Sydney Town
Great slabs of stone fringed the vast expanse of sparkling azure water, ringed with vegetation that ranged from scrubby, meanlooking bushes to soaring stands of bone-coloured trees with peeling bark. Lace-edged coves and bays dotted the craggy shoreline and search as she did, Mary couldn’t see a single dwelling or any sign of humanity. It was as though they’d arrived in an uninhabited paradise.
The ship’s cannon boomed, signalling their arrival at Port Jackson. According to Mr Bent it would alert the pilot boat who would guide them through the channel to Sydney Cove. Mary leant over the taffrail, the heaving waves turning her stomach, but she forced down a surge of nausea and lifted her gaze in search of the horizon. To no avail. The treelined hills surrounding the shore and the sweeping cliffs were as disorientating as the slapping of the water against the hull.
‘Are we in the right place?’ Unable to mask the quiver in her voice, Mary turned to Mr Bent. ‘It’s deserted.’ Perhaps in the time they’d been aboard ship the savages had attacked the settlement and burnt all trace of … what ridiculous nonsense. She’d been listening to Hannah’s gossip.
‘I have it on very good authority that the country is far from deserted.’ He pointed to a signal flag fluttering in the breeze atop one of the towering cliffs. ‘Fear not, I’m sure we will see signs of life soon. The pilot boat will come out to meet us.’
As the words left his lips the wind changed direction and the crew raced to furl the sails. Moments later the pilot drew alongside and led them past another towering cliff face adorned with six cannons, past a white-crested, treacherous-looking reef and down towards Sydney Cove. Mary’s shoulders sagged and her pent-up fears subsided as a bustling harbour appeared, crowded with trading ships, masted schooners, whalers and what looked remarkably like canoes, frail craft made from nothing but bark and held together with twine.
‘Matters are moving along apace, I see.’ Mr Bent pointed his finger this way and that. ‘There we have the new hospital, and that squat little building is the church of St Philip, and there what appears to be the beginning of the new military barracks and another wharf.’
How Mr Bent could speak with such authority about a place he’d never visited she had no idea. She could only presume that he had the intelligence from his brother who, he’d told her over an evening meal, had been in the colony for some time.
‘On the right is the two-storey Government House amid the trees, with the governor’s wharf jutting into the cove. On the skyline beyond are the long dormitory blocks of the soldiers’ barracks where York Street runs. Further to the right, can you see the pair of lofty windmills crowning the ridge line? So much progress has been made.’
Mary let Mr Bent’s words wash over her. She’d find out soon enough. The air brought with it the taint of smoke, something vaguely antiseptic and beneath that the distinct reek of odours less savoury, a reminder of the slaughterhouses behind Bristol’s docks. Shelters clung like limpets to the steep hill and below a cluster of buildings ringed the shore where several wharves stuck like fingers into the water.
With much bellowing the great anchor chain rattled its way through the bow. Unsettled and vaguely sick, her heart pounded. Nothing was as she’d imagined. How would she find Francis? The only sounds were the creaking of the ship’s timbers, the slap of the waves against the hull and the strange calls of the seabirds. ‘Why aren’t we going ashore?’
‘Because our arrival hasn’t been acknowledged.’ Mr Bent puffed out his scrawny chest. ‘There will be a thirteen-gun salute from Dawes Point.’ He waved his hand in a wide arc. ‘As befitting a ship carrying such important personages as myself.’
Drawing in a deep breath, and beating back a curl of annoyance, Mary peered out across the water at the windmills on the hills turning lazily in the breeze. But for Mr Bent and his insistence that his arrival should be heralded by a thirteen-gun salute they would have disembarked hours ago, not remained tethered like some recalcitrant animals offshore.
A wherry, much like those that provided services across the Avon, cut through the waves. Two burly men, arm muscles rippling, heaved the oars in remarkable unison. A man dressed in a smart naval uniform sat in the centre of the boat, another at the stern had one arm loosely wrapped around the mast, his bright green coat a beacon … wait—his bright green coat?
Her heart lurched and she wiped the spray from her eyes. ‘Francis!’ The wind whipped her joyous cry away as she leant further over the taffrail, her feet skimming the deck. Russet hair, longer than she remembered, was swept back from his brow by the wind.
All thoughts of decorum flew away as she cupped her hands to her mouth and screamed his name again, her heart swelling. ‘Francis!’ Fifteen months since she’d last seen him … Her heart thrummed. The Francis she knew and loved had survived the voyage, and by the erect posture, the determined confident tilt of his head, he’d more than survived—he looked like the man she’d first met.
In the darkest hours of the journey, she’d feared she’d arrive to find Francis manacled, in chains, with ragged clothes, hollowed stomach and jutting ribs. Instead he stood tall and upright, dressed as always and looking, if anything, healthier and more animated than the last time she’d seen him in Newgate. ‘Francis! Francis Greenway!’
In a moment of serendipitous fortune, the breeze abated and in the sudden silence her voice carried across the water. He turned his head and their eyes locked. His right fist rose to his chest, covering his heart, while he waved his other hand above his head, a broad smile lighting his handsome face.
Unable to control herself, she leapt up and down, hands waving high above her head.
‘It would appear you have located Mr Greenway.’ Mr Bent’s voice, laced with humour, bought her to her senses.
She dropped her hands and tightened her shawl around her shoulders in a vain attempt to restore some form of dignity.
‘Yes, yes, I have.’ She might have managed to bring her enthusiasm under control but even to her own ears her sense of excitement was as plain as the nose on her face. ‘I had expected to find him in irons.’ Mary gave voice to her greatest fears.
‘Not at all. Only for the gravest of misdemeanours, or second offenders. Someone skilled, like Mr Greenway, would have had his irons removed the moment he set foot on dry land.’
‘By his wits, and from the look of it he has managed to arrive with those intact. He will have been left to provide himself with lodgings and every morning at dawn when the bell rings, report for work. A weekly ration of meat and flour is provided. But I’ll leave it for him to tell you all. They’ll bring the wherry around to port. Hopefully they are carrying an answer to my note to Macquarie. Perhaps Mr Greenway is the bearer of good tidings. This lack of respect is deplorable. I have no intention of disembarking until we receive a respectable welcome.’
Mary couldn’t give a toss for any thirteen-gun salute, or any other number of guns, for that matter. She wanted to feel Francis’s arms around her, hear his soft honeyed laugh, rest her head on his shoulder and know that after all this time she could heal the cruel blow of fate her actions had inflicted upon him.
‘Mr Bent, Mrs Greenway.’ Captain Pitcher snapped a smart salute in their direction and made for the taffrail where two of the crew were lowering a rope ladder to the cutter.
‘A response from Macquarie, no doubt.’ Mr Bent rubbed his hands together, a satisfied smirk playing across his sharp features. ‘We should be suitably greeted and ashore within a matter of …’
Before he could finish his sentence, a tousled head appeared, and Francis scrambled aboard. Ignoring Captain Pitcher, he reached for her arm. ‘Mary …’
She buckled into his embrace, inhaled his comforting, if sweaty, presence and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Mr Bent, Captain Pitcher, may I introduce my husband, Mr Francis Greenway …’
‘Not now, Mary, show me the way to your cabin.’ The grasp on her elbow tightened and he spun her around. ‘Which way?’
‘Francis, please. Mr Bent has been so very kind to me and the children on the voyage …’
‘Where is your cabin?’ A fierce glow lit his eyes, determination or … a shudder traced her skin … a hint of mania? Who knew what the voyage and five months in this hellhole could have done to him. ‘I feared I’d find you manacled,’ she said.
‘Only those who reoffend are manacled.’
And since Francis hadn’t offended, not even once, he certainly deserved to be at liberty. She relaxed her stance to lead him across the deck. ‘Down here.’ Regretfully she loosened his grasp. ‘The children will be delighted to see you, and you’ve yet to meet Francis, little Frankie. They have been so very good on the voyage and on Mr Bent’s advice I have employed a maid. She’s a delightful …’
‘Not now. I need my papers, my portfolio. You have brought them, haven’t you? I was enraged when they refused to let me take them to the hulks but in retrospect it was for the best—conditions were appalling below decks. I’ve been on tenterhooks since the pilot posted the passenger manifest and I knew for certain you were aboard. We must hurry. I cannot miss the return trip to shore.’
Mary threw open the door to the cabin. George and William lifted their heads from their game of cards, their mouths agape.
‘Papa!’ George was the first to recover. ‘Papa!’ He launched himself at Francis.
He finally took notice of George and William and then his eyes lit on the baby in Hannah’s arms. ‘And who is this?’
Mary swallowed. ‘This is Francis John, your son. He was born in December, after you left.’ For a moment her stomach fell. She had no idea how he would react. He scooped baby Frankie from Hannah’s arms and held him high above his head. ‘What a fine boy. My son. Very good, very good. Come. We’ve no time to waste. My papers.’
Mary clamped her teeth and shot a look at Hannah, and caught her wide-eyed, halfway to a curtsy. The poor girl, stunned no doubt by Francis’s determined manner, snatched Frankie back.
‘George, William, go to Hannah. I must find your father’s papers.’ Find wasn’t exactly the right word because she knew exactly where they were and had spent the voyage committing everything to memory.
‘My portfolio. That is what I need. Macquarie has no idea of architectural design. He has me copying a plan that has absolutely no claim to classical proportions or character. I must show him my earlier works—Carmarthen, Thornbury Castle and Clifton. Come along, come along. There is no time to waste. I can’t have the wherry leaving without me.’
‘I have them all here.’ Mary tried for a placating tone; she had been quite correct about the glint of mania in his eyes.
‘Macquarie’s asked for samples of my work. I will have to write a letter to accompany my designs.’ A staged sigh slipped between his lips and in that moment she understood. He wouldn’t ask for assistance, of that she was certain, but if she offered …
‘Perhaps we could do that now.’ She reached for her nib pen and unscrewed the inkpot. ‘Hannah, would you take the children up onto the deck for some air. If Mr Bent is to be believed the pilot will soon be guiding us to our mooring. He is anticipating an official salute to acknowledge his arrival. The boys will enjoy that.’
As the door of the cabin closed Francis’s shoulders drooped, his bumptious demeanour evaporating as a heavy silence enveloped the cabin.
Mary stretched out her arms. ‘Come.’
‘Oh, my dear, my dearest dear.’ He collapsed against her. ‘How I have missed you. When I received your letter telling me you wouldn’t be aboard the General Hewett I thought my world had ended. I’ve been a ship without a mooring floundering in a towering sea, my shrivelled heart barely able to pump the blood around my body. Now you are here, and we have a fine son.’ He clasped her tight, so tight she could feel the beat of his heart echoing against her own.
Her lips curled into a smile. Her Francis. His fierce ambition and impulsiveness honed, not diminished, by his ordeal. He had so very much to offer the world. ‘I am here now. We’ve been given an opportunity, a new beginning. Let’s make the most of it. Now tell me what has happened with Governor Macquarie, and we will write this letter.’
Francis sat at the desk, his long legs stretched out and his arms folded, in a familiar pose. ‘Macquarie is aware of your arrival. I will write and ask him for permission for you to come ashore at the earliest possible moment, although it will have to be after that wizened little fellow Bent.’
Ah, Mr Bent and his salute. ‘That is wonderful, and have you spoken about the governor’s plans for the town?’
Francis let out a long sigh. ‘He is a procrastinator. He has required verbal reports on minor matters, but no role or official position has been forthcoming.’
Which she wouldn’t have expected. Everything Mr Bent had told her led her to believe convicted prisoners were required to work for the government in exchange for rations and clothing. Francis certainly hadn’t accepted the clothing. He looked as always, well dressed, although his cravat was a little less than pristine and a bath wouldn’t go amiss.
‘He hasn’t asked to see any of my plans. Simply made some ludicrous request that I should copy a design he has in mind for a courthouse.’ He gave a derogatory sniff. ‘I couldn’t do it. I have already written to him and told him that the building is totally unsuitable. A courthouse for goodness sake—with no claim to classical proportions or character.’
Mary bit her lip. Had Francis no understanding of his position? A convicted prisoner disagreeing with the king’s representative—the governor of New South Wales. She swallowed a stern retort and rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘I am certain that once he sees your portfolio …’
‘Indeed. I must show him my work immediately.’
Not spend time with his wife and firstborn son after an absence of so many months. She pushed the irksome thought away. ‘I also have something else I believe might sway the governor.’ She untied her folio and pulled out the letter of recommendation. ‘I think you’ll be very happy to see this.’ She unrolled the letter and handed it to Francis. ‘Read it.’
‘I require my portfolio, not some letter from England.’
‘It is a letter of recommendation from Admiral Phillip.’
Francis snatched the paper from her hand. His eyes scanned the page, the corner of his mouth twisting, then a frown crossed his forehead, and he lifted his gaze to her. ‘How did you come by it?’ His head snapped up and his hazel eyes locked with hers. ‘Not another forgery, I hope.’
‘Miss Bingle gave it to me. I believe the governor would be most interested.’ She batted down the flush rising to her neck. ‘It states you are an architect of some eminence and recommends your services to Governor Macquarie.’
Francis gave a somewhat derogatory sniff and stuffed the letter into his breast pocket before stretching out his hand for his portfolio.
With a grunt of satisfaction, he took out his earlier works. ‘I must write a note to Macquarie to accompany my designs. We have no time to waste.’
Her heart lifted. Perhaps with some gentle nudging she could encourage Francis to remedy his arrogant stance on the courthouse. ‘Would you like me to act as scribe?’ She held up the nib pen.
He pushed aside her hand. ‘No, I would not. This must come from me.’
But perhaps a little female intervention would spread oil on the seemingly already troubled waters of Francis’s relationship with the governor. As Mr Bent had pointed out, life without the governor’s patronage would be impossible. She doubted the promissory note she had received from Miss Bingle and the money for the household furnishings Mudd had pressed on her would cover more than a few months’ living expenses. The children had to have a roof over their head; as free settlers they wouldn’t even have convict rations to fall back on. Mr Bent had made it only too clear that life in Sydney Town was expensive, a fact she had no doubt was accurate given his brother’s experience in the colony. She drew in a deep breath. ‘Perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to apologise to the governor for your impetuosity.’
‘Impetuosity? What impetuosity?’
‘About the courthouse. If you include a copy of the courthouse design along with the other plans in your portfolio, I have no doubt he will understand your initial reaction.’ One could only hope. Why hadn’t she enquired of Miss Bingle some intelligence as to the governor’s character?
‘Since you seem to have acquired such an understanding of diplomacy what do you suggest I write?’
Mary cleared her throat. ‘Perhaps first tell him you will make copies of the courthouse design as he requested and beg his forgiveness for any offence you may have caused?’
The nib scratched across the paper and after an interminable wait Francis lifted his head and slid the paper towards her. Her gaze scanned his words, and she tamped down the beginning of a smile threatening to lift her lips.
I will according to the request of your Excellency make a copy of the Design of the Court House. And I sincerely lament that I should have written any thing to give offence. I most solemnly declare that I had no such intention but quite the contrary. I hope & trust therefore that you will not consider it in any way to have been intended as in so doing you will add another injury which I feel conscious I do not deserve.
She knew Francis too well, could see his sarcasm shining through, but hopefully, after only one meeting, the governor would give him the benefit of the doubt. ‘I think that is perfect. Now perhaps you could request that the children and I go ashore. After all …’ she lifted her hand to her forehead; it was a game she could play as well as Francis, ‘… we have had a terrible voyage and but for the assistance of Mr Bent I doubt we would have survived.’ Quite the perfect time to sing the praises of the first judge of the Supreme Court of New South Wales. If she had learnt only one lesson in the past two years, she knew patronage was important.
Francis let out an exasperated breath and drew the page towards him and began writing. A hardness, a glint of determination she hadn’t seen before, flickered in his eyes. Hopefully, she hadn’t gone too far. She cranked her neck and read over his shoulder as the words poured from his pen.
I now humbly beg your Excellency will grant an order for my wife & three children to come on shore. Her health requires it as she has preserved on a long and dreadful voyage only through the humanity of Mr Bent, I ask this favour for merit & virtue in distress which will be sufficient to claim the attention of your Excellency.
… and if your Excellency will grant me the power as an architect, to design and conduct any public building or work, I will exert myself in every way to do your Excellency credit as a promoter and encourager of the most useful art to society, which will add to the comforts of the colony, as well as the dignity of the Mother country …
Francis pushed back the chair and glowered at her. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Perfect.’ Mary clasped her hands together tightly. ‘Just a valediction. Your Excellency’s most obedient and humble servant, perhaps? Macquarie is, after all, the king’s representative.’
He didn’t bother to sit again but scrawled the words and his signature and, not waiting for the ink to dry, folded the sheet of paper, and tucked it inside the designs he had removed from the portfolio. ‘I must go immediately. I will find you the moment you are permitted to disembark.’ Without another word he ducked his head and disappeared from the cabin.