ahead, but before he could assemble his thoughts, Will O’Shea shuffled over.
Even when he was pickled, which was most of the time, Will was good for a yarn. He had been a razor-witted Dublin journalist in his youth, until he wrote one too many scathing commentaries on the British in Ireland and was summarily picked up and dumped in New South Wales.
‘On your way down the Rocks, Mick?’ Will had his eye on Michael’s tobacco tin, so he pushed it towards him.
‘Aye.’
‘Awful quiet down there.’ Will took a pinch of tobacco and pressed it into his pipe.
‘Aye.’ Michael nodded thoughtfully. He’d noticed it too. If there was a job on, he was bloody well going to get to the bottomof it. He was no whistle-blower, but if the orders were coming from London, then he’d make it his business. ‘Let us know if you hear of anything, won’t you, Will?’
Will chuckled and puffed on his pipe. ‘Nothing else to do.’ They assessed the new builds on Macquarie Street, and agreed that the timber from the cedar logs being floated down the Hawkesbury were magnificent. When Michael had drained his glass and Will had packed his pipe again, he left and headed for the Rocks.
The Rocks, the slum area at the bottom end of George Street, was overlooked by the homes of merchants and entrepreneurs. These honey coloured villas were perched right up on the tops of the ridge and as far away from the slums below as was physically possible. From their roost, Michael Kelly imagined that it was simply a matter of keeping one’s eyes directed out to sea, rather than to the rookeries below. Then a wealthy man might conveniently forget that his citadel rose up, both metaphorically and literally, from the tenements of the poor.
As Michael passed by the huddled, flimsy hovels loosely defined as ‘cottages’ in the lower Rocks area, he felt the same vague uneasiness he’d felt for the last week. These huts were a patchwork of rough-hewn timber, roofing iron, sea chests and canvas. They had no guttering or sewage and they opened onto alleys which were unpaved and undrained, and where all manner of filth collected. In this neighbourhood many cottage industries thrived in amongst the homes of the Irish and English poor. Michael knew exactly where one might find coiners, unlicensed pawnbrokers and ‘financiers’. Sydney was a competitive market for forgers and tricksters, and for thieves of varying skill and audacity.
All was still suspiciously quiet in the Rocks; the characters who were usually seen sauntering up towards George andElizabeth Streets at night, looking for an unsecured fob watch or a carelessly tied reticule, were either staying in or, more likely, were otherwise engaged. A big job meant someone was in from London or Calcutta; the cities between which most of the empire’s silver was shipped. If it was a big job, then someone who would never, ever, let their identity be known was running it. Someone who would think nothing of having nosy bastards like Michael silenced. He’d have to be careful not to let his interest show. It offended him that so many traditions and trades were being laid to waste. The suffering and degradation made him sick, and when he saw the clippers and barques of the East India Company or Jardine Matheson docked in Sydney harbour, he wanted to hang them all from the jib by their prissy white cravats.
Michael arrived at a row of slightly better class housing – whose windows had shutters that could be fastened by a bolt and whose walls were wide planks of native hardwood. When freshly hewn, it gave off the faint scent of eucalypt, which was a welcome respite from the rotting funk of the Rocks neighbourhood . These dwellings had underground rooms, originally excavated to keep food from spoiling so quickly. It was in one of these cellars that Michael spent his evenings.
The cottage in question belonged to Maggie, his oldest friend in the colony, and someone he didn’t ever expect to see again when
Even when he was pickled, which was most of the time, Will was good for a yarn. He had been a razor-witted Dublin journalist in his youth, until he wrote one too many scathing commentaries on the British in Ireland and was summarily picked up and dumped in New South Wales.
‘On your way down the Rocks, Mick?’ Will had his eye on Michael’s tobacco tin, so he pushed it towards him.
‘Aye.’
‘Awful quiet down there.’ Will took a pinch of tobacco and pressed it into his pipe.
‘Aye.’ Michael nodded thoughtfully. He’d noticed it too. If there was a job on, he was bloody well going to get to the bottomof it. He was no whistle-blower, but if the orders were coming from London, then he’d make it his business. ‘Let us know if you hear of anything, won’t you, Will?’
Will chuckled and puffed on his pipe. ‘Nothing else to do.’ They assessed the new builds on Macquarie Street, and agreed that the timber from the cedar logs being floated down the Hawkesbury were magnificent. When Michael had drained his glass and Will had packed his pipe again, he left and headed for the Rocks.
The Rocks, the slum area at the bottom end of George Street, was overlooked by the homes of merchants and entrepreneurs. These honey coloured villas were perched right up on the tops of the ridge and as far away from the slums below as was physically possible. From their roost, Michael Kelly imagined that it was simply a matter of keeping one’s eyes directed out to sea, rather than to the rookeries below. Then a wealthy man might conveniently forget that his citadel rose up, both metaphorically and literally, from the tenements of the poor.
As Michael passed by the huddled, flimsy hovels loosely defined as ‘cottages’ in the lower Rocks area, he felt the same vague uneasiness he’d felt for the last week. These huts were a patchwork of rough-hewn timber, roofing iron, sea chests and canvas. They had no guttering or sewage and they opened onto alleys which were unpaved and undrained, and where all manner of filth collected. In this neighbourhood many cottage industries thrived in amongst the homes of the Irish and English poor. Michael knew exactly where one might find coiners, unlicensed pawnbrokers and ‘financiers’. Sydney was a competitive market for forgers and tricksters, and for thieves of varying skill and audacity.
All was still suspiciously quiet in the Rocks; the characters who were usually seen sauntering up towards George andElizabeth Streets at night, looking for an unsecured fob watch or a carelessly tied reticule, were either staying in or, more likely, were otherwise engaged. A big job meant someone was in from London or Calcutta; the cities between which most of the empire’s silver was shipped. If it was a big job, then someone who would never, ever, let their identity be known was running it. Someone who would think nothing of having nosy bastards like Michael silenced. He’d have to be careful not to let his interest show. It offended him that so many traditions and trades were being laid to waste. The suffering and degradation made him sick, and when he saw the clippers and barques of the East India Company or Jardine Matheson docked in Sydney harbour, he wanted to hang them all from the jib by their prissy white cravats.
Michael arrived at a row of slightly better class housing – whose windows had shutters that could be fastened by a bolt and whose walls were wide planks of native hardwood. When freshly hewn, it gave off the faint scent of eucalypt, which was a welcome respite from the rotting funk of the Rocks neighbourhood . These dwellings had underground rooms, originally excavated to keep food from spoiling so quickly. It was in one of these cellars that Michael spent his evenings.
The cottage in question belonged to Maggie, his oldest friend in the colony, and someone he didn’t ever expect to see again when
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