‘Being the eldest, he is the most well behaved,’ she informed Dorothea, ‘and will not pine as much for his parents. If you keep him satisfactorily occupied, I believe that he will do very well. He is an intelligent child—as one would expect—and of an age to keep himself amused in a respectable fashion.’
Dorothea was delighted. She could hardly believe her good fortune. She had always admired Ellis Henry, whose grave demeanour she found quite touching, and whose sweet face was a flawless example of God’s most skilful handiwork. Now it appeared that she was to enjoy his presence at close quarters—to supervise his daily progress, to play with him, to offer consolation, to observe all his guileless little ways. Nothing could have been more to her taste. Although Mr Ellis Bent’s condition was of course upsetting, Dorothea could not regret it quite as much as she should have. Not when it had presented her with such a prize.
In preparation for the boy’s arrival, she had the little back room cleaned, and cleared of most of its contents. Had she been afforded more time, she would have had the walls whitewashed. One shelf of the linen press was emptied, and Ellis Henry’s bed was transported from his father’s house, to be re-erected in his new sleeping chamber. His toys, books and clothing accompanied his bed. Flushed with excitement, Dorothea even went out—with Daniel in attendance—and bought young Ellis a set of cardboard ‘spellers’ (which displayed pretty pictures in addition to the letters of the alphabet) in order that she might decorate his dingy walls. By the time Ellis arrived, just two days after his visit had first been proposed, Dorothea had stocked the house almost to bursting point with milk, eggs, jam, coloured inks and as much scrap paper as she could lay her hands on in such a paper-starved colony.
Master Bent, for his part, viewed these preparations with a blank countenance, and asked if he would ‘be here for long’.
‘No, my dear, not for long,’ Dorothea replied. ‘Just until your poor father is well again. See? I have unpacked all your beautiful toys. What a fine ark you have! So very big and handsome.’
‘Mother took the elephants,’ said Master Ellis, bleakly. ‘The elephants and the camels and the lions.’
‘For your brothers and sisters, Ellis.’
‘I should like to read my books, now.’
Dorothea left him to read his books, for he seemed to desire solitude. He was, in fact, rather a solitary little boy. He spent his first day with the Brandes shut up in his room, reading, drawing and playing complicated games with a set of ornamented clothes pegs. When he emerged, it was only at Dorothea’s request, that he might eat the meals that had been planned very much with his own tastes in mind. Charles, though he regarded the parade of bland dishes passing before him with some dismay, offered no objections. If he had, Dorothea might not have lent an ear—for her attention was taken up wholly with the child, whose appetite was disappointing.
‘Will you have a little more pudding, Ellis?’ she inquired at last, in despair.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Some cheese, perhaps? Or stewed apples?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘You must eat something else. You really must.’ Dorothea cast about for inspiration. ‘A soft-boiled egg? With butter?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘If you want to leave the table,’ Charles interjected firmly, ‘you must eat a little more, Ellis. Your mother would wish it so.’
‘Yes, indeed. What would your mother think of me, if I were to let you starve? Now why not finish that dumpling, and if you do, you shall have a piece of candied ginger. Would you like that?’
Ellis’s delicate appetite was a source of great concern to Dorothea. So was his behaviour in other respects. As Mrs Molle had promised, he was not a troublesome child. On the contrary, he was like his father in being very quiet and soft-spoken. But Dorothea knew that he was unhappy, and nothing she did served to lift his spirits. Every day she would take him to play with his siblings, or with Mrs Molle’s children, and every day he would half-heartedly join their games, his anxious gaze always turned to the door, as if he expected some fearful tidings. He would ask, repeatedly, if he might visit his ‘Papa and Mama’—and when, after two days, the visit was paid, he seemed even more unhappy at its conclusion than he had been before its commencement. Dorothea tried to talk to him. She explained to him that his mother was very well, but busy tending his father, and that his father would almost certainly improve. Although she rather thought that he might be afraid of the alternative possibility, she had not the courage to discuss it with him. After all, what comfort could she possibly offer? Only his mother could soothe him in that regard. So she shied away from the subject of his father’s mortality, and concentrated instead on providing him with food, warmth, shelter, amusements and her undivided attention.
Charles, it must be confessed, suffered a loss of consequence in the household during this time. Having recovered sufficiently to walk about, get dressed, drink his claret and complain about things other than his throat and gums (which were no longer swollen, though still a little tender), he had been deprived of his wife’s constant tendance, which was now distributed equally between her husband and her young charge. Though he must have resented this, he took it surprisingly well. He did not accuse Dorothea of neglecting him. He did not storm, or glower, or comment unfavourably on the nursery food served up to him. He did not even decline to attend prayers after breakfast. Dorothea was only aware of his feelings because he made certain remarks about young Ellis, in the privacy of their bedroom, which, though not of a disparaging nature, were at least dismissive.
‘That child has no interest in soldiering,’ he would say. ‘He has surrendered his tin soldiers to his brother without so much as an exchange of blows! At his age, I was hoping to be a General.’ Or: ‘What a lackadaisical fellow our guest is. I asked him if he wanted to play cricket, and he declined. I daresay he would prefer to mope about with his books and chalks.’ Or: ‘Young Bent is cut out to be a Nonconformist clergyman. You should have seen his face, when I offered him a sip of madeira!’
Dorothea ignored these observations. She identified them as symptoms of Charles’s discontent, and was grateful that they were the only symptoms. She knew that she was at fault, in her devotion to Ellis Henry. She knew that Charles had a right to her care. So she forced herself to refrain from hovering around the child, especially once it became apparent to her that he would not emerge from his room unless he was permitted to do so unnoticed and unremarked. Questions regarding his needs or intentions always drove him back into his dim little chamber, where he gathered his toys around him like a bulwark. Only by allowing him unsupervised freedom in the house was she able to lure him into the healthful air of the garden.
Here, on the fourth day of his visit, Ellis Henry became acquainted with Daniel Callaghan. During one of her journeys to the kitchen, Dorothea saw the boy at Daniel’s side, as the convict turned sods. A little later, from Ellis’s bedroom window, she saw him following Daniel about with a watering can, deep in conversation. She was a trifle hurt. What, she wondered, could they have been talking about? It was not as if Ellis had displayed the slightest interest in gardening. Even now, he was not attempting to help Daniel in any way. He simply stood there while the convict worked, talking sometimes, but mostly listening. Dorothea had never before seen either of them—the boy or the man—so garrulous.
She was determined to find out what it was that they said to each other.
‘Master Ellis seems to enjoy Daniel’s company,’ she remarked to Peg, as the housemaid chopped carrots with her customary precision. Normally, Dorothea refrained from discussing with Peg anything but the task at hand, for Peg was an irrepressible gossip. Given the slightest encouragement, she would launch into a debate on the merits of leading strings for children, or a commentary on the best Pitt Street shops, or a lament on the subject of her daughter’s marital difficulties, and it was almost impossible to stem the flow of her confidences. On this occasion, however, Dorothea was willing
to take such a risk.
‘Bless ’em, they’re a pair, haren’t they?’ Peg replied. ‘Never seen the croppy so free with ’is tongue.’
‘But what do they talk about?’
‘Hotters.’
‘Otters?’
‘And pigs and swans and I don’t-know-what. Funniest talk as I ever ’eard.’ Peg shot her mistress a speculative, sidelong glance. ‘I’d not let it trouble you, Madam. The croppy won’t lead ’im hastray. They’re two of a kind, is all. Tender lads, both of ’em.’
Dorothea blinked.
‘You wouldn’t think that, would you?’ Peg went on. ‘But hit’s true. I’ve bin watchin ’em. I allus watch ’em. So don’t fret your ’eart, Madam,’ she added in comforting accents. ‘That dear lad will come to no ’arm.’
Nevertheless, Dorothea was uneasy. While tucking Ellis into bed that evening, she asked him about the otters. Why had he and Daniel been discussing otters?
‘Because of Dobercoo,’ was his cautious response.
‘Dobercoo?’
‘The giant otter of Glenade Lough.’
‘Oh.’ Dorothea pondered, for a moment. ‘Would that be an Irish otter?’ she queried.
‘Yes,’ said the child, and a hint of animation entered his voice. ‘It killed Grace Connelly, and her husband killed it, but then another came, and chased him, and he killed it with a spear.’
‘I see.’
‘But that was a long time ago,’ Ellis continued—noting, perhaps, Dorothea’s puckered brow. ‘In Ireland.’
‘I hope that Daniel has not been frightening you with such tales, Ellis?’
‘Oh no,’ he assured her. ‘They are only stories.’
Even so, Dorothea resolved to watch Daniel closely. She was unsure as to whether Irish stories were suitable for the ear of an English gentleman’s son—though she was reluctant to forbid their narration utterly and immediately, because Ellis seemed to enjoy them so much. Of course she said nothing to Charles. Charles, who had a fear of Irish insurrection, would have assumed the worst. He would have decided that Daniel was filling young Ellis with rebel’s tales, and acted accordingly. He had once stormed at Daniel for humming as he scrubbed the drawing-room floor, crying that he would ‘have no damned Irish treason songs’ sung in his house.
Consequently, Dorothea was careful to shield her husband from the sight of Ellis conversing with Daniel. This was easily done, for the most part. When Charles was at home (less often, now that he was mending) he spent most of his time in the bedroom and drawing room, whereas Daniel’s conversations with Ellis normally took place at the rear of the house. Ellis, in fact, seemed to prefer the rear of the house. He would drift in and out of the kitchen, dodging Peg’s lavish caresses while he plucked raisins or pastry-cuts from her hand. He would dig trenches in the dirt, or watch Daniel wielding the hoe. He would lean against a wall, and read one of his books—a curious collection comprising, not suitable works like A Pretty Little Pocket Book and Gulliver’s Travels, but Cook’s Voyages, and Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, and various examples of his mother’s dubious addiction to fashionable nonsense: The Provoked Husband, The Lying Valet, The Intriguing Chambermaid.
One morning, however, while Captain Sanderson was paying a call, Ellis wandered into the front garden, where Daniel was feeding the roses. Dorothea saw them from the bedroom. She had retreated into the bedroom after offering the excuse of a headache to escape the sound of Captain Sanderson’s voice. Now, looking up from her book, she saw Ellis’s slight figure stop by Daniel’s broad back, which was bent over the rosebeds. She saw Daniel straighten, but not rise, as he turned to answer the boy’s inquiry. Face to face, they presented an interesting contrast.
Almost without thinking, Dorothea let fall her book. Throwing on her shawl, she hastened out of the house, conscious that her husband’s eyes might, at any moment, stray to the drawing-room window. She approached Daniel. She heard him speak. Though he had resumed his work, it did not prevent him from talking.
‘… so she went to Connla’s well,’ he was saying, ‘to catch the Salmon o’ Knowledge.’
‘Is that the same? The same as that which Finn MacCool ate?’ Ellis asked.
‘Aye, the same. It fed on nuts from the hazel trees o’ science and poetry ringed about. ’Twas a wise fish.’
‘Daniel!’ said Dorothea.
The convict looked up. Ellis turned. Two pairs of anxious dark eyes regarded Dorothea, who did not know what to say next.
‘I—I need you,’ she finally stammered.
Daniel rose. Ellis began to retreat, almost nervously, in a way that distressed Dorothea. Why was he so unsettled in her presence? Then she heard a voice from the house.
‘There he is! Master Ellis!’ It was Captain Sanderson. ‘I had heard that you were a guest, here—has Captain Brande shown you his sword?’
Advancing towards them, big and loud in his scarlet coat, Captain Sanderson cut an imposing figure. Dorothea was visited by a quite unreasonable urge to shield little Ellis; had she succumbed to it, she would have stepped in front of the child.
‘Well? Has Captain Brande not shown you his sword?’ said Captain Sanderson, who obviously desired an answer. When Ellis shook his head, the captain drew his own sword with a flourish, and laughed as the assembled company fell back. ‘You see the lion on the pommel?’ he boomed, waving it in front of Ellis’s face. ‘That is there to remind me that I must be as brave as a lion. And the royal cipher is there to remind me that I am in His Majesty’s Service.’ As Ellis, with a trace of curiosity, craned his neck to peer at the gilded motifs, Captain Sanderson executed a neat lunge with the blade which, though it would not have harmed the boy, sent him stumbling back into Dorothea’s skirts.
The captain laughed. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Take it!’ He proffered the hilt to Ellis. ‘See if you can lift it.’
Ellis shook his head.
‘Come. Be a man.’
Dorothea began to protest. ‘If he does not wish to, Captain—’ she said, but Captain Sanderson ignored her. He continued to address the boy.
‘You must learn to use a sword,’ he declared, ‘for the law will not protect you in this colony. Why, you are living with Irishmen! Like this fellow! Do you know what the Irish do? They crush men’s knees and gouge out their eyes. They are wild and lawless. They plot and scheme.’ Grinning, Captain Sanderson seemed to be enjoying a huge joke. ‘But with a sword at your side, you will always be safe from the Irish.’
Dorothea was suddenly filled with a most uncharacteristic rage. Putting a hand on Ellis’s shoulder, she glared at Captain Sanderson.
‘You have no right to talk like that here!’ she snapped. ‘You will frighten him!’
‘Nonsense. A big fellow like this one? He is not afraid of the Irish.’ The captain sheathed his sword, and extended his hand to Ellis. ‘Come,’ he said. ‘Have you ever seen the parade? No? Then I shall take you to the barracks, and show you the parade, and teach you how to prime a firelock.’
‘Captain—’
‘Have no fear, Mrs Brande. He will be back for his dinner.’ Captain Sanderson winked, but Dorothea detected within that wink a certain degree of scorn. ‘Keep the boy busy and he’ll not repine, eh?’
Dorothea was lost for words. Not being Ellis’s mother, she could offer no real grounds for objection. So with great reluctance she allowed Ellis to go, watching with a heavy heart as Captain Sanderson marched him away. He did not even look back, she noticed.
‘What in heaven’s name were you telling him?’ she said irritably, turning on Daniel. ‘What was all that about salmon?’
Daniel eyed her warily, just as if she were another Captain Sanderson to fear and placate. The thought made her even more cross. ‘ ’Tis an old tale, Ma’am,’ he mumbled.
‘Like the otters, no doubt.’
‘The otters?’ He looked puzzled. Then his brow cleared. A fleeting smile flickered over his face. ‘That would be the Glenade Dobherchu,’ he said softly. ‘Aye, we’ve
touched on the Dobherchu.’
‘What are you filling his head with, Daniel? Old Irish tales can be very dangerous things—surely you know that?’
‘Ah no, Ma’am, not these,’ he replied. ‘These are the ancient tales o’ magic, and Bandog and the Ban-Sidhe, and Ossian the deer’s son. They are not rebel tales.’
‘Nor do they sound very Christian,’ Dorothea said. Then, as Daniel dropped his gaze to the ground, she relented a little. ‘If they are faerie tales, Daniel, I have no objection to your telling them,’ she continued. ‘There can be no more harm in magic fish than in magic beans, I suppose. But please do not speak of them in front of Captain Brande. Irish stories do not sit well with him.’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’
‘The roses are blooming beautifully. I had not expected it.’ Hesitating, Dorothea wondered why she always seemed to be choosing her words with care when she spoke to Daniel. It was annoying. For what reason should a lady of her breeding feel such constraint? ‘You are doing good work,’ she concluded, abruptly, and went back indoors.
There she confronted Charles, who was reclining, fully dressed, on the sofa.
‘Captain Sanderson has taken Ellis to the barracks,’ she informed him.
‘Yes. So I saw.’
‘Why? For what purpose?’
‘So that he might teach the boy to prime a firelock. You heard.’
‘But why would he wish to learn such a thing?’
‘Because he is a boy, Thea. Soon to be a man.’ Charles yawned, flicking through the pages of the Sydney Gazette. ‘Bent may be a decent fellow, but he is soft, and sickly, and never raced a horse nor shot a pistol in his life. No wonder his son skulks about like a Jew in a counting house. I said to Sanderson, that boy is the most bloodless youth I ever laid eyes on.’
‘Is that why Captain Sanderson took him to the barracks?’
‘I assume so.’