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  The Adventurers

  The Australians 9 – The Adventurers

  © Vivian Stuart, 1983

  © eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2021

  Series: The Australians

  Title: The Adventurers

  Title number: 9

  ISBN: 978-9979-64-234-3

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

  The Australians

  The Exiles

  The Prisoners

  The Settlers

  The Newcomers

  The Traitors

  The Rebels

  The Explorers

  The Travellers

  The Adventurers

  The Warriors

  The Colonists

  The Pioneers

  The Gold Seekers

  The Opportunists

  The Patriots

  The Partisans

  The Empire Builders

  The Road Builders

  The Seafarers

  The Mariners

  The Nationalists

  The Loyalists

  The Imperialists

  The Expansionists

  Acknowledgements and Notes

  I acknowledge, most gratefully, the guidance received from Lyle Kenyon Engel in the writing of this book, as well as the help and co-operation of the staff at Book Creations, Inc., of Canaan, New York: Marla Ray Engel, Philip Rich, Glenn Novak, Marjorie Weber, Carol Krach, Mary Ann McNally, Jean Sepanski, Charlene DeJarnette and last but by no means least, George Engel. All have given me encouragement and a warm friendship which has made my work as an author so much happier and less lonely than it was before I teamed up with BCI.

  I should also like to put on record my appreciation of the help given me by my British publisher, Aidan Ellis of Aidan Ellis Publishing, Ltd., in publicizing The Australians series in the United Kingdom, and of that always so patiently given in the domestic sphere by my spouse and Ada Broadley.

  The main books consulted were:

  Lachlan Macquarie: M. H. Ellis, Dymock, Sydney, 1947; A Near Run Thing: David Howarth, Darrold, 1971; Waterloo: David Chandler, Osprey, 1980; Australian Explorers: Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Oxford University Press, 1958; The Life of Vice-Admiral William Bligh: George Mackaness, Angus & Robertson, 1931; The Macarthurs of Camden: S.M. Onslow, reprinted by Rigby, 1973 (1914 edition); Description of the Colony of New South Wales: W. C. Wentworth, Whittaker, 1819; The Convict Ships: Charles Bateson, Brown Son & Ferguson, 1959; History of Tasmania: J. West, Dowling, Launceston, 1852; A Picturesque Atlas of Australia: A. Garran, Melbourne, 1886 (kindly lent by Anthony Morris); Macquarie’s World: Marjorie Barnard, Melbourne University Press, 1947; A History of Australia: Marjorie Barnard, Angus & Robertson, 1962 (copy kindly supplied by Bay Books]); Philip Gidley King: Jonathan King and John King, Methuen, 1981; James’s Naval History: William James, Bentley, 1837; Australian Historical Monographs, various titles, edited by George Mackaness, Ford, Sydney, 1956; Francis Greenway: M. H. Ellis, Angus & Robertson, 1949; Let the Great Story Be Told: H. W. Jarvis, Sampson Low, 1945.

  These titles were obtained mainly from Conrad Bailey, Antiquarian Bookseller, Sandringham, Victoria. Others relating to the history of Newcastle and Hunter River, New South Wales, were most generously lent by Ian Cottam, and research in Sydney was undertaken by Vera Koenigswarter and May Scullion. Gifts of books for research were received from Kim San tow, members of the Sydney P.E.N., and Women Writers of Australia, and practical help and hospitality in Sydney were given by Neville Drury and Dana Lundmark of Doubleday Australia Pty. and George Molnar. Research material was also made available by John Chisholm Ward of Oskamull, Isle of Mull, a descendant of the Australian Chisholms.

  Truth, it is said, is sometimes stranger than fiction. Because this book is written as a novel, a number of fictional characters have been created and superimposed on the narrative. Their adventures and misadventures are based on fact and, at times, will seem to the reader more credible than those of the real-life characters, with whom their stories are interwoven. Nevertheless—however incredible the real-life characters may appear—I have not exaggerated or embroidered the actions of any of them.

  Governor Macquarie—truly “the father of Australia” and arguably its best Governor—was treated as badly by the British Colonial Office as I have described. Samuel Marsden, John Macarthur, Jeffrey Hart Bent, Colonel Molle, and Commissioner Bigge were all allied against him and their concerted enmity almost destroyed him. On his return to England, the “Old Viceroy” defended himself valiantly against his detractors, and in particular against the public calumny of Henry Grey Bennet, MP, replying to the latter by means of a printed pamphlet. Macquarie sought an official inquiry but was denied it. He was never paid his pension, although after his death his widow was allowed three hundred pounds a year.

  Macquarie died on July 1, 1824, having been kindly received by the Duke of York and Lord Bathurst on June 1, and by King George IV a few days later. He breathed his last in a thirty-four-shilling-a-week lodging in London’s St. James’s. His body was taken to the Isle of Mull, and he is buried there in a family tomb. In the colony he had ruled for twelve years, they mourned his passing as if he had been their king, and only the Macarthurs and their adherents were absent from the memorial service held for him in November 1824.

  Elizabeth Macquarie died in 1830; young Lachlan died at the age of only thirty-two.

  In the taverns and workshops and on the far-flung farms of the humble emancipist settlers, they sang on Foundation Day:

  Macquarie was the prince of men!

  Australia’s pride and joy!

  We ne’er shall see his like again—

  Bring back the Old Viceroy!

  (See Lachlan Macquarie, M.H. Ellis)

  Finally, I should like to mention that I spent eight years in Australia and returned there, for a very happy visit, in 1982.

  Prologue

  “Murdoch Henry Maclaine, in view of your youth and the jury’s recommendation that you be treated mercifully,” the old judge had said, emphasizing his words with an admonitory gesture of a bony forefinger, “I shall commute the death sentence pronounced on you. You will, instead, be transported to the penal colony of New South Wales for the term of your natural life. And,” he had added, with derisive piety, “may God have mercy on you!”

  Seated in the jolting covered wagon, one of a row of fettered prisoners from Winchester Prison, Murdo Maclaine recalled the scene in the courtroom with remembered bitterness.

  True, he had been given his life. He had not been topped, like poor old Sep Todd and Dickie Farmer, his two companions in the ill-fated holdup of the London mail coach. But for all that ... His dark brows met in a resentful pucker. To what manner of life had he been condemned? Botany Bay, some of the other inmates of the jail had told him, was hell on earth for all who were sent out there as convicted felons.

  It would be different, of course, for his mother and Jessica and the two bairns. They had gone out with the 73rd Highlanders and Colonel Lachlan Macquarie, who had been appointed Governor of the colony, five years ago. To the best of his knowledge, all four of them were still in Sydney, forced to accompany his brutal swine of a stepfather—Sergeant Major Duncan Campbell
of the 73rd—after he himself had run away.

  He had it in mind to go out there and join them sooner or later, Murdo reflected, but not, God help him, as a lifer—a wretched convict, in chains! The disgrace would break his mother’s heart, no doubt of that; she had always been a proud woman, and he and Jessica had been brought up in accordance with her strict code of God-fearing honesty. She would be shocked and appalled if she knew that her only son had been tried and convicted of the crime of highway robbery.

  Murdo shifted uneasily in his narrow wooden seat. His career on the High Toby with Nick Vincent’s boys had been rewarding, and he could not, for his part, regret having embarked on it. Nick had befriended him, given him a home and work—initially as his groom and horse minder, at five shillings a week. Even that had been better than the miserably paid toil he had been forced to undertake when, as a boy of barely fifteen, he had fled from his stepfather’s bullying into the icy cold of the Glasgow streets in midwinter.

  He had begged in those streets, had worked briefly in the cattle market and as a drover, and had finally been employed as a roustabout by a foulmouthed old gypsy peddler, with whom he had come south to Guildford. And there the old skinflint had abandoned him, Murdo recalled bitterly, without settling their score, and making off with the only decent garment he possessed, his oilskin jacket. It had been when he was penniless and near to starvation that Nick Vincent, giving him his horse to mind outside an inn where he had halted to refresh himself, had taken pity on him and offered him work.

  “I can use a likely lad who knows how to handle horses,” he had said, and had then added, with a tightlipped smile, “so long as he don’t ask too many questions and knows how to keep his mouth buttoned up. Think you’d fit the bill, eh?”

  He had accepted without hesitation, Murdo reminded himself; he had asked no questions and had kept a careful guard on his tongue. Even when he had found out the true nature of his master’s profession, he had continued to work for him hard and willingly, and a year later—when he was seventeen—Nick had accepted him as a fully fledged member of the gang.

  It was a large gang and a well-organized one, the holdups, as a rule, meticulously planned and efficiently carried out; but the night he and Todd and Farmer had robbed the London mail coach outside Winchester, Sep Todd had been careless. In his cups that same night, he had talked too freely. An informer had heard his drunken boasting with the result that the law had, at last, caught up with them ... and his two partners in crime had met their end at the hangman’s hands.

  Whilst he ... Murdo gave vent to an unhappy sigh. He was chained up like a wild animal, on his way to Portsmouth or Southampton, and a six-month voyage to the unknown was an imminent prospect. True, he had a useful nest-egg, stashed away in Nick’s safekeeping. It was to be delivered to him, Nick had promised, before the convict transport to which he was consigned had pulled up her hook—or, if he were sent first to one of the hulks, which sometimes happened, he would receive the money before boarding the transport. Murdo repeated his sigh.

  He hoped, uneasy for the moment, that Nick would keep his promise, and then thrust his doubts from his mind. Nick Vincent was a man of his word, and he had always played fair with the men who worked for him, seeing that their widows and families were taken care of, should any of them get topped, and providing lawyers to plead their case, if they were brought to trial, or held on suspicion.

  And on a couple of occasions he had staged a rescue—once from a broken-down country jail, which had been easy, and once, with considerable daring, from a magistrates’ court, under the noses of quaking, terrified constables, who had put up no resistance.

  Murdo grinned, his spirits lifting. He had taken part in the second rescue himself, and it had been dead easy, because Nick had planned and led it and no one had talked out of turn. The fat old sheriff’s officer, a pistol to his head, had ordered the release of his prisoner, and they had taken the chairman of the bench hostage, to ensure that there was no pursuit.

  So that maybe—he glanced through the small, barred window across the van’s narrow aisle, straining against the leg-irons that held him in his seat.

  Nick had hinted, on the brief visit he had paid to Winchester Prison before Todd and Farmer had gone to the gallows, that he might try his hand at holding up the convict wagon, if he were able to find out for sure that Murdo was in it. The little runt of a turnkey had accepted a bribe in return for providing that information, but there was, alas, no way of finding out whether the fellow had kept his bargain or, as his kind often did, had simply pocketed the half-guinea and forgotten his obligation, but if he had kept it, then—

  Murdo leaned forward, hearing the sound of galloping hooves in the distance, his hopes suddenly rekindled. The man beside him cursed ill-temperedly and bade him sit still, but as the hoofbeats came nearer, Murdo ignored his sullen complaints.

  A pistol shot rang out and his heart leapt when he heard Nick’s stentorian command.

  “Stand and deliver! You’ve a cargo we want. Stop the wagon or we’ll drill you as full o’ holes as a colander! “

  The wagon came to a jarring halt. The driver, with the two jailers accompanying him, was seated, exposed and vulnerable, on the box. His voice trembled on the edge of panic as he answered the unexpected summons.

  “Whoa there!” he bade his jittery pair of workhorses, and added pleadingly, “For mercy’s sake don’t shoot, mister! We ain’t armed an’ we ain’t about to give you no trouble!”

  “Then get down off the box,” Nick ordered. “All three of you—that’s the way. Now hands above your heads and face about. Frisk ’em, Joss, just to make sure.”

  “They’re tellin’ the truth,” a deeper voice asserted—the voice of Joss Gifford, Nick’s right-hand man, Murdo recognized. He tried to rap on the window, but his chains held him back and the man beside him clapped a manacled hand over his mouth, preventing him from calling out.

  “Quiet, you oaf,” the man hissed. “Bide quiet, till we see what they’re after!”

  “You there!” Nick’s voice came nearer, evidently addressed to one of the jailers. “Inside with you and let ’em all out, fast as you know how! How many are you carrying? “

  “Twenty-four, sir. But they—”

  Nick cut him short. “Jump to it,” he demanded. “I want every man jack out of that wagon and lined up in front of me, understand? But leave their irons on till I tell you.”

  The jailer offered no reply. But a moment later a key scraped in the lock and the rear door of the wagon opened. Murdo’s companions, who until now had maintained a stunned silence, realized suddenly that they were about to be set free and started to cheer wildly.

  Nick cursed them. “Keep quiet, you stupid rogues! Quiet, I say! You’ll get your chance to run, if you do as I bid you. Out, as soon as your legs are unhitched, and let us look you over. Murdo, lad—” His tone changed. “Are you there?”

  “Aye, that I am!” Murdo responded eagerly. The man beside him was already on his feet and Murdo, still resenting the fellow’s attempt to silence him, thrust past him and hobbled to the door.

  Big Joss Gifford was standing at the foot of the steps, he saw, holding two horses. Behind him, their pistols levelled at the wagon’s crew, were three other mounted men, all masked. He recognized them, despite the masks, and grinned delightedly up at Nick.

  “God bless you! I’ll never forget this, Nick, as long as I live.”

  Nick nodded. “See you don’t, boy.” He jerked his head at the second jailer, who was standing scowling beside the driver. Pointing to Murdo, he said impatiently, “That’s the one we want. Strike off his irons and look sharp about it.”

  Murdo held out his fettered wrists and the jailer, his fingers clumsy in their haste, freed him from the heavy cuffs. The leg-irons, which had to be struck off with a hammer, took longer, but the man, urged on by Nick, completed the task with commendable speed. The
chafing irons came off, and Big Joss, grinning from beneath his mask, took a folded cloak from the saddlebow of one of the horses he was holding and flung it deftly in Murdo’s direction.

  “Wrap that around you, lad,” he invited. “And get yourself onto the roan mare. Nick’s got a change o’ clothes ready for you, but we don’t want to hang about on this road for longer than we have to. You can rid yourself o’ them prison duds after we’ve made our getaway.”

  Sensing that they were about to be abandoned, the other prisoners set up a concerted howl of protest.

  Nick silenced them harshly. “Turn ’em all loose,” he ordered the jailers. “Go on—jump to it, if you don’t want your skulls stove in!” The younger of the two jailers hesitated and Nick, implementing his threat, kneed his horse forward and brought the butt of his pistol down on the man’s bare head. It was not a forceful blow; the jailer staggered and then, recovering, hastened to do his assailant’s bidding.

  Murdo, seated on the roan’s back, watched the last of his erstwhile companions come tumbling out of the wagon, cowed into sullen acquiescence and flexing their cramped leg muscles as the irons were struck off and they were able at last to move freely.

  “Cut the traces, Joss!” Nick directed, indicating the horses harnessed to the wagon. “And drive off those nags. You lot of scalawags—” He turned to the freed prisoners. “Tie up the screws before you make a run for it, but don’t harm ’em—if you do, they’ll top you for sure if you’re caught.” He cut short an attempt by one of the men to thank him with a crisp, “Good luck, boys. Don’t hang about—this is the main Portsmouth road. I hope you make it.” Then, seeing that Joss had done as he had asked and had remounted his own horse, he waved a hand in the direction from which they had come and dug in his spurs. With Murdo close on his heels, the small cavalcade formed up and galloped off.