The Far Horizon (5 page)

As soon as Admiral de Courcy heard about the sick soldiers on the
Hindustan,
all were lifted off the ship and placed in the hospital at St Sebastian. The hospital had once been a nobleman's house, the rooms spacious and airy.

Every day Lachlan visited the soldiers in the hospital. All were comfortable, all spoke favourably of their treatment by the Portuguese, but none were well enough to return to ship.

‘Another week,’ Lachlan told them. ‘That is all the time we can spare you. After that, we must continue our journey to New South Wales.’

*

New South Wales, and the mutiny that had taken place there, was a subject that occupied most of Lachlan's thoughts in the following days. The only information he possessed regarding the state of the colony was the same as that known in London. He had not expected to discover any further information until reaching the Cape of Good Hope. And even there, he thought the prospect of any news was doubtful.

But now a trading vessel from Sydney, en route to England, had docked at Rio de Janeiro. It carried two passengers, a Mr Jameson and a Mr Harris.

Admiral de Courcy provided a small boat and sent both men over to the
Dromedary
to report to General Macquarie.

Mr Harris, a short, pompous-mannered man, talked the most, eager to impress, but it was Mr Jameson who gave all the information.

Governor Bligh, who was supposed to be under military house arrest, had managed to escape and board his own ship, the
Porpoise
, and set sail for England.

Two of the leaders of the rebellion, Major Johnston and John McArthur, had also sailed for England, determined to lay their version of the mutiny alongside those of Captain Bligh.

Jameson then told Lachlan something else about New South Wales – something very important. The officers who had instigated the mutiny against Governor Bligh had proved to possess little experience of organising a settlement on any practical or economic level. The government storehouses were almost empty, all forms of price restraint had collapsed, and a flood from the Blue Mountains had destroyed the crops.

A new Governor and a new regiment might restore control, but what good was that when the colony faced the possibility of starvation? Many of the convicts were indeed starving. And since the mutiny, England had sent no money to support the Government of New South Wales.

‘The reason for that, Mr Jameson, is because there is no official Government in New South Wales, only a band of mutineers.’

‘Who have proved to be very bad managers,’ Jameson said. ‘The soldiers are almost in as bad a state as the convicts. With no Government money, no cloth could be bought to replace old uniforms. And the shoes that are usually handed out from the Government store to the soldiers and convicts are long gone now. All used up and no money to buy more. It's a disgraceful sight, sir, uniforms in tatters and shoes held together with string.’

Lachlan sat back in utter dismay. How could soldiers in ragged uniforms ever command authority or respect!

He looked intently at Jameson. ‘And you, sir? Why are
you
leaving New South Wales?’

‘Me?’ Jameson seemed taken aback at the question. ‘Why, I'm doing what most free settlers eventually do. I'm returning home – back to a civilised country where a gentleman doesn't have to breathe the same air as felons. Five long years I've been in that country of thieves, and that's enough.’

After a pause, Jameson went on, ‘Five years is longer than any Governor has stayed. Bligh lasted less than two. Even Governor King –’

‘Thank you, Mr Jameson,’ Lachlan said, his tone making it clear that the subject of past governors was now closed.

*

It was almost evening the following day when Jameson’s name was mentioned again, this time by George Jarvis, who had been ashore to deliver a letter from Lachlan to Sir James Gamlin, the British Consul.

Lachlan was standing on deck watching the trading vessel with its two passengers from Sydney sailing smoothly out of the harbour of Rio de Janeiro, bound for England.

‘Mr Jameson,’ said George, handing Lachlan a letter. ‘Is he the one who told you about the starving convicts and soldiers in bad shoes?’

Lachlan opened Sir James's letter of reply. ‘Yes, Mr Jameson.’

‘Yes, it was him I saw.’ George said. ‘The one who left your cabin as I entered, the one who said it was his pleasure as a
gentleman
to be of help to you.’

‘George, speak sense.’

‘Him – Mr Jameson,’ George explained. ‘I saw him this morning in the market at St Sebastian. He was selling crate-loads of merchandise to the traders. "From New South Wales," he told them. The money they paid him was very good.’

‘Selling?’ Lachlan looked at him curiously. ‘What was he selling?'

‘Shoes,' George answered. ‘Two crate-loads of men's new shoes.’

Lachlan stood in silence, his eyes distant on the departing trading vessel, cruising away with all sails full, bound for England, and carrying a handsome profit made by two gentleman from New South Wales.

George continued: ‘I don't know if it was Mr Harris, but a second man later joined Jameson. A small man who acted like a nabob, and he too began selling – boxes of men's “colonial-made boots and stockings – from New South Wales”.’

Lachlan remained silent. He turned slowly and gazed over the decks of the
Dromedary
. Most of his own soldiers were on leave ashore, but the ship's sailors were to be seen everywhere aboard. He looked up, head back, and watched a figure skimming fearlessly up the mainmast, probably to carry out some small repair.

Finally, he looked aft at the blue and white uniforms of the officers on the poop deck, then said, ‘See those officers there, George, they also claim to be gentlemen. They enter the Navy as gentlemen and they live and mess as gentlemen. Their duties and responsibilities are far different to the common seaman. And they have a saying ... “We officers are gentleman, we never pull a rope.”'

He looked at George. ‘So it's odd, isn't it, that two men who loudly profess to be
gentlemen
should spend their morning selling shoes in the St Sebastian market. Crates of shoes and boots that must have come from the Government stores in Sydney, intended for provision to soldiers.’

‘So, you are saying – ’

‘I am
thinking
, George, that the line in New South Wales might not be so clearly drawn. If our two visitors are an example, I may find it hard to know where a felon ends and a gentleman begins.’

*

Captain Pritchard had been unwell for days. At dinner the following evening he appeared unable to eat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said finally, ‘if you will excuse me...’

Lachlan rose from his seat. ‘Do you need a doctor?’

Pritchard shook his head. He had never trusted doctors, and wasn't about to start now. ‘Useless drunkards most of ‘em!’

‘Surely someone should escort you to your cabin,’ Elizabeth said, but all offers of help were brushed aside.

‘When I am unwell,’ the captain said irritably, ‘I prefer to be left entirely to myself.’

He returned to his cabin and his bed, leaving his passengers very uneasy about his condition. As each hour passed the change in his personality was a revelation. From a solid, calm and pleasant man in health, Captain Pritchard metamorphosed into a cantankerous old goat when sick.

Having claimed a preference to be left alone, he kept two or three servants busily employed answering his calls hour after hour, attempting to attend to his needs, only to be roared at again and again that he did ‘
not like to be touched!
’

At midnight his servants were rescued from their exhausted confusion by the arrival of General Macquarie.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Captain,’ Lachlan said with a quiet gentleness. ‘I just came to find out, at which hour of the night, do you intend to allow the rest of us to sleep?’

‘It's well for you that you
can
sleep!’ Pritchard roared. ‘Your cabins are bigger and more comfortable than mine!’

Lachlan glanced around the captain's sleeping cabin which was indeed very confined, and must be even moreso when the servants were in attendance.

‘It's the blasted guns!’ Pritchard roared. ‘I told you, sir, this ship is a man-of-war. And because of that I must share my sleeping compartment with an eight-pounder cannon!’

He grunted sourly. ‘The reason being, of course, that some guns had to be removed and found storage space in order to provide spacious and comfortable accommodation for yourself and Mrs Macquarie.’

‘In that case,’ Lachlan said, ‘allow me to offer you the comfort of my own cabin, at least while you are ill.’

‘Oh that
would
be a blessing!’ Pritchard cried. ‘More space for my servants and more air for me.’ He wiped at the sweat on his face. ‘But where will
you
sleep?’

‘With my wife.’

Lachlan studied the shocked expression on the captain's face. ‘It's not unusual, you know, for a man to sleep with his wife.’

‘It's something I have never done at sea,’ Pritchard replied sourly; and as his wife always remained at their home in Portsmouth, Lachlan fully understood why.

Lachlan turned to George Jarvis who was standing by the door. ‘The captain is removing temporarily to my cabin, George. Make the arrangements with his servants, will you. And send for his first lieutenant.’

I can't walk,’ Pritchard said sullenly. ‘Legs are gone. Ceased up without warning. Rheumatism is as big a curse to a seaman's legs as rot is to a ship's hull.’

Nor would he allow any of his own men to carry him, not even his servants. ‘I don't like them to
touch
me! Makes them familiar, lessens their respect! In his own ship a captain must always be king! At least to his crew!’

‘Some soldiers, then?’ Lachlan suggested, inwardly admiring his own patience.

‘Not soldiers! Too clumsy. I don't want to be trundled about like a cannon.'

Captain Pritchard cocked an eye. ‘What about your own servants, General? Are any strong enough to haul me forward without damaging my hull?’

‘Very well,’ Lachlan agreed patiently, ‘I’ll send for some of own my servants.’ He turned to George. ‘See if Joseph Bigg is awake, and if not wake him and – ’

‘What about
him
?’ Pritchard interrupted curiously, pointing a finger at George. ‘He don’t look like no ruffian but he’s still a servant isn’t he?’

George offered Lachlan a careless smile, but Lachlan’s tone to Pritchard was cold. ‘No, sir, he is not a servant. He is a member of my family.’

‘What?’ Captain Pritchard looked astounded. ‘But he’s a brownie! An Arab of some sort – ’

‘Who may as well help you to get some sleep,’ George concluded, giving Lachlan a significant look conveying his lack of offence at the captain’s understandable ignorance. ‘Will you let me help you, sir?’

‘There, see, I knew you were a good `un,’ said Captain Pritchard sitting up in his bed, ‘as refined as any white man. Now
you
take me by my top half, and leave my feet to the other servants.’

Inside her cabin Elizabeth lay in her berth, leaning up on one elbow, her expression disbelieving as George Jarvis and Joseph Bigg carried the captain through the mess-cabin to his new sleeping quarters, still shouting as many orders as he had breath to voice.

‘Avast! Avast!
Avast!
’

‘Bloody ‘ell, what does that mean?’ she heard Joseph Bigg exclaim frustratedly.

‘Stop,’ she heard George reply. ‘Avast is naval language for stop, Joseph.’

‘Look, stop wittering and
avast
heaving I say!’ Pritchard roared. ‘Have a care for my larboard side! Now hoist together. Hold on … hold on – you
must
heave me in at the larboard side! Now hoist! Now slew me round to starboard! Steady...
steady
…’

Some minutes later, Lachlan wearily stepped through the adjoining door and looked bleakly at Elizabeth, the captain's voice behind him, still haranguing George Jarvis and Joseph Bigg. Nothing anyone did or said could please him.

Lachlan pulled the door firmly shut behind him. ‘At least he is now bedded.’

‘Is he to remain here with us throughout his illness?’

‘I'm afraid so.’

She buried her face into the pillow as the captain's voice roared on.

Lachlan untied his neckcloth and sat down on the berth beside her. ‘This,’ he said tiredly, ‘has been a very bad night.’

She sat up and put her lips to his shoulder. ‘My poor darling,’ she murmured.

He glanced at her. As usual she had taken down her bronze hair and brushed it, long and loose, over the shoulders of her white nightgown. She did not look like the Elizabeth of the day. In the day, in the eyes of all watchers, she was always the strait-laced and sensible Elizabeth. But once in the privacy of their rooms, that side of her known only to him unfolded itself.