This officer was Captain Edward Sanderson. While Dorothea watched in horrified consternation, Captain Sanderson drove his foot into his victim’s back, knocked him to his knees, and leaped on him. The captain then pounded him about the head once or twice and kicked him in the ribs, before delivering his final imprecation.
‘Y’damned scoundrel!’ he bellowed. ‘Let that be a lesson to you!’
The injured man groaned, and began to struggle to his feet. Captain Sanderson turned away. He saw Dorothea, and for an instant seemed at a loss. But he soon recovered himself.
‘Mrs Brande,’ he said, with a half-hearted smile and a very correct bow. ‘Your servant, Ma’am.’ Then, sweating and glowing and breathing heavily, he marched back into the barracks.
Dorothea stood as if rooted to the spot. She saw a convict tradesman—no doubt one of those who had been working on the roof of the new mess house—approach the man in blue. She saw the latter brusquely reject the convict’s offer of assistance, and stumble away. She felt a hand on her arm, and looked around to see young Ensign McIntosh hovering behind her.
‘Mrs Brande,’ he murmured hesitantly. ‘Are you all right, Ma’am?’
Dorothea was speechless.
‘It is very hot,’ Ensign McIntosh continued. ‘Would you—would you care to sit down? Inside?’
‘No!’ cried Dorothea. She wrenched her arm from his grasp. ‘Who—who was that man? The man who … the injured one. Who was he?’
‘That I cannot tell you. I am not acquainted with him.’
‘Oh!’ Dorothea saw dark spots of blood on the ground in front of her. They were almost black. Somewhere nearby, someone was hammering.
With her hand to her mouth, she hurried out of the barracks square and into Clarence Street. She was aware that Ensign McIntosh followed her for a short distance, but he was nowhere to be seen when she reached her house. Upon gaining the bedroom, she went straight to her hartshorn, and inhaled a reviving sniff before even thinking to remove her bonnet. Then she sat down.
She was appalled. She was distraught. She could not have conceived of a more horrifying, a more distressing, a more unspeakable circumstance. The beating of a respectable man! By an officer of the 46th Regiment! In broad daylight, with not a single attempt made to help the unfortunate victim! There had been soldiers in the square—Dorothea was sure of it. Ensign McIntosh had been present, presumably. And yet … and yet …
It was some time before she was able to ring for assistance. Daniel came, and she gave him tea leaves from the drawing room, requesting that Rose should stew them for her.
‘Tell her that, if you please,’ said Dorothea. ‘I cannot face the heat in the kitchen, just now.’
Daniel studied her.
‘Are ye ill, Ma’am?’ he finally asked.
‘I—no.’
‘Ye look pale,’ he said.
‘It is the heat. It is very hot.’
‘Aye,’ he said slowly. ‘ ’Tis that.’ Then he withdrew, with a pensive backward glance. When the tea was made, he brought it to her with a plate of buttered teacakes, but Dorothea could not eat them. She could not eat anything. She did not move from the drawing room until Charles came home.
He did so within the hour, appearing suddenly at the door with his hat under his arm, looking slightly disgruntled. Dorothea rose, white-faced, to greet him.
‘I heard that you were taken ill on the parade ground,’ he muttered. ‘Are you all right, now?’
‘Charles. Who was that man?’
‘Eh?’
‘Captain Sanderson beat a man. He beat him. With his fists. On the parade ground.’
‘Oh.’ Charles smiled wryly. ‘That,’ he said.
‘Who was it? Why—why—?’
‘Who was it?’ Charles echoed. ‘It was Greenway, of course. Who else would it be?’
‘Greenway?’ Dorothea gasped. She sat down, abruptly.
‘You did not think him a gentleman? Really, Thea, Greenway is nothing but a convict. As ever, you do Sanderson a disservice.’
‘But he beat him!’
‘Did he? I was not present.’
‘It was awful!’
‘You should not have been there. It was very bad luck.’
Dorothea covered her eyes.
‘Is that tea hot?’ Charles inquired, coming over to test the warmth of the teapot. ‘No? Then I shall ring for some more. I could do with a cup of tea. Deuced warm, out there.’
‘What happened?’ Dorothea demanded, looking up again. ‘How—why—what could have caused such a terrible altercation?’
‘What do you think? Sanderson took a horsewhip to Greenway. He has been threatening to do so for weeks—you know that. It just happened that Greenway was at the barracks, overseeing the work on the mess house.’
‘But—’
‘Sanderson invited him into his quarters, and laid on the whip with a vengeance. I cannot think why Greenway went in. What a fool!’ Charles laughed suddenly. ‘I wish I had been there,’ he added, tugging at the bellrope. ‘McDonald was, and he says that you never saw such a spectacle. Sanderson throwing punches like a madman, screaming his head off, and Greenway trying to argue his way out. “Mr Sanderson, Sir, recollect!”’ Charles attempted to imitate Mr Greenway’s pleas by employing a shrill, piping tone, like that of a frightened female. ‘“Consider my situation, Sir!” ’ he squealed. ‘“I dare not run the risk of resisting, were I able! You know how I am circumstanced!”’ Another laugh. ‘What was he hoping to achieve, I wonder?’
Dorothea stared at Charles. He seemed genuinely amused, and oblivious to the horror of those frantic entreaties. ‘You know how I am circumstanced!’ Suddenly Daniel entered the room, and Charles ordered more tea. As the convict collected the teapot, Dorothea noticed his broad shoulders straining against the stuff of his shirt, and remembered how he had stood that morning in November, at the end of the hallway, like a threat. Like a reprimand.
What if Charles had taken exception to the implied warning in Daniel’s shadowy gaze? What if he had attacked his servant? How could Daniel have defended himself?
You know how I am circumstanced. If Daniel had offered any physical resistance, he would have been flogged for it.
With a lurch of her stomach, Dorothea thought: He must never do it again. Never. It doesn’t matter what happens, he must never, never intervene.
But how can I possibly tell him so?
‘Take the dirty cup, you fool, what is wrong with you?’ Charles rasped. He was addressing Daniel. ‘I presume there is still tea on the hob? In the kettle?’
‘I—I think so, Sir.’
‘Well go and find out! I despair, indeed I do,’ Charles said, as Daniel retreated. ‘These Irish are as stupid as sheep. Sanderson says that the rod is the only thing that will supply them with any intelligence. Perhaps I should follow his advice.’ For the third time, he laughed. ‘At least Daniel will not feel constrained to argue the point. “Consider my situation, Sir! You know how I am circumstanced!” Dear, dear. What a farce.’
It was at this point, gazing into her husband’s beautiful face, that Dorothea was rendered speechless by a terrible realisation.
Suddenly, she understood that she did not love him any more.
New South Wales
January 23rd, 1817
My dearest Margaret,
You may recall the brig that was seized by convicts, last September—the one that eluded Charles. It was called the ‘Trial’. Word has now reached us that the wreck of this ill-fated vessel has been found by natives, with no trace of the crew aboard. They are all presumed drowned. The ‘Lady Nelson’, under Captain Whyte, has been sent to investigate, but Charles was not chosen to lead the accompanying troops. Naturally, Charles was much displeased by this ‘snub’ (or so he calls it)—but then he is of a temper, these days, to be displeased by everything. His illness, I fear, has irretrievably soured him, though the summer has brought no recurrence of the complaint. I fancy that if he had the gout, he co
uld not be more petulant.
Mrs Bent has been forced to leave her house. The Governor insisted that if she did not vacate it by December twenty-third, an officer of the Crown would take possession of it, and all its contents. She is currently arguing with Mr Campbell over the value of her fixtures and fittings, which the Government intends to buy. She wants forty-seven pounds for her grates and fire irons! She will not get it, of course. (Forty-seven pounds!) She is being very foolish.
The latest scandal here also involves Mr Campbell, who is the Governor’s secretary, and rather hot-tempered. (I hear that he once fought a duel.) Early this month, a letter appeared in the ‘Gazette’ signed by one ‘Philo Free’, which appears to be a pseudonym. In it, the correspondent attacked Mr Samuel Marsden and his Philanthropic Society, which was formed in 1813 to assist any poor South Sea Islanders who might visit the colony. It appears that the money collected for that purpose has not been thus employed, or so Philo Free claimed. He also accused Mr Marsden of pursuing profitable trade in the guise of a missionary (for he has sent a mission to the Pacific Islands), plying the islanders with spirits in return for trade goods such as wood and flax.
As you may imagine, Mr Marsden was very angry. He demanded that the Judge Advocate, Mr Wylde, indict the editor of the ‘Gazette’ for criminal libel. The Collector of the Philanthropic Society, one Mr Jenkins, hastened to declare that he still had custody of all the society’s funds—because nobody had ever asked for them—and Mr Wylde told the Governor to repudiate the letter. This was done. The Governor publicly expressed his regret that the document should have gained admission to the ‘Gazette’, owing, he said, to the great pressure of Government business in the Secretary’s Office.
Now Mr Marsden has decided to indict the Secretary for criminal libel.
It is really quite extraordinary, how passionately combative the people are, hereabouts. Mr Marsden and Mr Campbell are at each other’s throats; Mrs Bent and Mr Campbell are at loggerheads over the cost of her corn bin; Colonel Molle is still much exercised over the identity of the author of the pipes written against him, and is demanding an inquiry; and as for the rift between the Governor and the Regiment, it has become quite impossible. At least half of the officers—Charles among them—will no longer accept invitations to Government House. And the result? All the most stimulating entertainments are now closed to us. Only the other day, to celebrate the marriage of Princess Charlotte to the Prince of Saxe-Coburg, a levee and ball were held at Government House in Parramatta. I am told that a Temple of Hymen was erected on the front lawn, with transparent lights that were ignited after dark. But of course we had no opportunity to view this wonder (had we decided to brave the road to Parramatta at all, which is doubtful). Owing to the fact that Charles and his cronies are so very nice, we are restricted to the usual dinners, with the usual faces and the usual talk.
I wonder if you can be at all interested in any of this? It seems so very dull and petty—and you seem so far away. So remote. Is it only three and a half years since last we embraced? I feel as if I have grown old since then. But the weather continues hot, of course, and I am never at my best in hot weather. Nothing pleases me. I am so tired of this place. I am so tired of this life. Matters have arisen which are so distasteful, so very troubling, that I cannot even bear to commit an account of them to paper. I cannot—no, I really cannot speak of them. Everything is too dreadful.
Forgive me. I should not trouble you in this way.
I love you all, and remain
your loving sister,
Dorothea
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
DOROTHEA THOUGHT TO HERSELF: it cannot last.
Mindful of her sister’s counsel, she pored over Ecclesiastes. She derived some small comfort from the proposition that to every thing there is a season; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.
Perhaps, she speculated despairingly as she sought the peace of the garden (which she was apt to pace, in moments of distress), this was merely a time to refrain from embracing. Perhaps the time for embraces would return.
But she was not sanguine. She was, in fact, quite dazed, unable to reason with any coherence, let alone formulate a plan or strategy. And events were conspiring to keep her thoroughly shaken—too shaken to attempt any kind of rational introspection whatsoever.
Firstly, there had been Captain Sanderson’s trial. Much to the dismay of the 46th Regiment, Mr Francis Greenway had laid a criminal charge of assault against Captain Sanderson, necessitating the latter’s appearance in court. Upon being informed by Judge Advocate Wylde of Mr Greenway’s charges, Captain Sanderson had naturally been much offended. He had promised to horsewhip Mr Greenway again, whenever and wherever they should meet—whereupon Mr Greenway had had him bound over.
Happily for the feelings of the Regiment, the bench assembled to try Captain Sanderson had been composed of one civilian (Judge Advocate Wylde) and six brother officers of the accused, two of whom had gone bail for Captain Sanderson, and one of whom served as a witness for the defence. As a result, Captain Sanderson was fined only five pounds for his attack on Mr Greenway. Moreover, the court added a majority rider in which the Judge Advocate was condemned for acting with unnecessary and ungentlemanly harshness in allowing the prosecutor’s solicitor, Mr Garling, to pursue the course that he had taken. The behaviour of Mr Garling, it was generally agreed, had been exceedingly improper. The officers on the bench had been bound, in the strictness of the law, to find Captain Sanderson guilty—yet they had been fully conscious of the fact that, as an officer and a gentleman, he had been justified in his conduct. Mr Garling did not appear to share that view. His attacks on the accused in court had led to a riotous scene, in which certain officers had threatened the attorney with bodily harm.
Dorothea learned of all this from Charles, who had attended the trial. She herself was not required to do so; her presence at the scene of the ‘unfortunate incident’ was not referred to during court proceedings. It had been agreed that she should be spared the distress and indignity of serving as a witness. Her delicacy was therefore respected, and her feelings were shielded, by the 46th Regiment as a whole. Several sharp words had been spoken to those few witnesses not attached to the Regiment: to Wharton the carpenter, for example, and to other convicts who had been engaged upon the construction of the mess-house roof. As a result, Dorothea’s name was not mentioned to Judge Advocate Wylde.
For this, of course, she was grateful. But the fearful prospect of having to appear threatened her like a hovering stormcloud, especially after Mr Greenway decided to take his suit to a civil court. At this trial, Captain Sanderson flagrantly insulted the bench, and Mr Greenway was subsequently awarded damages of twenty pounds. Dorothea, however, remained undisturbed. She was obliged to endure only the rage of her husband, who was deeply offended on Captain Sanderson’s behalf.
He was particularly put out by the Governor’s decision to admonish his friend, privately, for being rude to certain magistrates. In Charles’s opinion, the aforesaid magistrates had merited every curse that Captain Sanderson had seen fit to direct at them. Moreover, Charles was angered at Colonel Molle’s professed indignation at the general behaviour of the mess. Though the Colonel had previously made no strenuous attempt to check the bold licence that many of his officers gave their tongues, he now felt constrained, by his position as Lieutenant Governor, to serve Captain Sanderson and his friends with a formal lecture concerning the evils of libellous talk. Charles had been very much insulted by this homily.
‘He is a coward,’ Charles declared. ‘He had not the courage to support Vale, and now he has failed Sanderson. He is chicken-hearted. Do you wonder that he is the subject of so much scurrilous verse?’
Dorothea, of course, was not expected to comment. The question had been a rhetorical one, delivered as part of a lengthy discourse on Colonel Molle’s poor leadership. Though Charles and Dorothea still spoke
to each other, they rarely conversed in the true sense of the word. Charles would unburden himself to Dorothea on regimental matters, expecting only dutiful support, and Dorothea would ask him questions relating to domestic affairs—whether he wanted a shirt cleaned, for instance, or whether he would be dining in. She was too numb to engage in a proper, feeling dialogue. And he, if he noticed her air of distraction, did not remark upon it.
He seemed quite happy to accept her tendance without having to endure any of the emotional exhibitions that had so often accompanied it in the past.
For Dorothea, life was now full of shadows. All her efforts were directed at attempting to conceal the repugnance that she now felt for Charles, and for her own position. She was helpless with bewilderment. In desperation, she prayed for guidance. She feigned headaches, and started many letters to Margaret that she never finished. She could not comprehend the enormity of her loss. She could not believe that such a dreadful fate should have overtaken her. Love was the mortar of marriage. Without it, how was she to endure her life? Again and again she contemplated the possibility of consulting the Reverend Mr Cowper, but again and again her courage failed her. She was too ashamed to reveal her secret to anyone. She clung to the hope that this was, indeed, a season that would pass.
Then an event occurred that left her even more confused and irresolute—even more incapable of coming to any kind of decision.
It happened one morning late in February. That morning, when Dorothea went to order breakfast, she discovered that Rose had not yet arrived. Daniel was therefore obliged to cook eggs and slice ham, under his mistress’s supervision, while Jack was sent to make inquiries. Charles, of course, was very put out. He complained about the burned kidneys and was furious when Jack did not return in time to accompany his master to the barracks. For Charles, a properly ordered breakfast was vital to the successful commencement of any day. It had to be well cooked, it had to be efficiently served, and it had to be consumed in an atmosphere of domestic tranquillity. Such tranquillity could not be assured when Dorothea was always jumping up to assist Daniel, who conveyed the dishes into the dining room with a slightly flustered air, his hair plastered to his brow with sweat and his shirt spattered with food.