JOURNAL OF A LADY
Captain Tench was not the only officer planning to publish an account of his time in the colony. Captain Collins and Mr White were doing the same, although, knowing those men, I thought that Tench’s would be by far the most entertaining of the three. But their example gave Mr Macarthur the idea that I should do something similar. He had in mind a narrative under some such title as Journal of a Lady’s Voyage to New South Wales in the Year 1790 by Mrs John Macarthur. I saw him imagining the powerful men in Whitehall reading it. Oh, young John Macarthur, they would say, a fellow to watch, and a wife with a fine turn of phrase. Make him a captain instantly!
Of course, it would not be an authentic journal, being written so long after the events it described. Our voyage had begun in November of 1789 and it was now a year later. But that was no obstacle: Mr Macarthur told me to lard it with dates to give it the appearance of immediacy.
– Who will ever check, my dear wife, he said, that it was the thirteenth of the month and not the fourteenth when you boarded the Neptune?
I had no idea of myself as an author and not the slightest wish to re-live that ghastly journey. I tried to beg off, claiming that I had been so ill, et cetera, et cetera, that it was all an unhappy blur in my memory. But then he brought out the notes he had made, that little folded bundle, and gave them to me as an aide-mémoire.
– My dear, he said lightly, I assure you I will not let you off this task!
Now I saw his real motive. He had not forgotten his plan to punish Nepean. Mrs Macarthur’s Journal would stand as a record of the iniquities he had suffered. Being written by another, it would have the appearance of an objective account. It was the long game, the game he liked best.
I could see he had his terrier teeth into this idea of the journal now and would not let go until I yielded. Refusing would only make his jaws grip harder. My best chance was to make the Journal of a Lady’s Voyage so dull that the terrier would look for something tastier.
The first pages were as dreary as I could have wished. Of what interest could it be to anyone that we had hired a boat at Billingsgate, or that the ship lay at Longreach? Or that I could find no more original effusion about the cliffs of Dover than to say that I was struck with their formidable and romantick appearance? I went into uninteresting detail about the white-painted houses of the Dutch at the Cape, the remarkable sight of Table Mount, the amount I had to pay for a cabbage in False Bay.
But intent though I was to be dull, I could not rob our voyage of all interest. A duel, a nailed-up passage, the mid-Atlantic removal from one ship to another: these things had to form part of the account. And once or twice I caught myself writing with some humour, some wryness. Here I see that I described that ferocious storm in the Bay of Biscay by declaring with deprecating understatement that I began to be a coward. In fact I was crouched in the corner of the cabin keening like an animal.
Of all that had passed between Mr Macarthur and Captain Nepean and Mr Trail I wrote only in the most general terms. I made it as obvious as I could to a careful reader that I was not present when the soldier was struck, or the sergeant insulted, or the short rations discovered. I had heard only Mr Macarthur’s account of why our access to the deck was nailed shut, and never knew the truth of how Captain Nepean was persuaded to arrange the transfer to the Scarborough.
What actually took place between those three difficult men was never recorded and must remain a mystery. The only certainty is that that frightful situation—which if not caused by Mr Macarthur was certainly made worse by him—must have brought him satisfaction. Some gripe deep within him was eased by the story he could tell himself, of one honourable man holding his head high, alone against the world.
When I had written as far as the price of a cabbage at False Bay, I showed my work to Mr Macarthur. He read the pages with approval and wanted to keep them, but I insisted that he give them back so I could bring the account of the voyage all the way to Sydney Cove.
My task now was to spin out my writing so that it would never be finished, could never be added to the tinder of Mr Macarthur’s documents. As Penelope had woven and unpicked, woven and unpicked, I would make sure I never finished the Journal of a Lady’s Voyage.
But as I began to write about Mr Macarthur’s illness and the loss of Jane, I found sentence after sentence pouring out from some central part of myself that had been silent until now. I heard my own voice speaking back to me from the page, a voice I had never heard before, speaking of things that I had not quite let myself recognise that I felt. Grief and despair, yes, I knew of those. The surprise was the extent of my rage. At Mr Macarthur, of course. But beyond him was the cruel machine, made up of laws, of beliefs, of the habits of generations, that robbed a woman of any power to shape her own destiny.
For a dangerous week I kept those pages in the depths of my sewing basket, a wild creature hidden from view. But a wild creature that I loved, that was my dearest companion. I woke up each morning with a private warmth at the thought of it waiting there for me.
Then I came to my senses. I kept the genteel first part, so safely tedious, but burned the pages after the Cape. I promised myself that I would live long enough, keep my wits and my freedom, and come at last to write it again.
Just the same, it was painful to tear up those pages and slip them into the fire. In them I had discovered how to make a companion where life gave you none, and heard—for the first time, it seemed—my own true voice.
Like every toad and every fly, dullness of prose has its purpose in the great scheme of things. Having read that vapid first part, Mr Macarthur never asked again about the Journal of a Lady’s Voyage. The surviving pages remained in a tidy package until I untied the ribbon around them an hour ago. Reading them over, I mourn the ones gone for ever, the truthful ones that I did not dare keep.
AN AGREEABLE PUZZLE
Mr Worgan the naval surgeon had become my library. He was the only person here who had filled his chests for the voyage with books rather than flour and tobacco and liquor. In this place of deprivation, and although he was mocked for it, he still felt the bargain to be a good one, and was generous in lending them to me.
– Food for the soul, Mrs Macarthur, he said. The body can make do, but the spirit can perish. As we see all around us.
It was not only books that he considered more important than tobacco and rum. He had also brought a piano, but in his own rough quarters he had nowhere to put it. When we had removed into our bigger house, with its larger rooms, he suggested he might bring the instrument to us to be looked after. In return he would teach me to play it.
He was a jerky, ill-at-ease sort of man. His awkwardness had a way of communicating itself to me, and the idea of sitting beside him on the piano stool while I floundered did not appeal. But I could not decently refuse, and I came to look forward to the lessons, because as soon as Mr Worgan’s fingers touched the keys, all his strain left him and consequently so did mine.
I could see he was a poor lonely fellow, as hungry for company as I was. He was full of praise for my musical efforts. In truth I showed no tremendous aptitude, but the puzzle of learning the notes was an agreeable stimulus, and so was the praise he gave. Our lessons became a pleasure, with a certain amount of laughter from both of us at some of the sounds I produced. I practised assiduously, not from any great wish to excel, but because fingering my way laboriously through Foote’s Minuet and God Save the King filled many a gaping hour.
How strange it was to hear the plinking notes of Mr Worgan’s little piano in this rough place. They travelled no distance before they were swallowed by the robust music around us: wind among leaves, the cries of birds, the shouts of men commanding other men. The bland tune of the Minuet came from another world altogether, and what would have been pleasant enough in a Devon parlour, here was somewhat ridiculous.
Mr Macarthur liked the idea of a wife who could add musical skill to her accomplishments, and he encouraged the lessons. But the piano stoo
l was narrow, and there was a certain intimacy about four sets of fingers together on the keys. My husband had never yet had any reason to mistrust me. I had always been careful never to be too interested, or too interesting, with other men. I admired Celia Borthwick for the way she created a life-within-a-life with a man not her husband, but Mr Macarthur was no sluggish George Borthwick. The merest brush of suspicion would have let loose a cascade of horrors. During the lessons with Mr Worgan I began to feel uneasy, picturing how the hilarity and praise might sound to someone standing outside the room, listening.
As if he had seen the same picture, one afternoon without preamble Mr Worgan began a story.
– I could not accept who I was, Mrs Macarthur, he said. Not for the longest time.
I nodded, wondering what he meant.
– But met a man.
He laughed, a blurt of joy.
– Oh, a man indeed! And I had to. Face up to the fact of the matter. Who I was. What manner of man. He had no doubt, had always known who he was. By trade he was a dancing master. Carried his kit in the tail of his coat, scratched out a tune on it for the pupils, he had never had any agonies about it, taught me to lose the agonies too.
He glanced at me to see if I had understood. Yes, I had. I knew enough to know what he was telling me.
– And then? I asked lightly. What happened then, Mr Worgan?
Even as I was asking, I wished I had not, because there was something about this story, and the way Worgan was telling it, that made me feel that there would be no then.
– No, forgive me for asking, I said. There is no need.
But he spoke over me.
– He was set upon, he said. Somewhere in Liverpool set upon, a commonplace story, and died. Quickly, I was told by a fellow who was with him. Knocked down and struck his head on a doorsill and never moved again, for which mercy I would thank God, if I thought God had men like him and me in His eye.
He touched one of the keys, his finger stroking the ivory.
I was not going to share that story with Mr Macarthur but, in the spirit of forestalling a difficulty, I made a casual remark implying that Mrs Brown was always in the room with us during the lessons. Mr Macarthur saw where I was heading and let out a great crow of laughter.
– Oh, you are safe with that fellow, I assure you. Our dear Mr Worgan could be trusted with a whole harem of wives!
Mr Worgan never mentioned the dancing master with the kit in his coat-tail pocket again, but that companion was with us as he patiently corrected my notes, praised me beyond my abilities, and, when my Ceylon ran out and could not be replenished, brought me the wild leaves they called sweet tea. It was a rare friendship in that loveless place.
A HOUSE WITH A PIANO
All the officers in Sydney Town were lean and their uniforms were inclined to the ragged, but there was a pleased look about them, a brightness of eye that came from satisfied appetite. It was perfectly understood that, as a privilege of their position, they had their choice of doxies among the female prisoners. More than once I had glimpsed a woman backed up against a tree with her skirt around her thighs and a man in an officer’s jacket nailing her with stroke after stroke. Like the endless supply of convict servants, the endless supply of women who were in no position to refuse was one of the compensations for being in such a post.
But it seemed that the officers hankered for more sedate pleasures too, and once we were moved into our larger house and the piano was installed there, the Macarthurs’ became a place for them to visit. Mr Worgan was always there, usually with Captain Tench and Lieutenant Poulden, and half a dozen others visited whenever their duties allowed. Captain Collins came now and then, and the governor put in an occasional appearance out of courtesy, but knew better than to spoil the officers’ fun by joining them too often.
Perhaps they were drawn to the rituals of home: a mother with her little lad running about, teacups and a silver teapot, a song or two. Perhaps something else, too. Every one of those men knew the story of Captain Gilbert, destroyed by his run-in with Macarthur. Gilbert would never again command any ship bigger than a rowing boat. And of Captain Trail, who was followed now by a stream of vitriolic letters to his masters. They all knew it was a good idea to stay on the right side of John Macarthur.
Whatever their reasons, I was pleased to preside over such a cheerful tradition, and tried to put out of my mind what I had glimpsed of the more animal aspect of these men.
I could not always offer my visitors real Ceylon, or a glass of Madeira, but for the moment the threat of actual famine had retreated. One or two government storeships had at last arrived from England, and private ships now and then called in to Sydney Cove with goods to sell, if you had the money to pay their exorbitant prices. In any case the officers did not seem to mind when the Ceylon ran out again and the teapot was full of the native tea. With Worgan rattling out tunes one after the other as men called out their requests, it was a convivial scene on the afternoons of that first spring. There were a few occasions when so many officers called on me that I needed to send Sullivan to neighbours to beg more chairs, and one celebrated afternoon when, from a shortage of cups, visitors had to take turns drinking their tea.
Someone—Captain Tench, probably—instituted the tradition of raising our teacups in a toast. The first was, of course, To His Majesty the King. The second was To our return, or To Home. In the silence when we drained our glasses, I guessed that every soul in that room was picturing his own particular Home. I saw the glistening eyes and knew the same tears glistened in mine.
My own image of Home was of a snug farmhouse nestling in the gentle hand of a valley somewhere in Devon. Fat sheep gorging themselves on fine pasture, and a narrow silver river purling tirelessly down the middle of the picture. Edward was there, and myself, comfortably thickened, in a striped pinny with a pocketful of pegs. Somehow there was no Mr Macarthur anywhere in the picture. I strained to see more clearly, but the vision had the flimsy improvised nature of a dream.
Mr Macarthur encouraged these afternoon tea parties, which surprised me until I understood that for him they were strategic rather than social. A gathering of his fellow officers allowed him to assess what pressures might be brought to bear on the men who made up his world: to read their characters, discover their strengths and weaknesses. When the time came for persuasion, he would be in a position to turn what he knew to his advantage.
With some of the more wide-eyed younger men the matter was as straightforward as to offer to relieve a temporary pecuniary difficulty.
– My good fellow, I heard him say, as a fellow officer and a brother Mason, I declare that no man shall call after you for a shilling!
Then he could tweak that string any time he pleased.
Others were hungry gape-mouthed fish for flattery: lay it on like butter on a scone, Mr Macarthur said, he will wait for more. Some could not bear the silence of their own company, were ready to fall in with any slander or scheme, if it meant agreeable company.
As for Captain Tench, the way to his heart was to flatter him as an author. He relished the best gossip, the colourful marvel, the grotesque detail. As he entertained us with some amusing anecdote, he refined each phrase, trying this word rather than that. We were his first audience, the stories he told us his first drafts.
We were an appreciative audience. Beyond the pleasure of Tench’s company, none of us wanted to be presented in his account as anything other than amiable.
It had tickled his fancy in the beginning to refer to the modest space where the piano sat against the wall as my ballroom, but the joke had worn a little thin. On the day of the shortage of teacups, he found a better idea and raised the cup he was temporarily in command of in an ironic toast.
– My dear Mrs M, he cried, you must be congratulated!
We knew that he was about to try out on us a new witticism that we would read between covers at some time in the future.
– In this remote corner of the universe, my dear lady, you
have created an article never so much as dreamed of in this quarter of the globe, he said. An antipodean salon, worthy of Mayfair or the fifteenth arrondissement!
Mr Macarthur’s features were not well adapted to laughter, taking on a strained screwed-up appearance that could almost look like tears, but he roared the loudest and clapped Tench on the back.
Mr Dawes, the astronomer, was one of the few officers who never visited my brilliant salon.
– He is a species of genius, Tench assured me. Though he lives like a hermit, or a monk. Now and then I interrupt his solitude by visiting him out at the observatory, however, and he does not object, for he enjoys the pleasure of trouncing me at chess. He is a mathematical prodigy, as well as a chap fluent in those useful languages Latin and Greek, and for whom the intricacies of botany are an open book.
Tench’s friendship with Dawes was one of those surprising pairings that arise between people unalike in every way: Tench the suave man of the world and Dawes the social dunce. Still, Tench did not mind joining the amusement when other officers called Dawes His Holiness, in reference to his erudition and the fact that Dawes and the reverend went out together on the harbour to fish.
But I glimpsed a chance to get out of the jammed-in township where I was going mad with boredom.
– Would Mr Dawes give me some lessons, I asked Tench. Would he have time, do you think, to instruct me in some easy stars, or easy botany?
– For you, Mrs Macarthur, he would be delighted, Tench said. He loves nothing better than to share his knowledge.
I remembered the Mr Dawes I had met that night at the governor’s, a man in something close to agony at having to manage what was required of a social event, and wondered whether Tench might be taking the liberties permitted to an author.
A Room Made of Leaves Page 12
