[Barry W. Metcalf]

Prologue: Flight

"Don't be bloody ridiculous, old chum. My intention wasn't to put you down. I was only trying to assist you with your studies." James Metcalf stared out the window of the tiny apartment he shared with Nigel Smythe and watched the sleet slant down on the cobblestones of the deserted street below. James detested cold and rain.

Although mid March, winter continued to hold Paris in its icy grip. James longed to see the sun, feel its warmth on his body; but it appeared as though his best prospects lay, in this early part of 1821, in concentrating all his energies on his studies. He wondered today as he often did, whether there was more to life than studying medicine.

"Did I ask for your help?" Nigel stood in the middle of the room, several sheets of paper clenched in his fists. He was so furious, his thin face was red, and he trembled from head to toe, almost as if he'd developed a fever.

"Ah, but you did, my good man." James turned from the window and, leaning against the window seat, folded his arms across his chest. Unruffled by the disagreement, every hair on his head was in place and his long sideburns were clipped and neat. His white shirt with its high, starched collar and cravat was clean and fresh-looking as were his yellow-and-white, striped breaches and tan gaiters. His olive green cutaway coat lay over the back of a chair, for a crackling fire in the hearth warmed the room, making the outer garment unnecessary. "You wanted my opinion on the paper you'd prepared for Professor Lumiere. I gave it."

"I wanted your opinion, yes." Nigel raised one fist and shook the crushed pages at his fellow student. His clothes, similar to those worn by James, were crumpled and in disarray, as if he'd slept in them. His dark mop of unruly hair stuck out from his head at odd angles. Nigel had been out for most of the night, carousing, and had dashed off his treatise in the early hours of the morning. He had been without sleep for more than twenty-four hours and looked distraught and close to exhaustion. "What I didn't want was a critique, outlining all the errors in my findings."

James smiled, fresh from a good night's sleep and a change of clothes. He and Nigel often engaged in such heated debates on a wide range of topics. The trouble with Nigel was that he left everything until the last minute, always rushing his written assignments. When his tutors made comments that reflected on the shoddiness of his work, Nigel always blamed someone or something else for his slipshod work. James attempted to help whenever Nigel requested it, but nothing he did seemed good enough for his roommate of two years.

"I only pointed out what the professor will undoubtedly find wrong with the piece when you submit it tomorrow," said James. "If you work on it this evening, you can hand in a much-improved dissertation, something you can be proud of. You can't possibly hope to become a doctor if you don't pay attention to details."

"Damn you, James!" Nigel threw the pages onto the floor. "You know very well I have a dinner appointment with a lady friend this evening."

James' smile grew bigger.

"Ah, yes, the lovely Yvette. Perhaps I could have dinner with her while you work on your submission."

"I saw her first!" Nigel balled his fists. His eyes bulged from their sockets. He glared at James from beneath heavy, beetling brows.

Although the two young men had known each other for many years, the subject of girls was one over which the debates often grew heated. The fairer sex seemed more attracted to James than to Nigel, the latter more often than not finding himself entertaining those whom James had passed over. What infuriated Nigel most, however, were those who agreed to go out with him in order to get close to James.

"Indeed you did, my friend, but I somehow think it's my charm and good looks she's interested in, not yours." James licked a finger and traced it across his eyebrows as if to straighten them. It was a gesture designed to annoy Nigel more.

"You arrogant fool! Not only do you wish to steal my ideas and denigrate my work, but you wish to steal the woman I love." Nigel, his jaw thrust forward, took a step towards James.

James laughed.

"Love?" he said. "You really call what you feel for the lovely Yvette, love? Was it the same with the other girls you've escorted around town the last few months? Let me see...there was Mimi...Brigitte...Marie...Suze tte..." James counted them off on his fingers. "Were you in love with all of them...or was it nothing more than lust?" James turned again to face the window, his mind pondering the consequences of the dismal weather outside.

James adored Paris in spring, when the flowers were in full bloom and the ladies' fancies turned to romance. In spring, there was never a lack of flirtatious, giggling lovelies to be encountered wandering through the many parks and gardens. He also loved summer, when everyone lolled around on green lawns, listless, seeking shelter from the heat of day. In summer, the ladies wore little under their dresses, making quick dalliances all the more probable and involving less risk of being caught. Although James enjoyed autumn, when the damsels sought to frolic and gambol amid the thick carpets of orange and yellow leaves, the sudden showers often dampened the ardour and passion of many a young miss. And, too, autumn carried with it a chill in the air, as the days grew shorter and winter approached.

It was winter James found hard to take. Cold and wet and miserable, even the whores avoided the streets. Young women stayed indoors with their families, sitting by roaring fires, sewing or reading and making it impossible for a young man-about-town to pay them the attention they deserved.

"I've had enough of your taunts," growled Nigel, his voice rumbling like an enraged bear, interrupting his friend's musings. Nigel leapt towards James. As he passed the table, Nigel snatched up his roommate's wooden cane and raised it above his head. "I'll teach you some respect, if it's the last thing I do."

From behind James, Nigel brought the heavy stick down with all his strength. In the act of turning, James caught sight of Nigel's reflection in the darkened glass. With sudden realisation, James moved his head to the side. The blow, aimed for his skull, landed on his shoulder. As he reeled under the pain from its impact, James completed his turn and reached for the weapon.

Nigel raised the cane again. James clutched it before it descended, and the two men struggled, each trying to gain supremacy over the other.

"I'll teach you to steal my women." Nigel, his face contorted in a snarl, hauled back on the stick, attempting to break James' hold.

"Don't be such a bloody fool." James, his shoulder aflame with agony, tugged in the other direction, refusing to relinquish his grip lest Nigel strike him again and this time inflict greater injury.

Back and forth the duo seesawed, first one in ascendancy, then the other. Both men were of a similar, slender build and of comparable strength. Nigel, however, angry beyond reason, fought with the fury of a tiger and the cunning of a jackal. He forced James backwards, towards the window. James' heels struck the side of the window seat, and he lost his balance. He sat with a thump, his fingers slipping from around the cane.

Nigel, exerting all of his strength to regain control of the stick, lunged backwards as James relinquished his grip. Propelled by the impetus of his own actions, Nigel staggered, arms waving like windmills. Half way across the room his heel caught on a corner of the rug and he fell, his shoulders striking the hearth. His head lodged inside the fireplace. Nigel cursed, the sound a combination of anger and pain. Flames licked at his face and hair.

The cane, which had flown from Nigel's hands, struck the mantelpiece. It smashed a bottle of cognac from which the two had been drinking earlier. James, in the act of climbing to his feet, watched in horror as the spirits spilled over Nigel's upper body, adding further fuel to the flames.

Nigel's curses turned to screams of agony. He scabbled onto his hands and knees and backed from the fireplace. A mass of red and yellow tongues covered his head and back. The pungent smell of burning hair and flesh filled the apartment.

James dashed across the room, his eyes searching for something with which to smother the fire. He spied his coat. Dragging it from the back of the chair, James threw the garment over Nigel's head and commenced beating on the flames, snuffing them out with his hands where the coat did not cover them.

Nigel had slumped to the floor. No longer screaming, his body was wracked with convulsions. Each time another spasm shook his frame, tiny sounds like a kitten mewling issued from his throat.

"Nigel," said James. "Can you hear me?" There was no response. "Nigel, old son, I'm going to roll you over. I have to take a look at your burns."

Careful not to touch Nigel's head or shoulders, James turned his friend onto his back. All the flames had been extinguished, but Nigel's face was black and charred, except around the eyes and mouth, which stood out as if painted red. He no longer possessed hair as such, just a few clumps of singed wool that stuck out at odd angles. Much of Nigel's shirt had been burned away, exposing more seared flesh below the chin. Nigel's eyes, pain-filled and red-rimmed stared up at James, begging him for assistance.

"Hold on, old man," said James, unable to hide the anguish he felt from his voice, "I'll get help...get you to a hospital as fast as possible."

**********

Despite the pitching seas that battered the 'Minstrel' from stem to stern, James Metcalf lay on his bunk attempting to sleep. For two days and nights heavy squalls had lashed the sailing vessel, making it almost impossible for passengers to stand, or to partake of a meal without the food sliding or slopping from their bowls and plates. Not that James had felt much like eating since setting sail from Catherine Docks. But he did wish to sleep. Anything to relieve him of the horrific memories of the accident that had led to Nigel's death.

Somehow, despite the less-than-favourable conditions, on the second day after leaving port, James drifted into a fitful slumber. But the peace of mind he sought eluded him.

In repeated nightmares, he relived the scenes at his Paris apartment: Nigel toppling backwards and landing with his head in the fire; the cognac spilling over him, further igniting the flames; James smothering the fire with his coat and hands; gazing down at his friend's blackened face and red, staring eyes, the request for help displayed with such pathos within their depths.

James writhed on the bed beneath the single blanket, hearing the French doctor's voice echo over and over inside his head. "I'm so sorry, monsieur. We did everything we could. Unfortunately, your friend...how you say it...breathed in too much of the hot air and other gases. The tissues in his lungs were seared and he couldn't breathe. He died several minutes ago on the operating table."

Then followed the police enquiry, the gendarmes with their little moustaches and sallow faces, hammering him with questions, trying to make him admit he'd killed Nigel in a jealous rage. James had denied doing so. He had stipulated that his friend's death had been nothing more than a freak accident. But a neighbour had come forward to testify how she had heard the two young men's raised voices quarrelling over a woman.

Believing that he was bound for a French prison for a crime he had not committed, James had fled, with little more than the clothes on his back and the money his father had given him to pay for his tuition. He had paid a French fisherman to ferry him across the English Channel in the dead of night and had returned to the family home in Lincolnshire.

After listening to James' tale, his father had insisted James go to the local authorities and attempt to clear his name; but James, young and headstrong would have none of it, and he begged his father for help. The older man had handed over all the gold sovereigns he could lay his hands on at such short notice. Despite his father's protestations and his mother's tears, James had booked passage to Van Diemen's Land, as far away from officialdom as he could get.

But he could not outrun his conscience. The night passed, the nightmare repeating itself in flickering images like those displayed in the flipbooks he'd owned as a child.

When James awoke on the third morning, the storm had dissipated. The sky remained cloudy, but the sea was calmer and the gale-force wind had dropped. The 'Minstrel' no longer fought the Atlantic Ocean but flowed with it, as one with the elements. For the first time since the voyage had begun, James climbed the steps to the deck and stood at the rail, watching the flying fish frolic beside the vessel.

Other passengers, rugged up in coats, hats and scarves to combat the chill that lingered in the air, stood at various vantage points, enjoying the view. Some sat on hatchways, perusing single-sheet newspapers they'd purchased just prior to boarding the ship. Over by a companionway, James could hear a group playing musical instruments and singing bawdy songs popular in the musical halls of London. Children darted, chasing one another, content to play around the masts and up and down the stairs.

James felt wretched, having not slept properly. His heart was heavy at having left his family and homeland for some faraway, barbaric land about which he knew almost nothing. Not long ago he had turned twenty-three, the age when he should have had a promising future open up before him. Now, he felt as though his life was over. Certainly, his studies at the Sorbonne were finished, as was his career as a doctor. Only part way through his training, he considered himself a failure.

And Nigel's accusing eyes continued to burn into his brain. He knew he would see them forever.

"A penny for your thoughts," a soft, feminine voice interrupted his misery.

James dragged his gaze from the sea and its carefree life forms and turned to see who'd spoken. Not in the mood for company, a terse reply hovered on the tip of his tongue. It died as he beheld the beauty who had appeared at his elbow.

She wore an orange-and-fawn striped dress with full sleeves, the white cuffs of which were trimmed with lace. Tight at the waist, the full skirt fell all the way to the decking, hiding her shoes. The top half of the bodice was fashioned from gathered, white linen, the circular collar of which sat low on her shoulders. Around her neck, she wore a light gold chain from which dangled a cameo brooch. On her head, and only partly covering her light brown hair, sat a pale yellow-and-tan hat adorned with light blue ribbons and bows. A tan shawl lay, draped over her upper arms, offering some protection from the cool air.

"I said 'a penny for your thoughts'," she said again, a smile tugging at the corners of her small, delicate mouth.

"I...er...well...that is..." James found it impossible to fashion a coherent sentence. He swallowed several times in the hope of finding his voice.

Her smile faded a little, and she threw her head back in a show of haughty distain.

"Of course," she said, her voice taking on an injured tone, "if you'd rather not be interrupted..." She started to walk away.

"No...wait," said James, still struggling to form coherent words. He stepped from the railing and reached out to touch her arm. "I didn't mean to be rude."

She paused, as elegant as a Rembrandt painting. Turning only her head, she looked over her shoulder at James. The breeze lifted the long lengths of ribbon, trailing them out from her hat. Her hazel eyes, when they met his, seemed to contain a hint of amusement.

"I do apologise." James released her arm and studied the poetry of her movements, as she turned front on to him again. Her neck, accentuated by the low-cut bodice, appeared to stretch forever, imparting the grace of a swan. "You must excuse my lack of manners. I'm suffering over a...a bereavement...and..." he blurted.

"A loved one? A woman, perhaps?"

Again James detected the hint of a smile around her mouth and in her eyes. He shook his head.

"Not a woman...but a close friend. He and I..."

This time, she reached out a hand and touched his arm.

"I didn't mean to pry," she said. "Oh my! What must you think of my manners? After all, we've not been formally introduced. You don't even know my name, and we probably shouldn't even be speaking to one another." She lowered her lashes, as if embarrassed by her own boldness.

"No," said James. "I don't think you're rude. As for introductions..." He looked around them and held out his hands. They were alone on this part of the deck. Those seated or standing nearby were engrossed in their own activities. "Who do we know aboard this stout vessel who might do what protocol requires?"

"No one, I guess," she said. She sounded unsure. "Perhaps...perhaps we should take matters into our own hands. After all, from what I do already hear about this penal colony to which we are headed, the social niceties, as our society understands them, are said not to exist. Add to this the fact that our voyage shall occupy some months, I can see no alternative but to introduce ourselves...I am called Maria Canney. And I hail from Kent."

James placed his right forearm on his waist and bowed.

"James Metcalf," he said. "I hail from West Halton, County of Lincolnshire."

The tension broken, both James and Maria laughed.

**********

Sunlight streaming from a clear, blue sky fell on the head and shoulders of James and Maria Metcalf. They stood at the rails of the 'Minstrel', watching the flurry of activity as the captain and his crew manoeuvred the vessel towards Hobart Town, situated at the mouth of a wide river.

On either side of them, other passengers had gathered, each desperate for a first glimpse of their new homeland. Hats, coats and scarves had all been cast aside, no longer necessary beneath the heat of the December sun.

Seamen clambered up and down the rigging, furling squares of canvas and lashing them into place. Ropes were made fast to hitching points on the sturdy bases of the masts, and men shouted to one another from various points on the decks and above. Everywhere echoed the sounds and sights of enthusiastic activity and excitement.

After eight months at sea, their ship had arrived in Van Diemen's Land.

James smiled as his body soaked up the warmth from the sun and his mind fed on the fervour surrounding them. He found it hard to believe that more than half a year had passed since he'd booked passage and fled from England. Even harder to believe was the fact that he had married a woman he'd met for the first time at the beginning of that voyage. Looking back on it now, it seemed like some sort of dream rather than reality. At least it wasn't a nightmare, like the one that had haunted him since Nigel's death. And in many ways, the arrival of Maria into his life had lessened the impact and horror of those dark memories.

After their first meeting, he and Maria had spent considerable time together. The ship wasn't large, and avoiding one another was never a simple matter. Always easy in the company of women, James found himself confiding in his fellow passenger, telling her his life story. When he related the events surrounding Nigel's death, she had held him and dabbed away his tears.

That Maria, too, felt relaxed in his company was evident from how she opened up to him.

She explained how a suitor had jilted her, running off and marrying her best friend a few days shy of their wedding day. Her parents were dead, and she possessed neither brothers nor sisters. Alone, suffering from a broken heart, she had decided to start a new life in the colonies. She had spent what little money she possessed on her passage. In many ways, the similarity of their situations drew them closer together.

Less than a month later, James declared his love for Maria. She had shown neither surprise nor anger at his outpourings and had accepted his proposal with just the faintest touch of a blush on her cheeks and a lowering of her eyelashes. Seeing no point in delaying the matter further, they had asked Captain Barnes to marry them.

The captain and James had prevailed on another passenger, the man with whom James shared a cabin, to give up his berth in favour of the newlyweds. The man had been reluctant until James sweetened the pot by slipping him a few coins. After dining with the captain, the latter had toasted James' and Maria's good fortune with a bottle of his best rum, and the honeymooners had celebrated by retiring early.

The remainder of the voyage had been speedy and uneventful. The fair weather held as they crossed the equator and after they rounded the Cape of Good Hope. When they reached the roaring forties, a strong westerly helped speed them on their way.

Seven months after their wedding, the lookout sighted the coast of Van Diemen's Land. For the past week, the sky had been as cloud-free and the air as warm as today.

James rested his elbows on the top rail, soaking up his first view of this strange, yet picturesque coastline. A slight breeze ruffled his dark brown hair and fanned his face. He felt a tingle of excitement flow through him at the thought of a new adventure about to begin. Mingled with this was the hint of a knot in the pit of his stomach, a minor lingering fear that even so far from civilisation, the authorities might yet reach out to punish him.

Was it possible for them to locate him, thousands of miles from France? He hoped not. He knew that, if anyone came looking for him, they would be seeking a single man, not someone married, with a child well on the way. Perhaps his good fortune in meeting Maria would prove to be his salvation.

Shutting these thoughts from his mind, he studied the shore as the 'Minstrel' glided over the serene waters towards Hobart Town.

The cove was filled with numerous square-rigged vessels; most lay at anchor; but several sailed past them, headed towards the open sea. James found it difficult to believe how busy the harbour appeared. He noted a barque, typical of those used by the East India Company, a two-sail schooner, a tropical schooner, a brig, a sloop and several launches under sail. As well as this, there were a multitude of small vessels bobbing at moorings or plying their way through the swell.

But it was towards the land where his main interest lay.

A scattered collection of one- and two-storey stone buildings stretched from the ocean's edge up into the foothills of a medium-sized, flat-topped mountain. Clustered together close to the shore, their number diminished as they climbed the rolling hills. The lowlands and hillsides were covered with lush, green grasses and thick with timber. James marvelled at how different the greens looked and how vibrant and alive the colours appeared compared to the dull hues of his homeland. He pondered the strangeness of the vegetation visible from the ship's deck, for the leaves of the trees seemed tired and heavy, as if beaten into submission by the heat from the sun.

Not much of a town, he thought, compared to England's bustling streets and overcrowded houses. Rather more of a settlement. James smiled, deciding he quite liked the look of this wild, unexplored land. He felt Maria slip her hand beneath his upper arm and body and squeeze.

James glanced down into her smiling face, then let his eyes rest on her rounded belly, heavy with their child. Maria's face, too, was flushed with excitement. James wondered what kind of a life their child might have, here in this wilderness. He knew it would know freedom and sunshine.

His mind returned to England. It would be Christmas in eight days' time. He wondered whether the first snows had fallen, coating everything in a layer of white. James looked up at the sky. Not much chance of snow here, not in this heat. He wiped a hand across his sweaty brow. How strange Christmas would seem without snow covering the ground? Did this hot climate ever experience frost and ice, like in Lincolnshire?

"That there's called Table Mountain," said someone from behind them. James turned to face the owner of the voice. John Rockcliffe, a merchant and fellow traveller, had joined them. John had been introduced to James by Captain Barnes, the latter describing Rockcliffe as a man of some prominence in the fledgling colony. "In winter its peak is covered with snow."

"It gets cold here, then?" asked Maria.

"Yes, but not as cold as in England," said John. His smile was expansive and filled with self-importance. James had already discovered the man enjoyed displaying his knowledge of the colony. "See that imposing brick building...the one with the flat roof and the two cannons aimed in this direction?" John raised his hand and pointed as he spoke. "Part way along that wide street."

James squinted against the glare of the sun, his eyes following the line indicated by John's arm.

"Yes," said James. "Although I would have thought the building too grand to serve as barracks for soldiers."

John laughed, the sound full of hidden meaning.

"That's not a military building, son. That's a house, and it belongs to a fellow merchant, Thomas Birch."

"He must be very rich," said Maria.

"Some say the richest man in the colony."

"Then why the cannon?" asked James. "What's he protecting?"

"Himself," said John and laughed again. "If you ask him, he'll tell you it's to deter the French should they decide to annex this little island for themselves. The truth is, he has no faith in the New South Wales Government."

"Are the French a problem, then?" asked James.

John spat over the rail into the sea.

"Na! The Frenchies lost interest in this place years ago...they'd been sniffing around Van Diemen's Land in 1801 and '02, some say with the idea of settling, but there's been no threat since '04 when Lieutenant-Governor Collins claimed the island for England."

"Why would this Birch fellow want to protect himself for the New South Wales Government?' asked James. "I though you said the colony was self-governing?"

"Lieutenant-Governor Sorrell runs the penal colony here, but its technically still part of New South Wales, and he's subject to the authority of Governor Macquarie," said John. The way he spoke about Macquarie made James more curious.

"So, there's not much love lost between Sorrel and Macquarie?" James asked. He studied John's reaction to his question.

"You might say that," said John, turning down the corners of his mouth. "More so between my fellow merchants and Governor Macquarie."

"How so?" asked James.

John glanced over his shoulder, his look furtive. It was obvious he was concerned about being overheard, although by whom James could not tell. Everyone near enough to listen seemed more interested in the township ahead than in their conversation.

"Macquarie's a do-gooder," said John, keeping his voice low. "He's more concerned about the bleeding welfare of the convicts than he is about us merchants. We made this colony what it is. If it wasn't for us, the whole population would've starved to death years ago."

As they'd been speaking, the anchor had been lowered, and the 'Minstrel' came to stop about two hundred metres offshore from a rough wooden pier. Dozens of people lined this structure, hands and hats waving as they shouted to those aboard the ship. Most were dressed in tattered garments with arrows printed on them. James took them to be convicts. From what John had told him, James knew these convicted felons, transported from England, made up the bulk of the labour force on the island. Several longboats pushed off from the wharf, more men in similar garments plying the oars.

"Gotta go," said John. "Must supervise the unloading of my stores. Can't trust these bleeding convicts not to break into my cargo and steal anything they can get their hands on. Miserable wretches they are." He turned to leave. "Oh," he said. "And don't forget that offer of employment I made the other week. It still stands, you know."

"Thanks," said James. "I might take you up on that."

John hurried away across the deck.

James and Maria turned back to the extraordinary sights, wondering what life had in store for them in Van Diemen's Land.

[Barry W. Metcalf]

Chapter I: Christmas Entertainment

"Thank you for a most excellent Christmas dinner." Maria Metcalf placed her dessertspoon and fork together in her bowl. As it was whisked away by an attentive waiter, she appraised the pale china plate with its bluish tint and dabbed at her lips with a damask napkin. "And I simply adore your beautiful Wedgwood pearl ware. I haven't seen a dinner set so magnificent since leaving home."

Seated on her left, her husband nodded his agreement.

"Best meal I've had in a long time," James said. He stifled a burp behind his napkin as his eyes met those of John Rockcliffe, sitting opposite him. "It's almost impossible to believe that such sumptuous fare is available here in Van Diemen's Land," added James.

"Thanks must go to our host, Edward Lord." John raised his glass. The imported French claret caught the late afternoon sunlight, sending splashes of red across the pale lemon walls. "Such culinary delights are not to be wasted on the common folk, those without social standing within the colony. I propose a toast to my friend, the richest merchant in Van Diemen's Land."

The meal had commenced with beef consomme, served by convict waiters dressed in tan breeches, white shirts and red waistcoats. The soup course had been followed by roast kangaroo, larded with bacon and stuffed with veal. James and John had gone riding in the bush not far from the edge of town the day before and had bagged the marsupial; the pig and vealer had been raised on Edward Lord's property. Peas, carrots and roast potatoes complimented the meat, the vegetables also having been grown on Lord's farm, located to the north of the town.

The property was part of a three-thousand-acre grant by the Secretary of State for the Colonies, Lord Bathurst, to the merchant for services rendered in the early establishment of the settlement. It was among the richest farming land on the island.

Dessert had been sweet suet pudding, topped with lashings of cream and brandy sauce.

The remainder of the guests also raised their drinks. Three silver candlestick holders sat in strategic places on the white, linen tablecloth. Despite the December heat and the abundance of daylight, the candles burned, more for effect than out of necessity. "Edward Lord," the assemblage chorused. As one, they drank.

Seated at the head of the table, Edward raised a hand in a half-hearted gesture to halt the praise. His smile was that of a self-centred man, someone who knew the power he wielded and revelled in its use. Edward, as was the custom on such salubrious occasions, was wearing dark-coloured pantaloons and a brief, blue cut-away coat that revealed a yellow, brocade waistcoat. Around his neck was a cream-coloured cravat. The other men were dressed in similar style.

"Thank you, my friends," Edward said. He slouched in his high-backed chair and drank. His piercing eyes studied each of his guests in turn, lingering on everyone, except his wife, seated at the opposite end of the table.

An olive-skinned beauty with a high forehead, Maria Lord wore her dark hair pulled tight in a bun. Her burgundy dress was cut low in the front, only the mauve frill maintaining her modesty. Several ostrich feathers, dyed mauve, rose from the back of her head. They were held in place with a similar-coloured silk ribbon, the ends of which trailed down her back and over one shoulder. She wore no jewellery other than large, pearl earrings. She alone had not saluted her husband with a toast.

"I have invited you all here to outline a most important plan," continued Edward, his enthusiasm undeterred by his wife's apparent indifference. "And, no, I am not speaking about rum or tobacco." A few dry chuckles greeted this comment. Everyone knew much of Lord's early fortune had been made by trading in those products. Even James had heard the rumours. "There is a little favour I wish from each and every one of you." Edward paused, allowing his guests to absorb his words. He held every man's eyes for a second before adding, "I ask for your cooperation because I know that, like me, you have the best interests of the colony at heart."

James glanced at those seated around him. The men were all wealthy farmers or merchants, and each was accompanied by his wife. Dressed in clothes that would not have been out of place at Buckingham Palace, their faces showed no signs of surprise, their expressions denoting wrapt attention.

James wondered where he and Maria fitted into this gathering.

Not only were they not rich, but his and Maria's clothes were those they had brought with them from England two years ago, while the people around them were adorned in the latest fashions, freshly arrived from London. James felt uncomfortable in his older-style, fuller coat and shorter breeches fastened just below the knee. At least Maria had managed to find an evening dress in one of her trunks that she had not worn during their time in the colony.

James let his eyes rest on Edward's wife. As with all the women present, Maria Lord wore heavy makeup, accentuating both eyes and mouth. She held her nose aloft, as she had done throughout most of the meal, her expression much like she'd bitten into something sour. James guessed she didn't approve of his presence at her table, for she had not spoken to him, other than when directly addressed.

A gentle nudge in the ribs from his wife drew James' attention away from Mrs. Lord, and he returned his focus to their host.

"I see by your expressions that you wish to hear more," said Edward. He pushed back his chair and stood; all eyes followed his movement. "And now is as good time as any. I have it on good authority that..."

"Edward." Maria Lord had also risen, her expression one of utmost boredom. All eyes turned in her direction. "Although the business you wish to discuss is most likely highly entertaining and stimulating to your male friends, I think you and the other gentlemen should excuse yourselves and adjourn to the parlour. There you may discuss your affairs in comfort and privacy."

Edward raised his hands, a half smile curling the corners of his thin mouth.

"My apologies, my dear," he said. "How remiss of me. Gentlemen..." Edward pushed back his chair and stepped from the table. "...let us adjourn and partake of cigars and a little cognac that arrived by ship only a few days ago."

"Come ladies," said Maria Lord. She pointed to a doorway on the other side of the room. "While the men discuss their precious business, let us look in on our children in the kitchen. See how they've enjoyed their Christmas dinner."

One by one, the men offered their excuses and followed their host from the room.

Like the remainder of the Lord mansion, the parlour was furnished in lavish style, no expense having been spared on its furnishings or fittings. The plastered walls were painted in pastel hues. Duck-egg blue dominated, while above the picture rail, the colour changed to the palest green. In the centre of the room, an Axminster carpet square featuring the same tones covered the polished floorboards. On this, stood a Chippendale table. Scattered around the room were numerous chairs made by the same furniture maker.

Not a speck of dust marred any surface.

A large, open fireplace, its stonework painted white, stood in the centre of one of the outside walls. On the mantelpiece above it sat several ornate, black vases, the Greek figures on them accentuated in white. James guessed they were basaltes ware, also by the late Josiah Wedgwood. Hanging on the walls in elaborate frames, James recognised paintings by Rembrandt, Botticelli and Durer.

Edward Lord strode to the chair beside the table and sat.

"Grab yourselves a seat, gentlemen," he said, making an expansive gesture with his right hand around the spacious chamber. "Bring them closer to the table and sit. I don't want my voice to carry too far." He chuckled. "There are those in the colony who need not overhear what I have to say." As he spoke, he reached for a carved, wooden box situated in the middle of the table. While the others arranged their chairs in close proximity to their host and sat, Edward opened the container and offered it around.

Each man selected a cigar and sniffed it. The brand was a Spanish one James had not heard of before, but he recognised the quality of the product when he rolled it between his fingers and smelled its rich aroma. Edward produced a silver cutter, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. After clipping the round end from his own cigar, he passed the cutter around. One by one the others did the same. Edward extracted several phosphorous matches from within the box, and they proceeded to light their cigars.

One of the convict waiters entered the room bearing a circular tray upon which sat a bottle of cognac and five balloon-shaped glasses. The servant deposited these on the table and departed without speaking, closing the door to the room behind him. While his guests worked to make their cigars draw, Edward poured the wine.

"As most of you are aware," began Edward, puffing a cloud of white smoke into the room, "Governor Macquarie visited Van Diemen's Land two years ago...just a few months before you arrived, James..." Edward pointed his cigar at James, who nodded. "Aside from renaming most of the island's landmarks," Edward continued, "the man was full of criticism of the way we treated our convicts...said they were little more than slaves."

Murmurs greeted these words, all the men except James shaking their heads at this seemingly unjust accusation.

"While in office, most of the land grants bestowed by Macquarie were to emancipists, men who'd served their time and chosen not to return to England. It had become almost impossible for hard-working, honest folk such as ourselves to acquire the extra land we needed."

The men around James nodded and pulled wry faces. Smoke accumulated in the room. Several waved it aside with their hands.

"Macquarie is, of course, no longer our concern." Edward smirked as he made this statement. The others, except James, joined in Lord's mirth. "With the help of Commissioner Bigge and the Colonial Office, we got rid of him," added Edward. Someone snickered. "Macquarie's been recalled to England. "Again there were nods of assent. "The new Governor, Thomas Brisbane, has more than his hands full at the present time with the constant bickering over new land reforms in New South Wales. At present he hasn't the time to interfere with our interests."

Again, murmurs of agreement came from all around. James wondered where this discourse was headed.

"Now to my business with you gentlemen," said Edward. He leaned forward as if to impart a secret. The others followed his example. Smoke hovered over their heads, adding to the furtiveness of the gathering. "I have it on good authority," continued Edward, "that a new Lieutenant-Governor has been appointed to Van Diemen's land."

The men exchanged knowing looks.

"But that's not everything, my good friends." Edward lowered his voice even more. "I have also heard a whisper...from the horse's mouth, you might say...that, in the very near future, our little colony will be granted its independence from New South Wales."

Excited faces stared in disbelief at Edward. Cigars forgotten, everyone tried to speak at once. Edward raised a finger to his lips.

"Not a word, my friends, not a word," he said. "We must keep this information to ourselves for the time being. When the new lieutenant-governor arrives, we must do everything in our power to make ourselves invaluable to him. It is in our best interests, gentlemen, to ensure he listens to our advice and not that of the emancipists. For, you see, it will be he and not Governor Brisbane who makes future grants of land. And as you all know, wealth in this colony depends of ownership of property.

"Let us ensure that the new lieutenant-governor makes large grants to each of us. When he does, I want you, my good friends, to transfer ownership of your acquisitions to me...for a considerable remuneration, of course."

Someone chuckled. The sound was dry, conspiratorial.

"The future prosperity of Van Diemen's Land lies in beef, gentlemen," said Edward, his eyes shining with excitement. "Already my cattle are the finest in the colonies. It is time for me to expand this enterprise, to build an empire that surpasses the land holdings on which that upstart, John Macarthur, grazes his sheep in New South Wales."

In awed silence, Edward's guests hung on his every word. Their faces shone with excitement.

"To independence." Edward raised his brandy balloon.

"Independence," the gathering chorused and drank.

"And now," said Edward, leaning back, his face creasing in a huge smile, "put aside your glasses and follow me outside. I have a little entertainment organised for your added enjoyment."

**********

The courtyard at the rear of the dwelling was large and spacious, almost as big as the building itself. A high, stone wall surrounded the enclosure on three sides, the house forming the fourth barrier. In the back wall was a barred gate made from heavy logs. On one side of the gate, in a corner, was a small area screened by a fence constructed of rough-hewn timber. From behind this, James could hear the sounds of dogs snuffling and chewing on bones.

The dirt surface of the yard before them was flat and looked like it had just been swept. Not a single leaf marred its perfection. Against a far wall stood several large, crudely built carts, which appeared as if they had been pushed aside to leave the area clear. James knew what they were. He had witnessed gangs of up to eight convicts hauling these heavy constructions around the settlement as merchants and government officials moved goods from one location to another.

Standing in the centre of the yard was a simple wooden structure consisting of three saplings stripped of their bark. Taller than a man, the three poles were lashed together at the top with rope, while the feet were spaced apart, forming a tripod with a sturdy base.

Edward Lord escorted his guests to a spot midway along the back of the house, keeping within the shade thrown by the two-storey structure. Small puffs of smoke issued from their mouths as they pulled on their cigars, each wondering at the entertainment their host had set up for them.

As they stood, conversing and joking in low tones, a man was dragged from the back door of the dwelling by several others. All wore the livery of the waiters who had served them at dinner, except for the prisoner, who was naked to the waist. The man being led was struggling, pleading with his companions. His hands were tied in front of him. As he passed close to the waiting party, James saw the man's face had paled beneath his tan and heard him muttering, "I meant no harm, mates. Just two 'taties. I did it for my children. Please. It's Christmas, for God's..." One of his captors cuffed him around the ears, and the prisoner fell silent.

When the party reached the tripod, one of the escorts threaded a short length of rope between the captive's wrists and secured it to his bindings. The other end was fed over the top of the three poles, where they were joined. One of the other men hauled on this rope, stretching the prisoner's arms above his head. When the man's arms were fully extended, the line was again fastened around his wrists.

The other men stood back from the captive and turned towards the party gathered in the shade of the house.

"Ready, Mr. Lord," said one of the men, the same one who had earlier slapped the prisoner.

"Thank you, William. Have you the cat?" asked Edward.

"Yes, sir." William reached towards his waist. From his belt he withdrew a rope whip with a short wooden handle from which dangled nine knotted lashes.

Edward turned to his companions, his cigar, which had burned to a stub, in his hand.

"My friends," he said. "The miserable creature you see before you..." Edward pointed towards the prisoner. "...is typical of the riff-raff we free settlers are expected to contend with on this island. Look at him. Given the opportunity to start a new life, provided with gainful employment and a roof over his head, and he repays by engaging in criminal activities."

"What did he steal?" asked James. Although he had seen floggings before, he had never been this close to one. He guessed the man must have committed some dreadful crime.

"This wretch stole food...from my kitchen...was caught red-handed hiding potatoes in his pockets."

"Shouldn't we report this matter to the magistrate?" James had no desire to stand by and watch a man beaten over such a petty matter.

Edward laughed. Several of the other wealthy merchants joined him.

"You have not been here long enough to fully acquaint yourself with our ways," said Edward. "In my many years here, I have been a Justice of the Peace and a magistrate. For a time, after Governor Collin's death, I ran this colony. I, therefore, am in the best position to judge this man's guilt and decide his punishment." Edward turned towards the man with the lash. "Proceed!" the former said.

"Wait!" said James.

Edward turned back to face his guest. His eyes were hooded, but James sensed the merchant was growing impatient with his interfering.

"Yes?" asked Edward.

"If the man is to be...flogged...shouldn't it be performed by those empowered to carry out such punishment...the military?"

"William," said Edward, again addressing the man with the whip. "Are you a friend of the accused?"

"Yes, Mr. Lord. 'E's most likely the bestest friend I 'ave in all of 'obart Town."

"You will ensure to deliver your friend the harshest beating you can?"

"Yes, Mr. Lord. I'll strike 'im as 'ard as I knows 'ow."

"And if you don't?"

For the first time William looked uncomfortable.

"You'll double the lashes, sir, and then you'll see to it as 'ow I'm punished same as 'im."

"Good man," said Edward. He turned again to James. "Any more questions?" Edward asked. James shook his head. Edward nodded to William. "You may begin," Edward said. "Fifty lashes."

William stepped up to the man on the tripod, the ends of the whip dangling on the ground. With slow deliberation, he raised the handle of the cat-o'-nine-tails above his head, the ends trailing behind him. He paused for a moment, drawing in his breath. Then he brought the cat down with what seemed all his might. The knotted ends of the lashes caught the prisoner on the right shoulder, and he jerked forward, straining against his bonds. When the lashes came away, red streaks remained where they'd bitten into the prisoner's back.

James expected the man to call out or curse, but he said nothing as the flogger counted out the strokes and struck with what seemed every ounce in his body. The prisoner no longer jerked, and after a time, hung listlessly from his bindings. With each stroke, the cuts on the victim's body opened up. Blood ran in rivulets down to his waist where it soaked into the top of his tan breeches.

When the count reached the required number, William paused and looked in Edward's direction. The merchant stepped up to the prisoner and, walking around in front of him, grasped the man's jaw. Edward gazed into the other's face and spoke.

"Do you repent?" he asked. "Do you regret stealing from my kitchen?"

The prisoner, perspiration and tears running down his face, attempted to answer. When the words refused to form, he nodded his head instead. Drops of sweat flicked from his matted hair, spattering Edward's clothes. He stepped away, a look of disgust on his face. As he walked back into the shade with his companions, he stubbed his cigar beneath his boots.

"Fifty more!" Edward said as he rejoined his guests. "I'll teach this miserable wretch some manners if it's the last thing I do."

William raised the cat and prepared to strike.

"Wait!" called James again, unable to disguise the horror he felt at the convict's treatment. James stepped past Edward towards the man suspended from the frame. "That man should be examined by a doctor before you proceed." When he reached the prisoner, James lifted the convict's head and examined his face. The man made a weak attempt at a smile.

"Don't worry none 'bout 'im, sir," said the man with the cat in a quiet voice. "We convicts is used to this kinda treatment."

"Are you a doctor, James?" asked Edward from the shade. "Have you been hiding something from us?" His voice conveyed a hint of menace.

A momentary fear gripped James' heart. He thought of Paris and Nigel's demise at his hands. What if the French authorities traced him here to Van Diemen's Land? People like Edward Lord wrote often to England and had business connections in France. James knew he could not afford to have his background disclosed. Maybe he'd be incarcerated in a place like Hobart Town and treated as this miserable wretch had been today. He could not risk it. Not for his sake. Not for Maria's. Not for their daughter's.

"I learned a little about animals from helping out on my father's horse stud," said James without glancing towards Edward. He fought to keep the fear from his voice. "I just wanted to see if this man is strong enough before you administer the remainder of his punishment."

"And is he?"

James stared again into the eyes of the convict. They were filled with pain, fear and despair. James detected no hope.

"Yes," James said. "The fellow's as strong as an ox." Feeling sick inside, he rejoined the others, and the flogging continued. He did his best to shut his eyes and ears to the sight and sound of the whip making contact, cutting into the prisoner's flesh.

**********

"That's Jane settled," said Maria Metcalf. She kept her voice soft so as not to disturb their daughter. Jane had been born a month after their arrival in Hobart Town and was now asleep in the adjoining room. "Children always become so over-excited at Christmas time, don't you think?" Maria eased the untreated timber door closed behind her and walked across the stone floor to stand beside her husband. "Anything interesting in that week-old newspaper from Sydney?" she continued. Stooping, Maria kissed James on the top of the head.

He looked up from his reading and smiled. Edited, printed and published by an ex-convict's son, 'The Sydney Gazette' had arrived by ship two days ago, aboard the same vessel that had delivered Edward Lord's cigars and cognac.

"The usual stuff." James scanned the first page. "Governor Brisbane's new orders, reports of criminal and civil court cases, shipping information, murders, robberies, accidents...seems New South Wales is no safer than here...and an account by some squatter who was attacked by savages and managed to escape only after getting a spear through his shoulder. There's also a letter from a settler whose wife and children were massacred, demanding the government do something about wiping out the blacks." James shook his head and turned to the second page. "It says here temperatures in Sydney Town have been hovering around ninety degrees in the week leading up to Christmas."

Both had relaxed since leaving Edward Lord's house. Following their arrival in Van Diemen's Land, James and Maria had found little need to wear the kinds of garments they'd worn today. In summer, the heat made such heavy outfits too uncomfortable and cumbersome. In winter, when rain turned the dusty streets into quagmires, these garments would have been ruined. James had removed his topcoat, waistcoat and cravat and had rolled up his shirtsleeves.

Although still wearing her long, pale blue dress, with its low, scalloped neckline trimmed with ruffled lace, Maria had released her long hair, letting it hang down her back. She had discarded her cameo necklace and, James suspected, most probably her numerous petticoats. Maria had also scrubbed the makeup from her face, her pale complexion shining from her recent efforts.

A cool breeze drifted through the open front door, cooling both the occupants and their two-room dwelling.

"Any mention of fires in the bush this year?" Maria raised a hand and causally brushed at several flies that had settled on her face.

"Nothing," James said. "Perhaps as here, the underbrush is still a little damp and too green to burn following the long, wet winter."

"Perhaps." A brief silence settled over them, disturbed only by the laughing of a kookaburra from outside the dwelling. "It's strange, you know, when you think about it." Maria moved to the other chair, a clumsy copy of a Chippendale, which they'd been informed had been made by a convict, and picked up her sewing. She was in the middle of stitching a patch on one of James' work shirts.

"What is, dear?" James returned to his reading.

"How quickly one gets used to things like the weather. We've only been here for three Christmases and already it's difficult to remember what it was like to have snow covering everything."

"I must say I much prefer this warmer climate. I don't know how we managed in the cold back home. I know now that deep down I hated that time of year." James glanced towards the window as a loud screeching erupted from the gum trees abutting the rear of the house. A flock of noisy, grey-and-pink parrot-like birds had descended to feed on and squabble over the gumnuts.

"I suppose it's a bit like all the strange animals one comes across almost on a daily basis." Maria also looked up and smiled. "I've grown so used to kookaburras, magpies, and those galahs making such a racket outside, it's like I never knew any other kind of bird. I'm so glad John Rockcliffe set us up in this old place of his on the edge of the settlement. It might be a bit rough and ready, but it's so much nicer than living in the heart of town."

James let his eyes take in the rough-cut timber walls, crude sideboard and the stone fireplace with its wood stove. Curtains fashioned by Maria from an old, yellow dress brightened the windows, which upon their arrival had been little more than holes in the wall. A week after they'd moved in, John had sent a couple of convicts to insert glass panes in the gaping openings, thus keeping most of the insect life outside. On the rough table, a single candle supported by an old wine bottle provided light by which to read or work when darkness fell.

Although Maria had swept the floor and dusted this morning, scattered gum leaves had already drifted in on the evening breeze. A thin film of dust covered most of the flat surfaces. It wasn't what either of them was used to, but it was comfortable and provided a roof over their heads. It was cool enough in summer, and with the fire in the stove stoked up, warm and cosy in winter.

"At least we're only a few minutes' walk from the docks and most of the businesses," James said. Then, as if he'd had an afterthought, "Speaking of John, what did you think of dinner at the Lord's today?"

Maria's hands halted in the act of drawing the thread through the garment she was mending.

"I can't understand how he managed to get us invited, or why," she said. "But the meal was a bit over the top...nice, but too overdone for my liking."

"Overdone?"

"Well, for one thing, we couldn't afford to dine in such a grand scale."

James thought about their usual meagre fare. Although kangaroo meat was common, more often than not, their meals consisted of parrot pie, boiled potatoes and vegetable marrow. They washed this down with cheap ale, brewed locally.

"I suppose it was a bit much," he said.

"A bit much is an understatement. Do you know what they did with the leftovers from that meal? Do you?" Maria's face was flushed; her eyes blazed. James shook his head. He had never seen his wife so vehement about anything. "They threw everything out to the dogs," Maria continued in the same angry tone.

A surprised look crossed James' face, his thoughts returning to the convict, flogged for stealing food.

"They did," continued Maria. "While you and the others were in the parlour, smoking cigars and drinking cognac, the servants gathered up all the food from the table and fed it to the dogs in the back yard."

"Well...it's their food. I guess they can do with it as they see fit." James wasn't sure what his wife wanted him to say.

"It might bleeding-well be their food, but what about all the starving people in the colony? What about the convicts? What about all the squatters eking out a barren existence throughout the hinterland? How dare those people invite us to share a meal of such magnificence when there's so much hunger and suffering surrounding them?"

James held up his hands. He knew when he was beaten.

"Enough," he said. "Maybe we can work something out...prevent this sort of thing from happening again. Edward Lord seems to be a good man." James pondered again the flogging he'd witnessed this afternoon. Although the scene had disturbed him, he guessed that such measures were necessary when dealing with murderers and thieves. Public displays of this nature were a common occurrence in Hobart Town. "A bit heavy-handed and a little too ambitious for my liking," James added, "but a good man all the same. I'll speak to him tomorrow."

"Humph!" This time, Maria did not look in his direction.

"And what does that mean?" James felt contented and relaxed. It had been a very pleasant Christmas Day. He hoped Maria wasn't going to start a row.

"It means," Maria said. This time she met his gaze. "I feel sorry for that wife of his. She's such a nice woman."

"I thought she didn't like us."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"The way she snubbed her nose at us through most of the meal."

"Oh, that? That wasn't directed at us."

"It wasn't?"

"No. She was annoyed with her husband. That poor woman is so unhappy."

"Unhappy? In what way?" Maria's comment had surprised James.

Maria rested her hands in her lap, her sewing momentarily forgotten. She drew in a deep breath.

"Well, it seems she arrived here as a convict herself. She was Edward's mistress, and he made a lot of his early fortune by trading through her...he smuggled in rum and tobacco, and she sold it for him. He would have been sentenced to hard labour if he'd been caught. Later, Edward obtained a pardon for Maria and married her. She says he only did this after she threatened to expose him to the governor.

"Anyway, things haven't been too good between them lately. She suspects her husband's having an affair with the children's nanny. Mrs. Lord told me she's only waiting to catch him out, and then she's going to sue him for divorce."

"No wonder she looked tense and on edge," said James. He smiled. His wife had an uncanny knack of ferreting out personal information. "And I thought it was because we weren't good enough to join them at their table."

"Silly man," said Maria. She dropped her sewing on the floor and came to sit in her husband's lap. "We're worth more than ten of Edward Lord. We just don't have his money."

She lowered her face to his, and they kissed, long and passionately.

"Want me to show you how much you're worth to me?" she asked when the kiss had ended.

James glanced towards the bedroom door.

"Can't," he said and sighed. "Jane is asleep in there right beside our bed. If you're as noisy as usual, you're certain to awaken her."

"So, what's wrong with right here on the floor?" Maria asked.

Part 3

[JirQUEST]

link to Part 3: Condemned to the Colonies (Part 3)

[osofoaddo]

All nature talks ...one just has to be still to hear... you are correct in your assumptions.
I like the story....Long ... but I like it the same..
Peter Addo..(osofosddo)