherboard cottage on that late afternoon in early November. Even though an afternoon sea breeze filtered up from the harbour and through the town streets, the air was still sticky and humid. The pair walked together in haste, travelling quickly down Kent Street and then onto Sussex and King, before hurrying past all the familiar stores on Pitt Street. On they walked, hardly talking to one another as they pushed closer towards the quay. When they got there, Will pointed out where the Howden was anchored, and took one of her letters before sprinting off towards the Gleaner.

  And then Mary Ann began to walk in the direction of the other vessel. Her heart was thudding, and she felt somewhat breathless, not only because of their fast walk down to the quay, but also because she had, by now, come to associate a curious sense of dread with that particular gentleman settler from Moreton Bay. As she looked about for the boat she could not help but recall the painful disappointments she had already suffered because of him. Try as she might she was unable to banish certain recollections—their dashed encounter at the Sportsman’s Arms, the wretched note she received the following morning when she learnt that she was done for, her agonising appearance in court and the shocking humiliation she suffered from Kinchela’s counsel, and of course, the incident with Miss Louisa Aarons. Mary Ann felt completely overwhelmed. She stopped and shook her head, looking behind her anxiously as she considered turning back.

  But then, there he was. Standing on the deck of the Howden eating an apple. He was still in his mourning garb and had a tall, rather weather-beaten companion with him—Jim Davidson—who had come to bid his friend good fortune for this forthcoming adventure. The two men were chatting in a leisurely manner and Mary Ann watched the pair—heart pounding as she tried to work out what to do. And that was where she was, looking up at the Howden, seemingly rooted to the spot, when Kinchela casually cast his gaze along the quay and suddenly dropped his half-eaten apple into the harbour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Tuppenny Damn

  How it got there neither Mary Ann nor William could say. And that was the truth of it, but when brother and sister returned home from Circular Quay late that evening, Margaret Gill and McCormick were waiting for them in the kitchen, wanting to know if either of them knew anything about the matter. Both looked grave as they sat in the half-dark room, and for a moment neither child could make any sense of what was going on. Indeed, Mary Ann was so giddy and had such a sheen to her cheek that she had to settle herself before she could properly listen to her mother and grandfather. She was also, Margaret noticed, clutching something in her hand and seemed intent upon keeping it to herself. When both children continued to look at both of them with an expression of utter bewilderment, their grandfather pointed to The Sydney Morning Herald and told them to turn to page three.

  And there it was—a ‘NOTICE to all persons’, declaring that M. Gill ‘would not be answerable for any claims or orders drawn without my signature’. Will was reading it out loud but his voice trailed off when he came to the next sentence so Mary Ann leant forward and read the rest in silence. ‘I advertise in consequence of Mrs Gill having left her home without any just cause’, the notice continued, ‘and I will not’, it finished, ‘be answerable for any of her debts.’

  Both children looked at their mother. ‘What does this mean?’ Mary Ann asked quietly. ‘Is he planning to put those debts upon you, do you think?’ Margaret’s complexion was grey. She bowed her head but said nothing. Eventually, both she and her father turned to look at William. ‘I had nothing to do with this,’ the young man said, shaking his head vehemently until his grandfather waved him down. ‘I wouldn’t have helped him put such a thing in the paper,’ Will insisted. ‘He means to make your mother insolvent, I would say,’ McCormick offered, ‘and to clear off and leave her with his debts.’ ‘Aye,’ Margaret continued in a dry tone. ‘Worse than that,’ she sighed, ‘he doesn’t just want to reduce my circumstances, he also wants to make me look the sort of woman who would leave her husband without just cause.’

  Mary Ann sucked in her breath. Every colonial woman knew the cost of such a slight upon her reputation. It was as good as a divorce and no woman, let alone a respectable Roman Catholic woman, could expect to recover from such a blow. With this notice Martin Gill had doomed his wife and children to the sort of penury that had little hope of restoration. It was reprehensible and brutish. Will must have been thinking the same, for he erupted in a p
assion. ‘We won’t go,’ he blustered. ‘We can’t leave you like this,’ he repeated, looking around the room and turning at last to his sister with a look of considerable distress.

  The room fell silent and Mary Ann looked about the modest room at the people with whom she was closest in the entire world. How could she and Will possibly leave their family in such circumstances and with their mother’s reputation so discredited? With the signet ring she had received from Kinchela growing warm in her hand, Mary Ann nodded at her mother. ‘No, Will,’ she said solemnly, ‘we shall not leave our family at such a time.’

  What an agony November was for Margaret Gill and her six children. They kept close to one another, rarely straying from the tight confines of their small hot cottage up the working end of town as Saul and Lewis Samuel advertised for a new tenant for their former hotel and rumours about the notice Martin Gill had placed in The Herald began to circulate. The first suggestions of the summer might have encouraged men like Mr O’Neill from George Street to advertise their new stock of lightweight fabrics and George Chisholm to boast of his new assortment of ‘Bohemian Muslin dresses’ but Will and Mary Ann could feel nothing for such matters, let alone any enthusiasm for the forthcoming advent of the railway or Mr Norrie’s new ‘photographic art’, which promised portraits taken ‘at very short notice’. For whenever brother and sister dared to look upon the news-sheets all they saw were the various brigs preparing to depart for California, including, of course, the Sabine.