Set sail this morning without Jeffcott. Word has been sent to us that he has fled the country!
Apparently some embarrassment over unpaid bills and debts and he has skipped to Paris or some such French place in order to avoid dealing with his creditors. He will, it appears, be making his own way out to the colony and will be keeping his travel arrangements a secret in order to outwit those he owes money.
Perhaps not the ideal start for the Chief legal mind of the new colony. He already holds the distinction of being the only Judge in British legal history to have stood trial accused of murder after that fighting a duel business in Exeter, so it would appear that we have a Judge who is well versed in the law from both sides of the bench.
No sooner got underway for the new colony when we had three couples approach the Padre about the need to get married.
What is wrong with these people? Would it have been so difficult to arrange this before we left? As it is we are finally underway, I have a ship to navigate, a crew to manage and these people are organising seating plans and choosing bridesmaids dresses. Be damned to them I say!
And what is particularly vexing is that amongst them is none other than Mary-Jane Murray, who is marrying one William Whittle, a labourer. This is treachery of the darkest order, that in future my breakfasts will be eaten by a bricklayer!
And yet I recognise the fine Italian hand of Mrs Hindmarsh behind all this. I do not believe that Mary-Jane - or Mrs Whittle as I now must call her, though the name sticks in my craw in a way her muffins never did - I say, I do not believe that Mrs Whittle even knew this bricklayer a month ago. I believe my wife has been playing Cupid. And if the thought of the figure of Mrs Hindmarsh swathed in silk gauze with tiny wings and a bow does not send chills down your spine then you are a braver man than I!
Of course Charlie Howard was in his element, fussing about with vows and advice. George Stevenson, like the hard hitting man of the press he imagines himself to be decided to raise questions about the legality of the marriages and I had to draft up a special licence as Governor to allow myself as Captain to marry the couples with the assistance of the Colonial Chaplain. Apparently Stevenson reasons that he has a great news story on his hands.
But what of news stories when human tragedy is playing out? Can I not paraphrase Shakespeare and cry out with Shylock the Jew, "My breakfasts! Oh my breakfasts!"
After the weddings were solemnised Mrs Hindmarsh, twisting the knife in the wound she had salted, invited all the newlyweds back to our cabins for tea. I had to sit and watch William Whittle, the man who has popped in between my crumpets and my hopes, slurp tea from a saucer.
I do not know what food there was at this hellish party, but it was as ash in my mouth.
I am surrounded by infamy and can only cry "et tu Mrs Hindmarsh!"
And what is particularly vexing is that amongst them is none other than Mary-Jane Murray, who is marrying one William Whittle, a labourer. This is treachery of the darkest order, that in future my breakfasts will be eaten by a bricklayer!
And yet I recognise the fine Italian hand of Mrs Hindmarsh behind all this. I do not believe that Mary-Jane - or Mrs Whittle as I now must call her, though the name sticks in my craw in a way her muffins never did - I say, I do not believe that Mrs Whittle even knew this bricklayer a month ago. I believe my wife has been playing Cupid. And if the thought of the figure of Mrs Hindmarsh swathed in silk gauze with tiny wings and a bow does not send chills down your spine then you are a braver man than I!
Of course Charlie Howard was in his element, fussing about with vows and advice. George Stevenson, like the hard hitting man of the press he imagines himself to be decided to raise questions about the legality of the marriages and I had to draft up a special licence as Governor to allow myself as Captain to marry the couples with the assistance of the Colonial Chaplain. Apparently Stevenson reasons that he has a great news story on his hands.
But what of news stories when human tragedy is playing out? Can I not paraphrase Shakespeare and cry out with Shylock the Jew, "My breakfasts! Oh my breakfasts!"
After the weddings were solemnised Mrs Hindmarsh, twisting the knife in the wound she had salted, invited all the newlyweds back to our cabins for tea. I had to sit and watch William Whittle, the man who has popped in between my crumpets and my hopes, slurp tea from a saucer.
I do not know what food there was at this hellish party, but it was as ash in my mouth.
I am surrounded by infamy and can only cry "et tu Mrs Hindmarsh!"
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