The union between Captain Abbotsley and Sarah Grey had produced two boys, but one had died when only five. The surviving child, George, had married young (24) to an even younger Mary and they had a daughter, Constance, a year later, in 1855. It was here that the Abbotsley name died, for they had no other children and Constance ended up marrying Henry Vincent (who, as Vincent’s grandfather, it was probably safe to assume he was named after) and they had two daughters and one son. The son was his father. David and his wife (his mother) was Dora Bruce. The eldest daughter of Constance and Henry, Prudence, married and it was this aunt who had left the books and half-finished research. Vincent had no idea why she had left the papers to him, except if it was because they had met a few times at family functions in Melbourne, and because she knew of his .... his ... what was the word? ... his analytical mind. Or was is it just anal?
As far as Vincent could tell, Prudence, who ended up having five children, still had living relatives somewhere in Tasmania. Maybe he should try and locate them? No - only if his other investigations bore no fruit.
And Madonna Abbotsley had married Henry Vincent, his good self, and she was now dead and they had two children – one he liked, the other he didn’t. Families! Who’d have ‘em?
If the diary had, in fact, been kept by Vincent's wife's great great grandfather, Captain Abbotsley then it seemed logical that it should find its way to the Captain's descendants. Which gave the words that he had written a greater ring of truth about them.
On a separate sheet of paper, Vincent made a note for himself, to check two items of detail on the family tree. On another sheet of paper, headed up SHIPPING, he'd written the words, "Check books on shipwrecks - there were reportedly almost 80 ships wrecked in Tasmania in the first 50 years of its life." It lay beside two books on Tasmanian shipping and shipwrecks.
He'd also made a list of certain dates and it was his intention to look at copies of the Hobart Town Gazette to confirm some details and maybe fill a few gaps.
Despite its rather unorthodox format, Vincent was sure that all this information presented him with clues for a treasure map of history. He had already finished three chapters – introductory really – about early Australian shipping. He would expand this into his main focus - a history of the ships that his ancestor, Abbotsley, had served on. And, as he had the details, he would integrate this with threads of his own family history. He already had a host of sketches and maps that he would use to illustrate the book and he was expecting detailed plans of the Lady of Bodmin from a source in England.
As he gathered his pieces of paper and research together he had no idea that a discovery off the coast of Tasmania in a few days would be just as important as his own work. Nor was he aware of someone else, just three desks away, who was also researching early Tasmanian history.
As a thought slipped quietly into his crowded brain, he pulled another sheet of paper in front of him and wrote on it:
“GOLD!!! There seems to be nothing to confirm that gold was ever discovered on the West Coast of Tasmania. Yet why does Abbotsley’s diary refer to it?”
Chapter 3
AN AUTHOR’S DIARY
Hobart, Tasmania
My life is mine and mine to keep
And I share only with whom I want
My thoughts are – however deep
Good or evil as my mind is wont
Such it is too when these things I write
They are my secret words I muse
As diary scrawls on parchment white
And beware the curse if others misuse.
Jean Claude Rombussiere (circa 1774)
The Sword Bows to the Pen
Translated from the French
Some people write diaries for historical reasons – to record something for future generations. Samuel Pepys’ diary was such a one, providing eye witness accounts during the Restoration Period. He wrote of the Great Plague. Others write them for their own satisfaction and – often – with no intention of sharing the entries with anyone else. Hence diaries with locks on them.
At the time of writing these diarists had no idea that their private scrawls (I repeat Rombussiere’s word here deliberately) could lead to all sorts of mayhem – even death. Or murder. But without them, where would this particular author be.
One could be forgiven for thinking I too, Nora Christie, am a diarist - but I am more of a journal writer. Diarists preferably write each day – like it or not. That’s my problem of course. There’s no denying I like writing – otherwise I would have picked another vocation. Did I choose to be a writer, or did it just happen? There’s a point of view that says ...
Enough.
No tangents.
I think that keeping a diary seems immaterial – and certainly less exciting – after I’ve been writing for most of the day. So I let it slide. Oh, I keep journal entries, but they’re thoughts for characters, plot points, where I feel it necessary to revise something (later), topics for possible future stories, descriptions or mind sketches of places and locations, moods, feelings, dialogue, a set of words that seem special but need something (again in the future) to be relevant, or possible opening and closing lines.
So I now I put pen to diary paper (figuratively) to write about other diaries and the chain of events that their authors could never have conceived of, at their writing. I pluck my character of Sarah Grey from the Lieutenant’s diary and bring other characters along with her.
And perhaps I will use Rombussiere’s words somewhere in the manuscript.
Chapter 4
THE LIEUTENANT’S DIARY
Hobart
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?"