Resisting Monsieur Larra’s pleas to stay another day—his table was excellent, and Darcy was determined to visit again—they took an early breakfast and were on the road to Green Hills by nine o’clock in the morning. Skirting around Rose Hill, they saw the Parramatta River had all but disappeared by the time they passed through the old Government Farm at Toongabby. The road was in poor condition and was scarcely passable, so much so that Darcy and Elizabeth decided to ride ahead and allow the cart to follow at its own pace.
Some seven miles north of Parramatta, they came to Baulkham Hills, near to the site of the convict rebellion of ‘04 at Castle Hill. Seeking some refreshment, they stopped at an inn run by Sarah and William Joyce.
“Sarah,” cried a young man, who entered the taproom just after Elizabeth and Darcy had sat. “Where’s Mary Jackman? My Martha has begun her labour, but she’s in much pain. I don’t know what to do.”
“She’s gone to Parramatta, Thomas. But we thought Martha wasn’t due for another month.”
“As did we. But she’s in great distress, her pains are mostsevere.”
The man looked desperately around the room. There was naught but Sarah and a finely dressed couple seated at a table—they were clearly quality from Sydney. He was taken aback when the lady, who wore a very fine riding habit, stood and directed herself to him.
“Mr.… Thomas. Where is your wife now?”
“In the hut, ma’am, some half mile up the road.”
Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “I believe, sir, this is my responsibility. Perhaps you can accompany me, and then once we understand the circumstance, you could direct Ann Reynolds to assist me.”
Darcy nodded and turned to the young man. “Mrs. Darcy is a midwife; she’ll aid your wife. Let us quickly away.”
He left a coin on the table, for the innkeeper had begun to prepare their repast and had already drawn two cups of ale. They mounted and followed the man along the road to a mean hut constructed of wooden slabs with bark and shingle roof.
Immediately upon dismounting, Elizabeth entered the shack and saw a young woman lying on a rough cot. Clearly, she was in much pain, holding tight to her distended belly and groaning with distress. Elizabeth pressed her hand against the woman’s brow, which was moist with sweat. She could detect no fever. Turning to the young man who entered behind her,
“I need a bowl of fresh water—is the water clean? for otherwise we need to boil some if it’s discoloured or impure. Mr. Darcy, please fetch me the strong soap from my satchel, for I always carry it with me.”
The items were delivered and she thoroughly washed her hands—the hovel, for that is what it was, was not ideal for delivering a babe, but she had seen worse in the rotting tents of the 73rd.
“Your wife’s name is Martha?” The man nodded. “Good, let me see to her; grant us some privacy. Mr. Darcy, could youwait by the road to hail Sgt. Monogan when he passes.”
“Martha, I’m Mrs. Darcy, a midwife. Can you tell me when your pains began?”
Gently, Elizabeth calmed the woman—a slip of a girl. Her travail had begun some four hours before. The pains were regular but of great intensity. Each time she could scarcely bear it. The waters had yet to break.
Elizabeth felt the babe through Martha’s taut belly. The head was low, but it had yet to settle at the base of the womb. You poor young thing, most likely just fifteen or sixteen years, and now to be a mother. With a damp cloth she wiped the girl’s brow, speaking softly to her. When the throes came, Martha would cry out, her face twisted with intense pain. Perhaps an hour or two passed before Ann Reynolds came into the hut.
“Ann, you’re welcome indeed,” said Elizabeth. “The babe has yet to descend fully, but young Martha is in great pain. But, methinks, we could both do with sweet tea. Can you prepare some—from the supplies in the wagon, for there’s nothing in the hut?”
The travail continued. They had naught to do but to comfort the girl as the pains persisted. Elizabeth had Ann examine her to determine the opening of the mouth of the womb, which was open, but not fully so, and the head of the child had not begun to press hard against it.
Sgt. Monogan and Darcy set up camp nearby. Elizabeth and Ann were grateful to be able to rest on their cots while the other attended to Martha. Harshita made up some gruel, which was fed to Martha—she had not eaten for several days. Elizabeth suspected her malnourishment may have provoked the labour several weeks too soon. Some twelve hours later, the waters broke. Elizabeth felt the mouth of the womb: the babe lay right, its head pressing against the opening. Now the throes were more intense as the babe strived to escape.
Several more hours elapsed. Martha was in great distress—her shrieks of torment were heart-rending—but little could be done to relieve her discomfort. Elizabeth and Ann could merely console her, reassure her in her travail. Finally, the babe’s head emerged, carefully held by Ann as it exited the sheaf.
“Stop pushing, now!” Ann cried, “Mrs. Darcy, the cord is looped around the babe’s neck!”
Quickly, Elizabeth retrieved her small knife from her pocket and deftly sliced the cord, careful not to injure the soft tissues of the mother. Martha couldn’t stop, and the infant was soon fully delivered into Ann’s hands. The babe was small, its head overlarge for the body, which had little fat under the skin. Elizabeth cleansed it with a cloth they had thoroughly laundered in boiling water. The cord was tied off with sisal twine she kept in her satchel.
The joy on Martha’s face when she took the child and placed it against her breast was, as always, the true reward of a safe delivery. Ann and Elizabeth felt they could relax. If all went well, the afterbirth would soon follow and the women could retire for some well-earned rest.
“Thomas,” called Elizabeth, for he was lying on the ground outside, “come and meet your daughter.”
In the dark hours of morning, Elizabeth went to lie on her cot. “William, both Ann and I are full tired. We shall sleep and perhaps continue our journey after a late breakfast.” Darcy assisted her out of her dress and spencer and untied her stays. Gently he lay Elizabeth on her cot and covered her with blankets against the early morning chill.
Come full light, Darcy looked about the farm if it could be called such. There were some scratchings in the ground where a few stunted plants of indeterminable nature grew. Apart from the rude hut, there were no outbuildings; not even a roost for fowl, of which none were about, most likely gone off intothe bush or caught by quolls.
“Thomas, where are your livestock?”
The man looked down at his feet. “They ran off. We’d a cow, but she broke the fence an’ disappeared.”
