Bloody Colonials. Stafford Sanders
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akin, thinks Polly, to the sound of a badly-oiled gate. Then he adds with the leer gaining in intensity: “And, I may say, a lovely vision to grace it.” He flutters his eyelashes and almost drools.
My God, she observes with disgust, even his lashes are oily. Over the involuntary turning of her stomach, she forces another barely tolerant half-smile which she works hard to ensure is not accompanied by any visible rolling of the eyes. She satisfies herself with a tone of firm but gentle reproof, trying not to make it sound the least bit playful, coquettish or otherwise encouraging, but merely to truncate further conversation as deftly and politely as possible.
“Now now, Reverend,” she says, in the tone of a kindly but firm governess, “that’ll do.”
And as she turns away from him towards the washing line she adds under her breath, unheard by him: “Pig.”
For a moment the chaplain considers following her; but something in the quiet steel of her rebuff deters him. He narrows his eyes and smiles ruefully, thinking to himself: Bit of a wild one, that one. All that scuttlebutt about the fate that reportedly befell the last man who tried to force his attentions upon her. Had to be shipped home in two separate vessels, according to Halloran the stablehand. Mind you, the Reverend sneers to himself, anything coming from that highly dubious source would need to be taken with a most generous pinch of salt.
Staines shakes his head and watches with ill-disguised prurience Polly’s generous hips swinging backwards and forwards as she pegs the washing out upon the line.
Yes, he thinks, after five years in the colony it is high time I found myself a nice little wife. And then on reflection: But possibly one in need of a little less taming than she. High-spirited, that is the word for her. And while there can be certain … advantages in that, I am not at all sure that she would respond to the requisite degree of discipline from a strong husband and moral guardian such as myself – no matter whether or not the Holy Bible might instruct her that man must rule and woman must obey.
Still, one must not be choosy, he warns himself, what with men outnumbering women in the colony by a proportion of no less than seven or eight to one. Ah, he thinks with a sigh, the many trials cast by the Almighty in the path of us mere mortals.
He ruminates upon this for a moment, takes a deep breath, turns and shuffles away, inspired by his spiritual ponderings to begin a rather tuneless mumbling of one of John Newton’s popular hymns of the time, “The Prodigal Son”:
Afflictions, though they seem severe,
In mercy oft are sent.…
Newton, of course, had been associated with the campaign against slavery – but Staines does not hold this against him. After all, to a good Christian it does seem wrong to haul some poor African half way around the world in the bowels of a ship and turn him into a beast of burden.
No, far better to use the Irish for that. At least they understand what you are yelling at them. Well, almost.
As the Reverend warbles on, his eyes have drifted to the Heavens and away out to sea. All at once he stops, squints into the morning haze. Distant cream shapes flutter majestically into the bay.
Ah, he thinks, the ship has come in at last. His mood brightens immediately at the prospect of the new parishioners this vessel may bring – hopefully a good proportion of them female.
With a great deal more spring in his step now, the Chaplain turns and totters happily off past Government House towards the main street.
Through heavy eyelids half-closed against the bright glare, someone else now observes the ship as it drops anchor out in the bay and the longboats are prepared for the bridging of the remaining distance to the shore.
This observer has only moments ago emerged from the track leading down from the settlement, and now props his ample frame against a navigation post at the top of the dunes overlooking the beach. He puffs with the exertion of this activity as he wipes the sweat from his brow and peers from under a ragged straw hat towards the ship, which sits placidly at anchor in the early morning calm of the bay.
Well now, he thinks, sure an’ that’d be a welcome sight. An’ not before time, too.
He’s reminded of a similar day – must be about just about seven years past now – when he himself arrived on a similar vessel, and from the same port of origin: Portsmouth. He recalls the surge of mixed emotions with which he had at first set foot upon these golden sands. Such a long way, so far from everything he was familiar with. And into a life of such hard labour in such strange surroundings.
Well, he thinks, not all that hard, really, not the way I’ve managed to arrange most of it. At the end o’ the day I’m still standin’, he thinks - unlike some. I’ve not fared all that badly from it, all things considered - not compared with what might’a been. Doesn’t stack up all that bad, really, he concludes, against the hard realities o’ life on the back streets o’ Dublin. Wouldn’t be tradin’ my lot for those back there. Not now.
Still, he thinks, can’t be countin’ me chickens at this point. Not out o’ the woods yet. Still need to be playin’ me cards carefully. ’Specially with what I know about …
His gaze has drifted slowly across the horizon and has run up hard against the dark foot of South Head cliff, its craggy profile standing imposing against the brittle glare.
For one startling moment, there’s a terrible flash in his mind’s eye of a dark shape (or is it two, a larger and a smaller one?) hurtling with a scream towards oblivion. He blinks, rubs his eyes, shudders. The vision is gone.
Now listen, lad, he reprimands himself, don’t you go back there. You get that business well and truly out of yer mind, if you know what’s good for yer. Nothin’ to be gained by mullin’ over that. Nothin’ at all.
He narrows his eyes and directs them purposefully back across the dazzling bay towards the ship. He peers with interest at the longboats. One has set off towards the rough jetty at the southern fringe of the bay just below his position. Wonder who’s comin’ ashore off this one, he thinks. And with an inadvertent licking of the lips: an’ what quality o’ merchandise might be aboard.
He rubs his hands together and starts to whistle a rather comical little tune. Were it more recognisably whistled, it might be identified as an Irish jig.
After what seemed an interminable negotiation of the difficult harbour entrance, the ship had creaked its way slowly and mercifully to a dead halt. It now stood finally at anchor in the large bay.
Several longboats had been lowered alongside and an assortment of ropes and ladders dropped to meet them. I had not dared to watch as with the most remarkable dexterity, the sailors had set to work, conveying luggage and passengers into the boats. I had hung back while most of these had set off for the jetty. I now inched gingerly towards the railing and forced a quick glance downward towards the last of these rather unstable-looking vessels, now bobbing like a cork in the briny in the shade of the ship’s flank, far below where I stood apprehensively awaiting instructions.
I noted with some relief that my own trunk – filled with my clothes, books, medical equipment and assorted other odds and ends - was among the items stacked at the stern of the longboat. Various passengers, having scrambled gleefully down the rope ladder, were now seated therein: a small, motley cluster of settlers of diverse ages, all staring upwards toward the rail of the ship, behind which I remained perched in a state of some reluctance like a long-confined prisoner, pale and skeletal, blinking through the bars towards an uncertain freedom.
“Come on, Doctor, down you come, sir”, shouted a