Читать книгу Diaries - Mr Stuart Jackson Jackson - Страница 6

It was cold. Freezing.

Sarah Grey was frozen and it went deep and she started to shiver.

She'd been down in the married quarters, talking to Mrs. Fleming. She and her husband, Ben, and their two children were making the trip as freemen, looking to the land in Australia for a new start.

Australia, she thought, so far away. She wouldn't even consider going if she had the choice, but the choice had been taken from her by the courts. Transportation, Sarah Grey, for a period of seven years. That's all the judge had said to her, nine simple words that were to change her life.

And there was Mrs. Fleming - call me Marjorie, dear, she'd said - and her family taking this horrendous trip by choice. And it had been horrendous for the Flemings too. There'd been a storm a week or so ago, much like this one, winds and rain and mountainous seas and Ben had been on deck, returning from the galley, and he'd been hit by a huge wave as he scrambled across the deck. He'd lost his footing and the food in one hand, but he'd held onto the rope. He'd managed to get to his feet when another wave washed across the deck and he lost his grip and he was over the edge with the wave, swallowed up into the grey.

Marjorie Fleming had been at the door to the quarters watching him, and almost everyone on the ship had heard her scream above the wind and water and Mr. Waters had had to hold her back. There was nothing anyone could have done.

After she had put the two children to bed at night Marjorie Fleming would talk to Sarah. She'd talk about seeing Ben being swept over the side of the ship, the fear etched on his face, and she thought she'd seen him smile for just a fraction of a second as he saw her in the doorway. Then death on his face, she said simply. And he was gone. She'd talk about their life in England, the small village in the Cotswolds where Ben had been the blacksmith.

And Marjorie Fleming didn't seem to care that Sarah Grey was a convict. Or that Sarah was consort to the Lieutenant.

"How is she?" Sarah asked.

"She seems a little better," Mrs. Fleming answered.

The little girl was only four and she looked frail and pale in the bunk. There was a sheen of perspiration across her forehead and, as she slept, her eyelids fluttered. In the bunk above her elder brother looked over the edge. Sarah smiled at him and he smiled back.

"She misses her father," she added, her eyes intent on her daughter.

"I know," Sarah said and squeezed Mrs. Fleming's shoulder. What more could she do?

"It's so hard to explain, to make her understand. You know," she said, turning to look at Sarah. "That he'll not be coming back." There was a tear in one eye. "Not ever."

Sarah wrapped her arms around the widow and drew her towards her. Marjorie sobbed against Sarah's shoulder. Above them the young boy drew back into his bunk, frightened at seeing his mother so upset.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Fleming said, pulling back. "You must think ....."

"It's all right, Marjorie. It's all right. Don't worry."

"What am I going to do?"

Sarah couldn't answer her. The mother would have been about ten years older than Sarah – perhaps she was thirty years old. She said she'd had the boy when she was only twenty-four and Sarah thought Marjorie had said he was six. She was not an unattractive woman, but the trip and especially the last week, had had its effect. She looked thin and tired.

"You have to keep up your strength," Sarah said lamely. "Why don't you sleep now, while she's quiet. It'll do you good. I'll come back in the morning."

"Will you?"

"Of course. Did you have some supper?"

"A little. I couldn't eat it all."

"You must try, Marjorie." She indicated with her head. "These two depend on you."

"I know."

"Go to bed now. Sleep. It might be calmer tomorrow."

"Thank you," she said and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You've been a good friend."

Sarah smiled and left her. Perhaps the events would make Marjorie no different to herself. In losing her husband and on her way to a strange land where she knew no one, she had been sentenced as well.

Sarah stood in the same doorway where her new friend had seen her husband swept to his death. Although there had not been much light in the dark clouded sky for most of the day, what light there had been was now fading. The sea seemed to be calming, the waves not so high, but the rain still lashed across the deck.

She grabbed at the rope, wet and rough in her hands, and stepped out onto the deck. It was slippery under her feet and she edged across the deck slowly, with the image of Ben Fleming in her mind, fear etched on his face, a smile of recognition and then death on his face. Death, she thought, and shuddered.

The wind thrashed the rain into her face and before she was halfway across the open deck she was saturated, her hair hanging limply on her head, the thin blouse and jacket like a second skin, heavy and cold, and the long skirt clinging around her legs.

She took the last few steps hurriedly and half fell into the entrance to the soldiers' quarters. She looked back over her shoulder, her heart beating and she wiped the hair out of her eyes. Her legs seemed like jelly and the trembling was a combination of fear and cold. She went down the stairs slowly, gripping the side rail with both hands. As she got to the foot of the stairs the ship shifted suddenly and she was thrown against one wall, a sharp jab at her shoulder and she fell to the floor. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be back home, in England. She hated this ship and the weather, she hated and feared where she was going. Her life had ended when the magistrate had handed down her sentence and this was hell, this was all a mad, bizarre dream – and she wished she would wake up soon.

No, she thought, she’d stay asleep and never wake up.

Die.

"You all right, love?"

It was one of the young soldiers. He was half over her, one hand on the wall above her, his other reaching down for hers.

"You all right?" he asked again. "You hurt?"

He had a broad accent that she couldn't place. She longed for the land that he came from, the distance of Northumberland, the flatness of Anglia, anywhere. Anywhere, but here.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Let me help you up," and he smiled.

He'd know who she was - the lieutenant's woman, his consort. Whore.

Another sentence, she thought.

She took his arm and he lifted her. He held her by her shoulders and smiled into her face.

"Bit rough, love."

"Yes," she said.

"You hurt?"

"No. I just ..." she rubbed her shoulder. "I fell against the wall. I'll be fine."

"You're soaked."

She managed a half-smile. "The rain," she said simply.

His eyes drifted down to her body, the material clinging to her breasts, the nipples visible even through the layers of clothes.

"You'll catch your death," looking back into her eyes. "Go and get dry."

"I will. Thank you."

He smiled and continued on his way, past her and up the stairs. Her legs still felt unsteady as she made her way along the narrow passageway to the lieutenant's cabin. The door was closed and she hesitated, her hand on the doorknob.

She could be with the other convicts, she realised, the conditions were not bad, but with the lieutenant it was better. It was warmer and she felt safer.

Sarah turned the knob and stepped inside. It was empty. He would still be with the others, or maybe with the captain or the surgeon. She walked around the narrow cabin, running her hand over the smooth wood of the small desk against one wall, feeling the leather of his books. The bed was neat and it looked like he had had clean sheets put on it. There was a black trunk in one corner that held his clothes and, towards the bottom, two hand pistols in a wooden box. She'd watched him one morning draw the flat dark box from among the clothes. My father's, he had said, and she had held the sheet to her chest and had peered out of the bed as he had opened the box. A dark green cloth covered the pistols and there was a glint along the barrels. My father's, he'd said again.

It was cold. She was frozen and it went deep and she started to shiver.

She took a sheet from a box next to the bed and wiped her hair and her face and then started to take off her clothes. They stuck to her, clinging, wet and heavy and when she was naked she wrapped the sheet around her, pulled a blanket off the bed and wrapped that around her as well. She didn't want to make a mess of the bed; she knew he was neat and liked things looking just so, but the cold took control of her and she scrambled under the eiderdown and curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms around herself.

Slowly, her teeth stopped chattering and her body ceased to shiver. She heard the sound of laughter in the distance.

For ten minutes she luxuriated in the warmth and then she got out of the bunk, the sheet and blanket still around her, and lit a second oil lamp. She squeezed the excess water from her clothes and watched the water form a pool on the wooden floor, and then slowly soak away. She draped the clothes where she could.

The ship tipped suddenly, first one way, then the other, and she fell to the floor. She could hear the clatter of dishes and shouts, then running feet outside the door, along the passageway and up the stairs.

She stayed on the floor and inched into a corner of the cabin and pressed her back against the walls, she drew her legs up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them and curled into the sheet and blanket. The fear hit her again and she longed for the lieutenant to be with her, to wrap his arms around her. There was security there, like being in the arms of her father. But the image of her father would go as the lieutenant started to kiss her, and run his hands over her body.

Where was he?

She closed her eyes and she could see the gentle stream flowing through the village and she drifted asleep.

She awoke and he was asleep beside her and it was calm. She lay still in the narrow bunk and listened to the creaking of the ships timbers and the distant wash of the sea. Day? Day what? One hundred and four. She couldn't be sure.

The lieutenant would know. He had a diary, beautifully bound in red leather, with his initials scrolled in gold on the cover. Inside the cover there was a short note from his father, saying that he should keep his diary up to date, for one day it could become part of history. And her lieutenant followed the instructions to the letter - he wrote every day, in a tiny and precise hand. She would have liked to have been able to read it, but she could only recognise words here and there, including her own name.

Initially she had religiously kept track of each day. From the three days waiting in Plymouth, waiting for the Lady of Bodmin to take on board all the supplies and the convicts. Two hundred and fifty of them, the lieutenant had told her and a guard of soldiers. There was supposed to have been fifty soldiers, but not all had turned up. At the last minute there had been a change in orders, and five of them had deserted and never reported for duty.

England's shores had scarce drifted below the horizon when all of the convicts were mustered on the deck. It had been a surprisingly clear day and Sarah had stood with the other thirty-odd women convicts, separated from the males. Off to one side of the ship she could just make out land. France? Spain? She had no idea of distance or the distances they may have travelled. The lieutenant had later told her that the trip would take up to 150 days. It would depend a lot on the weather, and they would stop at the Cape of Good Hope for supplies.

The Cape? An unknown place in the world. Good Hope? Not for her and the others milling around her.

Two men had stood on a raised part of the deck watching over them as others moved among them and removed their chains. The soldier working on Sarah's chains had run his hand over her ankle and then shot it up her skirt and she had screamed and jumped away and the soldier had laughed, as had the women around her. Five or six of the women had already formed relationships with some of the soldiers and she had already refused one suggestion. She had woken in the night and the same soldier had been beside her and he'd whispered in her ear and she had blushed and pushed him away and he'd gone off, chuckling to himself. She had felt dirty and the loneliness and the fear were crushing her and she sobbed herself back to sleep.

One of the men had said that the chains would stay off as long as everyone behaved themselves. They were to follow the routines that had been set up; they would obey the orders of the soldiers and of the crew. If there was any thieving, any insubordination, or any other offence, then the chains would be used.

She had found out later that the man was the captain. Captain Crowe, her lieutenant had said, and the owners and the government looked to him to get the vessel to its destination safely. The surgeon, a man called Dalrymple, had the job of looking after the convicts. The lieutenant had told her that the surgeon was paid by the navy, but that he was paid an amount for each convict that he delivered in good health at the end of the voyage. A worthy incentive to ensure all convicts were well looked after and not ill-treated: he had been the other man watching the chains come off.

There were separate quarters for the male and female convicts and both were cut-off from the rest of the ship by a bulkhead. Daily, they were allowed up on deck for exercise, under the watchful eye of the soldiers. Some of the freemen travelling with them would watch with curious stares. Sarah herself had watched the other women convicts, especially those who had been taken under the wing of a soldier or another man. They seemed happy enough and they had little privileges - a bit more to eat and drink, some security.

Sarah had succumbed to the lieutenant within ten days of leaving Plymouth.

There were ships biscuits, salted meat, flour and soup and tea and occasionally there was rice or sago. There was limejuice or a small quantity of wine - for the scurvy, the surgeon had said. Although the quarters were clean the soldiers had better conditions, the officers more so, and she ate better and the lieutenant bedded her without others watching while he did so.

Some of the male convicts were regarded as being good enough to perform jobs on the ship - some worked as cooks, sweepers and deckhands. There was a small group of freemen, travelling to the new colony to start afresh or to join family already there. One or two were wives of convicts serving sentences in Australia. Some of the soldiers had families with them.

Sarah counted each day as it passed. The sea around them was unchanging for days at a time, gentle and blue, the wind filling the sails and pushing them along. Then there were days and nights of storms. One day after the next, no different from the last or the one to come.

One day a man was found to have stolen from a fellow convict and he was flogged on deck in front of all the others and Sarah had turned away as he had screamed and his back had turned red, then strips of skin hung in the blood and he had fainted.

She drew comfort from the lieutenant. Security. More than once in the last week he had talked about keeping her with him when they reached Van Diemans Land. He would be able to arrange it, he was sure.

"What are you thinking about, lass?"

Her sentence.

"Nothing," she answered. "I was just listening to the creak of the wood and the sound of the water. It's calmer today."

"Yes. The storm is over, I think. The captain tells me that storms are quite commonplace in these waters. There may be more before we reach landfall."

"I hope not," she said.

Landfall? What was Hobart going to be like?

He pulled the sheet back from her and ran his hand over her shoulders and breasts. She watched his face. He was, she reasoned, a handsome man, dark hair tightly curled, long at the back of his neck, with long sideburns, a bushy black moustache that had tickled her, like her father's, that, at times, rasped her soft skin, even now as he ran his mouth over her breasts. His eyes were a deep blue and it was these, apart from his strong arms, when he wrapped them around her, which gave her the most security; they had a warmth in them that she saw only when he was with her. When he was with his men his eyes were clear, calm and officious.

There were times when she thought him to be well born. He had a vast knowledge and spoke well, he told her stories of his time in a town called Kettering, and his hands, now drifting lazily over her thighs, seemed to have never done any extended manual work. From some of his comments, he would appear to have some independent means.

Lieutenant Harry Abbotsley.

There were worse prospects for her future, she thought. Perhaps, if he was right and he could make arrangements for her, it would be better than the unknown. What was the life of a convict like in this place at the end of the world? As her mother was fond of saying, better the devil you know, my girl, than the one unseen around the corner.

On landing in Hobart, Abbotsley had reported immediately to Major Pollard.

"You'll be going to Macquarie Harbour," the Major said simply.

"Where, sir?" Abbotsley asked.

"Macquarie Harbour, Lieutenant."

The Major looked at the Lieutenant. There was a mixture of innocence and experience in his face. His eyes showed a certain determination. This accursed island would make or mould the young lieutenant, he thought. Even more so, the hell that he was sending him to - Macquarie Harbour.

"I don't ..."

"Macquarie Harbour is on the west coast of the island, Lieutenant," Pollard said slowly and deliberately. "It was set-up as a penal settlement by Governor Sorell in 1822, when we were still part of the colony of New South Wales. It was named after Governor Macquarie."

"Is there some reason why I am to be assigned there, sir?" Abbotsley asked.

"Because it's your assignment, Lieutenant!" Pollard snapped.

Abbotsley looked at his commanding officer. He was a short man, but built solidly, a tanned and lined face that fell easily into a scowl, the brow furrowed with lines. The hair was greying and thinning, the eyes blue, clear and piercing. Even in the short time that he had been ashore he had heard about Pollard. A terrier, most had said, an officer who was an officer - efficient, a hard worker, blunt and to the point. And not to be treated lightly.

"I meant no disrespect, sir," Abbotsley added. "I had assumed that I would be assigned to a post here in Hobart Town."

Pollard stood up and walked slowly over to the large window. He watched the activity outside for a minute or two and then turned back to face the Lieutenant.

"Captain Evans currently commands the settlement at Macquarie Harbour," Pollard said, in the same slow, paced tone. "A month ago his lieutenant was ... he died." Pollard looked at the young lieutenant and watched his face as he spoke the next words. "He was badly injured following an attack by a small group of convicts. He subsequently died from his injuries."

Abbotsley looked up from where he sat, into Pollard's eyes. The Major saw puzzlement in the man's face, but not fear. Perhaps he would be good support for Evans. The fresh looks may be a bit deceiving, he thought.

"It is a rough place, Lieutenant," Pollard continued. "It is isolated - both by virtue of its distance from Hobart Town and also by its inaccessibility. It can only be approached from the sea and is surrounded by mountains that are covered by impenetrable vegetation."

"Why do we have a settlement there, sir?"

"Kelly discovered it in 1815. Captain James Kelly. He was exploring the coastline of the island in a whaleboat lent to him by James Gordon. He returned here with reports of great stands of Huon Pine. He and his friend, a man called Birch, were given an exclusive contract - for one year - to farm the timber."

Pollard stopped. He was beginning to sound like a history teacher. He looked at Abbotsley, but the young Lieutenant was watching him intently and he seemed to be concentrating on each word.

"Governor Sorell commissioned Kelly to bring back some of this timber for government use. Sorell sent another man with him - a man called Florence - so that he could get some independent reports on the area and its value. Florence considered the harbour itself to be ideal. Ideal as a harbour and also with good prospects for some sort of settlement. He confirmed the reports of the Huon stands and also reported reserves of coal in the area."

"Coal, sir?"

"Yes. Anyway, that was enough for Sorell. He thought it was a good idea to kill two birds with the one stone. There was a need to establish a penal settlement to which he could send the worst convicts. Somewhere away from Hobart. And he wanted to exploit the Huon reserves - and the coal.

"So Macquarie Harbour was established, nearly seven years ago."

Pollard walked back to his desk and sat down.

"It still caters for the worst convicts - even though we now have a settlement at Maria Island. So the men you'll be responsible for guarding are not soft men, Lieutenant. Many are murderers and many have little to live for."

"You make it sound like ... like hell, sir."

"That's a good word, Abbotsley. A good word." He paused and drew a pipe from the top drawer of his desk. "It's important you know what you're going into. I don't want you thinking that it's going to be easy." There was a battered tin of tobacco on top of the desk and he opened it, scooping the strands out with short thick fingers, packing it into the bowl of the pipe.

"The coal turned out to be poor quality and not really worth mining. But the pine - the Huon - is magnificent."

"I don't think I've ever heard of the timber, sir." There was a puzzled look on the Lieutenant's face, as if he had heard the name, but couldn't place it.

"No. Benedict is our local botanist and he thinks it may even be indigenous to this island. It was first discovered along the Huon River, south from here. It's named after ..."

"Huon, the French explorer," Abbotsley interjected and there was a smile on his face.

"You know him, then?"

"Yes, sir. I read." Pollard saw the pride in the man's face. A chance to show his knowledge. My God, the Harbour would knock that out of him. "Captain Huon de Kermadec," Abbotsley was saying. "He was captain of the Esperance and was part of an exploration voyage under the command of Rear-Admiral Bruni D'Entrecasteaux. They explored this area around 1792. Lord Greyling's account of the voyage is quite fascinating."

Pollard smiled to himself. Yes, the man was keen. A year or so at Macquarie Harbour to get some good experience under his belt - some hardening - and he would be a valuable asset here. Governor Arthur was talking about the need to set up another penal settlement closer to Hobart. Perhaps Abbotsley?

"Good." Pollard rammed the last of the tobacco into the bowl and thrust the pipe into his mouth, puffing and sucking with a great amount of concentration.

"New pipe," he said, looking at Abbotsley again. "The old one split. Hate breaking in a new one."

The lieutenant smiled and nodded in agreement.

"The Huon is a dense pine. Very slow growing, according to Benedict. Holds nails well, impervious to water, and, therefore, excellent for ship building." Pollard stood up again and walked over to the fireplace and stuck a long narrow shard of timber into the flames. "And that's what we do at Macquarie Harbour, lieutenant. We build ships."

"Ships?"

"Ships," Pollard repeated and allowed himself to smile slightly. "Those bloody convicts work hard. And it'll be up to you to make sure that continues. You'll be second in command, under Evans."

The Major pulled the lighted stick from the fire and laid the end across the top of the pipe bowl, sucking flame down onto the tobacco, his eyes intent on the glow.

"You're not married, so you'll ...."

"Well, sir, that's not ..."

"What's that? I understood you to be a single man, Lieutenant."

"I am, sir. But I ... I have ... I met a woman on the ship."

"On the ship? The one you came on? The Bodmin Lady?"

"The Lady of Bodmin, Major," Abbotsley corrected quietly. "Yes, sir."

"A freewoman?" Pollard asked, but half-knew the answer.

"No, sir. A convict."

"And you want to marry this woman?"

"Well, sir," Abbotsley stumbled. "I thought I might ..."

"I understand, Lieutenant." He drew deeply on the lighted pipe and smiled inwardly. It was a long voyage and it was not unusual for the women convicts to be selected and used. Many, unfortunately, were cast aside on their arrival at Hobart, some with unwanted children in their bellies.

"Might I be permitted to take her with me, sir?"

Pollard paused. "It is possible, Lieutenant," Pollard answered. "But I would advise against it."

"Sir?"

"There are only men convicts there. Women went there originally, but, for a number of reasons, it didn't work out and they were withdrawn. Some of the officers have families there, but the climate is not conducive to a happy life. Captain Evans had his family with him for the first four months, but sent them back on the supply ship. I don't think that either he or his family regret that decision. As a consequence, I would advise strongly against taking your ... your woman with you, Lieutenant. More so if she is not your wife."

It was Abbotsley's turn to stand now, and he walked to the window.

"I don't know what to do, sir," he said without turning.

"Perhaps I can help. What do you know of this woman?"

"She's fairly young, sir. She has long black hair and deep ..."

"That's not quite what I meant, Lieutenant.” Pollard smiled inside. “What did she get transported for? What did she do in England, as a trade?"

"She supposedly stole and sold a horse, sir."

"Supposedly?"

"The horse belonged to the son of the family to whom she was in service. The son had wanted to take advantage of her and when she had continually refused he concocted the story about the horse. I think he had hoped that she would ask him to withdraw the charges, in exchange for ... for servicing his desires. But she refused. "

"In service, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have a friend. He was in the army once, but left to go into business here. He is old, but a very well-to-do merchant and he married only a year ago." Pollard looked at the young Lieutenant. "A very young woman. Almost a girl. He's almost old enough to be her grandfather. A very attractive woman. He travels extensively, both within the colony and to and from Sydney. He has mentioned the need to hire someone who could act as both a servant for his wife and something of a companion. Perhaps ..."

"Do you think it possible, sir?"

"I do. But I would have to meet this woman of yours. I would have to be happy in myself to be recommending her." The Major stopped and looked at Abbotsley. "Don't be offended, Abbotsley. I know nothing of this woman, other than that which you have just told me. Regardless of the circumstances, she is a convict. She was convicted of a crime and I would not like to recommend to a friend someone whom I do not know or who I would not be happy to have in my own employ. What do you say?"

"That could be the answer, sir."

"And the meeting?"

"If you could arrange it, sir … perhaps tomorrow?"

"Fine. She would be provided with board only, of course, being a convict woman. But she would come under the protection of Mr Tate. That would give you some peace of mind, I think."

"It would, sir, yes."

"Good. I shall speak with Mr Tate tonight. And with his wife, Beth. Elizabeth is her name. She will have to be happy with the arrangement, of course, if the woman is to be a companion for her."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. In the meantime, my corporal will organise some accommodation for you. You are due to sail with the next supply vessel in seven days time. Let's hope we can resolve this problem by then. Go now. Organise your gear and see your woman."

"Yes, sir. And thank you."

"Which one?" she asked.

"That one. In the middle." And he pointed across the water to the three-masted vessel. "It's called the Gemma. I think that David Hoy built her."

"Who is David Hoy?" she asked.

"He is the ship builder at Macquarie Harbour."

"It's a long way away," she said, turning to face him.

"Yes," he admitted. "But it will not be for long."

Sarah Grey looked at the Lieutenant and smiled bravely. He returned her smile and laid his hands on her shoulders. She looked more beautiful than he could remember. Her long black hair had a deep sheen to it and as it shifted in the slight breeze that came off the water of the harbour it seemed to sparkle. Her face was fresh and clear and the smooth tanned skin made her hazel eyes seem larger.

They had bought her the new dress and shoes the same day he had returned to her with Pollard's news. She had been most disappointed with the news of his posting and the fact that the Major had recommended against her going with him. The lieutenant had been bright and cheerful and had convinced her of the benefits of securing a position here. It would be better than finding herself in the Factory and being assigned to work for anyone. This way she would have the opportunity of securing a good position.

The meeting with Pollard and Pollard's wife had gone well and the following day Pollard had approached his friend, Mr Tate, with the proposal. They had met with Mr Tate and his young wife the day after that and they had both been very apprehensive. Mr Tate had asked them both a lot of questions and the young Mrs. Tate had taken Sarah's hand and they had walked away together, with Mrs. Tate asking her questions still. Abbotsley had stayed with Mr Tate and Pollard, trying to keep the conversation going, but worrying all the time about Sarah.

Having met Mr and Mrs. Tate he was keen to make sure that Sarah would be acceptable. They seemed like a good couple and Mr Tate was kind and spoke gently. His wife, as Pollard had mentioned, was stunningly beautiful, with long russet hair and flashing brown eyes. He could go to this desolate place they called Macquarie Harbour and feel safe leaving Sarah in their hands.

And if they found that she was unacceptable, they ran the risk of not knowing where Sarah would end up. The thought of another man ....

But all had gone well. Mrs. Tate had returned from her walk with Sarah and she had flashed a smile at her elderly husband and nodded wisely. Mr Tate had looked at his wife and then at Sarah and had agreed.

And now she stood before him, at the edge of the harbour, looking at the boat that was to take him away tomorrow. At her feet was a small case. She was to start work with the Tate's this morning, because they were leaving for Launceston after lunch.

Sarah looked at her Lieutenant and picked up the case.

"We must go," she said.

He took the case from her and she threaded her arm through his and they walked in silence, away from the harbour and around the southern edge of the Town towards the Tates' house.

They stopped just short of the house and he took her in his arms and kissed her long and hard.

"You won't be long, will you?" she asked.

"No," he promised. "I'll write to you and tell you of all the things I am doing. And you must write back to me and tell me the same things."

"And how much I'll miss you."

"Yes. Tell me that, too. We must do this. It will help the time go faster. And I can come back to you. And here ... I bought this for you.”

"What is it?”

“A diary. You should keep a daily account of your time here. Mrs Tate said she would help you to read and write better, didn’t she?”

“She did.” Tears started in her eyes and he touched her cheeks gently, wiping them away.

They walked and stopped at the gate to the house.

"It's a grand place," he said.

Sarah nodded.

As they stood holding hands, looking at the front of the house, the door opened and Mrs. Tate came out onto the porch.

"Hello, Lieutenant Abbotsley," she called. "Sarah."

Abbotsley nodded politely.

"Go now," he said simply. "Go."

She wrapped her arms around him and they kissed again and then she pulled away, scooped up her case and ran up the pathway to the house. He watched her, her black hair streaming behind her, and as she reached the short flight of steps he turned away and walked briskly back to the harbour. He did not want to have one last vision of her as she looked at him with pain on her face and tears running from her eyes. He would take with him the picture of her long black hair flowing out behind her. And of her soft pink supple body of the night before.

There were black clouds gathering as he reached the harbour and he stood and looked at the ship that was to take him away. A cold southerly wind whipped some spray into his face and he shivered.

Cold.

Hot. Bloody hot, she thought.

Nora Christie looked out of the window and the sky was clear, a brilliant blue. A hot Hobart day.

Sweat ran down between her breasts.

"It's good," Caroline said, looking up from the printed pages she had finished reading.

Nora looked away from the screen of the computer and smiled.

"It's coming together, yes." She always felt pleased with herself - a sense of achievement - when she finished a section of the book.

She watched Caroline as she undid the front of her blouse and wipe the sweat away. She was hot herself; this was not a good day for writing, but when the feeling took her it was worth the trouble sticking at it. Twenty pages written at a time when she felt like it - regardless of the time - were better than twenty pages written when she forced herself to be writing. Fewer errors, less need for re-writes. It felt better.

What she'd now done was to set the scene - what would probably become the first two chapters of The Grey Line. She'd introduced her heroine to her readers - Sarah Grey - a young convict girl, wrongly convicted following a run in with the local squire in England, facing an uncertain future in a strange land thousands of miles away. She could expand on elements of what she had written to underscore the hardships of the voyage. Insert some specific incidents. And sometime - probably later - she would be able to refer back to the young squire, flesh out the circumstances and a bit of lustful sex in the stable while the horses peer over the fence, she thought, a slight smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

And there was also the start of the relationship with the dashing Lieutenant Abbotsley. He would provide the second story thread. God, Nora thought, he was such a fascinating character. She had to try and get over that passion of his … his zeal. His obsession. It would work, she knew.

"Let's go for a swim."

"Great idea." Caroline handed the printed pages back to Nora.

"You go and get changed," Nora said. "I'll just organise another back-up."

"Okay," and she kissed Nora gently on the forehead and walked from the room, peeling her blouse off. Nora smiled at the sight of the shiny bare brown back and turned back to the computer.

She moved the mouse to the menu bar at the top of the screen and clicked on FILE.

From the drop down menu she selected SAVE.

From inside the machine came a short burst of noise – and it was done. The name of the file was across the top of the screen. GREY1+2. The file had been updated, incorporating her latest updates.

She wiped a bead of sweat from her temple and pulled a USB stick from the shelf alongside the computer. There was a tag threaded through the end of the stick with writing on it - neat capital letters in black pen. She inserted the stick into the computer and used the SAVE AS option this time to save the same document onto the stick, but with an A added to the file name. Then the same process with a second USB stick, this time adding a B to the file name instead. So now there was the copy on the machine itself, and two separate back-ups on the USB sticks.

Done, she thought, and placed the USB sticks into a small drawer.