A man of honour, p.22
A Man of Honour, page 22
‘Let me implore you to employ the short period of your remaining life in such reflections as I have suggested, and especially in subduing that callous insensibility of heart which must originally have led you to your crime.’
I would happily have argued the toss of whether I possess a callous heart, or a compassionate one. But this was neither the place, nor the time. When a judge of Cheeke’s standing is in full flight, you clench your jaw, you hold your tongue.
‘Although happily your murderous intent was not accomplished, I hold out to you not the least hope of remission from the sentence of death. For not only am I unable to discover any, even the slightest, circumstance upon which I could recommend any remission, but it must also be manifest to the whole world that all men like you, whose evil hearts may now be harbouring and nurturing similar murderous intentions and similar traitorous designs, should be taught by your sad fate how swift, unerring and stern is the punishment which all civilised nations must inflict upon such a terrible crime as yours.
‘Let me again exhort you to make the best use of the short time that may remain to you in life, and at once apply to those ministers of religion who may willingly assist you in your sorrowful meditations …’
If he only knew, I thought at that moment, that it was those very ministers of religion who first planted the stories of our troubled and powerless people in my fledgling heart. And those same ministers of religion who had so willingly ‘assisted me in my meditations’, whether I wanted that or not. Frequently, I did not, but how was one as troubled and powerless as I was then to resist them? By their ministrations, they instilled in me the necessary lasting malignancy to make me aim a pistol one fine Sydney day many years later and shoot a man of power. The son, no less, of the most powerful person on earth. That’s the nub of it all.
There’s a short Latin phrase that I cannot seem to remember, however hard I try. It describes exactly this. It dates back to the time of the Babylonians. They asserted that the punishment should equal the crime. We might call it an eye for an eye. In this case, the judge was, in his own mind, exacting the right punishment for the shooting of an innocent young prince. But who, I wonder, was I really aiming my pistol at, that day at Clontarf? And was I not just obeying the same law? The very potent, quite intoxicating law of vengeance?
These realisations all flooded my mind as I sat up there in the dock, receiving the Sentence of Death. But, perhaps surprisingly, I felt no self-pity. The person I felt pity for was the man gazing at me from the Bench. The poor soul who had to deliver that sentence. I thought of Justice Cheeke’s future (not long, not bright, I predict). How does a man live with that burden in later years? What gymnastics of mind are needed, to justify the deliberate taking of another man’s life? But, hold on, I have on occasion performed those very same gymnastics – and then quickly and efficiently done what was required of me. So who am I to question? Who am I, indeed, to judge?
It was at that moment that the cap and gloves went on, and the little curtains on either side of the bench were drawn in.
‘Henry James O’Farrell …’
I get a burst of pride every time I hear my name said in that way. Pride at each one of those names, linked. Especially at such a time as this. I feel less … alone.
Then, with that tremor in his voice again, he uttered a strange, blank verse of sixty-nine words. It begins with the sentence and ends with your soul. And it has a beautiful … inevitability to it. Put yourself in my seat, and listen with all your heart.
‘The sentence of this court is that you will be taken from here to the place from whence you came and there be kept in close confinement until the date named by the Executive Council of this colony, and upon that day that you be taken to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul.’
A strangely muted ‘Amen’ was first intoned by the ashen-faced men of the prince’s suite and then repeated by the entire congregation. In the quiet moment immediately after, they all heard me exhale my second long, relieved breath.
Another barrier cleared, I thought. The finish post is just around the next turn. I am almost ready.
Heartfelt
Mrs Allan’s room at Mona House, and a small anteroom at Government House, 1 April 1868
Caroline Allan cannot sleep. It is late. It is stiflingly hot. Her thoughts tumble over one another. Time is moving so slowly, so quickly. A single tear of perspiration forms behind one ear and edges down her neck. Wafting on a salt-breeze from the window – that is really no breeze at all – comes the slow, grinding sound of the wheels of a hansom cab in the square below. Its driver coaxes his horse to keep moving.
That horse and his cabman sound as weary as I feel, Caroline thinks. We all know we just have to keep going, no matter what. More distant, she hears the horn of a steamer. This harbour never rests either, she thinks. Does our brother, where he is, hear that same mournful sound? Is he lying awake as I am? Brooding, as I am? Is his mind, like mine, caught in a shadowy catacomb? Running down passage after passage, searching for a way out of this mess? Looking for some sort of magic trapdoor? I am quite sure there is one, somewhere. If I could only find it, and wrench it open. There, above, would be an ancient sunlit garden. I would call to him. He would run to me. We would embrace, help each other up, then escape to the safety of that warm, fragrant garden, on the other side.
Today, she and her barristers drafted a petition calling for an end to the death penalty. Many leading men of the law, business and medicine have already signed, and it will appear in all the papers by week’s end. She has written to the Executive Council, hoping for a stay of execution. She has written to the colonial secretary himself, even though she knows how unyielding he is, how resistant to her pleas. She received no response from him. Such rudeness! She suspects he feels threatened by her: that she doesn’t quite fit his image of the sister of an assassin. Too noble, perhaps. He has stated publicly that the government will permit no appeal. That execution is inevitable. Well, not if I can help it, she thinks.
She also wrote a short letter to another man, and sent it off with a messenger. But now, as she lies sleepless in her bed, she feels that its tone was all wrong. It was somehow too formal, too legal, too cold. I must appeal to his heart, she thinks. I know he has a generous heart. I felt it the night we met. Perhaps he remembers that moment too. If he does, I have a chance.
She rises from her bed, moves to the lamp on the wall, turns it up, sits down at the table below. She is exhausted and distraught, but she is determined. She opens her green leather writing case, embossed with the gold fleur-de-lis that she has always loved. Our family does value such little details, she thinks. They exist like a code, written into our very souls. She picks a pen, dips it in the inkwell, hesitates. This feels like the moment I was about to walk into that courtroom, she thinks. So much depends on me, yet again. So much depends on the words I choose. If I can somehow choose the right words … my brother might yet live.
Perhaps this, she thinks, will be the magic trapdoor.
Mona House
Wynyard Square, Sydney
1st April 1868
Your Royal Highness, sir,
I feel sure from your known kindness of heart that you will excuse me for again writing on behalf of my poor unfortunate brother. I would not do so were I not thoroughly convinced that he is unsound of mind, and has been so for some time past.
I earnestly beg and beseech of you, Royal Highness, to intercede and secure a commutation of sentence for my poor insane brother. I feel confident if the case were tried in England, Your Royal Mother the Queen with her usual clemency would pardon him, although he attempted the life of her beloved son.
If the trial could have taken place at Ballarat, sufficient evidence could have been brought forward to prove my brother’s insanity. I again beseech Your Royal Highness to intercede on behalf of my poor brother for the sake of his unhappy relatives than whom Her Majesty the Queen has not more loyal subjects. I would be most grateful should Your Royal Highness grant me an interview …
***
‘… as there are many little details I would like to relate to you. With fervent congratulations on your recovery. I remain, Caroline Allan.’
Haig finishes reading and looks up from the letter.
Prince Alfred has been listening intently as he dresses. He is enchanted. ‘Mrs Allan! That marvellous woman! We must see her, Arthur. I feel so moved by her plight. She is in such distress. She feels for her brother, doesn’t she? I can hear it in every word.’
‘She does, sir. If you could have been there in the courtroom to see her, to hear her. She spoke from the heart.’ The equerry hands the prince his dark military trousers. Beside the men is a mahogany wash-stand, and on it a silver tray, with an array of decorations, a blue silk sash, two heavy gold epaulets and the prince’s ceremonial sword. These all gleam in the morning sun that floods the prince’s bedchamber at Government House.
‘Then we must do all we can for her. It’s delicate, though. No one must know. Certainly not Belmore. And not Mr Parkes. He would have a fit. But we must do it. We have so little time left before we sail. Free up the time, Arthur, and a place. It cannot be here, or at her digs. The club, perhaps?’
‘Perfect, sir.’
‘The people at the Union seem quite canny at slipping casual acquaintances in and out of the side garden, when the need arises,’ the prince says with a wink. Then, becoming the conspirator, he whispers: ‘Besonders in den Stunden der Faulheit nach dem Mittagessen, nicht wahr?’ and laughs. He loves the German language at such times. Loves its precision, even in describing a languid afternoon’s diversions. It reminds him of his father. He would approve of this plan, he thinks. It is compassionate – and it is mischievous.
Arthur Haig laughs. He likes the plan too. ‘Tatsächlich! Your words, not mine, sir. But, yes. They are admirably discreet there. I shall let them know you’ll need your quarters prepared for tomorrow afternoon and won’t wish to be disturbed. Mr Bently can be relied upon to stay stumm.’
‘He can indeed. He’s been through enough scandal himself to know the value of circumspection. He’s our man! Perhaps send your friend Corporal Dalton to Mona House after dinner tonight. He must see Mrs Allan in person, issue our invitation sotto voce. We shan’t put anything in writing. He can ask her to be ready tomorrow afternoon. She must come alone. Even Mr Aspinall need not know, yet. All in good time. The club might send their carriage for her, before three. Dalton can be her personal escort there and back.’
He slips his naval jacket on, wincing as it slides over the region of the wound.
‘How can we not help the spirited sister of the spirited fellow who gave me this fine souvenir? He may be out of his mind, but that is all the more reason to help. It is a simple matter of doing what is right. And it will be fun. They are surely the best two reasons to do anything in life!’
His equerry agrees.
‘Now, help me get these boots on, there’s a good chap. Then we shall see about this portrait. Where is Monty?’
‘He’s downstairs with oils and brushes standing by, sir. He has the most colossal canvas. He has chosen the anteroom.’
‘Interesting …’
***
Eugene Montagu Scott comes from a proud family of English portrait artists. At twenty, as the youngest son and an adventurer, he left Liverpool and sailed to the colonies. He tried his luck at the diggings in Victoria first, with limited success. It was only when he docked in Sydney and gambled all his funds on that newly developed marvel, the plate camera, that he really struck gold. He is now the most sought-after photographer in Sydney. His studio has a glass roof that lets sunlight pour in, softened by draped white muslin. He poses his subject against an artful background, exposes the camera’s plate, develops it, and soon enough, they have their image on a carte de visite – the small calling card that is so popular in the colony. Everyone can afford these portraits, which offer a way to tell friends and family in distant places that all is well.
Back in February, Prince Alfred dropped in to the studio on George Street more than once. Scott created four photographic portraits that delighted the prince. One in particular is now the prince’s favourite. Scott seemed to catch something in that one that other photographers had never caught, the prince told his friends. His joie de vivre, certainly. But his humanity too. In this portrait, he is nattily dressed, with a striped bow tie and an exotic white flower in his buttonhole. He is like any modern young man. He looks directly into the lens. That look, he realises, will connect with anyone who sees the photograph, down the years. So it is that photograph he allows Montagu Scott to sell to the public. And besides that, the prince likes the photographer. He makes him part of his entourage. Wherever Affie goes, Monty goes.
Scott is now official photographer, by appointment, to the Duke of Edinburgh. In the last few days, there has been a procession of mariners of all ranks to his studio. At the prince’s request, he has taken group portraits of the Galatea’s men. All four hundred and forty of them. These will be assembled into one huge portrait, with the prince at its centre. Alfred is proud of his crew. There have been times at sea when each man has depended on all the others for his very life. He knows also the value of a portrait, whether in oils or on a small albumen card, to capture the essence of a man, and to last beyond that man’s life on earth. It is another gift from his father, who frequented one of the first photographic studios in England: Mr Constable’s, in Brighton. It was just a short stroll from the Pavilion, where the royal family were spending their summer. He had many portraits taken, became a keen photographer himself, and he lives on now in ethereal images that the prince treasures, seven years after Albert’s death.
When Prince Alfred found out that Henry Parkes wished to commission a huge portrait of him to hang in parliament, he was more than happy to sit for it, and he knew just the artist to paint it.
***
‘Monty, you are a genius!’ says the prince, looking into the artist’s eyes. They stand so close their noses almost touch. ‘To choose this room, of all rooms. You know me so well. You know the things that really matter to me.’
‘Well, you know me, sir. You know to look me in the eyes when you speak – to speak with clarity and with volume! Most people have yet to cotton to it. These damned ears of mine are almost useless to me now.’
‘Any deficiency you may have in the hearing, old fellow, you more than make up for in the seeing. In fact, that is precisely why you have such an excellent – and thoughtful – eye. As one sense has diminished, the other has intensified. How miraculous is nature! I have always thought it so. You see things in a scene and in a soul that others do not. It is a beautiful quality, Monty. Now just tell me, so I can be sure of my surmisings, why you chose this particular place to immortalise my rather unremarkable mug?’ He chuckles. ‘It’s surely the smallest room in Government House.’
Scott chuckles too. ‘I wager that you know already, sir. But, if I must, I will tell you. It was to this very room that you were carried by your friends after the terrible calamity at Clontarf, was it not?’
The prince focuses intensely on Scott, smiling. ‘It was, sir.’
‘And it was in this very chair that you lay, night and day, as Miss Osburn and the Nightingale nurses restored you to health – perhaps even brought you back from the dead.’
The prince smiles again, and nods. ‘That is true, sir. They did.’
‘And it was through this very window, when you first opened your eyes, that you saw your beloved Galatea at anchor in Farm Cove, just as she is today. Look! What a sight is she? She was bereft then, as her men were, at your suffering. They worried for you, prayed for your recovery, and are now cock-a-hoop that the miracle has taken place, and their captain lives. I know that, for I have spoken to all of your men over the last days. They love you, sir. They want you back at the helm now. They just want to weigh anchor and sail home.’
‘Well, well, well! You are brilliant, Monty. It is as I thought.’
‘So, sir, whether anyone ever knows it, this will be a portrait of Lazarus himself. A man of the people, newly restored by the thoughts and prayers of those people to life. No one will know the significance of the armchair at his left, or the window at his back. But they will most certainly be there, sir. And you and I will know their meaning. All I ask of you, as you sit to me today, is to ponder all these things in your very heart, and it will surely appear on the canvas.’
‘Bless you, Monty …’ The prince picks up his ceremonial sword, and touches the artist lightly on each shoulder. ‘This is the first of many accolades for you and our painting, old boy!’ Then he returns to his allotted spot, checks that he is correctly dressed, and takes up his pose, bicorn hat in one hand, sword in the other.
The sitting takes place in silence, apart from the occasional cackle of delight from a single white cockatoo, high in branches beyond the window, and murmurings of concentration from the artist. He is enjoying himself, as is his subject. It provides a welcome hour of calm. This morning, the prince drove out from Government House with Newry and Yorke in a phaeton drawn by four greys. They made a wide circle of the city, at a gallop, Alfred at the reins. Everywhere they went, as if by magic, crowds appeared. Their cheers were almost deafening. A veritable roar of release, from all of Sydney. He was quite overwhelmed. He realises now that he much prefers the honest outpourings of emotion from the crowds to the officious posturings of men of note in the colony.
