James Boswell strode away from Newgate prison, his feathers ruffled because Mary hadn’t fallen at his feet and seen him as her saviour. It hadn’t for one moment occurred to him that she wouldn’t welcome his offer of help.
‘Damn her,’ he muttered. ‘A heroine she may be, but she’s clearly lacking a brain.’
A dear friend had once claimed years ago that ‘Bozzie’ was addicted to lost causes. He was referring to his passion for whores in that instance, but it was a well-known fact that Boswell was extraordinarily sympathetic to anyone he considered was being treated unjustly. He had often defended poor people without charge, and took on cases that no one else would.
In truth, nothing excited him more than a case everyone said he couldn’t win, or a woman who was hell-bent on self-destruction. And Mary Broad was both rolled into one.
What all his worthy friends who poked fun at him didn’t really appreciate was that he felt he had a great deal in common with his clients and his whores. He knew what it was to be forced into an unwanted career; he was often misunderstood, he made errors of judgement, and he was reckless.
His father, Lord Auchinleck, a judge in the Supreme Courts in Scotland, had insisted his son become a lawyer, despite his desire to join the Guards. As soon as he’d finished school, Boswell ran away to London and became a Roman Catholic, which appalled his dour Presbyterian family. Indeed, he flirted briefly with the idea of becoming a monk too. But a Catholic couldn’t become an Army officer or a barrister, nor even inherit his father’s estate, so he soon abandoned Catholicism and reluctantly went along with his father’s wishes and entered the Inns of Court. But this wasn’t a real change of heart, it was more so he could stay in London and use his allowance to cut a dash in society.
Boswell himself would concede that he was a poor student. He spent more time in the theatre, at the races, and drinking and picking up women than he did at his studies. His father also expected him to make an advantageous marriage, but Boswell disappointed him there too by marrying his cousin Margaret, who had no money of her own. But he married for love, and that to him was far more important than money.
Then his friendship with Samuel Johnson was misunderstood. People claimed he was worming his way into the great man’s affections for self-advancement. They said Boswell was a snob, a social climber, a womanizer, a drunk and a hypochondriac.
It was true that he liked women and wine. He couldn’t resist a pretty chambermaid or whore, but surely that was only the sign of a zest for life? What his critics failed to see and understand was that he spent the greater part of his life planning, compiling and collecting material for his work, The Life of Samuel Johnson. To do it justice he had to enter into the circles that Johnson moved in, to watch, listen, and see through Johnson’s eyes. He enjoyed it of course, and maybe he did make use of some of the contacts he made. But he never used Johnson’s friendship for self-advancement; he loved the man, and wanted the whole world to share his wisdom, intelligence and humour.
In his heart, Boswell knew he had produced a brilliant biography of his friend, and he was sure that in years to come his name would be up there with other great literary figures. Even if he wasn’t getting the kind of rapturous praise and adulation that he felt he was due, he had made a considerable amount of money from his book. He had an elegant home just off Oxford Street, and fine clothes. He ate and drank well, had a great many friends, and his beloved children were a great comfort to him. All in all, he supposed that should be enough for any man.
Yet he still had a yen to do something sensational before putting down his pen and hanging up his wig and gown. He was fifty-two, widowed, no longer in the best of health, and time was running out for him. He wanted to be remembered as ‘the Greatest Biographer of All Time’, but it would give him immense satisfaction to confound those who considered him a mediocre lawyer too. To win one big, dramatic case was all he wanted; to be looked back on as a man who was the champion of the weak and oppressed.
Boswell smiled to himself, aware that he was being somewhat egotistical. It was absurd really that he felt so strongly about the case of Mary Broad, for until this very morning he had known nothing of her and her companions’ plight. To be strictly truthful, something his father had been a stickler for, he had never before even considered the welfare of the felons sentenced to transportation.
In his view transportation was both humane and practical, for it removed criminals to a place where they could do no more harm to society. A far better solution than hanging. When he was a young man he had watched the public execution of a highwayman and a young thief called Hannah Diego, and the horror of it had never left him.
Yet there he was that morning, drinking a leisurely cup of coffee at home and reading the newspaper, merely passing some time before visiting his publishers to see how his book was selling, when he happened to come across an account of the escape from Botany Bay.
It was the quote from Mary herself which captured his interest. ‘I’d sooner be hanged than sent back there.’
Clearly Botany Bay wasn’t quite the tropical paradise which the newspapers had led most people to believe. Boswell had to read on.
He was shaken that Mary, eight men and two small children had sailed some 3,000 miles in an open boat. Even more disturbing was that four of the men had died after capture. But it was the loss of the two children which really plucked at his heart. As a man who adored his children, and felt blessed that they were all close to him, he couldn’t imagine anything more tragic than to lose even one of them. This poor woman had lost everything, her husband and her children, and now she was likely to lose her life too.
In his mind’s eye he again saw Hannah Diego struggling as she was dragged to the hangman’s noose. He could smell her fear, hear the ghoulish roars from the watching crowd, and remembered the nightmares he’d suffered for so long after that day.
He felt a surge of sickness and anger. He couldn’t stand by and let Mary Broad share that fate. It was barbaric. She had suffered enough.
Boswell was also curious about the character of the woman. She surely had immense courage and determination to lead those men to freedom, such strength to survive fever and starvation. He wanted to know more, to meet and talk to her. With that he suddenly put down the paper, called for his coat and hat, and set out for Newgate.
In his imagination, Boswell had pictured Mary Broad as a big woman, strong and lusty, just like his favourite whores. It was something of a surprise to find her small, thin and softly spoken. She looked old beyond her years too, weighed down with grief, her grey eyes already showing a resignation to death.
She told him her story very simply, as if she was weary of recounting it yet again. There was no attempt at trying to gain his sympathy, no shocking details of hardship, deprivation or cruelty. The only time tears sprang to her eyes was when she spoke of Charlotte’s burial at sea. Even those she brushed away quickly, and went on to say that she was treated with kindness on the Gorgon.
Boswell found himself immensely touched, sensing all the horror Mary had left out. He had been in Newgate many times before, so he had come prepared for lies, exaggerations and distortions of the truth. Like most of his contemporaries, he believed in a criminal class, a stratum of people who were pre-ordained to undermine a decent society. They could be identified easily by their brutish manner, their idleness and their lack of principles. Down in the prison yard he’d seen so many of them, strutting around as if in a private and very select club.
Mary certainly wasn’t one of them. She had more in common with the debtors, who sat disconsolately in small groups, bitterly ashamed of the events which had brought them into prison, all hope and spirit gone.
Yet the shiny red ribbon in Mary’s dark hair, which was a little incongruous when her dress was so shabby and stained, suggested that the indomitable spirit which had kept her alive through so much hardship was still there, even if subdued for now. She’d asked boldly if he was prepared to defend her four friends too. When he’d stated that he felt it was only her cause he could fight, she’d turned away as if the interview was over.
‘Then I cannot accept your help,’ she’d said finally. ‘We are all in this together, they are my friends, and I will not abandon them.’
It was inconceivable to Boswell that anyone in such desperate straits would put friendship before her own life. He pleaded with her, explained that he could win her case as public sympathy would be on her side because of her children. What he also thought, but couldn’t admit, was that he saw her trial as a kind of showcase for his talents. He wanted it to be emotionally charged, he saw himself making a dramatic and heart-rending closing speech. But if he had to defend the four men too, all of whom were probably dubious characters, the sympathy he’d built up for Mary would be very much diluted.
‘I have nothing left now but those four friends,’ she said simply. ‘We have been through hell together, and they are like brothers to me. I’ll take my chances with them.’
‘Do you think they would do the same for you?’ he asked her. ‘I think not, Mary, each one of them would do anything to save his own skin, regardless of what happened to you.’
‘Maybe,’ she sighed. ‘There was a time when my own survival counted for more than anything else on this earth. But that’s in the past. I don’t value it very highly any more.’
James was impressed by her sense of honour, but he supposed she’d lost her common sense along with her spirit.
‘Just how are you going to restore her spirit, Bozzie?’ he asked himself, tipping his hat to a pretty maid walking with an elderly chaperone.
He paused and turned to look back at the girl, noting her tiny waist, the pert bow on the bustle of her pink gown and her bonnet trimmed with daisies. Veronica and Euphemia, his two older daughters, had many such gowns and bonnets, and nothing cheered them more than new ones. Perhaps Mary would begin to hope again with something pretty to wear?
The air in the small cell in Newgate was tense, the four men staring at Mary with cold, suspicious eyes.
‘Don’t look at me that way,’ she said indignantly. ‘The only reason I didn’t tell you of his visit was because he can’t help us.’
The men had come back to the cell late in the afternoon and they were all very drunk. Had they been sober she would probably have told them about the visit from Mr Boswell, but while they slept off the drink she came to the conclusion that there was nothing to be gained from such a disclosure. Mr Boswell only wanted to help her, not them, and if she told them that they’d only be hurt.
Unfortunately she hadn’t realized that a visitor from outside would attract so much attention and speculation among both prisoners and gaolers. By the time the men sobered up and went back to the tap-room, it seemed the whole prison was talking about the lawyer gentleman who’d called on her.
‘What scheme are you cooking up?’ James burst out, his lean face flushed with anger.
‘There is no scheme,’ Mary retorted. ‘Spinks brought him here, he was curious about us all, but not interested enough to defend us.’
‘You let a lawyer come and go without getting me?’ James roared at her. ‘I could have made him interested.’
Mary shrugged. ‘When you were drunk? He would have been even less inclined to help us.’
‘I can hold my drink, talk anyone round, drunk or sober,’ James snarled. ‘I’ll wager you didn’t even try to persuade him. You might welcome a rope around your neck, but none of us do.’
Mary looked appealingly towards the other three. ‘Surely you know I’d do anything in my power to help you? Has cheap gin rotted your minds?’
They all looked a trifle sheepish.
‘But James is right, you should have come and got us,’ Bill said mulishly. ‘He’s the one who is good with words. You just don’t care any more.’
‘I might not care about myself, but I care about you,’ Mary retorted heatedly. ‘And if you want to know, I think you are becoming like everyone else in this place, drinking yourselves stupid and fucking anything that moves.’
‘Is this man coming back again?’ Nat asked hopefully.
‘I doubt it,’ she said curtly. ‘There’s nothing he can do for us.’
They heard Spinks coming down the passage, locking the cell doors for the night. Mary retreated over to her corner of the cell and lay down, hoping that the fast-fading light would put an end to the bitterness. James and Bill carried on talking for some time in low voices. Mary didn’t even attempt to listen for she was bone-tired and dejected.
Mr Boswell had been such a nice man. Apart from Tench, no other man had ever shown such a keen interest in her. Maybe she ought to have tried a bit harder to persuade him to help all of them? What if she’d pleaded tearfully, clung to him, or even offered herself to him?
‘No man would want you, not the way you look now,’ she thought to herself. She knew without even seeing herself in a looking-glass that she was no prize. Exposure to hot sun and wind and a poor diet had made her prematurely old; she had no curves, no softness about her. Even Sam, who she knew had had romantic feelings about her in the past, seemed to have lost them since their capture in Kupang.
She could hear a woman screaming in the distance. It sounded like the agony of childbirth and it made Mary’s stomach contract in sympathy. It seemed so strange to hear that after all the terrible things she’d seen in the past years, the hurts and humiliations, she still felt others’ pain. She ought to be entirely numb by now, unconcerned whether a newborn baby would survive. But she did still care; each time she passed the doorway to the common side of the prison, she felt guilty that those poor wretches were starving, filthy and sick, while she was able to go outside, eat, drink and sleep in a decent cell.
The screaming stopped suddenly. Mary wondered if that was because the mother had finally delivered, or had died. Perhaps for her sake she should hope it was the latter, for the woman’s troubles would surely only increase if she lived.
Three days passed, and slowly the men returned to their old easy manner towards Mary. On the fourth day they were taken to the court to be brought before the magistrate, Mr Nicholas Bond.
All five of them had become very nervous as soon as their chains were put back on. Then, as the prison cart rumbled through the crowded, noisy streets, nervousness turned to terror at what lay ahead. Nat’s blue eyes were wide with fear, Bill clenched his fists so hard his knuckles were white, Sam appeared to be muttering a prayer. Even James was silenced for once, and when the cart was suddenly surrounded by a horde of people, all shouting at them, he clutched at Mary’s hand.
All at once Mary realized this wasn’t a mob baying for their blood, quite the reverse. Their shouts were ‘Bravo’, ‘Good luck’ and ‘God go with you’.
Someone threw a sprig of white heather into the cart. Mary picked it up and smiled. ‘They are on our side,’ she gasped.
They had all got used to their notoriety in Newgate, but it hadn’t occurred to them that their story would be of interest to ordinary people too. Clearly it was, and had touched their hearts too, for so many to have made their way towards the court to show their solidarity with Mary and her four friends.
*
As they were led up to the dock, they saw that the gloomy and dusty courtroom was packed to capacity with spectators. Among them Mary glimpsed James Boswell.
‘Mr Boswell’s here,’ she whispered to James, assuming he and the others would start on at her again if she said nothing. ‘The fat man in the fancy jacket.’
James looked, half smiled at the man and passed on the whispered message to the others.
The magistrate, who had a thin face and spectacles perched on the end of a very sharp nose, questioned them one by one, and seemed remarkably attentive to their replies. This in itself was a further surprise, for all five of them had experienced complete indifference from their judges during the trials which led to their transportation. And they all knew people who were shoved through the courts and sentenced without any real evidence or witnesses being produced.
When it came to Mary’s turn, the magistrate was far more than just attentive, he was clearly truly interested and committed to getting a real picture of the events. Nervous as she was, she looked right at him and spoke in a clear voice. The only time her voice cracked was when she was questioned about the deaths of her children.
‘It was all my idea to escape,’ she admitted. ‘I planned it and got hold of the charts and navigational equipment. I bullied my husband Will into going along with it, and made him persuade the others to join us.’
She sensed the men looking sideways at her. Clearly they were surprised she should put herself forward as the instigator.
‘How long were you planning this escape before you actually left the colony?’ the magistrate asked, peering at her intently.
‘It was in my mind to escape almost from my first day there,’ she said. ‘But it was when my husband was flogged for nothing more than keeping back a couple of fish he’d caught that I became determined we should go. We were starving, people were dying all around us, yet my Will, the only man who was supplying any food, got a hundred lashes. It wasn’t right.’
His questions went on and on, and Mary answered them all truthfully. Finally the magistrate asked her if she had repented of the crime that sent her to New South Wales.
‘Indeed I have, sir,’ she replied. ‘Not a day went by out there when I didn’t regret it.’
A murmur of approval at her words rippled round the courtroom.
‘But tell me, why did you choose to risk your two small children’s lives on such a long and perilous journey in uncharted seas?’ he asked.
‘The perils were every bit as great in the colony,’ she said resolutely. ‘I believed it was better for us all to die together in the sea than to die slowly one by one of starvation or some terrible disease.’
The murmur of approval from the spectators became a roar. When the noise had died down, the magistrate announced that he was not ready yet to commit them to trial and so they would be returned to the prison and brought before him again for further examination in a week’s time.
As the five were led away, they were bombarded with more shouts of sympathy. They were put into a cell beneath the court to await their return to Newgate.
‘Can you believe that crowd?’ James said gleefully, his eyes dancing the way they used to back in Kupang. ‘They are all on our side. Surely we won’t hang now?’
Mary said nothing. To her, spending a great many more years in prison was a far worse prospect than hanging.
‘You were wonderful,’ Sam said to her, grinning from ear to ear. ‘But you shouldn’t have taken all the blame.’
Mary shrugged. ‘It was all true, I did bully Will and got him to involve you.’
‘You’re a brave woman and no mistake,’ Bill said in a shaky voice. ‘I’m sorry we thought badly of you the other day.’
Before Mary could reply, she suddenly heard the unmistakable sound of Mr Boswell’s voice. He was at the end of the stone passageway, demanding to be let in to see her. Mary’s heart sank. If he made another offer to defend her in front of the men they would think her a liar.
All at once he was there in front of the grid, resplendent in a dark blue jacket and embroidered waistcoat, his round red face wreathed in smiles.
‘Mary, my dear, you gave such a good account of yourself,’ he boomed out joyfully. ‘The crowd took you to their hearts. Within days people everywhere will read the newspapers’ report on today’s events, and everyone in England will be behind you.’
‘Not just me, I hope,’ she managed to say, hoping he’d have the sense to realize her predicament with the men. ‘We are all in it together, and you haven’t yet met my friends.’
‘Of course, of course. They felt for you all up there,’ he said, then held out a box containing a considerable sum of money. ‘There was a collection for you to help with expenses while you are in Newgate. I am overjoyed for you all.’
James introduced himself and the other men. ‘Does this mean you are prepared to defend us now?’ he asked, taking the box from Boswell’s hand.
‘Now that the public has joined Mary in twisting my arm, I have reconsidered and think I can defend you men too, that is, if Mary is prepared to reconsider.’ Boswell beamed, looking to each of the men’s faces and apparently not seeing Mary’s frantic gestures from behind them. ‘I hope you appreciate your loyal friend! And now we must talk about the next stage. I believe there is no possibility of the death penalty now, just prison. But I’m determined to get you all a pardon.’
He didn’t wait to see how they took this news, but carried on, ‘I’ll be there for all of you next week, and meanwhile I’m going to see Henry Dundas, the Home Secretary. He’s a dear friend of mine.’
The moment Boswell had gone, James let out a whoop of joy and jingled the box of money. ‘He knows the Home Secretary,’ he gloated. ‘And people made a collection for us. We’re going to be set free!’
Sam looked at Mary reflectively, making her blush. ‘He offered to defend you alone and you turned him down, didn’t you?’ he asked in an awed voice.
The other three men frowned, not understanding. Nat asked Sam what he was talking about.
‘Don’t you see?’ Sam shook his head at their stupidity. ‘That lawyer wasn’t here by chance. He came to see Mary again. The reason she didn’t tell us about his visit the other day was because he only wanted to defend her. She turned him down because of us!’
‘You did that?’ Nat said, his blue eyes wide with incredulity.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ James exclaimed. ‘And we laid into you!’
Mary blushed furiously. ‘It doesn’t matter now,’ she murmured.
‘It does matter, Mary,’ Sam said, putting his arm around her. ‘That crowd up there collected the money for us because of what you said in the dock. I’m sure that’s why the lawyer changed his mind about us too. Once again you’ve saved our lives.’
Mary couldn’t sleep at all that night for her mind was whirling with ‘what ifs’. What if they stayed in prison for months or even years until the public lost interest in their fate? They would never get a pardon then. What if Boswell was just a braggart like Will and didn’t really know the Home Secretary? What if she did get pardoned? Where would she go, and how would she live?
If the public’s imagination was fired up about her plight as Mr Boswell said, then her family would be bound to hear of it. Her mother would surely die of shame to know her daughter’s name was in the newspapers. Mary couldn’t help but be amused to think of her worrying about that, after all she’d been through. But her mother’s feelings were still very important to her. And she badly wanted to see her and the rest of her family.
At the second hearing in the magistrates’ court, the five returned escapees were told officially that they would not be hanged. They were to receive an indeterminate sentence without a trial. To the men this was good enough; they had fame and enough money to be comfortable in Newgate, which after some of the other prisons they’d been in was paradise. It would of course be wonderful if Boswell got them pardoned, but they weren’t counting on it.
But Mary couldn’t see it the same way. She wanted to be hanged or to be freed, no half measures. She could wait for freedom, but she needed to know exactly how long it would take before she could walk on grass again, swim in the sea, smell flowers and cook her own meals. She couldn’t spend her days in a gin-soaked stupor, the time-honoured way of Newgate.
Boswell was right in saying everyone in England would hear about them. The story had spread far and wide. But Mary took no pleasure from her fame. Each day people came to the prison to meet her. A few were from organizations who were firmly against transportation, others were journalists, but in the main they were just curious people, wanting to look at the woman who was in the news as if she was a freak in a side show.
Mary couldn’t refuse to meet any of these people. She knew she and the men were dependent on public opinion to get a pardon. But it was painful to keep on telling and retelling the story, and have people raking up things she would rather forget.
James loved it all, especially the grand ladies who kept returning to visit him. Mary knew they didn’t really care about his plight. Visiting Newgate was a diversion from their otherwise dull lives; it was exciting to go somewhere so dirty and dangerous. James turned on his Irish charm and he flirted with them, telling them shocking things they could repeat in whispers to less daring friends over afternoon tea. In return they brought him food, new clothes and books. He had also made a start on writing an account of their escape which he hoped he could sell for enough money to go back to Ireland and breed horses.
As for Nat, Bill and Sam, they felt important for the first time in their lives. They too had women admirers, and as each day passed they seemed to need Mary less.
Then there was Mr Boswell. Mary liked him – he was clever, entertaining and very kind – but she didn’t know what he wanted of her.
James Martin had made it his business to find out everything about the man, and some of it was a little frightening. While he was a famous and much admired writer, and mixed with the aristocracy, he was also a rake who drank heavily and consorted with whores. He might be a good and loving father to his children, but it was said he neglected his wife, to the extent that he hadn’t gone home to Scotland when she was dying. He wasn’t even considered a very good lawyer.
Mary thought he was similar to Will in character. He gave the impression of great capability, of intelligence and daring, just as Will did. Of course Mr Boswell was much older, well-educated and a gentleman, but if she could strip him of his years, his book learning and fine clothes, he and Will had a great deal in common. He talked of friends in high places, but were they really friends or just passing acquaintances? He boasted, too, of cases he’d won in courts, and of his success with women, and how he was a descendant of Robert the Bruce.
But Mary could smell drink on him, whatever time of day he visited her, and the redness of his complexion was a sure sign he over-indulged in it. Drink had been Will’s weakness too, and she couldn’t forget the part it had played in their downfall.
Yet during Boswell’s visits Mary believed in him totally. It was so easy to, for his melodious voice with just a hint of a Scots accent was easy on the ear. He painted a new world for her of dinner parties, ladies’ gowns and country houses. He made her laugh with his vivid descriptions of people he knew. Yet for all that showiness his kindness was apparent too. He hated injustice, he had real understanding of weakness, especially in women. He loved children, he wanted a fairer society, and schools for the poor.
While he was with her, the room felt warm and full of light, his conversation stimulated her, she felt hopeful. But the moment he’d gone, the shadows came back. What did he really want with her? Somehow she couldn’t quite believe that he was doing so much just out of kindness. He had to have a motive, people always did.
Early in August, just over a month after they’d arrived in Newgate, he came to see her, this time in a small room downstairs in the prison which was furnished with a table and chairs.
‘Dear me, it is so hot today,’ he began, wheezing from the exertion of his long walk to the prison in the hot sun and wiping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I am off on holiday tomorrow. To Cornwall, my dear, but I have put things in hand on your behalf and it is my belief we shall have good news on my return.’
He launched into an explanation about a letter to Henry Dundas, to which he still hadn’t received a reply. It seemed to Mary that his earlier claims at what a good friend this man was were probably exaggerated.
But then Boswell put the brown parcel he was carrying down on the table. ‘Something for you, my dear. It isn’t new, but I hope it will cheer you.’
Mary opened it, and gasped in surprise to find it was a dress, probably a cast-off from one of his daughters, she thought. It was pale blue and the low neckline was trimmed with white lace.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, blushing with embarrassment. It was in fact the kind of dress any woman would dream about, but it was surely intended for a lady of quality taking afternoon tea or a walk in a park, not for a prisoner in Newgate who had lice in her hair. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Boswell, but I’m not sure it’s suitable for me.’
‘My friends call me Bozzie,’ he said reprovingly. ‘I consider you a friend. And of course it’s suitable for you, you are still a young woman, and with freedom ahead of you. I shall enjoy seeing you wear it.’
‘Will I really be freed?’ she said, putting the dress to one side and sitting down. ‘And if I am, what will I do?’
‘I am certain you will walk free,’ he said firmly. ‘And I am your friend, so I shall make arrangements for somewhere for you to stay. It will give me great pleasure to be able to show you London properly.’
‘I couldn’t expect you to do that, sir,’ she said, a little alarmed. ‘I’d be more than happy to get a job as a housemaid or seamstress.’
He put one of his soft podgy hands over hers. ‘You will need a little pampering before you can work,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘You are skin and bone, you need feeding up, a tonic to purge your blood. You will also have to learn London ways.’
Mary had a sudden, sharp picture of Lieutenant Graham. Did Mr Boswell believe he was going to take her as a mistress?
While she knew that if he did get her pardoned her gratitude would compel her to go along with it, the thought revolted her. He was fat, his breath smelled of drink, and she didn’t think she could even bear to kiss him, let alone lie with him.
‘I must make my own way in the world,’ she said after a second’s thought. ‘I am so grateful to you, Bozzie, but if I do leave here, I shan’t lean on you.’
He laughed, and tickled her under the chin. ‘Smile for me, Mary. You are a pretty woman when that doleful expression vanishes. Do not be too hasty, for London is a harsh place without a friend.’
He changed the subject then, much to Mary’s relief, and spoke of his planned holiday to Cornwall.
Just the mention of Cornwall was enough to evoke vivid mental pictures of home for Mary. It was just about seven years since she’d boarded the boat for Plymouth, and Dolly’s words, ‘You could travel the whole world and never find a place as pretty as Fowey’, came back to her.
She had travelled the world now, and it was true, she had never seen anywhere so pretty. If she shut her eyes she could see the sea sparkling under the summer sun, smell the seaweed, hear the gulls.
‘I’ve never been to Truro, Falmouth or Land’s End,’ she said, when Boswell told her these were places he intended to visit.
‘No!’ he said in surprise. ‘Really?’
‘You will understand why when you visit them,’ she said, and smiled because despite his age he had a very boyish enthusiasm for life. ‘They might not be far away in miles from Fowey, but the roads are bad, little more than tracks.’
‘There have been riots in Truro,’ he said with a sigh. ‘The Army had to be called to quell them. But then there have been riots everywhere since you’ve been away. England has been affected by the revolution in France, I suspect, so much dissatisfaction and unrest.’
Mary knew Boswell read a great many newspapers. One of the things she liked best about his visits was the chance to talk about what was going on outside the prison walls. She might have her four friends for company, but their conversation was very limited. She was tired of discussing their escape, and the people they knew back in New South Wales, and she had even less interest in discussing the other prisoners here.
‘I wish I could read,’ she said regretfully. ‘I am very ignorant of world affairs.’
He put his hand on hers again. ‘Mary, you can learn to read if you wish for that. But do not say you are ignorant, for you have a greater intelligence and wisdom than many people I know who consider themselves clever.’
He got up then. ‘I must go now. Try not to fret, and be sure you will be on my mind all the time I am in Cornwall.’
He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Wear the dress, Mary, it might make you remember the days before your young life turned sour.’
Mary did wear the dress, a great deal. And Boswell was right, it did make her remember her girlhood. She thought of running to meet Thomas Coogan in Plymouth, the way he used to catch her in his arms and spin her round, and the heady delights of kissing him.
There were no looking-glasses in Newgate, but she could tell by the way men looked at her in the dress that she wasn’t as worn and plain as she had previously thought. Knowing that helped her; she found herself thinking of freedom more and more, and despairing sometimes that it would never come.