The Lace Balcony Page 10

  Dr Gordon seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Aye, but he’s done it at the cost of many felons’ lives.’

  Mungo couldn’t hold his tongue. ‘Let’s hope history gets it right.’

  The Female Factory housed a small number of female prisoners, mostly second offenders transferred from Lake Macquarie penal settlement, hundreds of miles south of Moreton Bay, that place now used only for the confinement of pregnant women and prisoners awaiting assignment to local settlers.

  Here the women were occupied spinning flax, making straw hats and picking oakum. Women weren’t flogged, and only the most recalcitrant were confined to short periods in solitary on bread and water.

  Mungo did not begrudge their more humane treatment. Many had been forced to leave their children in Britain and were unlikely ever to see them again.

  ‘I heard a couple of women prisoners were transferred to nurse at Moreton Bay Hospital,’ Mungo said.

  ‘Aye, but I trust ye won’t be tempted to follow the example of some felons who wounded themselves in the hope of feeling a woman’s hands on them.’

  Mungo had already toyed with that temptation but had talked himself out of it.

  ‘Not me, Doc. I can wait. There’s a girl I’ve promised to marry just as soon as I get free of this place,’ he lied.

  Gordon raised an eyebrow. ‘Glad to hear it. She must be quite a woman. I’ll check to see if any missing mail has turned up. The rules state every letter has to be delivered and read out loud in the presence of a prisoner. It seems strange you’ve never received a single letter.’

  His total absence of mail was a sore point with Mungo. He felt sure that his mother would have asked Felix to write on her behalf. No news had reached him in three years – except what had recently filtered through the L’Estrange letters to Dr Gordon concerning the welfare of Sean O’Connor.

  If I ever lay hands on the bloke who blocked my letters, I’ll ram his mail bag down his throat.

  • • •

  During the second week of the bivouac, on reaching the banks of a river, the doctor consulted his map.

  ‘This appears to be a branch of the river Logan wanted to name in honour of Darling, but the Governor has chosen to name it the Logan in respect of his expeditions.’

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ Mungo asked quickly to disguise his rumbling stomach. ‘How about I build a fire? Then we can open another can of salted beef, right?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘That’s our emergency rations if we’re caught in a tropical storm. From now on it’s your job to hunt for our tucker. Be off with you, now. Meanwhile I’ll set up camp.’

  ‘Righto. But as you declined to bring a fowling piece, you can’t expect me to catch a ’roo or a wallaby with my bare hands. You’ll have to take pot luck.’

  The doctor’s eyes were laughing beneath the brim of his cabbage-tree hat.

  ‘I’ll leave the solution to your ingenuity, lad. A bush knife should be enough for a seasoned bushman such as yourself, eh?’

  Gordon seated himself on a boulder and soon had his pipe alight.

  Mungo built a campfire then marched off into the bush, whistling a tune as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but aware his boast about living off the land was being put to the test.

  That will teach me to open my big mouth. On my bivouacs as a kid with Father in the Illawarra, he came loaded with gourmet food. The only fish I ever caught was a tiddler. Father threw it back to let it grow.

  In theory Mungo knew how to damn a shallow section of a stream with rocks, the way Aborigines trapped fish, but he decided that payback would be more fun.

  It’s your turn to be put to the test, Doc.

  He made himself a club from a fallen tree branch, shaped it with his knife and went in search of the bush tucker that natives considered a delicacy . . .

  When he returned with his kill he found Gordon stretched out asleep in the shade, his hat over his eyes, his hands folded across his chest – thin white hands with protruding blue veins like those of a much older man. Mungo was reminded of pictures in English history books of life-sized effigies of knights in armour lying stretched on top of their tombstones, their legs crossed at the ankles or knee to indicate how they had died in battle.

  At the sight of Gordon’s prone figure Mungo felt a twinge of guilt for having left him alone for so long.

  Jesus, he could have been brained with a black’s waddy in his sleep. I must take better care of him. If he hadn’t got me assigned to him I’d either be dead – or even crazier than I am now.

  The man was probably no more than thirty-five, but his lungs had betrayed him. There was no knowing what time remained of his allotted span.

  Careful not to disturb his sleep, Mungo dug the top layer of coals from the fire, buried the bush tucker at the bottom of the hole on a layer of palm leaves, covered it with another layer of leaves and heaped hot coals on top. Then he carefully arranged fresh logs to cover the oven lying below ground. He sat back to wait, helping himself to his thinning pouch of tobacco to light his clay pipe.

  The sight of a glass jar sitting on the ground near Gordon’s sleeping form caught him by surprise. The neck was covered by a layer of gauze secured with string. Inside the jar was an amazing turquoise, black and gold butterfly the likes of which he had never seen before.

  So the Doc hasn’t been idle. At least Letitia Logan will be happy.

  The heat of the sun made him warm and soporific, but he was determined to stay fully alert. He knew that in the bush the blacks were past masters at making themselves invisible to the white man – until they chose to confront him.

  Mungo knew that his only weapon, his knife, offered little protection against spears in an ambush. His only chance of defence, if confronted by a group of natives, was to greet them all smiles, offer them his name and his tobacco pouch, and waste no time in inviting them to share his bush tucker. He had experienced the prime rule of hospitality amongst Aboriginal tribes in the Illawarra with his father. He hoped it would be the same amongst the Moreton Bay tribes.

  But the blacks are not too happy about Logan’s explorations on their tribal land – let’s hope they won’t consider Gordon and me payback.

  Mungo allowed the doctor to stir awake in his own time a few hours later.

  ‘Where’s dinner?’ Gordon asked, indicating the embers of the fire that showed no sign of any meal in progress.

  ‘Buried under the coals. The natives down south call it ‘lazy-bed’ cooking. I reckon the principles here are the same. Women and children are served last, the elders of the tribe first. That means you, Doc.’

  ‘Sounds good, to me,’ Gordon said encouragingly. ‘I doubt Captain Logan himself will dine better tonight with his tinned salt beef – he could be camped anywhere. He’s determined to press into hostile native territory on the other side of this river. Whatever else he is – or is not – Logan’s fearless. There’s no stopping him.’

  Mungo was keen to avoid discussion of Logan’s virtues, so busied himself with an improvised fork twisted from fencing wire to prod the coals and test if the flesh was tender enough to eat.

  ‘One other thing, Sean. While we are away from the settlement we can dispense with formality. I’m Sandy to my friends.’

  Mungo found himself looking into the eyes of the man who he felt sure was now his friend.

  ‘Sandy it is.’ Then he announced, ‘I reckon dinner’s ready.’

  Keeping a poker face, he drew from the fire the thick, six-foot-long flesh he had buried in the coals. Casually he brushed excess ashes from its skin. He cut off several equal portions, placing one piece on a crisp green palm leaf shaped like a shell, offering the meal solemnly. ‘I haven’t a clue what Diamond Python tastes like or even if it’s poisonous to eat. But I reckon as the blacks have been enjoying it for centuries, I’m game if you are, Doc.’

  Sandy Gordon blinked but accepted it courteously.

  Mungo was the first to taste it. ‘Hmm, snak
e tastes a bit like slightly tough chook. What do you reckon?’

  Sandy chewed thoughtfully to consider his verdict. ‘I’d say it’s more a cross between chicken – and my Highland grandfather’s old boots.’

  Mungo joined in the laughter and they ate hungrily in companionable silence.

  Sandy brought out the whisky flask and poured two noggins. He handed one to Mungo then stretched out his arm and passed his cup over the water bottle.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘A toast to the Prince across the Water, Bonnie Prince Charlie.’

  ‘But the Pretender died centuries back.’

  ‘Aye, but a Highlander never forgets the memory of Prince Charles Edward Stuart.’

  From the expression in his eyes, Mungo knew the Scot was dead serious.

  Sandy refilled their glasses. ‘What’s for dessert, Sean?’

  Mungo gestured towards the fire. ‘Snake.’

  The man’s throaty cackle was infectious. Whisky warmed them both. Working at Sandy’s side had made Mungo acutely aware of the man’s unspoken thoughts.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Sandy?’

  ‘Patrick Logan. It’s supremely important to him to achieve his goal to complete the survey map of all the country west of the new Brisbane settlement and chart the upper Brisbane River. This expedition may well be his last chance. As you know, his 57th Regiment of Die Hards is due to be transferred to India within weeks.’

  Mungo tried to sound casual. ‘Has the Guv appointed his successor?’

  ‘Aye, a fellow Scotsman. Captain James Oliphant Clunie is waiting to step into the role. Logan’s already named a river in his honour.’

  The whisky had loosened Mungo’s tongue. ‘A man in Logan’s mould?’

  ‘An equally brave officer – but a very different man.’ Sandy’s warning look told Mungo he had pushed his luck as far as he could.

  Sandy broke the tense silence that followed. ‘I believe I know you well enough to invite an honest answer to a difficult question. I believe Logan is now – quite unwell. He’s determined his explorations will make his name. But the man is also obsessed with things he canna change. His favourite horse was lost in the bush on a previous expedition. Logan is obsessed with finding it before his regiment sails for India.’

  Logan’s favourite horse? Jesus, is the man human after all?

  Sandy continued, clearly concerned. ‘Logan’s under enormous pressure. His wife recently miscarried another babe. Only last year Darling threatened to replace him as Commandant. Although he’s back in favour, Logan’s up to his eyeballs in debt. You would nae credit how poorly he’s paid compared to other Commandants in charge of far fewer prisoners. Even his new assistant surgeon young Murray is paid far more than him. All in all I suspect Logan’s close to cracking.’

  Mungo remained silent. You can’t expect me to feel sympathy on that score.

  Sandy came to the point. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d level with me in confidence. Have you seen or heard any evidence of Logan’s strange behaviour?’

  ‘Nothing that would stand up in a court of law.’ Mungo decided he had little to lose. ‘Something I witnessed myself. No one else saw it. I came across Logan, alone on horseback. He didn’t see me. We both saw the ragged figure half-hidden in the bush. He looked like one of the bolters absconded from the settlement. At the sight of him, Logan ordered him to stop. The convict was unarmed. He slowly approached Logan’s horse, reached out his emaciated arm – and grabbed hold of Logan’s stirrups.’

  ‘Aye, so how did Logan react?’

  ‘His face blanched. He recognised the man and called him by name. I saw the terror in Logan’s eyes.’

  ‘Why? Logan is always armed.’

  ‘Because the convict just smiled at him – then disappeared.’

  ‘Into the bush?’

  ‘No. The man was a bolter who was recaptured on that same spot weeks before. Logan, as Magistrate, had sentenced him to five hundred lashes. What Logan saw was his ghost.’

  Sandy leaned forward. ‘How can you be sure it was his ghost?’

  ‘Because Logan and I both recognised him. I witnessed Stimson being flogged to death. I helped bury him.’

  The silence was broken only by the soft, mysterious sounds of the bush.

  ‘We Highlanders do not discount the power of dead men to haunt the living – when they have due cause. But why did you never tell me this?’

  Mungo’s words rushed out. ‘How could I expect you to believe me? For months I’ve been half-crazy, hallucinating. After I’d been in the hole for God knows how long, I began to talk to dead people. And they talked to me.’

  Sandy gave a silent nod of encouragement.

  Mungo laughed at himself. ‘It wasn’t all bad! A beautiful girl comes to me. I know she’s only in my mind – but she kept me alive. So why should you believe me about Logan – knowing how I wish the bastard dead?’

  Mungo’s voice cracked and he screened his face. He felt the cool sensation of metal against his skin and looked up to see Sandy’s eyes moist with sympathy as he pushed the flask into Mungo’s hands. ‘Get this into you, lad. It will help you sleep.’

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, Sandy made his way to his sleeping bag.

  Mungo drained the whisky and lay staring at the stars. ‘Goodnight, girl. I’ll find you one day.’ He waited. But she did not come to him.

  • • •

  The night was pitch black when Mungo awoke, half-drunk but senses alert to the presence of an unseen figure. His hands curled around the knife he kept under his pillow, aware that it offered little protection against a waddy in the event of an attack.

  Mungo’s heart beat a rapid tattoo as he stammered out, ‘Who’s there?’

  A slight rustle of leaves sounded from the direction of a Scribbly Gum tree. A hazy light beside the tree slowly merged into a soft grey outline of wisps of smoke in the shape of a man. It wasn’t Stimson.

  Mungo found his voice. ‘What are you doing here? You didn’t cop a sentence to Moreton Bay.’

  ‘Unlike you, I played my cards right, Mungo.’

  ‘My name’s Sean O’Connor here, for Chrissake!’

  ‘Don’t worry, cock. No one but you can hear me.’

  Will Eden was leaning against the Scribbly Gum, his features as distinct as the finely traced markings on the tree trunk that looked like a child’s first attempts at writing. He wore that confident smirk that Mungo knew only too well.

  ‘What’s so bloody funny?’ Mungo demanded.

  ‘We both got what we wanted. I wanted to die rather than be sent here. You wanted to live.’

  ‘You call this living?’

  ‘I know it’s been tough, but your days at Moreton Bay are numbered, cock.’

  ‘Yeah, Stimson warned me about a murder. My own, is it?’

  ‘That’s up to you. I came to apologise for stealing your boots.’ Will gestured to the leather boots that were so highly polished they shone through the darkness.

  ‘I’d have given them to you if you’d asked. You didn’t have to fight me.’

  ‘Try and understand. I wanted to look decent when I made my final speech from the gallows. Knowing that sweet girl would be there to say goodbye to me.’

  ‘Yeah, she kept her promise. How could I forget?’ Mungo said flatly. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I came to warn you. You have a choice. No lies, no cheating.’

  ‘Look who’s talking. It was our dodgy scheme that got me here. Conning the Gentry into buying shares in a goldmine on a South Sea island none of us had ever seen.’

  Will looked philosophical. ‘It wasn’t our fault a volcano blew its top and the island sank without trace. But that’s history now. Don’t blow your last chance to get out of here alive. You could get a year chopped off your sentence – and be home by Christmas – unless . . .’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Remember what the Bible says, ‘ “Revenge is mine sayeth the Lord!”’

 
‘Jesus, you sound like you copped a dose of religion at last.’

  ‘I’ll ignore that. Goodbye for now, cock.’

  ‘Hell, you can’t say stuff like that and just cut and run!’

  Mungo called out but his words had no effect. Will Eden was fading fast. Mungo’s lost boots were the first to dissolve, then the rest of Will’s outline shimmered and evaporated like smoke.

  Mungo had an ironic final thought before he rolled over into a deep sleep.

  You always were a tricky bastard, Will Eden. But I reckon it takes one to know one . . .’

  Chapter 9

  Today was a red-letter day and Vianna was eager to reach their destination. The first stage of the route to Eliza Point was familiar, as she had regularly passed this way for her portrait sittings in Jean-Baptiste Bonnard’s studio.

  When her new carriage suddenly veered off onto the private road that Captain John Piper had built in 1826, she knew she would soon see Henrietta Villa, the celebrated mansion that was a landmark for vessels entering Port Jackson, being the first house sighted inside Sydney Heads. European visitors to the Colony claimed that the view from Eliza Point was one of the finest the world had to offer.

  Vianna knew that Piper’s lavish hospitality in this mansion had entered into legend, and as its creator he was still known as ‘The Prince of Australia’, despite his fall from grace. The collapse of his fortune and loss of his appointment as Controller of Customs had reduced him to rural life on his last remaining estate, Alloway Bank, outside Bathurst on the far side of the Blue Mountains.

  Vianna was startled by a lurch of the carriage to avoid the trunk of a giant eucalypt that must have crashed during the recent storm. Blewitt’s stream of foul language from up front caused Severin to raise an amused eyebrow. Vianna tried to disguise her intense distrust of the brute who Severin had assigned as her bodyguard.

  ‘It appears that your man Blewitt is none too pleased to do double duty as my coachman, Severin,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s his choice. Either obey my orders or face the murder charges he escaped in London – thanks to me,’ Severin said languidly. ‘From today onwards you will never be free to appear in public without him.’