The Mary Catherine Awaits

By midwinter 1815, William Jeffries's position at Hartley's had transformed in ways that would have seemed impossible mere months before. He arrived each morning before dawn, unlocking the offices while the streets remained dark, lighting lamps and stoking fires before the other clerks appeared. Tasks that had once belonged exclusively to Ezekiel Blackwood now fell to him as a matter of course—negotiations with suppliers, correspondence with Sydney trading partners, decisions about inventory and pricing that would once have been unthinkable for a clerk to make.

Samuel Hartley himself had become little more than a ghost haunting his own enterprise. The merchant rarely emerged from his private quarters before noon, and when he did, his hands trembled and his eyes held the glazed confusion of a man who had surrendered entirely. The drinking had accelerated since spring, and what remained was merely the shell of the figure Reginald Donnelly had described in his letters of introduction.

It was nearly noon when Blackwood appeared, slipping through the door with his customary silence. He surveyed the busy office, caught Jeffries's gaze, and inclined his head toward the back room—that small chamber reserved for matters that could not be discussed before the other staff.

The instructions Blackwood delivered were precise and comprehensive. A ship called the Mary Catherine was arriving from Sydney that night, carrying cargo that required special handling. Rum from the Caribbean, routed through Sydney to avoid Crown duties. Textiles, tools, and several cases of firearms. The buyers were already arranged; what remained was the logistics of transfer from ship to secondary storage without attracting official attention.

Jeffries's role would be supervisory. A dozen workers had been vetted and assembled, all understanding that discretion was not optional. He would oversee the unloading at the harbour warehouse, ensure the cargo reached its destination without loss or misrouting, and manage any complications that arose during the operation.

There was one additional responsibility. A customs inspector named Crawley would be conducting rounds near the secondary warehouse around midnight. The man had been compensated for his cooperation, but he would need to see a familiar face to confirm the operation was sanctioned. Jeffries would be that face.

The implications were clear. Meeting with a bribed official meant another step deeper into the shadow world, another connection that could be used against him if circumstances ever required. Each such thread bound him more tightly to Blackwood's network, making extraction increasingly impossible.

Blackwood presented the assignment as opportunity rather than obligation. The Mary Catherine operation was larger than anything Jeffries had previously handled. Success would demonstrate capabilities that went beyond competent clerking. It would prove him indispensable—that position where removal would cost more than continued employment, where value to the enterprise created the only safety colonial commerce offered.

Jeffries accepted the assignment without protest. What choice existed? The shadow commerce was what kept Hartley's enterprise functioning, what paid the wages of clerks and porters who depended on legitimate work that would not exist without illegitimate subsidy. Refusing now would mean abandoning everything he had built over the preceding months—the competence, the authority, the position that made his future possible.

Blackwood provided a folded paper containing the operation's details: timing, locations, contacts, contingencies. Jeffries was to memorise the contents and burn the document. Nothing written would survive beyond that night.

Before Jeffries departed, he asked how long the current arrangement could continue. Hartley's decline was accelerating; eventually the legitimate business would collapse entirely. Blackwood's response was characteristically direct. The enterprise had perhaps a year remaining, possibly less. When it fell, other arrangements would become necessary. Plans for that eventuality had been forming since before Jeffries arrived. Silas Croft had been part of those plans, Blackwood mentioned, though perhaps without fully realising it. As had Jeffries himself.

The conversation ended with Blackwood's customary formula: success bred opportunity, failure bred consequences. The distinction required no elaboration.

Jeffries returned to the main office with the weight of the coming night pressing against his thoughts. The ordinary work of the afternoon continued around him—invoices, shipments, customer enquiries—but his mind had already moved ahead to the harbour, to the darkness, to the cargo waiting aboard the Mary Catherine.