‘Bailed Up’ by Tom Roberts (Public Domain)
I’m approaching the end of my long journey to craft a fictional account of Harriet Blaxland. Over the course of 2021, my plan is to self-publish three novellas which chart the course of her life. In dramatising from the relatively limited sources available, I have necessarily strayed into imagination and, on occasion, downright confabulation (!). See below for a fun extract to whet your appetite.
Note that in the fictional version, I’ve changed the names to make it clear that the story is more ‘inspired by’ than ‘true’: Blaxland/Burbridge, Dowling/Wood, Harriet /Henrietta, Newington estate/Aylesford estate. This extract is written from the point of view of ‘Henrietta’ who is regaling her fellow passengers with the tale nearly twenty years later.
The truth
(as reported on page 2, The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, Thursday 22nd April 1830.
The fiction
‘I am so longing to reach London.’ Mrs Sapsford sallied forth with another conversational topic to engage the attention of Mrs Berkeley.
Mrs Berkeley, kind as ever, obliged. ‘Yes, indeed. I’m looking forward to being able to take a carriage ride through the countryside.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Green pastures, hedgerows … won’t that be something?’
‘And no bushrangers. Papa said,’ piped up the Owens’ boy.
Morgan wondered if he should mention highwaymen but decided not to.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Mrs Berkeley said to the boy indulgently. Her hand automatically reached out to pat his head, but she rapidly withdrew it. The lice plague was ever in their minds. ‘Why, Lady Wood has first-hand experience of them.’
‘No, not at all,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My sisters were the heroines of the hour.’
‘It’s not like you to miss all the fun, Lady Wood,’ said Mrs Sapsford. ‘Where were you when the robbery was going on?’
Lady Wood ignored her. ‘It is indeed a most amusing tale. Have you not heard about it already, Mr Mayhew? Wasn’t it in the papers, Mrs McPhail?’
‘Oh, yes. Poor Mr Burbridge.’
‘Well, I wasn’t there, of course. I was in the house with my dear mama who had one of her headaches,’ Lady Wood said with a nod to Mrs Sapsford. ‘But I have all the details from my maid, who got it directly from the coachman—’
They all laughed and Morgan wondered, not for the first time, how it was that Lady Wood, the most demanding of servants’ time and energy, could reliably tap that rich vein of gossip.
‘Well, there was our dear papa quietly returning from a day at the races when, shortly after he’d turned into the Aylesford estate, four men sprang out from the bushes and, waving their guns, hauled the coachman down and bound him. Then, holding a pistol to our father’s head, they demanded all the money he had on him. So what do you think our father said to that?’
‘No doubt, not something that could be repeated in present company,’ said old Mr Quigley, clearly drawn into the tale from his corner.
‘Well, my father said he had none about him.’
‘That would’ve earned him a cuff about the ears at the very least,’ said Morgan, in admiration.
‘Well, of course, since it was race day, they’d be sure that a wealthy gentleman would be carrying more than usual. So then, they said.’ And here Lady Wood affected a rough man’s accent. ‘You’d better ’ave a care about wot you’re saying, ’cos we gonna search you and, if we find so much as a sixpenny bit more on ya than wot you said, then we’ll blow your brains out on the spot.’
Even Mrs Sapsford began to laugh.
‘But, no, does my father alter his story?’ Lady Wood continued.
‘No,’ her listeners cried in answer.
‘No, he doesn’t. He says he had a bad day at the races and had not a penny on him. So then, they tell him to strip to the skin. But then he pleads; he is an old man and in very infirm health, and to do so might kill him. And he must have been convincing, because then they fell to arguing with each other about what they should do. All this time, what they didn’t know,’ Lady Wood said, lowering her voice, ‘was that Jack, our stable boy, had hitched himself a ride home on the back of the carriage and he’d hopped off the moment the bushrangers sprang out, and he raised the alarm up at the house.’
Miss McPhail spoke up, asking, ‘But then how did—?’
Lady Wood smiled. ‘Luckily, for my father, we three sisters are all proficient horsewomen. With all the men of the estate yet to return from the races, my sisters rode out to the rescue, and the robbers, intimidated by such a force of gorgons, cravenly decamped post-haste.’
Tea being served meant that the conversation turned to other more mundane matters for a while.
Miss McPhail looked puzzled by the story. ‘I’m still a little confused. Did Mr Burbridge, in truth, not have any money on his person? Is he a gambling man?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Oh, I’m sure his pockets were bulging with money,’ said Lady Wood. ‘It would be so like him to plead poor while all the time secreting a fortune away. I think it’s actually why I liked the coachman’s tale so much. It sums up my life’s experience with my dear papa.’