The social and political tensions of the Victorian goldfields of the mid-nineteenth century were at fever pitch. The blatant tyranny of the police and the unrelenting government had combined to incite open rebellion. A massive response was expected to the call to the anti-government demonstration, which had been planned for the weekend before Christmas at Forest Creek.
After lunch on Saturday, Josh, the American miner, appeared at the door of John’s tent. He was dressed in a typical miner’s garb with a red cotton band around the crown of his hat, the unmistakable mark of anti-colonial sentiment. From his demeanour, it was obvious that he was anxious to hear the celebrated President of the Red Ribbon League, the advertised keynote speaker for the rally. John and Anna hurried to ready themselves for the half-hour walk to the centre of town.
When they emerged, John was carrying a small leather pouch in which he kept the meagre results of his week’s labour on the diggings. ‘I’d like to sell the gold before the meeting if you don’t mind,’ he said to Anna. ‘I’ll need to call in at O’Grady’s on the way.’
Most of the storekeepers were buyers of gold either for cash or in exchange for goods, and it was unfortunately true that some of them were downright swindlers. When John arrived with his little pouch, he tipped the contents on to a glass plate on the wooden counter. The gold buyer picked up the largest nugget with tweezers and put it on his troy-weight scales.
‘Two ounces, four pennyweight,’ he announced. Five smaller lumps were weighed together. ‘Eighteen pennyweight, twenty-nine grains,’ called O’Grady.
Finally, John produced a small bottle with a little gold dust on the bottom. This was duly tipped on to the pan of the scales.
‘Fourteen grains’, said O’Grady. ‘Now let me see, altogether that makes . . . three ounces, three pennyweight, sixteen grains. At eighty shillings an ounce . . . , I owe you twelve pounds, fourteen shillings, and eight pence.’
‘Just a minute!’ said John who had been watching proceedings suspiciously. What in fact had just happened was the old trick of dividing the gold into small lots. When each lot was out on the balance, its weight was slightly underestimated. The trusting miner was thus credited with less than its total weight. In aggregate this became significant.
‘Let me do it,’ said John in a sceptical tone. Ignoring O’Grady’s protests and putting all of the gold on the pan at once, he balanced the scales and read the weight. ‘Ha ha! Look, three ounces, four pennyweight, and twelve grains. You owe me twelve pounds, eighteen shillings.’ The dealer looked aghast. He had been caught out. ‘But the balance isn’t accurate with heavier loads,’ he protested.
‘Considerably more accurate than the way you did it,’ said John accusingly. ‘You owe me twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, and that’s that. Now come on, pay up!’
‘Y’ ol son of a gun!’ drawled Josh. ‘Yer really had his measure didn’t yer.’ Anna giggled with delight that they had three shillings and four pence more than it looked like were going to be paid. She could get three pounds of sugar for that. ‘What a rogue?’ she thought. ‘He could do very well that way with the dozens of miners who came though his store.’
By now, the diggers were assembling. Again, it had been arranged that the speakers would address the crowd from the ‘pulpit’ in the tree. As John looked across the road, he could see the crowd. They were good honest hard-working men who were capable of giving their adopted country their undivided loyalty if only they were treated fairly. The men felt deeply that the new tax was grossly unfair. John felt proud to be part of a movement that was standing up to a domineering establishment. Shades of his pre-convict past.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Forest Creek!’ came the voice of the Chairman. But his voice was quickly overwhelmed by the sounds of a bush band, leading a rambling throng up the track towards the tree. At the head of the column came the Irish contingent, always the leaders when there was a row in the offing, then came the Scots, one of two of them wearing the kilt followed by the English. In front, walked a huge giant of a man carrying an enormous Union Jack in his right hand held out rigidly in front of him. At the rear, walked smaller groups of men carrying the revolutionary flags of France and Germany and accompanied by the Stars and Stripes of America. What a colourful and stirring site it was? The men sang protest songs about freedom and independence. This cacophony of male voices might well have struck fear into the hearts of the staunchest of government minions like the distant skirl of the bagpipes on the Scottish highlands.
Pushing a path through the milling mass of men, John led the visiting speaker to the ‘pulpit’. The Chairman once again called for quiet. An eerie hush fell over the great assembly. A lone jackass laughed derisively from its perch high above in the tree as if he thought the whole thing was a joke.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Forest Creek!’ he began again. ‘You all know why we’re here today. We all feel strongly about the increased license fees that none of us can afford. Today, all over the goldfields there are meetings like this, calling upon the government to treat us fairly. I am very pleased today to introduce to you a man who has been in this fight ever since we first heard about it. He has spoken at dozens of rallies around the colony and we think it’s great that he has come to Forest Creek today.’
‘My good friends, let’s give a rousing welcome to Mr Jonathan Stanley, the President of the Red Ribbon League.’ A spirited chorus of ‘Hip! Hip! Hurrah!’ rang out from hundreds of voices in expectancy, and they were not to be disappointed.
‘Diggers of Forest Creek! I greet you in the name of freedom,’ he began. Another shout went up from the men. ‘I greet you in the name of independence!’ An even louder roar echoed around the hills.
‘It has been said that the goldfields are drifting towards rebellion, and no wonder! We diggers have had enough of the arrogance of the ‘traps’. We’ve had enough of the graft and corruption of the government officials. If we’re going to pay our license fees, we demand to have a vote. We demand the right to elect out own representatives in parliament.’ Stanley lowered his voice dramatically. ‘Some say that it’s only a matter of time before there’s a showdown.’ In a rising crescendo, he continued, ‘If it’s not in Ballarat, then it will be in Bendigo or even here in Forest Creek. We need to take a strong stand now, or we’ll be beaten into submission forever. Are we going to lie down and let them crush us?’
By now, the angry interjections from the audience were so loud that the Chairman had to call for order. The hot sun was beating down upon the President who gladly accepted a cool drink while order was restored. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Stanley stepped forward to the front of the ‘pulpit’ once more.
Suddenly, the crack of a horsewhip was heard in the distance. A second crack and the sound of galloping hoofs signalled the approach of a horseman. The whole audience turned as one to look back down the track as the whip-cracking rider raced through the parting crowd and stopped at the foot of the ‘pulpit’. Stanley bent over to listen to the obviously urgent message. The men were hushed for several minutes as the message was delivered. He straightened up to address them his face as white as a sheet.
‘Men, it is my sad duty to advise you that there has been a massacre at Ballarat this morning.’ He spoke gravely and quietly. ‘This morning a detachment of the military and the police attacked the stockade of our gallant mates at Ballarat. These brave men were defending our rights and our freedoms.’ Tears came to his eyes, as he spoke with passion. ‘And some of them have paid the supreme sacrifice in doing so. Thirty of our friends have been killed there this morning and many more wounded.’ The assembly stood motionless hushed and stunned.
Stanley’s voice quavered as he called for a moment of silence in memory of the brave boys who had fallen. But the miners’ feelings could not be contained. Gradually, their restrained chatter gave way to hostile shouts, which escalated into a thunder of angry voices. The feeling was so high that John thought it fortunate that the military detachment had not been posted to Forest Creek for surely a fight to the death might well have resulted.
An irate digger jumped up on to the ‘pulpit’ held his license paper high above him and set fire to it. Many of his colleagues torched their papers too in a united show of defiance.
Sensing the imminent danger of a riot, John leapt to the ‘pulpit’ and lifted his voice with the authority of a respected leader.
‘Men of Forest Creek! Listen to me! I know and feel your anger, and I share your grief. We will not tolerate the murder of our mates. But we must not take revenge in the heat of the moment. Remember the military and the police are well armed. We would be no match for their fire power. We can achieve our ends by other means.’
‘Let us resolve that no miner, not one of us will pay the increased license fee. There’s no way the authorities can force us all to pay other than the gun. I call you to reason not to recklessness. I call you to solidarity not selfishness. I call you to resolution, not compromise.’ John’s rhetoric was again being called upon to pacify the militant mob and to prevent riot. His mother would have been proud of him.
With John’s words in their minds, the crowd began to disperse slowly. Taking Anna’s arm, John walked pensively away from the scene. He was seeing less and less chance of peace in his adopted country. American democracy was as far from a reality in this place as was the hope of making a fortune. Perhaps, Josh’s advice should be thought about at least. Was it time to leave the Victorian diggings and try his luck in another land?
John’s conversations with Josh, often into the late hours of the night were fascinating. He was impressed with the political system that Josh was describing and with the apparent opportunities for even the common man to make good.
But John was puzzled, nevertheless, by what seemed to him to be a terrible weakness. The freedoms and the rights that the constitution conferred upon the ordinary citizen did not extend to the coloured population. Indeed, he began to wonder how long it would be before such double standards would bring down the Republic.
Christmas Eve arrived and John and Anna decided to spend the morning shopping for presents. It was a warm December morning, and the gentle north breeze was tossing the leaves of the gum trees and the cheerful songs of the magpies and jackasses echoed across the gully. It was occasions like this that the thought of leaving Forest Creek was abhorrent to John and Anna.
After spending time in O’Grady’s store, they were about to make their way home when a large dray packed with travellers and new diggers trundled into the town. ‘Wo . . . ah there!’ shouted the driver as the bullock team plodded to a halt.
John and Anna could hardly believe their eyes when, who should they see getting off the dray but Harry, Anna’s father. He stepped down quite briskly carrying a small carpetbag. He was well dressed like a Victorian squatter with a colourful cravat at his neck and a pork-pie hat. When he caught sight of the young couple, he ran to Anna flung his arms around her and kissed her affectionately.
‘It’s good to see y’, me boy!’ he said to John. Not a trace of enmity towards his son-in-law was evident in Harry’s manner. On the contrary, he seemed delighted to greet him and to see for himself that Anna was happy and well.
‘Let me take your bag, Father,’ said John as they began to walk home. Anna and Harry spoke with such animation and speed that John found it hard to get a word in. Anna made no mention of the baby, wanting to tell her father all the good news and to hear about her mother. Harry was amazed to see all the tents and shacks that were dotted here and there across Pennyweight Flat and very pleased to observe how well accepted his daughter and son-in-law were in this colony.
Arriving home, Anna took hold of her father’s hand and led him to the little grave. The dried wreaths had long since gone, but the little cross was still there. Harry wanted to share Anna’s grief with her and the two of them stood in silence hand in hand. A tear ran slowly down Harry’s rugged cheek as he comforted his daughter. His simple faith tempted him to wonder if this was God’s punishment on his daughter. But he kept his peace.
On Christmas morning, Harry was up early. The wind had dropped and the sun beat down upon him with a ferocity that suggested that a hot day was in store. Beatrice and Richard had suggested that John, Anna, and Harry should share their Christmas dinner with them. Later in the morning, as they made their way down the path to the cutler’s place the family reminisced about Christmases past.
Little did they expect the sight that greeted them as they came around the corner of the track just a stone’s throw from their hosts’ tent. It was decorated in colourful ribbons and bunches of wild Christmas Bush. The magpies chortled in the trees above, and the air was heavy with the scent of the eucalypts. A nearby Egg and Bacon bush in full bloom served as a Christmas tree. On it were coloured paper decorations, which matched its orange and yellow flowers. At its base, lay a pile of brightly wrapped Christmas presents each with a name tag clearly displayed. Richard had tied up the walls of their canvass tent to allow what little breeze there was to waft over them. The table, consisting of timber hewn with an axe and nailed together, rested on four sawn tree trunks. A white cloth was spread over it, and a great vase of Christmas bush flowers dominated the table, its mint-like aroma perfuming the air refreshingly. From the main tent pole hung sprigs of mistletoe in full flower their bright red and green colourings giving the place the feel of Christmas.
After Christmas greetings were exchanged, the guests took their appointed places at the table. Richard at the head of the table said grace, and Beatrice disappeared outside to fetch the turkey. It was a bush turkey, which Richard had trapped on Christmas Eve. It was a little tougher than the farmed turkeys, which one could buy at a price but quite acceptable. To Anna, it was a culinary delight and certainly a change from the cheap mutton, which was all that she and John could afford.
The turkey was brought from the bush oven and placed before Richard for carving. Stuffing, rich with wild herbs oozed from the sewn neck of the bird as Richard cut the string. When the meat was served, Beatrice placed hot vegetables and gravy on the plate. Harry could hardly believe the size of the plate that was set before him. As the party struggled to consume their dinners, beads of sweat ran from their brows. Their thirst was quenched with brandy and water in large tumblers. The happy chatter and laughter belied the fact that this was a family that had so recently emerged from the shadow of death.
The arrival of the Christmas pudding brought their animated conversation to a standstill. Like a large lump of conglomerate rock, it sat alluringly upon the plate crowned with a sprig of scented gum leaves. The serving of pudding immersed in creamy custard was absolutely delightful. All of a sudden Anna’s teeth bit on something hard. When it was removed with her spoon, she was astonished to see a gleaming gold nugget shining brilliantly in the early afternoon light.
Immediately, the other diners took a keen interest in the pudding. They examined each mouthful carefully in anticipation and hoped to finish fast enough to get a second helping. Beatrice looked on with an expression of benevolent satisfaction on her face.
After the exchange of gifts, Richard took Anna’s hand, led her to the tent pole where the mistletoe hung and kissed her. Not to be outdone Harry grabbed Beatrice, pulled her under the mistletoe, and gave her a peck on the cheek. John sat alone smiling at the re-enactment of this old European custom in this outpost of civilisation.
The afternoon was spent in happy conversation, their expressions of hopes for the future, and for Harry and Richard desperate attempts not to fall asleep. The sun was setting in the western sky when John heard a commotion coming from the direction of the creek just a little upstream. The men went to investigate and were amazed to see dozens of people armed with pots, jars, and bottles, bending down over the stream. Apparently, a short time earlier a dray-load of brandy casks was crossing the little wooden bridge, which collapsed under the weight. The casks burst open as they fell on the rocks, sending their contents cascading downstream, much to the delight of the exuberant diggers.
Exaggerated reports of the event spread rapidly to other parts of the goldfields and indeed back to Britain. Prospective young miners were lured by tales of a land where gold nuggets lay scattered on the ground for the taking and the streams flowed with brandy. The faraway Australian diggings had acquired a reputation beyond reality.
It was early in the New Year, and John was hard at work at the diggings, hoping desperately for a change in his fortune. He was working in a shaft some four feet down lost in thought when suddenly towering over him stood Josh at the top of the shaft. ‘Ah bin thinkin’, John. Ah got a pal in the American Consulate in Melbourne. Yer orta go and talk to ’im.’
Josh’s words challenged John to think more seriously about his suggestion. His friend was obviously interested in their future. And so it was that John found himself three days later walking the familiar dusty streets of Melbourne town with yet a new vision forming in his mind. He found the consulate in a handsome sandstone building in St. Kilda Road, a wide tree-lined track with the makings of a splendid boulevard.
‘Carm on in, Mr Francis. Will y’ take carffee?’ inquired the officer in a southern drawl. ‘Oh, thank you,’ responded John courteously although he would have preferred tea.
‘Now, Mr Francis, I see you’re fixin’ t’ migrate to the United States,’ said the officer. ‘That’s right. I’m told that there are good prospects in the southern states—Mississippi or perhaps Louisiana,’ responded John. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Yeah!’ replied the officer. ‘They’re openin’ up parts o’ Loosiana for cotton growin’ right now. But I tell yer, it’s damned hot out there.’
‘Oh, that wouldn’t worry us,’ said John, remembering the time the mercury topped 125 degrees at Forest Creek. ‘Well, if you’re interested, you could contact the sheriff at Mansfield up in the north-west. Mississippi’s got good prospects too, but I’d try Mansfield first if I were you.’
There followed quite a helpful discussion about Louisiana’s economy and politics, and John began to feel a rising interest in the challenge that lay in a place like the deep south of America. The official did not pull any punches. He spoke of the heat, the humidity, the floods, and the rattlesnakes that made life very unpleasant on occasions. ‘And it’s not all straightforward on the political front either,’ he said. John was most interested in this comment and quizzed him about his meaning.
After about an hour of conversation, John thanked the official and took his leave. With his mind full of his conversation John set out at a brisk pace to walk over the river to the rectory of St James Church.
Mrs Stevens, the rector’s wife greeted John at the door like a son and threw her arms around him in welcome. He kept the family up late that night, regaling them with stories of his and Anna’s adventures and tragedies at the diggings. As he was leaving next morning, Mrs Stevens said, ‘Now you tell Anna that I want you both to come and stay with us for a few days before you set out for America. Oh, I say, how exciting! Don’t forget now! Anna and I can go shopping for some nice clothes.’ Thanking them kindly John departed and hastened back to Forest Creek.
Seventy-two hours later, Anna was listening to John telling her what he had learnt in the city, and they talked well into the night about the proposal. Finally, John took Anna’s hands in his and said, ‘I know our going to America would please you, my dear. You’ve been urging me for some time, haven’t you? If you’re satisfied we can find a better life there, then let’s give it a go.’
In the weeks that followed, Anna’s emotions fluctuated as she pondered their decision. There were moments when the prospect of a new venture into the unknown excited her tremendously. And there were moments when she grieved at the thought of parting from mates with whom friendship had been forged in joy and in sadness, in success and in failure.
Human feeling can be a sensitive attribute, responsive to the many forces that impinge upon it. Lack of hope, for example, undermines the will, saps the energy, and demoralises the soul. Years of disappointment and frustration on the goldfields had, had such an effect upon many a young man who had come to make his fortune. And it was obvious to Anna that John’s hope had been rekindled by thoughts of a new start in a different country. The American official’s enthusiasm for the place had apparently fired John’s imagination, and Anna was happy for him.
The last few days of their time in Forest Creek were lived at a frantic pace. The organisation of their personal affairs, the packing of their few possessions, and the farewell parties with their many friends left them both in a state of emotional exhaustion.
It was the night before their departure for Melbourne, and Anna had retired early to rest for the long and rough journey southward. After checking the bindings and labels on their travel bags, John too laid down to sleep. ‘John’, whispered Anna, drawing him close to her, ‘we need to talk.’
John’s mind immediately raced over some of the things that could possibly be of interest to Anna just before their departure.
‘I think I’ve done all we have to do to get ready, haven’t I?’ John queried.
‘Oh yes, I’m sure we have,’ she replied.
‘But it’s more something personal, John. Something that concerns you and me.’
John turned his head slightly on the pillow and found her looking straight at him.
‘John, I think we’re going to have a child.’
He said nothing, but wrapped his arms around her in a warm, comforting embrace as their hopes again began to rise.
The long trip back to Melbourne through the Black Forest climaxed at St James Church in the warmest of welcomes that the young adventurers could have imagined. The few days prior to their departure for America on the New Orleans were spent in shopping, sight-seeing, and celebration. John and Anna were treated like a son and daughter by the most kindly friends they had ever had or were likely to have.
It was a bright autumn morning, in 1854, when John and Anna arrived at the wharf at Port Melbourne. Several of their erstwhile friends from St James had joined the Stevens to bid farewell to the young couple.
‘Come gather round!’ called the rector. ‘Let’s commit our dear friends to the Lord.’ And he began to pray in distinctly audible tones as the small band of his parishioners linked hands in a circle around John and Anna. The seagulls squawked raucously overhead as they darted in and out of the ship’s rigging.
‘We commit John and Anna to Thee, O Lord of this world. Vouchsafe to protect them as they go forth from our midst to faraway lands. Give them a good passage across the mighty ocean we beseech Thee, O Lord. Grant that these, our friends, and Thy servants may ever be true and faithful to what is good, and protect them from all that is evil. Prosper them, good Lord in all that they do in the place to which they go. And into Thy safe and secure keeping we entrust them. Amen!’
A light breeze had sprung up catching the crests of the little waves of Port Phillip Bay so that they danced like ten thousand miniature ballerinas in the bright sunshine. The passengers, some hurriedly boarding the ship, others nonchalantly lingering on the wharf with friends were a varied lot. Some were obviously ladies and gentlemen of means. The ladies were attired in gowns of fine silk or taffeta and wore magnificent ribboned bonnets. Together with their husbands in morning suits and top hats, they paraded ostentatiously along the pier anxious to be noticed. Numerous porters struggled up the gang-planks under the weight of the voluminous luggage.
Others, presumably travelling steerage were somewhat scruffy in appearance by comparison and were hauling their own meagre possessions aboard. The salty air tinged with the faint aroma of rotting seaweed from the adjacent sandy beach added to the distinctly nautical ambience. Riding at anchor around the great ship in the choppy water were smaller fishing boats packed with chattering sight-seers.
John and Anna stood at the ship’s railing. Anna held a coloured paper streamer, which was being gently tugged by the rector’s wife standing on the pier. ‘Cast off!’ ordered the Captain. A huge cloud of seagulls rose into the air as the ship shuddered into motion. A cheer went up from the passengers and the New Orleans began to pull away.
The long voyage across the Pacific Ocean passed uneventfully apart from the occasional marine entertainment. A school of whales amused the ship’s company for several days as they cavorted in the water around the New Orleans. Anna admitted to being a little scared as the huge creatures nudged the sides of the ship as they played. Aided by fair winds and good weather the south equatorial current brought them into the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico in about eight weeks.
It was just dawn one morning when the passengers were woken by a loud cry from the crow’s nest. ‘Ship ahoy!’ John ran out on to the deck to see what was causing the commotion. The first light of day had revealed the presence of another ship straight ahead in their course. As the light intensified, it could be seen that the other ship was carrying no sail. She was drifting. ‘Who is she?’ asked John. ‘Can’t tell in this light,’ said the squinting boatswain. The crew stared at her curiously. The possible consequences of a collision had not escaped John’s wild imagination.
‘She’s a pirate!’ cried one of the crew in alarm, lowering his telescope. ‘She’s flying the skull and crossbones!’ These seas were well known for the activities of pirates and a feeling of apprehension swept over those on deck immediately.
‘Wait a moment!’ ordered the Captain who had by now taken the telescope and was examining the other vessel from bow to stern. ‘There’s not a movement on-board!’ he said in a surprised tone. As the ship was less than one hundred yards away by now, he would have expected the pirates to be bearing down upon their prey grappling hooks at the ready. But the ship was as still as death.
‘That’s it!’ cried the Captain. ‘Plague! She’s a death ship! Change course! Hard to port!’ he called to the wheelhouse. There was a lurch as the ship responded and sped away into the morning. John breathed a sigh of relief as he pondered which of the two possible fates would have been worse, plague or pillage and rape.
The ship’s company finally relaxed when the New Orleans eventually passed through the mouth of the great Mississippi River. To reach the port of New Orleans, the ship sailed slowly north about ninety miles up the river. Other ships of comparable size passed in the southerly direction and barges loaded with cotton and other produce kept pace with the clipper as it sailed gracefully upstream like a queen bee with her attendant workers.
From the deck, John and Anna noted the marshy terrain with wide bayous running back into the surrounding country. Muskrat trappers in shallow boats searched for their quarry among the reeds. The increasingly denser building on the banks indicated the approach of a busy centre. Indeed, this was the port of New Orleans, one of the busiest in the country.
Because of her pregnancy, there was an urgency about Anna and John’s travel arrangements, which left them no time to explore the wonders of one of America’s most interesting cities. They would have loved to walk the streets behind the wharf, but the steamboat to Smithport was fired up and ready for departure as they disembarked the New Orleans.
With a blast from its dual horns, the steamboat was soon under way on the long journey up the Mississippi and the Red which took them deep into Louisiana. John and Anna sat for quite a while on the rear deck of the steamboat, its huge stern-wheel churning the water relentlessly.
They marvelled at the width of the immense waterway, unimaginable in Australia, one of the driest continents on earth. They gave up counting the many tributaries, large and small, which entered the great river.
On the distant bank, Anna could see a herd of cows in a fenced field and beyond them a horse-drawn wagon, making its way south. A veritable armada of river craft floated or powered its way past the steamboat. The great steamers with side paddles packed with travellers bound for New Orleans, barges laden with produce from the north, and small fishing boats of all sizes and colours, some at anchor and others being rowed made the river a hive of human activity unknown in the Australians’ experience.
‘How y’all travellin’?’ asked the Steamboat Captain who appeared at Anna’s elbow. ‘Name’s Cap’n Sheppard, and this is ma boat, the Lily Belle. Hope y’all enjoyin’ the trip.’
‘We’re fascinated by all these boats, Captain,’ said Anna. ‘It really is a busy place, isn’t it?’ she continued in her Irish lilt somewhat broadened by her goldfield’s experience. ‘Oh, y’all from Ireland, are y’?’ queried the Captain with a smile.
It was nearly seven hours before the steamer reached the mouth of the Red River and a further three before their ultimate destination came into view. The town of Smithport was little more than a wharf on the Bayou Pierre, a small offshoot of the Red River. It served as an outlet for the cotton and corn that were the principal exports of the region and was a convenient shipping head for travellers between the north-west and the south-east. The waiting wagon was soon bumping its way along the stony track towards Mansfield.
At the end of the uncomfortable journey, the new immigrants with their few possessions and great hopes entered the office of the highest permanent official of the court of justice in the town of Mansfield, the clerk of courts. This was an austere room with bundles of files stacked high on shelves lining its walls. Behind a large desk, sat a thin balding man wearing a black waistcoat and a pair of pence nez clipped to the end of his nose.
‘Sit y’self down, Mr and Mrs . . . er . . . ,’ said the official, sorting through his papers. ‘Francis’, interrupted Anna. Looking up from his records, the clerk stared at her disapprovingly. There was a long silence broken only by the rustling of papers as the public servant refused to be hustled in his dealings with these new migrants.
‘Ah, here we are!’ he said nonchalantly, fingering the letter that John had forwarded in advance of their arrival in Mansfield. ‘Australia, eh?’ he queried. ‘Y’ve come a hell of a long way, haven’t y’all?’ John agreed, but explained that they had enjoyed the trip and were anxious now to settle down to a life of farming. ‘Y’re lookin’ for a job Ah s’pose. Well, as it happens, there’s a place a mile or so down the road that might take y’all on. Jesse Godbehere runs a plantation,’ said the clerk. ‘You could try ’im. He’s got quite a bit of undeveloped land he’s thinkin’ o’ puttin’ under cotton. I’ll give y’all a letter of introduction.’
Carrying their two portmanteaux, a carpet bag, and a hat box, the couple followed the clerk’s directions. They walked down the Old Post Road, a wide well-beaten track that ran from the Red River in the south to Shreveport in the north. The extensive potholes reminded John of Collins Street in faraway Melbourne town.
‘Here we are, Crosby Street,’ said John, reading the signpost at the corner of a smaller road that led to the east past fenced fields. A short way along the street, they came to quite an imposing iron gate with the name ‘Godbehere’ emblazoned upon it. ‘This must be the place,’ said Anna eagerly. A wide gravelled pathway led up to a grand two-storey house with a large veranda, which protected the lower rooms from the hot summer sun. John stepped up to the door and pulled a dangling rope.
‘G’d afternoon, Massa,’ said the young black woman who came to the door. ’Er . . . good afternoon,’ said John somewhat taken aback at the sight of her. This was the first direct encounter with a slave that he had ever had. ‘Is your master at home, miss?’
‘Yeah, sure am! Who wants t’ know?’ came a deep resonant voice from within the darkened interior of the house. A tall good-looking man in his early fifties emerged from the shadows and stepped outside the door. This was Jesse Godbehere, Master of the plantation. He had inherited the property from his father ten years earlier and some excellent seasons together with his good management during the past decade had seen him prosper.
‘Ma name’s Godbehere . . . Jessie Godbehere,’ he said offering his hand in welcome. ‘An’ who do Ah have the pleasure of addressin’?’
‘John and Anna Francis’, said John, handing him the letter of introduction.
It soon became apparent that the Master was a kindly man. His friendliness towards the new arrivals, his courtesy to the black servant girl, and an open Bible clearly displayed on a small table against the wall of the vestibule impressed John and Anna with his goodness and uprightness. Their initial impressions of this man were a reflection of the meaning of his name.
‘Come this way’, said Jesse, directing the servant girl to attend to their possessions. He led them into an ornately furnished sitting room. Elegant rosewood chairs and a settee upholstered in rich floral brocade surrounded a superb Persian carpet that covered a sizeable area of the floor. Not a trace of dust could be seen on the polished wood that was visible around the edges of the carpet. Portraits of family members hung on the papered walls and a beautiful bowl of sweet-smelling magnolia blooms graced the corner of the room beside a large bay window. It was apparent that this was a family of considerable opulence.
Mr Godbehere read the clerk’s letter of introduction and immediately showed interest in the young people. ‘Ah can see y’ve come from Australia. Ah’ve bin out there. Great frontier country! Sheep oughta do well.’
‘That’s right’, said John. ‘Anna and I have spent some time on the goldfields, but were hoping for a better life here and want to raise a family too.’ John nodded in the direction of his pregnant wife. ‘He’s not afraid of hard work, my John’, put in Anna. ‘Goodness, the hours he spent digging and sifting for gold . . . and with such little reward’, she said with downcast eyes. ‘It was enough to break any man’s spirit.’
‘So, y’re lookin’ for job, are y’? Well, as it happens, Ah could use another hand around ’ere. Ah’m gettin’ on a bit an’ Ah need someone to help me manage the place.’ He spoke with a touch of disappointment in his voice. John and Anna were to discover the implications of this comment quite soon. ‘Ah’ll make y’ a deal. Two dollars a week plus keep for you and y’re missus,’ said Jesse recognising a good worker when he saw one. ‘Y’ can ’ave a room o’ y’re own in the servants’ quarters. What do y’ say?’ Anna turned to John and smiled approvingly.
Suddenly, the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the gravel pathway in front of the house interrupted their discussion. The planter looked out of the window and expressed his pleasure at the imminent arrival of Peter Moss, Master of one of the larger plantations in the district. Excusing himself, he strode to the front door and opened it before the visitor had time to dismount. The two men remained outside for some time deep in serious discussion. After five minutes, Jesse turned abruptly towards the front door and beckoned to Peter to come in with him. ‘We’ve got some noo arrivals in town Ah think y’ oughta meet.’ Moss followed his friend into the vestibule, handing his large hat and riding gloves to the black girl standing near the door.
‘Peter, this is John and Anna Francis. They’ve come from Australia an’ wanna work ’ere with us,’ announced Jesse. ‘Francis, eh? Welcome t’ De Soto County,’ Moss responded, emitting a shrill whistle on each of his sibilants. ‘Ah hear wool’s goin’ well down under.’
‘Molly, will y’ please show these folks t’ the spare room in y’re quarters’, said the Master. John and Anna thanked their new boss and followed Molly out into the vestibule.
Jesse and Mary Godbehere had raised three sons, two of whom now lived in other parts of the state. The unmarried youngest son, Charles lived on the plantation. But he was something of a wastrel and was of little use to his father in the administration of the property, preferring a dissipated life of unrestrained leisure. It was always a great disappointment to Jesse that his son had succumbed to the lure of corn liquor and loose women in his late teens. Indeed there were times, when the older man was so ashamed of his son’s actions that he had threatened to write Charles out of his will. This had provoked considerable animosity between them.
Molly and her husband, Moses, and the older black members of the household lived in simple quarters at the back of the house. Anna struck up a rapport with Molly immediately and being of a similar age had quite a lot in common despite their radically different backgrounds.
Arriving at the spare room, Anna addressed the slave girl. ‘Tell me, Molly, what’s Mr Godbehere like as a master?’ Molly’s face lit up as if Anna had inquired about her father. ‘Oh! He’s a kind man. All of us darkies loves ’im,’ she replied. ‘We’d do anything for Massa Godbehere.’
‘And your husband, what does he do on the farm, Molly?’ asked John. ‘Moses works around de farm mindin’ de cotton and de pigs, Massa,’ she answered. ‘You want to learn ’bout all that?’ She looked incredulously at John, and shrugging her shoulders began to walk away.
‘Just a moment’, said Anna. ‘Tell us about your life on the plantation.’ Anna was intrigued as Molly told them a little about her life as a slave. Anna found it very hard to come to terms with what she was hearing. He she was talking to one of the enslaved people of the south who was expressing affection for her owner. What kind of crazy morality was this? John was pondering it too when his attention was suddenly taken by the view out of the window.
It had been a long day, and Anna, now seven months pregnant, lay down upon the bed to rest. ‘Just look at that. He must have about forty acres of cotton out there,’ said John. He could just make out the distant form of a black man, his sweaty torso gleaming in the sunshine.
‘Is that your husband out there, Molly?’ asked John. ‘Sure is! Dat’s ma man, Moses’, said Molly. ‘Now dare’s a good man if eber God made one,’ she said with a gleam of pride in her eyes. ‘He works out dare in de blazin’ sun, bendin’ and pushin’, liftin’ and heavin’, an’ den ’e comes ’ome at night an’ helps me roun’ de ’ouse. Darned ef Ah knows where ’e gets de energy.’
That evening John and Anna took their places at the large kitchen table for the evening meal. At the head of the table sat Moses, the senior male of the slave household with his wife of two years, Molly on his left. Five other slaves, three young women and two youths sat at the table. Moses welcomed ’De white folks who ’ad come to work on de farm with us.’ Then he bowed his head to give thanks for the food.
‘Oh Lord, we shure grateful for all y’re goodness t’us ’specially for dis food. Give us y’re blessin’ t’night, Lord, an’ de strength t’ work t’morrer. Amen.’ Amens echoed all around the table.
The meal of boiled pork and beans, cabbage and potato, was bland but nourishing. Anna felt a little uncomfortable as the dark brown eyes of the younger slaves stared at her and her husband as if to say, ‘What’s your business here?’ They both found it almost impossible to read the faces of those that sat at table with them. Were they resentful at having to share their table with white people? Distrustful? Apprehensive? How did such enslaved people think, anyway? Were they as ignorant and unteachable as tradition would have it?
‘Molly’s bin tellin’ me you folks is from Australia,’ said Moses. Of all those around the table, he seemed the most relaxed and accepting of the whites eating with them. The younger slaves sat wide-eyed as John with typical hyperbole described the long journey from the land away down near the bottom of the Earth. He told them of the strange place where some people had found lumps of gold as big as your fist lying on the ground, of the land where it was very hot at Christmas time, and where trees with little yellow balls of fluff grow in the forest. He told them stories of the strange animals, which carry their babies in little pouches and which hop across the grassy fields in giant leaps.
‘Ah’ve heard o’ dat place’, interrupted Moses. ’Dey got colored folks dare too ain’t dey?’ John seized upon this point of contact and amazed his hearers with an account of how the aboriginal people of Australia can throw wooden sticks that curve in the air and return to the throwers.
‘One day’, he said, ‘I saw a black man carrying his spear and his boomerang, and stalking a kangaroo. Then with a flick of his arm, he threw the boomerang spinning in the air. Its path through the air curved around a large tree and struck the kangaroo behind the right ear. The creature fell kicking to the ground.’ John’s wide-opened eyes and dramatic voice and gestures held the youngsters in wrapt attention.
‘Did ’e eat it?’ queried Molly. ‘Well, he dragged it back through the forest to his camp. There the whole tribe gathered around as he skinned it and prepared it for cooking,’ said John.
One of the younger slaves grimaced at the thought of eating a creature that hopped everywhere. But John put her at ease by saying that the meat was very good to eat and that they would enjoy it.
Recognising that John was beginning to build good relationships with the slaves by telling them stories Anna began to tell of the wonderful rock paintings that she had seen in the Australian caves. ‘These’, she explained, ‘had been painted on the cave walls by black Australians many thousands of years ago well before the white folks had gone there to live. They are the original Australians you know.’
As the evening wore on, it became apparent that the openness and friendliness that John and Anna had shown to the willing audience had broken down many of the barriers. As they went to their cabins, the slaves shook hands with their new friends and smiled broadly.
‘John’, said Anna. ‘I wonder if any of these people can read?’
‘I doubt it,’ replied John. ‘They’re no sooner weaned than they go out into the fields on their mothers’ backs. It’s straight from the cradle to the workplace, I’d say.’
‘Well, if they’re willing to learn, I’d like to teach them,’ said Anna with all of the conviction of a woman on a mission. Thus it was that Moses and Molly were taught the basics of literacy. Every evening for an hour or so they would sit with Anna until after several months they could write a simple sentence of their own construction and read the stories that Anna would write for them. They could even read the stories of Jesus in the Bible although St. Paul’s letters made no sense at all. This and other acts of kindness sealed a warm friendship between Moses and Molly and the two Australians.
Cotton farming was a highly labour-intensive industry and success demanded much from those who practised it. For the whole season, numerous tasks demanded long hours of labour from the farmhands and their overseers. Prior to ploughing at the end of the fall, tillage operations were conducted to dispose of the stalks and weeds of the previous crop. Following the short but sometimes severe winter, the fields were fertilised by hand with cotton seed meal, dried blood, and fish scraps. As soon as the period of frosts was past, seed planting was commenced, and after several weeks, the back-breaking work of the thinning of the seedlings started.
Between the rows of cotton or maize, Jesse Godbehere liked to plant groundnuts and cowpeas as fodder for the pigs, which returned excellent nutrient to the soil. Watering and weeding throughout the hot summer months culminated in the harvest. The cotton seed could not be detached from the boll by a straight pull, but required a twist of the wrist as it was removed and deposited in a heavy duck bag slung over the shoulder. A ten-hour day would leave even the strongest of the slaves near exhaustion.
As overseer, John administered the day-to-day farming operations and was responsible to see that the slaves’ time was profitably occupied. On some plantations, bonuses were paid to overseers in proportion to the productivity of the farm. As a consequence, the slaves were often treated unmercifully by their overseers with excessively long hours of work and lashings for any hints of indolence or misdemeanour. By such standards, John was easy-going, preferring to offer performance incentives in the form of free time rather than retribution for slackness. The carrot would always prove more efficacious than the stick.
Jesse Godbehere’s farm soon earned a reputation for its good morale and high productivity. Jesse’s neighbours were quite amazed at the change that had taken place on his plantation since John’s appointment as overseer. They had been critical of the apparent lack of interest that Charles had taken in the property, spending more time socialising than working. They regarded Jesse as a good stout citizen and were pleased that at last he had good support in the management of his farm.
John had little time for Charles, whose lifestyle reminded him of a life he had long since rejected as hollow and parasitic. Neither did the growing reputation of the newcomer endear John to Charles who saw him as a threat to his own position on the farm. There were occasions when overt animosity was apparent.
‘Isn’t this a beautiful place, John?’ said Anna as they strolled by the nearby bayou one summer’s evening. The air was laden with the aroma of the Magnolias, which were in full bloom. The Bald Cypress trees and the long grasses provided an idyllic setting for the young couple as they stood hand in hand, watching their reflections in the water.
‘Yes’, replied John pensively, ‘provided you don’t look too far below the surface.’
Anna turned and looked at her husband. ‘Don’t be so pessimistic, John. We’re beginning to settle here. You’ve got a good job. We like these people, and they seem to like us.’
‘All except Charles Godbehere,’ he quipped. ‘Oh, John, don’t be awful!’ she chided.
‘Yes, it’s a lovely place, Anna. But it’s deceptive. Louisiana looks so stable and so peaceful on the surface. But it’s like a resting volcano. There are hidden pressures and tensions that could so easily erupt.’
They came to a narrow bridge over the bayou and had proceeded about twenty paces over it when Charles and one of his women friends appeared at the far end. Both were considerably the worse for wear with corn liquor and their dishevelled appearance and noisy uncouth conversation suggested a day of carousing for which Charles had a justified reputation.
‘Shtand ashide, Francish!’ he yelled as he lurched unsteadily on to the bridge.
Anna clutched at John’s arm fearful that he might act impetuously. She had never seen Charles Godbehere in such an aggressive mood before.
‘Not so, Charles! We are halfway across while you have only just set foot on the bridge,’ responded John in assured tones. ‘Let us pass, please.’
‘Thish bridge is Godbehere property, and Charles and I’ll cross first,’ yelled the girl in slurred defiance.
‘Come on, John. Let’s go back home. We don’t want to cause trouble with Charles,’ urged Anna.
‘Anna!’ said John forcefully. ‘If we back down on a trivial matter like who crosses the bridge first we’ll always be under his heel. We were here first. We’ll cross first.’
The two couples met face-to-face on the bridge neither of the men prepared to give way. Anna was disgusted when she saw at close quarters the disreputable drunken state of Charles and his woman. Neither could walk without one supporting the other and the swaying bridge exacerbated their instability.
‘Y’all think yer shmart, don’t yer! Ah can see what yer fixin’ to do. Y’all want me out o’ me inheritansh. Shtand ashide,’ shouted Charles, his bloodshot eyes blazing with hatred.
With that he swung a blow at John with his clenched fist. Leaning backward to avoid contact John felt the rust of air as the fist flew past his jaw. Losing his precarious balance Charles grabbed the girl and both toppled ignominiously into the water below. At that point, the bayou was barely two feet deep. Swearing and cursing the sodden and somewhat-sobered pair struggled to the bank. By this time, John and Anna had completed their crossing and were walking briskly back to the house.
News travels fast in small communities, and it took less than a day for the story of how the newcomer from Australia had tipped Charles Godbehere into the bayou. Not that people objected. It was about time someone had the gumption to teach the arrogant young puppy a lesson.
Next morning Jesse called John and Moses to his study. The overseer and the senior slave had become good friends and worked well as a team, a fact not lost on Jesse Godbehere. Moses recognised John’s authority over him as one of responsibility not ownership. But although Jesse has always treated Moses in a fair and kindly manner, the slave had always responded to his master with great deference, a vestige of his early conditioning.
‘John, Ah’ve bin thinkin’, said Jesse. ‘Now that y’ve settled in as overseer we can prob’ly develop some o’ that forest land at the bottom o’ the property. There’s twenty acres or so down there an’ we could put half of it under cotton next season if we clear it after the comin’ harvest.’ John’s first reaction was one of apprehension. He had reckoned that Godbehere’s plantation was really undermanned as it was. But Jesse’s next comment eased his mind. ‘Ah think we’re gonna need a few more slaves t’ work it, don’t you?’
Moses stood silently while the two white men discussed the proposition. ‘Where do you usually get your workers?’ queried John. He avoided using the word slave. It grated on his sensitivities and would no doubt have been irksome to Moses.
‘There’s a good market in New Orleans’, responded Jesse. Moses winced as he remembered his own experience as a slave purchase some three years earlier at that same degrading place. ‘We could ride over t’ Smithport an’ take the river steamer down the Mississippi. It’s a five-day roun’ trip, but y’d find it interestin’.’ John wondered whether he could stomach the idea of visiting a slave market. He felt that he might be about to experience the darker side of his decision to emigrate from Australia.
Turning to Moses, the planter said, ‘You can take charge here for a few days, Moses.’ It was not unusual for plantation owners or overseers to leave a trusted senior slave in charge of the farm for a short period particularly on those properties where good relations existed between the Master and his slaves. ‘Yas, Massa!’ replied Moses. ‘Done then. We’ll go next Monday John,’ said Jesse in his usual decisive manner.
The discussion was suddenly terminated by an urgent banging at the door of the study. Uncharacteristically Molly burst in. ‘Excuse me, Massa! But Mrs Anna’s babby’s comin’ an’ we all need de midwife quick!’ Without excusing himself, John rushed from the room to the stables leapt upon his horse and galloped off to fetch Mrs Gillespie, the local midwife. His mind flashed back to a similar situation on the goldfields, and he prayed that this midwife would prove to be more reliable. But this time, there were no such problems and within minutes John and the side-saddled Mrs Gillespie arrived at the farm.
Dismounting, they hurried towards Anna’s room and were greeted by the shrill cries of a newborn babe. John burst into the room. There on the bed lay a tired-looking Anna clutching a tiny bundle to her breast while Molly stood beaming at the foot of the bed. So much for Mrs Gillespie.
‘It’s a little girl’, said Anna proudly. John bent over and kissed her warmly before turning to admire his daughter. He took the little one gently in his arms stood up to his full height and announced, ‘We will shall call her Anola Mary, and she will be a joy to us forever.’
The midwife inspected Anna and her baby and pronounced everything to be in good order. Taking Molly by the hand, Mrs Gillespie departed leaving the new parents together.
Within the week, Jesse and John set out on the long journey to New Orleans. The wagon trip to Smithport and the steamboat cruised down the Red and Mississippi Rivers proceeded uneventfully. The two men arrived at the Crescent city anxious to complete their business and return home as quickly as possible to pursue their land-clearing venture.
Trade was this city’s lifeblood. Colourful steamboats and clumsy barges brought the produce of the north of the state down the great Mississippi whence the tall clippers took their cargoes to distant ports across the seas. It was a city of gaiety and culture, a product of French colonial times. Buildings with graceful overhanging balconies of lacy iron grill-work crowded the edges of the narrow street. Shady alleyways gave the passing observer a view of colourful patios with their fountains, baskets of flowers, and leafy banana palms which provided a cool respite from the hot New Orleans mid-afternoon sun.
After a good night’s rest, Jesse and John left their guest house for the sales. The younger man had somewhat unsettled feelings as he strode beside his employer towards a market of questionable morality. But his conscience was temporarily dulled by the pleasant surprise he received when he reached the Rotunda in the French Quarter. John had expected a dingy warehouse, but as he entered through the great oak doors of the establishment, his eyes opened in astonishment at the architectural splendour that surrounded him. He stood open-mouthed gazing at the huge domed ceiling, ornately decorated in bright colours. This was supported by ten huge Corinthian columns between which elegantly recessed windows admitted the natural light.
The Rotunda was renowned as a market place. There were three raised platforms on each of which stood an austerely dressed auctioneer with a wooden gavel in his hand. Small crowds had gathered below each of these in anticipation of the sales. Businessmen and prosperous farmers in broad-brimmed hats jostled for position as each lot was brought forward for auction. At one of these points of sale, estates were being auctioned; at another works of art, mostly the creations of local artists and sculptors.
Jesse and John stood amongst a crowd of thirty or forty in the area designated for the slave auction. The bondsmen and women, some individually and some in groups were paraded across the raised platform, which gave the potential buyers an excellent view of the ‘merchandise’.
An auction was already in progress when the two men from Mansfield arrived. A beautiful black girl, clad only in a flimsy slip, stood with bowed head while many of the men assessed her breeding potential. On many of the larger plantations it was common to find a number of breeding females. As soon as the babies were born, they were valuable as merchandise to some profit-hungry planters. But some planters allowed them to grow to maturity, like prize cattle, to realise their full value. The ‘fancy girl’ market, for example, brought prices well in excess of one thousand dollars for a good-looking female, while field hands or domestics usually attracted far less.
‘Lot number five!’ called the auctioneer, a short, plump fellow resplendent in the frock coat and top hat of an affluent businessman of those times. A crimson cravat was tied around his neck, and in his hand he held a leather-bound stick with which he prodded and poked the degraded wretches standing forlornly at one side of him.
John felt ill as two lads in their late teens, chained together at the ankles, were led forth for inspection. Clad only in torn and dirty trousers and barefoot, the boys’ eyes darted about fearfully, portraying the terror within their hearts.
‘Come now, gentlemen!’ said the auctioneer as if he was about to sell a herd of cattle. ‘Here we have two strong-lookin’ boys with a good thirty years o’ work in each of ’em, choppin’, weedin’, hoein’, and pickin’. That’s what they’re good for and yer couldn’t do better than these two. I’ll take two hundred dollars for the pair.’
There was a crisp exchange of bids from the crowd, taking the price up to three hundred dollars with just two bidders left in the field. Jesse raised his finger. ‘Three hundred and ten dollars, Ah’m bid. Do you want to match that, sir?’ The auctioneer looked straight at an affluent-looking planter on the opposite side of the crowd.
‘Three hundred and twenty,’ came the response.
‘Then Ah’ll raise three thirty for the pair,’ called Jesse. The people fell silent.
‘Three hundred and thirty dollars, Ah’m bid. Any advance on three thirty?’ The bidding had ceased. ‘Three thirty once! Twice! Goin’! Sold for three hundred and thirty dollars to the gentleman on my left,’ cried the auctioneer. ‘Congratulations, sir!’ he said. ‘You’ll find them good workers, Ah’m sure.’
Two days later, the two Mansfield men and their new slaves, still shackled, boarded the paddle steamer for the trip North up the great river. Heavy rains over the past few weeks had increased the speed of the current dramatically, and many uprooted trees and bushes floated past perilously close to the hull of the vessel.
John had just retired to his cabin for the night and was extinguishing his candle when the boat shuddered like a building in an earthquake, startling him. He ran out on to the foredeck as the boat began listing to starboard. Hissing clouds of steam enveloped him, and the spray of the exposed paddles drenched him to the skin as he groped in the darkness to hold on to something.
‘We’ve hit a logjam, and we’re takin’ water,’ yelled the Master of the steamer. ‘Abandon ship!’ Realising the danger of the situation, John frantically lurched from side to side along the slippery deck. ‘Jesse!’ he called. ‘Jesse!’ Jesse was nowhere to be found.
Donning a life jacket, John was about to take to the swirling waters of the river when he spotted the unconscious form of Godbehere on the deck. There was no time to wait for help, so gathering him up in his strong arms, John slid overboard. Supporting Jesse with his left arm, he struck out with his right towards the faint outline of the riverbank. The sinister river dragged at him relentlessly as if intent on taking both of their lives.
Reaching the bank, John spent his dwindling energy hauling his companion up through the marshy edge of the river towards dry land. Jesse stirred. ‘Where are we?’ he whispered in an agitated manner.
‘Don’t worry, we’re safe now,’ said John reassuringly.
John explained the circumstances of the foundering of the steamboat and the manner of their escape.
‘What about the slaves?’ asked Jesse.
‘They were in a locked cabin on the lower deck under police guard as far as I remember. The poor devils would have been trapped,’ said John.
‘Mr Godbehere!’ A voice was calling in the darkness.
‘Over here,’ called John.
A flickering lamp indicated the presence of others on the bank. As it approached, John could see the silhouette of a uniformed man and two others apparently chained together at the ankles.
‘Here’s your property, Mr Godbehere,’ said the officer.
‘Glad to see yer made it. We were lucky. We got away on a lifeboat,’ John mused upon the irony of the situation. God is no respecter of persons.