9
Asylum for the Insane
London
February 1833
¶
Dr James Quincy — the guest in the Meredith London household that fateful night six months previously — took the chair offered in Dr Burche’s office and looked across the desk into the elderly psychiatrist’s eyes. Once a handsome dashing doctor about town, Aaron Burche was past retirement age. His full-length, snowy beard tapered off behind his ears, ending in a rendezvous at the back of his head allowing him a monkish crown. His nose was scarred a purple red from chilblains, courtesy of years of work in northern Russia.
‘I must ask you Dr Quincy, you being a fellow physician of the highest standing. A women’s mental health is intimately linked to her reproductive system, do you not agree?’
‘I must confess, doctor, that I struggle to agree with you there. But the point is Nathina shows no sign of insanity; not that I can see. She is mentally scarred by the fire experience most certainly. Goodness me Dr Burche, who wouldn’t be?’ James Quincy’s mind wandered back to the report he had read, the report made by several witnesses on the afternoon of the fire. Sixty-eight people had perished in the inferno. Henry Austin, who billed himself as Austin the Great was in Newgate Gaol awaiting his trial. ‘It’ll be the noose fo’ ’im,’ was the word about London.
While the world about her burned, Jules the Incredible’s amazing dwarf Tiny came to Nathina’s rescue. She had dragged a circus strongman into the fray and together, covered in wet blankets, they managed to lever the lock from Nathina’s cage. There were only seconds to spare, eyewitnesses told the inquiry, before the entire amphitheatre imploded into the enclosed square and all was destroyed in the holocaust that followed.
Dr Quincy looked past Dr Burche to a large globe of the earth. It stood idle in the corner between two rows of mahogany bookshelves that reached to the ceiling. He could just make out Australasia in its fading ink.
‘She needs to be sent home, Dr Burche, back to Van Diemen’s Land where she belongs. No more experiments on the poor lass. She is not an animal.’
Dr Burche ran a hand through his beard. It was tough and wiry but he enjoyed the feel as he curled twists at its base. ‘And you will take full responsibility for her I take it.’
‘Of course.’
‘I can’t have the society breathing down my neck if she was turned loose on the streets of London once more.’
‘Absolutely not. I have a passage organised for her already.’
‘Oh do you now Dr Quincy, that was a little presumptuous of you, was it not?’
‘Well, sir, I took the liberty and trusted my judgement that you are a man of honour and integrity. That you would not have this poor lass punished any more than she has been — simply for being a native of Van Diemen’s Land.’
‘And may I ask the name of the said vessel?’
‘The King George doctor.’
‘A transport!’
‘Yes. The captain has agreed to take her and see that she is well treated. As she has integrated so well and speaks English, to a reasonable degree, the ship’s surgeon has also agreed to take her under his wing. He said he would ensure that her idle time at sea would be employed wisely in the ship’s infirmary.’
‘I see. Then it appears, Dr Quincy, that you have the situation well in order. When would like to take charge of our Van Diemen Savage?’
‘My carriage awaits, sir,’ James Quincy smiled, anticipating another display of surprise on the psychiatrist’s face. But the sagacious old gentleman simply smiled, ‘I’ll see to the paperwork immediately, sir.’ He had a sudden thought, ‘Oh, one other thing.’
‘What would that be?’
‘I should just warn you, sir, that the young lady has picked up some colourful language since you knew her last.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Sometimes she sounds like a common sailor!’
· · ·
Kangaroo Bluff Hobart Town February 1833
From the eastern shore of the great River Derwent Abbott and French Frank sat on the river’s edge. They took their time to observe the bustling port of Hobart Town one mile or more across Sullivan’s Cove to their west. Neither man felt any urgency, more a feeling of apprehension. Lounging behind the growing township as if posting guard, Mount Wellington reminded Abbott of a painting he had once seen in London. A painting of a reposing lion with the head of an Egyptian pharaoh, it was called the Sphinx he was told. The mountain even had foothills surging and falling like the dunes of sand surrounding the ancient monument. A bushfire bellowed smoke from one of the hills, a reminder that warmer weather approached.
Abbott took out the eyeglass and scoured the harbour. To the north he could just make out a ship being careened on a low tide at the base of the King’s Domain. Closer to the township he watched men working on the construction of warehouses on Hunter Island. The isthmus to the island had been widened and the land re-claimed extending the perimeter of the original small island.
‘Poor bastards,’ Abbott muttered through the lens at the toiling prisoners. The harbour itself was a busy highway as tenders and small craft moved back and forth to the wharves, servicing the whalers, transports and merchantmen anchored in Sullivan’s Cove.
Abbott looked to the southern extremities of the settlement and observed farmland reaching down to sandy beaches. He slowly shifted the glass north once more.
‘They’re diggin’ quarries on the other side of the cove,’ he told Frank. ‘Goin’ ta build more ware’ouses,’ he postulated.
‘Oui, the vill-arge is certain-ly growin’ mon ami.’
Abbott caught the tiny image of a long boat pushing away from a jetty. ‘Christ, there’s a frigate in the harbour.’
‘You cer-tain?’
‘Aye. There’s a navy tender rowin’ out. I can see the ferkin’ marines … ah … thar she be.’ He passed the eyeglass to French Frank. ‘Look be’ind that merchantman in the middle.’
‘Ah, oui,’ French Frank could also just make out a ship of the line. It was masked by a wide beamed merchant ship anchored to its starboard side and their spars appeared intertwined. French Frank handed Abbott back the glass and sighed sadly. It was time, they both knew, to go separate ways. The two of them together in Hobart Town would be inviting capture.
Abbott speculated how frequently the ferry vied between the eastern and western shores. They could have crossed the great river south of New Norfolk but wisely chose not too when they realised the ferry was run by Mr Cawthorn, a chief constable. The other popular crossing point was about twenty miles further south at Roseneath Ferry, but both men thought this too was too dangerous, especially with stolen horses.
Finally, at great risk Abbott sold the horses cheaply to a blacksmith with a dubious reputation whom he knew would re-brand them and sell them on at a decent profit.
‘We have twenty pounds, five shillings and ten pence,’ Abbott rattled the coins in his palm before dividing the collection in two. ‘Here, ten quid, two shillings and eleven pence each.’ Frank dropped his share into a purse he had sewn from the scrotum of a large kangaroo. They again watched the distant harbour in silence.
‘What you do?’ said French Frank finally, breaking their reverie in his rich accent. They had been together some time now, had become good mates. Abbott plucked a reed from the riverbank and idly chewed it in the corner of his mouth.
‘First I’m goin’ ta find a creek and shave me beard off,’ Abbott said. This had always been the plan. Their full beards had set an image. Clean-shaven and dressed handsomely they would attract less attention and not be so recognisable as they were in the sketches on the wanted posters ‘You’ll be shavin’ yours too I hope.’
‘Oui. I weel,’ Frank stroked his whiskers. ‘But I must say I theenk les femmes would like theese, non?’
‘Horray to that,’ Abbott laughed. It felt good to laugh. Healthy. Abbott’s thoughts drifted to Nathina. ‘She’d be sixteen now I’m thinkin’.’
‘Qui? Ah … your leetel native girl, oui?’
‘Nathina.’ Abbott replaced the chewed twig with another.
‘Nar-theena, oui, she ’ad curr-arge, that was for cer-tain. But you love her non?’
Abbott felt slightly foolish. He had kept his emotions to himself but now that he and Frank were parting company he felt hollowness in his heart. ‘Love her? In a fatherly way yes.’
‘I theenk it is more mon ami. I know you Abb-ott. She is woman now, ’tis all right to love thees wo-man.’
Abbott was silent a long moment. ‘Frank,’ he finally, ventured to ask.
‘Oui?’
‘Do ya think blackfella and whitefella can ever live together?’
‘But oui, certainement. Look at ze Français. Many a Frenchman lives with the negro, oui.’
‘Yes well,’ Abbott stood and brushed himself down. ‘Enough of the shite, the girl’s in London fa Christ sake, in a ferkin’ freak show. Jesus how I hate this place.’
‘So, what you do, af-ter you shave in a creek?’ French Frank saw benefit in a change of subject.
‘There ’as ta be a ferry crossin’ before dark so I’ll cross over the ’arbour, wait ’til dark, then work me way down the river ta them farms south.’ Abbott nodded vaguely to the sandy beaches on the other shore. ‘I should get me lodgings for work and keep me ears to the ground for a Yankee whaler. ’opefully I’ll be in Nantucket later this year. Are you still going to seek out the whalers down the coast?’
‘Oui. I theenk I ’ave no choice. Weeth mon accent I fear ’obart Town is not for me.’
Abbott had to agree and with the whale oil rendering stations along the eastern riverbanks French Frank had a good chance of making contacts.
‘Good luck.’
‘Bon chance to you, mon ami. I’ll mees you.’
‘Me too mate. Maybe I’ll see ya in America. The Yankees love the frogs over there I’m told. Ya ’elped ’em win their revolution all them years ago.’
‘Oui. But I mees France.’
‘Then ya need to get to Batavia, then find a ship sailin’ to the Lowlands and ya can walk ’ome from there.’
‘Au revoir et bon voyage monsieur Abb-ott Bragg.
· · ·
An hour later their freedom came at a price — an emptiness, the sudden vulnerability of being absconders alone in the world once more. Abbott watched his friend vanish from sight into a thick eucalyptus forest as yet unfelled by the growing township at Kangaroo Bluff. With a deep sigh of apprehension Abbott followed the foreshore north into a pleasantly appointed bay where a rickety finger jetty pointed to the Boar’s Head Inn.
Even from the exterior the swill inside sounded rowdy for the middle of the day. Abbott sucked in a lung of fresh air, exhaled his unease and pushed open the heavy wooden door to the taproom. Like most colonial inns, it mirrored its counterparts in England. The taproom was maybe twenty-four feet wide by eighteen deep. The heavy beamed ceiling was built low for warmth and the floor was pressed dirt compacted hard with a catalyst of spilt grog and human fluids. It stank of stale bodies, free flowing grog and miasmic mists. Dozens of patrons were in various states of inebriation.
‘Perfect,’ Abbott smiled through the tobacco smoke at the rabble. It would be a simple task to camouflage himself amongst this lot, although he was slightly overdressed. But most, he hoped, were taking the ferry to Hobart Town. Wherever they went he would follow — one fly hidden amongst the swarm of reprobates.
Abbott elbowed his way through the assemblage of top hatted rakes in their patched frock coats of varying colours and wear. Light hands caressed his pockets in passing and he was glad he had secured his sealed saddlebag over his shoulder before entering. There were almost as many women as men; dressed in their bonnet hats and shawls draped over shoulders with ankle length dresses for respectability. But, Abbott knew, they were about as respectable as wives of convicted felons, whores and lowlife could be.
Abbott stepped over an old toothless woman sitting on the floor — her legs spread apart with her back leaning against the bar. She was drunk on gin and had no control over a four year old child, snotty nosed and screaming at her for attention. An empty basket was upturned beside her and it was clear to Abbott the woman had sold her wares, whatever they may have been, and she had drunk the takings. Their eyes met briefly and Abbott noticed her face smothered in blemishes. Her eyelids weighed heavily as she attempted a smile, but failed.
The innkeeper was a gaunt man but with the arms of a stonemason. He wore a sleeveless shirt showing off a tattooed wreath, a type of ritual geometric pattern, about his upper arm. He had clearly been a sailor in his youth who had visited the Pacific Islands. His receding hairline, slicked back with grease, was a shade of grubby white betraying the true age of his sallow, sunken face. Abbott assessed him to be of dubious character, like his patrons, as the man kept an eagle’s eye on the ‘ladies’ he hired to serve drinks. He puffed at a thin cheroot cigar as he made his way towards Abbott, eyeing him as another unfortunate to be relieved of his coin. The room was noisy with clamorous imbibers. The innkeeper’s expression remained impartial. He said nothing, too weary to bother. Besides, the room was loud, damned loud. The innkeeper nodded and Abbott fancied he heard a grunt. Abbott let his eyes do the talking. He searched the barrels on the back wall where he read names like the celebrated double gin, Cream of the Valley, and LL Irish whiskey.
‘Whiskey,’ Abbott yelled over the racket. He kept his dialogue short. ‘Irish.’ And he threw a shilling on the bar. Money talks all languages Abbott knew. The barman free poured what Abbott thought a generous serve, until he tasted the shoddy spirit. But he was in no position to start an argument. Immediately, he felt a tug at his frock sleeve. His overdressing hadn’t gone unnoticed. Abbott looked down at a young lass, fourteen, maybe fifteen at a push. She wore a pretty lace bonnet and cream shawl over a pink blouse. A greyish skirt to the ankles covered long bloomers crimped at the bottom. She beckoned Abbott to lean down so as to lend her an ear.
‘You fancy a girl, squire?’ Her breath was sweet from Madeira and neglect hadn’t caught up with her teeth, yet. Abbott had no doubts of her profession. He looked her up and down. She was pretty and damned tempting. Abbott was quick to spot her pimp in a corner leaning against the bar with his legs crossed pretending not to watch what was going on. Abbott shook his head at the girl. She frowned and then tugged his sleeve once more to whisper in his ear again.
‘’alf a quid in me lodgin’s, what’s nearby, or I can make ya real ‘appy wiv me mouth fa a florin. Outside.’
‘’ow old are you?’ Abbott shouted back.
‘’ow old would ya like me ta be, sir?’
‘That ain’t the point.’
‘I’m sixteen squire.’ She was a poor liar.
‘’ere’s sixpence,’ Abbott said, handing her his change from the bar as he leant against the counter to peruse the room. ‘Now be off with ya.’ The girl, who Abbott guessed was about Nathina’s age when he first met her, shoved through the centre of a group of revellers, watched keenly by her pimp.
‘Ya don’t like what ya see?’ A rasping voice appeared next to Abbott, his face momentarily shrouded with pipe smoke. Abbott turned to the face that belonged to an old cove, sixty-five, seventy maybe. He had one tooth remaining in the centre of his lower jaw. His top hat sat at a rakish angle with his matted unkempt hair sticking out at the back and sides. His clothes were greasy and tattered and he walked with a crutch. Abbott shrugged.
‘The lass sir?’ the old cove rasped louder. ‘Ya don’t like what ya see? Or does sir prefer a wee lad maybe?’
‘Nay, neither,’ Abbott felt insulted. ‘And I’ll be askin’ ya to keep ya opinions ta yaself old man.’
‘All right, all right, no need to get all testy. I’m just an old man what likes to make intercourse with strangers. I’m just a friendly cove, that’s it in a nutshell. Nuthin’ more, nuthin’ less.’
Silence between them. The raucous taproom made enough noise for everyone.
‘Ya waitin’ on the ferry?’ the old man finally, felt free to ask. This time Abbott caught a whiff of his foul breath and tipped his head away. ‘The ferry I said, sir, ya waitin’ for a sail ’cross river.’
The ferry Abbott thought, he had no choice but to converse with the old man. ‘Aye. When’s it expected?’
The old man’s face sparked like a bonfire. ‘Hour, maybe two sir.’ His beady eyes embraced Abbott’s fine threads.
‘Plenty time fa a tipple,’ he grinned, friendly enough. ‘Speakin’ o’ which, don’t s’pose ya could buy an old cove a drink. Ale’d be good, but whiskey would be better fa me froat like.’
Abbott saw merit in buying the man a drink or two. He could catch up on the local news for one thing and maybe use this old man as a distraction when he reached the Hobart Town wharf.
‘Are you waitin’ fa the ferry too?’ Abbott dug another coin from his pocket and threw it on the bar where the innkeeper could see it.
‘Aye, I live at Wappin’. Come over ’ere ’cos me sister’s real sick. Got the stomach disease. Doctor’s given’ ’er a month like.’
‘I’m saddened to ’ear that.’
‘Nar, don’t be. She’s a hag if’n there ever was one.’
Two drinks on and Abbott acquired a taste for the whiskey the old man — whom he now knew as William Dougherty from Cork — had nicknamed ‘sailor’s trousers.’
‘And what be your name, sir, if’n ya don’t mind me askin’?’
‘Bishop,’ Abbott lied without hesitating. It was an alias he often used if asked. ‘John Bishop.’
‘John eh, good strong name is John.’
Instantly, a brass bell heralded the arrival of a small steam ferry. A young lad lucky to be twelve slammed open the inn door and the taproom din died instantly.
‘All aboard what’s goin’ ta ’obart Town,’ he screamed.
Someone handed the young ruffian a tankard of ale and he gulped it down on the spot stepping aside smartly as all and sundry guzzled their last drops and stampeded out onto the jetty.
Halfway across Sullivan Cove old William Dougherty turned to Abbott, his repugnant breath now not a threat with the sea breeze blowing through the cabin. ‘See them mountains?’ And the old man pointed to the ranges beyond the settlement of Hobart Town. Abbott knew the large one to be called Mount Wellington.
‘The biggun’ is Wellington,’ William Dougherty said, ‘Named after the general for whom I sacrificed ’alf me leg.’ And he tapped his crutch on the deck.
‘You were at Waterloo?’
‘Aye.’ The old man’s eyes looked vague; it was a story best left forgotten. ‘And that thar smaller mountain they call Nelson, after the great admiral ’imself’.
Abbott nodded sagely.
‘Now see that there semaphore, on that yonder Mount Nelson,’ he said pointing out a signal station with its mast like communication tower atop the smaller mountain.
‘Aye.’
‘Well, that be the new semaphore for messagin’ all the way to Port Arthur.’ Dougherty took Abbott by the lapel and pulled him closer. ‘Twenty minutes I ’ear it takes for the message to reach ’obart Town. If a felon escapes, the troopers know real fast like.’
‘Port Arthur?’ Abbott thought a moment. ‘It is no longer a sawmill then?’
‘Har! Where’ve ya been son? It’s open for business now. Bastard of a place, a prison within a prison for the bad bastards.’
With a measure of skill the ferry captain weaved amongst tall ships and smaller craft to disembark his passengers at a short wharf built for such a vessel as his. The gangplank had barely slammed to earth before dozens of feet scuttled onto terra firma along with goats, dogs and a few caged chickens. Immediately, Abbott felt vulnerable. The late summer twilight still bathed the port in a golden sunset as the sun slid behind the mountain. There seemed, to Abbott, to be an entire garrison of soldiers walking about, enjoying the evening and vigilant for the likes of him. Abbott’s confusion didn’t go unnoticed.
‘Where ya stayin’?’ William Dougherty asked innocently enough. Abbott ignored him, but not through discourtesy, simply trepidation. Dougherty read the signs. ‘John!’
‘Aye?’
‘Where ya restin’ ya weary ’ead this ’ere fine night? Ya can’t be sleepin’ out ’round ’ere ’cos some cove’ll rob ya for ya britches. Take everythin’ off ya they would, ’specially you in ya fancy clobber. Like I said, I live in Wapping only ’alf a mile away, it ain’t much but ya welcome fa the night. I’m a ragman, got ’eaps of rags. I can make ya a bed on me floor.’
‘Thankee, you are too kind, but I’ll …’ Abbott turned to walk in the direction of New Wharf — where he knew from when they landed in 1829 that Sandy Bay farms were beyond the Battery Hill. But several redcoats were already stopping passengers off the ferry walking in their direction.
‘Come John,’ the old cove saw the worry etched across Abbott’s face. ‘We can get some bread on the way, I ’ave a ’alf rabbit left and if I can be so bold as to suggest you buy a bottle o’ gin at the Green Fish Inn we can retire fa the night an’ you can travel on the morra.’
Abbott looked William Dougherty in the eye. There seemed genuineness about the old battler but Abbott’s dark side questioned why he would want to help. ‘Thankee, ’tis kind of ya,’ Abbott suddenly, felt ungrateful. ‘Where’s this Green Fish Inn?’
‘Good. Follow me.’ William Dougherty wobbled away unsteadily on his crutch, and keeping to the water’s edge he led Abbott to a street of handsome stone warehouses known as Old Wharf, where the location of several inns could be heard already.
‘If’n ya wonderin’ John,’ William said short on breath, ‘what me motives is, like. I done it ’ard too and I just like ’elpin’ coves what need ’elp. And I ain’t bothered ’bout you robbin’ me cos I ‘ain’t got nuthin’ to rob.’ And the old devil snapped off a phlegmy laugh.
True to his word, William Dougherty had nothing to rob. Once the two had purchased a bottle of Dutch gin, in its familiar rectangular tapered black glass bottle, and collected a half loaf of bread from the innkeeper’s wife, with whom the old man was familiar, they walked back along the causeway that connected Old Wharf to the waterfront and entered Wapping — named after its counterpart in London. Immediately, for Abbott the slums of London were replicated, including the stink and filth from open sewers and dead animals dumped into a rivulet. The rivulet meandered with good intentions off the mountain only to be affronted by such poverty at its exit into the cove. William Dougherty guided Abbott through narrow alleyways of cramped one and two-room dwellings, a honeycomb of hovels. They crossed one of several dilapidated plank bridges to the northern side of the slum where the old cove led Abbott down a slim passageway for several yards. Here, now in the dark, other bodies pressed past them, groping, enquiring, always a hand out. Abbott tried to accustom himself to the malodour that hung over the rat-infested chaos, worsened by the warmth of summer.
‘’ere,’ William Dougherty took a key from his pocket and fiddled about in the dark. Finally, the familiar sound of a key turning in a padlock was followed by the bolt being withdrawn. ‘In ya go lad.’ Abbott pushed past the old man and waited in the dark, crouched under the low ceiling. William Dougherty struck tinder and lit a half candle, which offered a poor but nonetheless welcome flame.
‘Well, then, Mr John Bishop, welcome ta Dougherty castle!’
Abbott looked about him, wondering to himself what on earth he was doing here. The dwelling was about fourteen feet square, no more. As promised, rags and old clothing were packed to the ceiling against two walls. To one side piles of old newspapers and paper-board; in another corner a tall narrow portable fuel oven still glowed with a few coals fanned by a draught coming in off the rivulet that ran alongside the hovel. A round hole cut into an overhang in the floor dropped to the water below. William lifted a cover and Abbott caught a glimpse of sparkling water flowing underneath them.
‘If’n ya want a shit there’s the drop.’ And William grinned with pride at his convenience as he replaced the loose cover blocking his latrine. ‘Most others about ’ere ’ave to use a communal lavatory.’
Having no furniture except a wooden crate for a table, Abbott sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled the cork from the gin. His host took off his coat and hooked it on a nail hammered into the wall for the purpose.
‘Ah gin,’ William chuckled. ‘The answer to all our woes, eh my friend?’ He passed Abbott his only two drinking vessels, chipped stoneware mugs that had seen better days. He wiped them clean with his grimy shirtsleeve and passed them to Abbott who poured generous serves.
‘Rabbit squire?’ the old man said, proudly placing the remains of a boiled rabbit on a wooden plate next to the bread on the crate. ‘Now let me see, I’ve got some salt ’ere somewheres.’
Abbott suddenly, realised how ravenous he was. He tore a leg from the carcass and started chewing hungrily as his thoughts drifted to French Frank and his fine cooking.
· · ·
French Frank saw the smoke before he saw the fires. It was late in the afternoon and the smoke he saw rising from the whaling stations on the distant peninsula, he knew was called South Arm, was still many hours away. But the nearby spirals of smoke just beyond the crest of the next hill were many and sporadic.
The Aborigines spotted him first. Frank stopped in his tracks at the peak of the knoll to gaze at the most amazing sight. At least thirty natives fuelled a dozen fires in the middle of what Frank recognised as a potato paddock. The Aborigines had pulled up hundreds of the starchy vegetables and were eating them as fast as they could bake them on the hot coals. A small farmhouse was off to the east three hundred yards, and lazy smoke meandered from its lone chimney, but there was no sign of the farmer, his family or even a horse.
Frank thought of Nathina and Mosquito and then the experience he had had with the natives on the beach. The unmistakable aroma of fresh baking potatoes reached out to him. His stomach growled. He waved at the nearest Aborigines, fifty yards away, who watched him with indifference. Hunger overshadowed any fear or reservation and Frank moved towards them, gesturing that he was hungry. The group at the nearest fire muttered amongst themselves in their own tongue and then indicated that Frank should help himself. A lone act of kindness from natives who clearly considered that what grew in the ground was for all to share. Frank secured his saddlebag over his shoulder and snatched a blackened potato from the fire.
‘Merde!’ he cursed and tossed the potato from hand to hand. The natives laughed. The ice was broken.
But the mood soon changed. The sound of hoofs, a single gunshot, and the tribe scattered away like frightened rabbits. Frank spun on his heels.
‘Bail up!’ the uniform yelled at Frank, riding in at a gallop with a service pistol primed and pointing directly at him. Close on his tail was another man, the farmer maybe, and a younger lad about sixteen. They were all armed and not a friendly face amongst them.
· · ·
Abbott woke with a start. A whistle shrieked not too far off. He sat upright from his mattress of rags and it took a moment for his compass to gather his bearing. ‘Damn!’ he cursed. His head ached. He could just make out the gin bottle on the crate next to him. It was empty.
‘Jesus!’ he blasphemed. He had let his guard down and drank far more than he intended. His mouth was parched. Water his body cried. The rivulet below sounded inviting and although he had become accustomed to the stench about him he shuddered at the thought. What’s the time? Suddenly, he thought of his satchel. He felt about him. It was there, one strap wound about his leg. He must have done that before he crashed onto the rags. He felt about in the dark.
‘Aye!’ His silver pocket watch was there. He flipped open the lid, it read twenty to seven. But where’s the old man?
Instantly, the whistle shrieked once more, louder, closer. Christ! It’s the troopers. Abbott sprung to his feet and hurried to the boarded wall over the rivulet to peer out. It was morning but the surrounding slum blocked much of the light. Abbott thought of making a sprint for it.
Had the old man shopped him?
Abruptly the bolt dragged across on the door; he’d been locked in anyway. William Dougherty hobbled in smartly on his crutch and what faint light there was from the outside illuminated his rugged face. He slammed the door shut and leant his back to the door while putting a finger to his lips for silence. Something rushed past the door on the other side. Shouting. Curses. Then what seemed like a stampede as the dwelling shook and several feet crushed past in the tiny laneway outside. Finally, they heard fading screams followed by moderate silence.
‘Troopers John,’ the old cove said. ‘Chasin’ an absconder.’
Abbott felt foolish. Had the old man guessed he was an absconder too? ‘I woke with a start,’ he began explaining.
‘I went to fetch our breakfast,’ William answered, and pulled two long skinny flat-headed fish from behind his back. ‘I ’ope ya don’t mind my friend, but I took the liberty of ’elpin’ meself to a few pennies from ya kit and paid some brats for their catch.’
Abbott smiled with relief. He wanted to laugh out loud. For a moment he thought he had been caught.
‘You’re welcome old man,’ he sighed and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder.
‘Ya like fish I take it?’ William smacked his lips and put a flame to another candle stub.
‘Damned right I do friend.’
William Dougherty beamed back at Abbott’s familiarity, his lone tooth a beacon of kindness. The old man thought a moment, he had been thinking hard since he woke. Eventually he clucked his tongue and spoke his mind. ‘Ya secret’s safe with me lad,’ he said quietly, always aware of prying ears.
‘Secret?’
‘I’m no fool John, if that be ya name.’
Abbott became defensive. ‘What the devil are ya talkin’ about?’
‘I seen the scars on ya ankles. You’ve done the chain. You’re ’ere at ’is Majesty’s pleasure, just like me. But I done me time, I got me ticket and me pardon. I’m thinkin’ you’re a runaway.’ Abbott picked up his saddlebag and prepared to leave. ‘Where ya goin’ lad?’ William put a hand against Abbott’s chest. ‘I can ’elp ya.’
‘Why would ya, ya could go back in if’n ya got caught.’
‘’Cos those tyrannical English ferkers broke me, broke me good. I ain’t got no life left but this. But you — you’re young, ya can get back to England and make a new life of it.’
Abbott looked the old lag in the eyes and admonished himself for judging the man on his first appearances. He let the saddlebag fall to the floor and allowed thoughts of freshly cooked fish dictate his future.
‘True, I could use help.’
‘That’s settled then,’ and William Dougherty waved a hand across his floor with a cheerful flourish. ‘Take a pew then, will ye?’
Abbott sat and watched, nursing his third mug of water — which William assured him came from a pump, well clear of the rivulet. He watched as the man ran a sharpened thumbnail along the fish’s belly and scooped out the innards, which he tossed down the latrine hole.
‘The brats scaled ’em but never took the guts out,’ William said with a chuckle. He fanned the fuel oven fire, and when the coals looked about right he sat the fish, liberally covered with salt, on the flames.
‘Never has fish tasted so good,’ Abbott complimented the cook, twenty minutes later. The old man smiled back, delighted that he had pleased his guest.
‘So where do we go from ’ere then?’ the old man questioned. ‘What can William Dougherty esquire do for the likes of Mr John Bishop?’
Abbott wiped his hands and mouth on the coarse corner of a hessian bag and drained his water. ‘I’m hopin’ to get on board a Yankee whaler.’
‘I was afraid ya say that. Truth is the watch are real careful nowadays since them other coves slipped through a month ago.
‘Oh, please tell.’
‘Two coves, lifers they was, escaped from the gaol. They ’id outa town a whiles then tried to get smuggled aboard a merchantman in two bloody barrels, would ya believe?’ Dougherty dug goo out from under his fingernail and flicked it across the room. ‘They would’ave got away wiv it too, but one cove panicked, got all claustrophobic like and started thumpin’ and squealin’ and shezam! They caught ’em both.’
Abbott didn’t have to ask, his face belied his question.
‘’undred lashes each,’ the old man shivered, ‘’undred lashes and thirty days solitary and two years ’ard labour in irons. Poor bastards.’
Abbott grew restless. He stood once more and stretched. ‘To be honest William, my problem is money. I need to find employment for a stretch o’ time, get bribes together. Then I can work me passage once at sea, on a whaler maybe.’
‘What? You a ’arpooner then?’ William choked a laugh.
‘Nay.’
‘I know thart lad, just a joke like. Them whalers’ ’ard bastards, and that’s no lie.’ William Dougherty thought carefully a moment, and then said what he’d been thinking the past hour. ‘I got a proposition what you might like to ’ear.’
‘Oh!’ Abbott said guardedly.
‘Now don’t go getting’ peculiar wiv me …’
‘Peculiar,’ Abbott forced a smile. ‘Why would I get peculiar with ya?’
‘Well, ’ear me out first,’ the old lag said. Abbott sat on the edge of the crate. ‘I just ’appen to knows you ’ave nine pounds four shillings and five pence in that thar sack o’ yours …’
‘You’ve been through my possessions?’
‘As I said, ’ear me out.’
Abbott up ended his saddlebag and snatched his purse, tipping the coins into his palm. He smartly counted them. They were all there except the two pennies for the fish.
‘I took two pennies for our breakfast, while ya was sleepin’ like a babe,’ William said. ‘I already told ya thart. But I couldn’t ’elp takin’ note o’ what was left.’
For the second time since waking Abbott felt ungrateful, foolish towards his host.
‘So I’ve been thinkin’. Me and you should go into partnership. You ’ave the capital and I ’ave the contacts what we need for a successful collaboration.’
‘What sort of partnership are we talkin’ about?’
‘Fence lad. We buy up all the nicked property what the thievin’ coves round ’ere steal from the well-to-do citizens of ’obart Town and we sell it at a inflated price to them coves what are lookin’ for a bargain, if ya get me drift.’
‘Aye, I do.’ Abbott was starting to like his fellow rogue.
· · ·
Government House Hobart Town 1833
George Arthur, governor of Van Diemen’s Land, walked down the stone steps to his horse on which he sat to inspect his men on the parade ground. All present knew his short stature demanded this, for if he stood before his troops his sword and scabbard would comically drag along on the ground after him, like a child’s might. But he looked splendid, none the less, in his favourite blue frock coat, bicorn hat, gold epaulettes and white britches.
‘What are your orders sir?’ army Captain Rodney Wickham waved Abbott’s insolent letter about, himself incensed at the outlaw’s audacity.
‘Do, sir?’ Governor George Arthur growled. ‘Why, you will catch the vagabond and we’ll bring him to justice. That’s what we’ll do.’
‘I have reason to believe, sir, the Kangaroo Bluff guard have only just now captured François Forboche, Bragg’s partner, who uses the alias, French Frank.’
‘Really?’ The governor’s demeanour changed instantly, and a huge smile washed across his face.
‘Yes, sir, but I must confirm this before I trouble your Excellency. Word from the garrison says he’ll be in the Hobart Town gaol this evening. He has the accent of a Frenchman and let’s face it, sir, we don’t have too many Frenchies here in the colony.’
‘Then if confirmed, Captain, let me know first thing tomorrow morning and I shall interview the scoundrel myself.’
· · ·