The bows of sixteen warships barely lifted on the swell as they came through Sydney Heads on a clear winter’s morning. The pale sky, the white ships and the silvery sea glittered in the bright sunlight. A full throated cheer rose up from thousands gathered on the rocky foreshore, as the first gun of the deafening salute crashed and reverberated around the harbour. Men swept their hats above their heads, and children jumped up and down and pointed, as they bade their mothers look at the majestic sight before them. All about cheered and chattered excitedly, just as had happened in South America and New Zealand.
Thomas Archambeau was one of the sailors who lined the decks of the flagship USS Connecticut, smart in his dress blue uniform, and white Dixie cup hat. He looked out from the guardrails hoping to see a kangaroo, but alas, no fabled creature was apparent. Just scrubby trees, houses, people.
The ships crept up to their appointed moorings, Connecticut to where a collier waited to replenish fuel for the boilers. Archambeau was detailed as one of the coaling party, and changed his blues for dungarees and chambray shirt, ready for hours of shovelling, lifting, and raking. Soon shirts were hanging on pegs as the party worked, stripped to the waist in a haze of coal dust, flying shovels and rakes, while the business of the ship went on above them. Liberty men were preparing to go ashore, but today, this group would not include Archambeau or his duty watch. After coaling, the upper decks and superstructure would have to be cleaned of coal dust, and left pristine. He could not understand why they scrubbed and polished everything soon after sunup, knowing that the job of coaling was coming later. One of the many things he did not understand.
Tomorrow, Thomas would go ashore with Billy Warren and take a train trip to the Blue Mountains. He planned the excursion because he missed his home in Baker City, which sat in a corner of Oregon, nearby it’s own Blue Mountains, and wondered if Australian mountains looked the same. He hoped so, but in any case, a chance to see something green and growing would be welcome. He might ride horseback, but understood the sight of a sailor aboard a horse would be a ridiculous sight, thus it might not happen.
In the early evening, Thomas sat in the deserted Mess deck, shooting the breeze with little Billy Warren, who had also been detailed for the coaling party, both feeling the after effects of hard physical labour. They massaged and prodded different muscles as they chatted over their coffee. Thomas fared better than Billy because he was bigger and stronger, and did it more often. Nevertheless both had gone at it with a will, deriving pleasure from effort, knowing the result showed in their hard bodies. They spoke about the coming train trip, and wondered how it might unfold.
Thomas had often spoken about Baker City, and the green mountains all about. He was a country boy who, in his mind, had never left home. Billy hailed from the streets around the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and had stevedoring and Navy in his blood. He felt more at ease in big cities, but looked forward to the trip with Thomas, although he did not know much about trees or pasture, and would no more have got astride a horse than fly in the air.
“Cities were all the same.” he said. “You know what to expect, and it’s all there for you.” He could identify nothing with tooth and claw, neither slithery nor vicious. Only housetrained cats and dogs on four legs, nothing fanged and eight legged, nothing slimy and legless. Danger walked on two legs in cities. If it did not creep up behind, unexpected, you had a fighting chance. In the countryside, who knew? Streetwise Warren and countrified Archambeau. Their shipmates could not see what they had in common. Still, unlikely friendships struck up all over.
When the evening inspection had been done by the Officer of the Deck, they slung their hammocks and turned in, because it had been a long day and they were beat.
In the morning after breakfast, which they ate clad only in undershorts and Tee shirts, they completed dressing in their smart blue uniforms and white Dixie hats and lined up on the Quarterdeck, to be inspected. To Archambeau’s horror, Lieutenant Swain halted in front of him, and said as he had traces of coal dust upon his hands; he better fix that before going shoreside. Archambeau fell out as the others filed down the
ladder into the waiting steam cutter. Billy looked back and gave a shrug of resignation and shuffled along the line into the boat.
“You know I first have to go find the Post Office.” he said.
Thomas raced for the Mess deck, found his shower bag, and scrubbed his hands again, although he knew it was unnecessary. Just Swain picking someone out for attention, was all. By the time he returned to the gangway, the cutter had left
“The next one will be leaving in thirty minutes, Archambeau” said Swain, smiling up at the taller man, smacking the palm of his left hand with the telescope he held in his right. “Tough luck, sailor” He tucked the brass under his left arm and sauntered away, with his big rear end rolling.
Thomas could do nothing but wait, resentful, resigned. His shipmates, who had the duty, teased him tentatively, because Thomas could fly off the handle. He walked with the springy step of a boxer. Meanwhile he made sure he had the directions to the railway station. Time was slipping away, but he should make it.
Time came to line up again, the cutter swayed alongside. This occasion, Swain directed his attention elsewhere, and someone else missed out. Thomas presently found himself among a press of men, chugging over the placid water of the harbour, to Circular Quay.
The Quay was a teeming mass of humanity. Sailors and Marines from all the ships of the fleet. Men from other Navies, merchantmen from all over, dragoons, soldiers.
Motor vehicles, horse drawn conveyances, wagons, electric tram cars. A great jostling throng possessed of one singular smile, one wave of good humour and bonhomie. The city opened before him, in a startling sweep of bright, sun drenched colour.
Archambeau sought directions to the tram car bound for Central Station. A large fellow, with trouser legs flapping around his shins, possessed of massive gut, and toothless grin, directed Archambeau to where the tram turned for the up town journey.
The tramcar clanged and clattered through thoroughfares bustling with humanity and traffic. Past shops, pubs, markets and cafes, thronging with rambunctious and thirsty customers. The conductor swung along the outside running boards, leaping in and out of the seats; collecting fares; helping passengers on and off; shouting advice to any cart, wagon or motor vehicle, daring to impede progress of the car. At each intersection the car slowed to a crawl, and seemed to take an age to recover travelling speed. The conductor cajoled and urged the traffic to make way. For the first time, Archambeau began to fear that he might miss the train.
Soon enough, he quickly made his way through the arched colonnades of the Station, found the platform, and to his dismay, discovered the train had left. Maybe Billy had gone on alone? A frisson of anger against Swain passed over him. He slumped onto a bench and wondered what he should do, oblivious the looks of admiration directed toward him, a handsome American sailor alone at the edge of Empire, alone in his thoughts.
He became aware of someone sitting beside him, and stole a quick sideways glance at a slight form. A pile of auburn hair, beneath an unseasonal black straw hat pierced through with a swoop of green and purple feathers. Belonging to no bird, Thomas thought, ever lit on no tree. The face beneath was obscured by a mass of spotted veiling. Under the face was a jabot and stock of creamy Irish lace, atop a blouse of the same stuff. A black Eton jacket. A gored skirt of grey tweed, leather gloves, handbag and boots of a soft supple blackness completed the look of chaste and dependable womanhood.
“You have missed your train” said a whisper quiet voice, devoid of any accent he could decipher. Not American, not Irish. Not the Australian drawl he expected, but a softer, lighter sound. An accent, perhaps not of a first language, but practiced with effort, determined to be perfect. “I saw you come away from the platform, looking quite disappointed.”
“I was to take a trip to the mountains with my friend.” Thomas looked down with a smile. “He seems to have disappeared.”
“Perhaps there is another train; I can try to find out, if you want?” Looking around at the heaving mass about them, unsure of where such information might be found.
“No” said Thomas. “No need for that. It can wait. Mountains don’t move. Still be there I reckon. Say, let’s have lunch. Do you have plans?”
“My day has not gone as I expected, either” was the shy answer. “I was thinking of going home. I should not remain in Sydney, alone”
“Probably a good idea.” Thomas absorbed this information for a moment, and then said. “You’re not alone now.” Then. “Where is home?”
“Oh, out there” with a vague sweep of a gloved hand. “You would not be any wiser if I told you”
“You’re right about that, Miss. I know where my ship is, and not much else. It is “Miss”, I guess?
“Does it matter?” With an implication that marital status was of no moment in their conversation, and unlikely to have any bearing, should it continue.
“No. It don’t matter. But knowing your name might.”
“Isobel.” A pause and a cast about, as if unsure of how much to disclose, what was proper, in this society, to divulge to a stranger, but wanting to hear him say “Isobel.” Then, after a moment. “Isobel Birchgrove.”
The answers came in tones, Thomas thought, of a “no nonsense” school Marm. He liked the idea, it somehow suited the look.
“Ah…. Isobel. That is a very pretty name.” Said Thomas, with a smile. “A pretty name for a pretty lady”
“Pretty lady, is it?” said Isobel. “I’ve heard about American men. American sailors especially. Let’s not play that game.” The answer came rather tersely, but Thomas saw the glitter in the eyes behind the veiling was not that of offence taken, but of a gentle amusement.
“Sorry, M’am. Message received loud and clear.” Thomas stood and towered over the seated form, and offered his arm. “Can we find somewhere to have lunch?”
“There is a park across the way.” Said Isobel. “Perhaps we could buy sandwiches, something to drink. I have pounds, in the event they won’t take American dollars.”
Thomas purchased corned beef and pickle sandwiches, bright red apples and Sarsaparilla soda, offering the brightly coloured pound note Isobel had thrust into his hands, quickly waved away by the smiling vendor, Thomas’s smart uniform being entree to the generosity of the City. Armed with their meal, they sought a table under a large Moreton Bay fig tree, where they shared the food. Thomas assisted Isobel to pin back her veil, tucking in a wayward auburn curl as he did so.
“What can you tell me about Sydney?” He asked, as he took a draught of the sarsaparilla.
“Not very much at all” said Isobel. “I probably know as much about it you do.” Smiling at him. “Sydney is not my home, but I can tell you it is busy, dirty, clogged
with people, noisy. Like cities everywhere. People rush about, and don’t take much notice of anyone. Everyone seems to come from somewhere else.”
They sat, oblivious to the city around them. The late winter sun warmed them. Thomas unbuttoned the cuffs of his blue jacket, showing ropey veins in his muscular forearms. They smiled at each other often.
When they had finished eating, they strolled together out of the small park. They wandered into Elizabeth Street, and found themselves at the entrance to Hyde Park, which was bedecked with American flags, Union flags, bunting, lanterns, and gas lamps, which would be lit at dusk to celebrate the Fleet.
“Let’s not go in there” said Isobel, pressing gently on his arm. “There are so many people, so much noise. So many sailors.”
“Sure thing, if that’s what you want.” Said Thomas. “I see enough sailors any day of the week; I don’t need to see no more.”
They spent the afternoon lost in the maze of narrow streets, tumbledown cottages, and fine sandstone public buildings. In their wanderings they found a small café and drank good coffee. They went as far as where a finger of the Harbour poked into the backstreets which they learned was Cockleshell Harbour, where wharves carried mountains of produce coming in, and going out of Sydney, the wharf labourers and workers ignoring them. As the short winter day drew on, they wandered back to Central Station, both of them knowing the day must end where it began. Isobel took leave of Thomas and disappeared into the colonnaded entrance.
Archambeau sat on a bench observing as the vehicular traffic disgorged the rushing populace, eager to catch trains into the suburbs, after their day at ledger, counter,
office, factory or market. Not a day like mine, Thomas mused. He studied the open faces of the city folk. Bet they did not have a day like mine. Not many people do.
He was lost in his thoughts as dusk settled over the city. Weak rays of the wintry sun filtered through banks of stormy clouds, scudding in the breeze. He was so absorbed in his observations; Billy Warren was almost upon him before he noticed.
“We didn’t get to see your Blue Mountains” Billy said with a grin. “Swain ruined that, good and proper.”
“ Ol’ fat ass.” Thomas said, grinning. “Don’t matter much. The mountains ain’t goin’ nowhere. We’ll get there, still got a few days left” Thomas said. “For now, we’d better find our way back on board. Soon be dark, and liberty will be up, I guess”
Finding the Tramcar going to the Quay, they sat beside each other, as the thronged streets, now softly lit with street lamps passed by, still festive and with an air of celebration, which the chill evening air would not dampen. Thomas finally grinned at Billy.
“It was Wilma in New Zealand, Belinda in Brazil. Where did Isobel come from?”
“Got a cousin lives on Maple, in Brooklyn” Billy said. “ Name of Isobel. Tomboy sort of girl. Called herself Billy. When she got older she spelled it Billee, thinking maybe it was more feminine or somethin’; so I just sort of changed it ‘round. Like it?
“Yeah. Whatever you call yourself is OK by me. You’re still Billy, no matter what, an’ that’s all that matters” said Thomas. “And you had to get at least one more wear out of that rig.”
“I sent the parcel to Melbourne, it will be waiting next week, when we get there. If Swain don’t poke his nose in.” Billy said.
“Officers gotta have their fun.” Thomas said, and shrugged.
At the Quay waiting for the cutter, in the throng of returning sailors waiting to get back to the moorings, and anchorages, out in the great harbour. It’s surface twinkling with the lights of ferries and all water borne traffic, echoing with hooting sirens and clanging bells, craft darting around, beyond the forest of masts, past Fort Dennison, over to the north side, in and among the coves and bays now lost in darkness.
Archambeau and Warren, two among the hundreds of blue jackets and Dixie cup hats, after a day abroad in a new city. They said “Hiya” to some; waved or nodded to others; and waited. Some of their number were the worse for drink, and stumbled and mumbled around, hoping to avoid the eagle eyes of the Shore Patrol, who could lay about you with a nightstick if they had a mind to. There were pretty girls who came with some to say goodbye, kissed them on their mouths, and promised to see them again.
Archambeau and Warren stood about with their hands scrunched down in their pockets, hunched against the cold wind coming off the harbour. The ability to touch in public, was the important part, knowing it cannot, and must not happen. The whole thing would break down. They had walked about and touched each other in a familiar way, aware of the approbation that would come their way if discovered. And punishment.
In the meanwhile, life would go on in a familiar, unchanging pattern. Keeping watches, scrubbing decks, washing, cleaning and repairing. Obeying the call of a piped order, a ringing bell or a barked command. Blue seas, calm and translucent, green and grey seas, heaving aboard in tumbling avalanches of rolling foam. Holding on to the feelings of normalcy against their urge to be alone in a secret world of their own making, where no one knew them, no one cared.
As the cutter returned the sailors around the fleet, Archambeau and Warren again did not meet each others eyes, did not acknowledge their shared moments, kept their eyes down, disguising any untoward emotions, doused by the knowledge that any awareness of what was afoot would be met with such an implacable and fierce disapproval, that the life they had would be ruined.
But, the future lay ahead, as yet unsullied. The task was to keep it that way.
