However, he was desolated to inform her that, upon inquiring into the matter, he had discovered that the said Daniel Callaghan had been tried and convicted on the afternoon of September the thirteenth—to whit, yesterday. It appeared that certain people of authority had been anxious that he receive a speedy trial. Mrs Brande’s own testimonial regarding the character of the accused had undoubtedly worked very much in his favour, for the charge of conspiring to rob Mr Horsley had been dropped—and with it the possibility of any corporal punishment being inflicted upon Daniel Callaghan. The defendant Tom Hodges had been sentenced to a public whipping through the streets at a cart’s tail, followed by twelve months’ hard labour in Newcastle. Daniel Callaghan, convicted only of receiving stolen goods, had been treated well in comparison.
Three months’ Hard Labour on a roadgang, wrote Mr Garling, was the very best outcome that might have been expected, in the circumstances. Even if an Appeal were possible, Mrs Brande, it would almost certainly be unsuccessful, the defendant Callaghan having admitted, under oath, that he had nursed a suspicion regarding the true ownership of the articles found in his possession, but had been reluctant to act on this suspicion, in the hope that it might be unfounded.
Mr Garling expressed his disappointment in the fact that he could be of little use to Mrs Brande. It was most unfortunate that Callaghan had been tried with such expedition (owing to Dr Wentworth’s intervention, he believed), but he was nevertheless of the opinion that, had Fate allowed him to act as Daniel Callaghan’s agent, no more favourable an outcome could have been achieved. The stolen goods had, indisputably, been found in Daniel’s possession. Even had Daniel been prevented from admitting that he was to some degree culpable, in not having alerted the police, it was doubtful that he would have been acquitted.
I cannot flatter myself that I could have succeeded in convincing the Bench of Daniel Callaghan’s innocence, Mr Garling concluded, when Callaghan himself seemed less than convinced.
The matter, therefore, should probably be allowed to rest. Pursuing it further would undoubtedly result in a fruitless expenditure of money and effort, especially in light of the fact that Callaghan had been preserved from that form of punishment for which Mrs Brande had expressed such a reasonable and passionate abhorrence. But if Mr Garling could be of service to Mrs Brande in any other way, he would be delighted to put his professional experience at her disposal. For the present, he had the honour to remain, &c, &c, Frederick Garling, Attorney at Law.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
IT WAS SOME TIME before Dorothea recovered from the shock occasioned by Mr Garling’s letter.
Her sense of disbelief was paralysing. Her powers of reason were overthrown, and her limbs deprived of all strength. She could not think what to do. ‘How could this happen?’ was the phrase that fell from her lips, over and over again. It was inconceivable to her that the Governor could have failed her so grievously.
She lay on the sofa, with her smelling bottle under her nose, until feelings of anger and dismay began to supersede her initial numb astonishment. Daniel on a roadgang! It was impossible to contemplate. How could the Governor have permitted such a thing? She was furious with him. Furious with Dr Wentworth. Furious with Daniel, who had so stupidly admitted to doubts that, she was sure, he had not really entertained. And even if he had, were such doubts sufficient to condemn a man to hard labour for three months? It was absurd. It was unendurable.
She got up, and fetched her portable writing desk.
Then she changed her mind. What purpose would it serve to engage in a tedious—and probably fruitless—correspondence with a man who seemed so unresponsive to an appeal made in person? She would not write to the Governor. She would confront him again, and demand a pardon for Daniel. There was such a thing as a Governor’s pardon; she had heard mention of it. Why should it not be bestowed on Daniel, who would in any case have been eligible for his ticket-of-leave within months, had he not been so cruelly betrayed?
She went to the bedroom, where she donned her bonnet, gloves and pelisse. Having already once walked to Government House, she was not at all dismayed by the thought of having to walk there again. On the contrary, she welcomed the opportunity to relieve her feelings by indulging in a little brisk exercise. Perhaps, if she were tired enough, she would not be tempted to harangue the Governor like an angry shrew.
The weather was dull, but dry. Bridge Street was therefore less dirty than it had been on her previous excursion. She kept her head modestly lowered, and her gaze on the uneven surface of the road. Once more, she suffered no indignities more offensive to her sensibilities than the noisy expelling of spittle, and a leering, sidelong glance from a vulgar-looking man who tipped his hat in a very pointed manner as he passed her. No convict gangs caused her any peculiar distress. No offensive language was employed in her vicinity. With her destination only minutes away, she was beginning to congratulate herself on having accomplished her purpose when she reached the respectable end of Bridge Street, and almost collided with Mr John Thomas Campbell.
Mr Campbell, it seemed, was returning home from Government House. He was on foot and laden with papers—one folio of which he was examining as he strolled towards his front gate. Dorothea had been scurrying along with her head down (lest she be recognised by Mrs Wylde, or her ilk), and all but cannoned into Mr Campbell, stopping only as she caught sight of his highly polished boot.
Mr Campbell, for his part, dropped some of his papers. There was a flustered moment of gasps and apologies. Dorothea was mortified, and the Governor’s secretary much startled. But he recovered quickly—being a man of enormous self-possession—and insisted on retrieving the documents himself.
Then he bowed, and bade her a very good morning, and delivered himself of the opinion that she was undoubtedly paying a call. On Mrs Cowper, perhaps?
Dorothea blushed. She could not help herself. She had met Mr Campbell infrequently, and had never found him particularly amiable. Born in Ireland of Scotch descent, he possessed a dour manner, a hard eye and a derisive sense of humour. Now, wilting a little beneath his steady and searching regard, she wondered if he might prove useful to her.
She thought perhaps not.
‘I am—I do not intend to call on Mrs Cowper,’ she stammered. ‘No, Sir.’
‘On someone else?’ he inquired, with an even more piercing look. Charles had always described him as the Governor’s watchdog, and at last Dorothea understood why. He watched her carefully, like a hound pacing behind a fence. Did he know of her recent visit to the Governor?
It occurred to her that he probably did. He was the Governor’s secretary, after all.
Drawing on every ounce of courage at her disposal, she replied that she was intending to call on His Excellency, if His Excellency would receive her. Perhaps Mr Campbell would have the kindness to assist her in some way? Her business was of the most urgent kind.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Campbell. He pursed his lips, glanced about (as if to ascertain whether anyone was close enough to overhear), and finally remarked, upon turning his gaze once more to Dorothea, ‘This would be regarding your manservant, Mrs Brande? Forgive me, I cannot recollect his name.’
‘Daniel,’ said Dorothea. ‘Daniel Callaghan.’ Suddenly she gasped. She had remembered. ‘You convicted him!’ she exclaimed. ‘You were on the Bench! Yesterday—you and Dr Wentworth, and Mr Lord—’
‘Why not step into my house, Mrs Brande? We can discuss the matter in comfort, there.’
‘How could you? Did you not read the letter that I sent to Dr Wentworth?’
‘Please, Mrs Brande—if you would …’
She was obliged to accept his invitation, since he did not seem inclined to answer her questions in the street. For the first time, she entered his stately home, which—though it did not in any way compare to Bideham Park—would have filled Charles with envy. Its ceilings were high, its furnishings sparse but tasteful. It had joinery of the most admirable finish, and a light, airy quality that was att
ributable to its large windows and excellent proportions. It was, in every sense, a gentleman’s abode.
Mr Campbell conducted Dorothea into his office, which was extraordinarily crowded, but very neatly arranged. The sight of so much paper, in so many pigeonholes, awed Dorothea. Her fiery sense of outrage was somewhat dampened as she gazed around her at the banks of ledgers and piles of correspondence. My goodness, she thought, how busy he must be!
Without a single protest, she sank into the chair that Mr Campbell cleared for her use.
‘Forgive the disarray,’ he said, and dumped a load of papers onto his writing table. ‘Now. Mrs Brande. I understand that you have already approached the Governor on your manservant’s behalf, is that the case?’
‘Yes,’ Dorothea replied, in rather subdued accents.
‘I know this,’ he continued, ‘because I myself was charged with having a copy made of the memorandum that His Excellency sent to Dr Wentworth, in response to your appeal.’
‘Oh,’ said Dorothea.
‘You should understand, Mrs Brande, that a concerted effort was made to ensure that your manservant received a fair and speedy trial. That every magistrate on the Sydney Bench, though not exactly prejudiced in his favour, was certainly inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Then why did you punish him?’ Dorothea wailed. ‘He is an innocent man!’
‘Come now, Mrs Brande.’ Seating himself, Mr Campbell folded his arms across his breast. ‘If you were approached by a convict, who asked you to mind a gold watch and silver snuffbox, would you not query the origins of these articles?’
‘Not if I owed him my life! Not if I trusted him!’
‘Mrs Brande, your man did not trust him. This much was established in court.’ He rubbed his nose, and grimaced. ‘With all the goodwill in the world, Mrs Brande, we could not have ignored the facts. And I should tell you that receiving stolen goods is a crime that must be discouraged at all costs. Any number of excuses may be offered—indeed, they are offered, on countless occasions—but where would we be if we accepted them? We could not, in good conscience, exculpate your manservant. Not before the law. But we gave him the lightest possible sentence.’
‘You think three months on a roadgang a light sentence?’ Dorothea protested, and Mr Campbell’s tone became less conciliatory.
‘The customary sentence,’ he rejoined drily, ‘is twelve months.’
‘But he is a good man!’
‘So you have attested. Hence our leniency.’
‘Mr Campbell, I do not think it justified. I do not, indeed.’
‘Forgive me, Madam, but justified or not, it is the law.’
He was quite calm. Dorothea eyed him despairingly, recalling Mr Garling’s opinion on her chances of appealing the sentence. She knew nothing of the law. Its representatives seemed to be ranged against her.
But did the Governor number among them?
‘If I were to appeal to His Excellency,’ she declared, dry-mouthed, ‘he might issue Daniel with a pardon, is that not so?’ Whereupon she had the pleasure of seeing Mr Campbell blink, and look surprised.
‘A pardon?’ he echoed.
‘The Governor can issue a pardon, can he not?’
‘Not in these circumstances.’ Mr Campbell leaned forward. He had composed himself with his customary swiftness, and spoke gravely, and earnestly. ‘Mrs Brande,’ he said, ‘only people such as Dr Redfern and Mr George Howe, the editor of the Gazette, receive free pardons. They are people, sentenced to transportation, whose records have subsequently been unblemished and whose contributions to the wellbeing and respectability of this colony merit such a high honour. Absolute pardons—or even conditional pardons—are not to be had for the asking. Especially not where a man has been twice convicted.’
Dorothea swallowed. ‘But if the Governor were to pardon Daniel for this crime alone …’ she began, almost in a whisper, trailing off as Mr Campbell shook his head.
‘His Excellency, Mrs Brande, would not be inclined to overthrow a sentence handed down by a bench composed of men such as Mr D’Arcy Wentworth, and Mr John Wylde. Not even if he were empowered to.’
Dorothea’s eyes filled with tears. She could not speak. Presently, Mr Campbell remarked, in a surprisingly gentle voice, that it was a very light sentence—very light indeed. Within twelve weeks, her manservant would be restored to her. A word to the Superintendent of Convicts would ensure that he would not be harshly treated. Why, if she so wished it, he would speak to William Hutchison himself.
‘But he will not be restored to me!’ Dorothea groaned. ‘I shall be leaving, soon!’
‘Ah. Yes, of course.’
‘And who will take him on? He will be branded an incorrigible thief! Mrs Mary Wilde will not want him, I feel sure—he will be assigned to some wretched, tyrannical settler, who will starve him and beat him …’
‘I hardly think so, Mrs Brande. Starving and beating convicts are neither of them permitted by law.’
‘But they still happen!’ Dorothea cried. ‘Do not deny it! And what if he is not assigned? What if they put him to work in some dreadful Government gang?’ Her tears began to flow. ‘He does not deserve such a thing … he is so very good and loyal … a man of noble instincts … it was an error of judgement … oh dear, I cannot bear it, I cannot, it is too dreadful …’
The misery of Daniel’s predicament had at last forced itself upon her in all its manifold horror, and she could not prevent herself from responding to it. She plied her handkerchief, and sobbed, and sniffed, and flushed as she struggled to regain her composure. Really, it was a shameful exhibition. She was ashamed of herself. ‘Forgive me,’ she gasped, ‘but the last few days have been very trying … events at home … I am not in good health … forgive me, Sir.’
‘There is nothing to forgive,’ Mr Campbell said gruffly. He cleared his throat. There was a long pause, during which Dorothea wiped her face, steadied her breathing, and regained control of her voice. Then, before she could apologise again, Mr Campbell said: ‘If I might make a suggestion, Mrs Brande?’
Dorothea waited. Now that her eyes were no longer blinded by tears, she could see that he had risen, and was examining (without much interest) the contents of a bookshelf.
‘What if you were to write a letter, recommending your manservant?’ he continued. ‘And what if I were to make a little notation on my calendar, so that in three months, when his sentence has expired, I could arrange to have him assigned to a comfortable situation? Would that improve your spirits, Mrs Brande?’
Dorothea gaped.
‘If he is as you say, then I shall have no cause to regret recommending him—or perhaps even employing him. Is that not so, Mrs Brande?’ Mr Campbell turned to face her, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Are you quite certain that he is honest? Honest and reliable?’
‘Oh—oh yes. Yes, indeed!’
‘Then you have no doubts as to the wisdom of pursuing such a course?
‘No. Sir, I—I am so very grateful. Oh dear, this is so kind … so very kind …’
‘Not at all,’ he said hastily, exhibiting certain symptoms of alarm. Doubtless he was afraid that she might begin to weep, again. ‘Think nothing of it, Madam.’
‘You would employ him yourself? On my recommendation?’
‘That I cannot guarantee. But rest assured, something will be done for him.’
‘I would rather he did not go to any regimental establishment,’ Dorothea said hurriedly, sensing that her time in that crowded little room was growing short. ‘I would prefer it that he went to someone like—like Dr Redfern. Or yourself. Officers can be so unkind to people in his situation.’
Mr Campbell raised his eyebrows. He studied her with a sudden access of interest. ‘They can indeed,’ he drawled. ‘I have perceived it myself.’
‘Oh—and Mr Campbell.’ Dorothea was thinking rapidly. ‘Are you not on the board of the new bank? The Bank of New South Wales?’
He inclined his head, almost
with a flourish.
‘I am,’ he replied.
‘Would you also, then, do me the favour of advising me as to how I might deposit some money in an account for Daniel? So that he will have the means by which he might better himself?’
At this, Mr Campbell looked positively rattled. He exclaimed: ‘Madam, no convict is entitled to open an account with any bank!’
‘Oh.’
He stared at her, a bemused and wary expression on his face. She was beginning to think that she might have been foolish in even raising the subject, when he suddenly remarked, in cautious accents: ‘I suppose that an account might be opened on his behalf. In trust, as it were. Until he was free.’
‘Oh?’
‘I am not well acquainted with the minutiae of the bank’s regulations. I would have to consult the cashier, Mr Hall.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you … ahem … are you determined to proceed on such a course, Mrs Brande?’
‘I should like to. Yes.’ All at once, Dorothea saw how Daniel’s future might be salvaged. And although she knew that the most vulgar suspicions would surely be aroused, if she was to put a large sum of money at Daniel’s disposal, she did not care. Let the colony talk about her, if it chose to. She would not be here to suffer the gossip. ‘Would you help me, Mr Campbell?’ she said eagerly. ‘If I were to give you the money, would you deposit it on my behalf?’
‘Well of course, I—if you are quite certain—’
‘I am. I am indeed. Thank you, Sir. Thank you, I am so very much obliged.’
In the end, it was resolved that Mr Campbell himself should open an account, into which Dorothea’s money should be deposited. He would then be entrusted with the responsibility of seeing to it that the convict in question received that to which he was entitled. Dorothea placed her entire trust in Mr Campbell, simply because the Governor did. If Mr Campbell had not been an honourable man, she felt sure, he would not have worked in the Governor’s employ.