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REVIEWS:
'Australia's founding father, Arthur Phillip, comes alive in this realistic
story of the first hard years of settlement.'
'History novels are not usually first on my list to be read, but Margaret kept
my attention throughout. It's her ability to make Phillip and his experiences
real that will keep you turning the pages.'
Author’s Biography
Margaret Hickey was born in England in 1972 and grew up in country Victoria. She studied English Literature at Monash University, Melbourne and has travelled extensively throughout the Middle East and Asia. A writer and English teacher, her work has been published in many Australian newspapers. She is currently writing her second novel. Margaret lives in the North East of Victoria with her husband and three sons in a house surrounded by gum trees.Prologue
It is always the same this time of evening. A skylark sings a tune to me, as wordless and familiar as a warm evening coat. I sip some rum and contemplate my dinner. It is a comforting life I have chosen. I am resigned to this. Of late I have become interested in the works of a new poet, Coleridge. ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ is a favourite. I find myself sympathising with the old seaman intent on telling his story to the young man. It is a tale of beauty and of terror. Sometimes I fall asleep in my chair with the poem clasped to my chest and the words singing in my ears. There are other more fearsome passages, which leave me staring into the dark, certain of silent spectres that move about the room. A cousin tried recently to interest me in the works of a new writer, a young female from these parts – but I have never been interested in society and all its intrigues. Her prides and prejudices would hold little sway with me. This is what I have become. The caricature of a wealthy Englishman, sitting deep in his armchair indulging in poetry and being cajoled by young folk. There are many who would want this in their autumn years. So why, at the merest hint of the words ‘New South Wales’ do I start so readily? Perhaps, though I barely recognise it, I am homesick for a country in which I spent a mere five years. A tough country, the papers report, unforgiving in its nature and climate. A country full of uncertain natives and surly workmen. I am an old man now. As I look out my window, to the ancient city of Bath, my mind is cluttered with memories and past longings. Although my senses have faded with age I find that at moments like these I can often hear the thwack-thwack of a boat softly rocking. I can feel the harsh sting of the sun, and hear the shouts from the convicts below. I smell the sharp green of eucalypt and the heavy scent of the wattle. I see the poor ioras, lying dead in the heath from smallpox, and hear the catcalls from the whores aboard the Juliana. I remember a girl, shoddy in her clothes but proud, stumbling as she climbed out of a stinking vessel; and the startling blue sheet of that harbour – the finest in the world. I see the glimpse of a cloud, or perhaps the elusive speck of a sail on the horizon. Is it a mast? Or a cloud? The waiting. Sometimes just the crack of a gum tree could have men running for shore. How did the Romans feel when they began to vacate this city many centuries ago? Were they, too, eager to leave? Did they miss the half-remembered food and wine of Rome? And on their return – perhaps they too felt as though home was not what they had returned to, but what they had left.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free, We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.
The Rime of The Ancient Mariner Samuel TaylorColeridge
One
When we rounded the Cape of Good Hope on 13th November, 1787, I stood upon the deck of the Sirius and congratulated myself on a successful voyage so far. We had lost only one marine, and out of 775 convicts only twenty-four had perished. After a frosty reception in Cape Town we had been granted all the necessities that we required, and though a far cry from the delightful stay we enjoyed in Rio de Janeiro, we ended on good terms with His Excellency the Governor Graaf. The fair winds and pleasant weather gave cause for optimism and a general air of excitement prevailed as we awaited our arrival at Van Diemen’s Land. Sailing on toward our common future, the men and women aboard our eleven ships eagerly anticipated our new life on land. Rejuvenated by their recent stay on land, the sailors sang as they went about their work and pointed out the dolphins that swam alongside our ships. The convicts, allowed time on deck, walked about scratching at their sores and exchanging jibes with one another. We had not been two days at sea when a great whale surfaced near the Sirius, causing all on board to roar in delight. The happiest of times for a sailor!
If you, by some strange fortune, happened to have the vision of a white bird that flew above our ship that day, you would have seen me proudly surveying my crew. At first you would have been unsure as to whether or not I was in charge, for though I am no midget, my height has never been bragged about in shipping circles. Then you would say ‘Ahhh, that’s him’ (or whatever the equivalent in bird language), when you saw the red of my Captain’s jacket and the gold insignia across my chest. You would have noticed that amongst the flurry and busyness of the crew, I alone was still. All about me people hurried, but I remained steadfast, surveying the ocean and planning, always planning. You may have noted then, that in my jacket pocket I carried a notebook, filled with important details on tides, charts and cargo – though this of course you could not know. You would have spied me, a sturdy man in his fourth decade, barrel chested with thin hair covering a rather red head. If you swooped a little lower, you would have seen my face: narrow, with a prominent brow and surprisingly big eyes. You may have seen me look up then, into your own eyes with appreciation. I have always loved nature, and albatrosses are surely the most beloved by those who follow the seas; we share a hope for favourable winds and the kindness of men. On that day your beating wings reminded me that all is possible, even after you disappeared in a haze of sunlight and glassy waves. But as all seaman know, ocean moments such as these cannot last; the weather gods are fickle things. Within a couple of weeks the winds grew steadily worse, putting the fleet in danger of being blown off course. If this were to happen our fleet would lose a precious number of weeks (at the very least) while we renegotiated our charts. I made the decision to move from the Sirius to the swift-moving Supply, taking with me all the carpenters, blacksmiths, mechanics and sawyers. It was my intention to arrive first and prepare the shores for the arrival of the convicts, who I feared would be weak from scurvy and dysentery. Major Ross had quickly set himself up on the Scarborough, the other ship I had elected to forge ahead. I said goodbye to my friend Watkin Tench and his hand when he shook mine was firm and true. ‘Good luck, sir,’ he said quietly, and though I know he was most eager to land, he did not enquire if he could join me aboard. The sailors ferried men in longboats to and fro, all the while shouting for tools or rope and groaning under the weight of the stores. The convict men chosen for their skills to join us blinked in the bright sun and let their hands glide through the water as they made their way to us. I scrutinised these ones critically, noting their stick-thin legs and pallid complexions as they peered about themselves in wonder.
In a quiet moment, while all was being prepared for our swap to the Supply I thought of Margaret. At this time in England she would be at home in our cottage tending to the garden and discussing the tea with our cook. I know that she resented at times my willingness to go to sea. In the eleven years that we had been married I had lived with her a total of five. Who can tell what this does to a woman, to have her man fighting in distant wars, never hearing of him for months and sometimes years? Like many a time before I wished heartily that we had a child to keep her happy. But my Margaret had three babes die before their time. The last lived for three weeks and was named Isabella. Before I left for London to begin preparing for the voyage I visited her little grave, next to the other two changelings, boys both – so tiny they could rest in your hand. No words in the King’s language could express what I felt when I looked upon my three babes, taken from me by God before I could know them. Their deaths changed my Margaret. Where before she had been a sweet woman with bonny brown hair, laughing eyes and the figure of a ripe pear, she became a ghost, passing through life as though it were something to be endured till she met her babes in heaven. When I took up my commission to become Governor General of the new colony she had waved goodbye as though I were off to buy eggs.
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