SON OF HYDRA
A Historical Novel Inspired by Australia’s First Greek Convict
Page Title
Set during the Greek War of Independence, the novel Son of Hydra by Shelley Dark follows the true-life journey of Ghikas Voulgaris — a young Hydriot whose act of piracy saw him sentenced to death by the British and transported to the penal colony of New South Wales. Based on years of archival research across Hydra, Malta, Kew, Portsmouth, Cork and Australia, the novel explores pride, male friendships, cross-cultural love, and belonging.
THE RESEARCH JOURNEY
MALTA
In Malta, I worked in the National Archives at Rabat, reading the boys’ trial papers, the appeals, and the correspondence between Malta and London — Britain had taken control of the island only fourteen years earlier at the end of the Napoleonic Wars and was throwing its weight around the Mediterranean, or keeping the peace, depending on how you looked at it. The result for me was a gift: meticulous paperwork. I spent time in the magnificent National Library and the Maritime Museum, was ferried across both harbours, and shown the courtroom where the boys were tried and the underground cells where they were held. I had morning tea with Judge Giovanni Bonello, Malta’s most passionate historian. The Malta chapters now felt anchored and real.
LONDON KEW ARCHIVES
At Kew, I found the captains’ logs, ships’ logs, surgeons’ journals, and the musters for the Gannet—the British anti-piracy ship that arrested the boys. I traced their passage from Malta to Portsmouth on HMS Onyx, and then to New South Wales on the Norfolk. I discovered there were forty-three men on Ghikas’ ship, not nine, and read the correspondence between Hydriot leaders, British captains patrolling the Aegean, and the authorities in London. I photographed the log entries so I could later plot each voyage from the latitude and longitude. Two full weeks with centuries-old books and papers.
PORTSMOUTH
In Portsmouth I had the best guides imaginable: a Blue Badge historian and a retired vice admiral of the Royal Navy. They walked me through the old town and its pubs, the site of the great dockyard where thousands once worked, and every inch of HMS Victory.
We crossed the water to the old hulk moorings, talked about the Isle of Wight and the Motherbank where ships once dropped anchor, and filled in the details I’d only read about in my hulks books. It brought the whole British chapters of Son of Hydra to life and helped me document the final stage of the men’s journey before transportation to Sydney.
CORK CITY
In Cork I followed the Irish thread in Ghikas’ story, because in New South Wales he met Mary Lyons — an Irish orphan probably raised in the old Cork Foundling Hospital. The women who sailed on the Red Rover came from either the Foundling Hospital or the workhouse, offered free passage to begin new lives while easing the city’s overcrowding.
The hospital records were destroyed in the 1920 fires during the troubles, but the site is now a brewery and I was able to see what remains of the original building, including the doorway where mothers once left their babies in the middle of the night.
Walking the city — its colourful enamel doors, its flower baskets, its narrow lanes — helped me imagine it before the extensive drainage works which have happened since: it was a low-lying, damp centre and some of the forbidding old industrial buildings remain.
Being there made Mary’s world feel tangible. And a kind local found me a book I’d been hunting for months: I acquired a rare printers' copy of In the Shadows: Life in Cork 1750–1930 by Colman O’Mahony.
COUNTY CORK
In County Cork I followed the trail of Mary Lyons through a handful of parishes, and in one small church met Theresa, who seemed to know exactly why I’d come. She led me through the parish history, introduced me to a farming family who’d held their land since the 1700s and shared Mary’s surname, and sent me to Father Tom — who opened the old baptism book and showed me Mary’s entry.
Father Tom told me it was often the fathers who brought newborns straight into town to be registered while the mothers recovered, which made that moment feel suddenly human.
I also visited the family’s eighteenth-century farmhouse, with its whitewashed walls, narrow door and two tiny bedrooms, for a family of strapping boys. Standing in that kitchen brought Mary sharply into focus.
SYDNEY
Sydney was a treasure trove. I spent a week in the State Library—then went back again over the years—reading Mitchell's diary where he speaks of the Greek convicts working for the Macarthurs, working through records, illustrations, and accounts of early colonial life. I walked the city with a historian, mapped where Mary’s employers lived, where Old Government House once stood, and where the governor kept his vegetable garden. I visited Hyde Park Barracks, where the boys were first held, several times, searched for references to the Greeks (there were plenty), and found Father John Joseph Therry’s diary entry recording Ghikas and Mary’s marriage. At the Kingswood Archives I looked at cadastral maps, Colonial Secretary’s papers, and parish registers, filling in gaps that only original records can answer. Parramatta added even more shape: Elizabeth Farm, where some of the boys worked, and the Female Orphan School across the river. Every visit deepened the Sydney chapters.
ARNPRIOR
Most secondary sources said Ghikas worked for Alexander Macleay on arrival, because that’s what appears on his indent. But a letter I found in the State Library told a different story. Only a few days after the Norfolk docked, Stewart Ryrie, Assistant Commissary, wrote to Macleay asking for one man only: Ghikas.
That letter led me to Arnprior, the early Ryrie family property. Ghikas spent several years there as a shepherd, received his Ticket of Leave there, and married Mary, with two Ryrie sons as witnesses.
With the generous permission of the current lessee, I visited what remains of the original homestead — altered many times over the decades and now barely recognisable, apart from a carved thistle in the lintel above the front door.
A photo I took of the old wallpaper was studied by the Caroline Simpson Library, who also confirmed the wall construction: lathe and plaster over a simple timber frame.
I also bought a comprehensive book about the family from its author John H Edwards.
Walking the Shoalhaven river flats, seeing the great gums along the bank, and standing on the front verandah of the homestead made this chapter of Ghikas‘ life feel grounded and real — and gave me the tree under which Ghikas and Mary sit in Son of Hydra.
CANBERRA
In Canberra I consulted Hugh Gilchrist’s papers at the National Library, but they largely confirmed what I’d already read in Malta and Kew.
The real discoveries were in the surrounding collections: books on Protestant politics in Cork during Mary’s era; the letters of Fanny Macleay to her brother William; and the correspondence triggered by Alexandros Trikoupis’ enquiries into the pardons—and into Ghikas and Andonis’ later refusal of free passage home—where the British admitted they could find no record of the Herakles‘ arrest at all.
I also read Braidwood, Dear Braidwood there before sourcing my own copy.
The Canberra visit didn’t shift the story of Son of Hydra, but it gave me a much better understanding of the era.
MONARO
On Monaro, I was fortunate to be invited to attend a memorial service for Ghikas, and a celebratory lunch with Greek dancing. I also visited a property at Nimmitabel where Ghikas once lived and saw the possible foundations of one of his houses.
His grave lies in the town, and he’s still remembered by the community and the local historical society — a moving link in tracing his Australian story.
There’s more research still to do here: this is where Ghikas and Mary lived and worked, where he carted goods and drove drays, selected and bought land, and where he had a documented disagreement with the land manager of a powerful pastoralist.
I’m looking forward to spending serious time on the Monaro to follow those threads properly.
HYDRA
I arrived on Hydra hoping someone might know who Ghikas was, who were his parents.The Hydriots I spoke to knew only what was publicly available online—information I already knew.
But the Archives and Museum of Hydra were a treasure: clothing, weapons, models of ships, fragments of the old Voulgaris archontikó, all humming with memories of the Greek War of Independence in the 1820‘s.
And the island itself—barren, dramatic, stubborn—suddenly explained everything about Hydriot grit: how they carved out a trading empire and became skilled shipbuilders, and a built a navy from rock, sea, and sheer will.
SERENDIPITY
Even before I began writing Son of Hydra, I wrote a list of questions I needed to answer. Some were quickly found; others were much harder. Some turned up by serendipity.
When I needed information about sailing ships, I sat next to a superyacht captain on a plane, when I needed information about the English navy in Portmsouth during Ghikas‘ time, I met an Vice-Admiral (retd) of the Royal Navy. When I needed to know which was Mary's employer, I found a marriage certificate with her as witness. And only recently I've been approached by a retired Vice-Admiral of the Hellenic navy with information I'd never have found without him.
The list of happy coincidences is long.
MEDIA
The Greek community and media have shown great interest in the forgotten pioneer portrayed in Son of Hydra.
