Pirate Boy of Sydney Town

by Jackie French

  Higgins had the fire well built up when Ben returned, and a pile of oysters sitting on a length of bark.

  ‘Found these just round the bend,’ he told Ben. ‘Always been fond of oysters. Where’s His Nibs?’

  ‘Hunting, I think.’ Ben took a couple of oysters and swallowed. They looked and tasted like snot. He passed the platter back to Higgins.

  ‘Keep eatin’,’ said Higgins. ‘Took me a long time to prise them shells open.’ He patted the knife at his belt.

  ‘I’m not really hungry.’ And hopefully Guwara would be back soon with meat.

  Higgins regarded him sternly. ‘You’re goin’ to eat everythin’ we find here, young Sneezer, and keep eatin’. That’s how you survive at sea. You eat when you can, and the fat keeps you alive when the food runs out.’

  Ben sighed and reached for another oyster.

  CHAPTER 21

  They stayed at King George the Third’s Sound for another three days, gathering wood and fresh water, hunting and eating, while they waited for a favourable wind. Ben parted with the tops of his stockings, which vanished the next day from the rock where Guwara had found the fish, but he discovered them again near their camp the next day, abandoned.

  Once he heard Guwara’s voice, talking in a strange tongue to a man in the trees behind their camp. But no native appeared.

  ‘Was that an Indian? What did he want?’ Ben demanded, when Guwara returned carrying a hopper already skinned and gutted.

  ‘They want us to leave. I tried to ask about fresh water to the east, but we do not have the same words.’

  ‘Then how did he ask you to leave?’ Higgins replied.

  Guwara laughed and made a shooing gesture. ‘I told him this.’ He held up his hand to the wind, as if to say, ‘We will go when the wind is right.’

  The wind changed at dawn. They’d already stocked the Mulgu with fresh water, adding another two freshly made — and smelly — water bladders. Guwara had tried to seal the gaps in the boat’s planking with sap from the local trees. But even though it seemed to hold when he applied it, the thick ooze cracked off as it dried overnight.

  The northerly coming off the land was just a breeze smelling of hot sand and gum trees. But it was enough for them to launch the boat, raise the sails and sail out of the sound and beyond the most obvious rocks into the open sea again. And there they stayed, unable to make progress in the strong current till the wind gusted and then began to blow, fierce and unrelenting, carrying them east.

  ‘Binyang,’ said Guwara, pointing at a seagull, its wings outstretched to let the wind carry it across the waves. For some reason he had decided it was time for Ben to learn the language of the Cadigal.

  Ben bailed out another bark bowl of water and tried to copy the sound. Guwara’s language had sounds he had never tried to make before. He suspected he wasn’t even hearing some of them properly, much less able to repeat them. ‘Bungyon . . .’

  ‘Binyang,’ said Guwara patiently. He glanced up at the way the wind filled the sails and moved to adjust the tiller again.

  Learning the new language at least filled in the time. There was little else to do — or rather, too much to do, but so much of it the same. Follow Guwara’s instructions to tension or loosen the sails, or take his turn at the tiller, or cast out the fishing net, or bail and keep bailing as the cracks in the planking remained and water continually seeped in. There was no respite. On this small boat, someone had to be at the tiller and another adjusting the sails all the time. Ben was already tired of the featureless blue on three sides of them, and the brown land to their left, too far away to make out details.

  ‘Gadjal,’ said Guwara, pointing to the land.

  ‘Gadjal,’ Ben repeated carefully. Was ‘gadjal’ beach, or land, or maybe that spire of smoke?

  Guwara grinned. At last Ben had spoken a word correctly, even if he wasn’t sure what it meant.

  Was Cadigal really going to be of any use to him? Guwara had told him that the Indians on this side of the vast land didn’t speak Cadigal; and if they got back to Sydney Town — when they got back — Ben would probably never speak to another Indian, except those who spoke English like Guwara. He supposed that Guwara assumed he would stay in the colony forever, just as Higgins did.

  Ben couldn’t bring himself to tell the convict that he didn’t want to run a tavern, especially the kind Higgins probably imagined — a refuge for pickpockets or worse. But what sort of life could he have in Sydney Town with its criminals and shanties? He wondered how much of his father’s money was left. Perhaps it had already been claimed to pay his father’s debts in England. Maybe Ben could find work with Mr Moore? He built ships, as well as his other businesses. Perhaps Ben would know enough about boats by the time they got back. Or would Governor Macquarie give him a land grant, and convicts and rations for them to clear the land and build a house?

  Guwara held his hand up as if testing the strength or changing direction of the wind. ‘Baninmaree.’

  Was that wind, or west wind, or testing the wind? ‘Baninmaree,’ Ben said absently.

  What was Sally’s farm like? Did the Indians there speak Cadigal or another language?

  ‘Cheese it, long shanks,’ Higgins said amiably to Guwara. ‘We just caught somethin’ in the net.’

  Ben peered over the side as Guwara’s strong arms hauled the net out of the water, a bundle of heaving silver scales and gasping mouths.

  ‘Narrami,’ said Guwara, glancing at Ben.

  Did that mean fish or net? Ben didn’t know, but he was sure of three things. Their journey east would take much longer than he had thought, for the winds here were far more variable than those further south. He would give anything to see green fields of soft lush grass and fat sheep instead of endless brown. And he was getting very tired of eating raw fish.

  Ben lay under the skin roof of the Mulgu’s shelter amidships. He had been awake almost constantly, but was still too alert to sleep now. Three weeks had passed since they had left King George the Third’s Sound; three weeks of rationing the water further and further till now they took only three gulps each twice a day. Three weeks of gazing at the sky, hoping for the mare’s tail wisps that might mean a storm approaching. Storms meant danger for their rickety craft, but they also brought fresh water to catch in their spare sail.

  None of them had any real idea how far they had come. The land kept changing — cliffs, beaches, then more cliffs — but with no map to guide them it was impossible to tell if they were almost across the long, fresh-waterless Bight or still just at the beginning.

  If this was the beginning, they would never make it to the next source of fresh water: the island Mr Flinders had called Kangaruh. Nor could they turn back, as the westerly winds meant the return journey to King George the Third’s Sound would take far longer than it had taken them to get here, wherever here might be.

  Guwara had stopped giving Ben language lessons. He saved his strength for steering, instructing Ben on trimming the sails and watching out for waves or white froth or the water changing colour that might indicate rocks ahead.

  They rarely spoke at all now. Their lips were dry and cracked, their skin swollen and peeling with too much sun, not just from the sky but also reflecting from the water. Higgins was almost skeletal again, grimly bailing night and day, catching short naps then waking to bail again.

  Dear Sally,

  We are sailing along what is called the Great Australian Bight on the map your father gave me, though I don’t know if it was Mr Flinders who gave it that name. When I say we are sailing, it only means that we are in the Mulgu. Too often in the past weeks we have not sailed at all. Guwara and I thought it would be easy to sail east, with the strong westerly winds to speed us. But we had only known the strong winds far to the south, where we dare not go to face the storms in our little boat. Some days we have not even travelled a league.

  Our voyage started easily, with a good wind. The coast was hazy, but we could see giant cliffs. Within a day the cli
ffs were behind us, with sandy beaches marking the shore instead, rising up to dead and barren hills. Their bareness was frightening, but at least we were going in the right direction, and speeding along well, till Guwara pointed out white breakers on one side of us, about two miles away, at almost the same time as I saw waves on the other. We were between two vast reefs, about four or five miles from shore. For long desperate hours we travelled between them, bailing all the time, terrified that wind or current would drive us onto them.

  At last they were gone. But the risk of hugging the shore was too great, especially as the wind had dropped again. We hung between land and sea, hardly moving, for two long days and nights, before the wind rose and we moved further out to sea, the land now only a dim line on the horizon.

  Since then . . .

  No, even in an imaginary letter Ben could not describe what had happened then. The days had merged into each other: waves and wind and salt, and increasingly desperate thirst, wondering whether the explorers who had passed this way might, by some miracle, have missed a harbour or a river; knowing, from the colour of the water, the currents and the bird life about them, that they had not.

  If his memory of Mr Flinders’s map was correct, Kangaruh Island would be too big to miss when they did come upon it. Flinders had said it was a paradise, with no people and vast numbers of animals and birds that had never learned to be scared of hunters. And water, wonderful fresh water. To be able to drink as much as his body craved, to wash off the salt, to rest under trees or in a bark shelter . . .

  Ben peered towards the east yet again. That paradise was there, somewhere, just like Port Jackson was there, and Sally and Badger’s Hill. But every day a little more hope that he would ever see them drained away.

  Higgins lifted the last waterbag to his lips, then offered it to Ben.

  Ben shook his head. ‘You didn’t swallow,’ he said. It hurt to talk.

  ‘Drink,’ said Higgins sharply.

  ‘Drink,’ said Guwara.

  It was the most any of them had said all day. Above, the sails filled and emptied with gusts of wind, enough to keep them heading east. But strong enough to save their lives? Ben didn’t know. They lived at the mercy of the wind and currents.

  He drank, two slow swallows, letting the water slide around his parched mouth, then tied the waterbag firmly. They no longer put out the fishing net; its weight slowed them down. The dried food was almost gone too, but without water none of them could eat.

  He felt Higgins sit down beside him, his bad leg outstretched. ‘Sneezer! Sneezer lad, look at me.’

  ‘We’re going to die,’ whispered Ben.

  ‘Course we’re goin’ to die.’

  Ben looked at him, shocked. He had expected Higgins to say that all would be well.

  Higgins gave him a crumb of cracked smile. ‘But when are we goin’ to die? Just keep sayin’ “not today” and keep on livin’. How d’you think I kept on livin’ in the poorhouse, eh? Two bowls of gruel a day and every young’un but me dead of the fever. Every day I said, “I’m goin’ to live.” That’s how I survived the streets, and the prison, and the hold of your pa’s ship too, with all the dead about me.’

  ‘I thought you stole other people’s food and water,’ whispered Ben.

  Higgins shrugged. ‘I got me share. An’ those that couldn’t, died.’ He nodded towards Guwara, still sitting erect in the stern, his hand on the tiller, watching, watching. ‘Ever think what he’s gone through? You hear tales back in the colony. Nearly all the Indians died of the smallpox twenty year ago. He’d have been just a whippersnapper then. Must have seen his family die, his whole village, if the Indians have villages. Maybe that’s why he goes to sea, so he doesn’t always have to see the empty places.’

  Ben shut his eyes. He was tired. Just too tired.

  ‘You want to live?’ demanded Higgins sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ breathed Ben.

  ‘Then stop bein’ a flea-bitten pup and keep bailin’ and stand your watch.’

  Night: the wind dropping; straining eyes and ears for reefs or islands. Day: the ever-present light. Ben had grown so used to the pain in his eyes he hardly noticed it. Every bone, every muscle ached. Water all around them, wave after wave, but none that they could drink. Day after day . . .

  A shower, so brief the clouds sped past almost too fast to see. But a quarter of an inch of water caught in the skins of the roof of their shelter and it was enough to keep them going for another two days, giving them energy to tend the sails, eat a little dried fish, to bail and bail.

  Dolphins played about the boat, laughing at them. Whales pursued their long leisurely courses, rounded black shapes on the horizon; or playful, rearing up and crashing back down in a splash of foam, as if the giant animals were curious about this tiny battered craft trying to cross the sea that belonged to them. Sunsets blazed in orange and yellows; dawns in shades of pink and red.

  None of that mattered. Ben lived for the mouthfuls of water, the hope on the horizon that might be land, the end of the Bight, the paradise of Kangaruh Island. Day after day, hour after hour, he took his turn at the tiller, staring into the distance. Time after time he was sure he could see a faint bulge that would mean land. But each time it was heat haze or a cloud; clouds that never seemed to send down rain to lend them life for just a little longer.

  The days swam into each other. His eyes crusted with salt. It took an effort of will now even to lift the bark container and bail. How long had it been since they had spoken to each other? Yet, somehow, Guwara still had the strength to tend the sails.

  Ben closed his eyes.

  ‘Sneezer.’

  Ben ignored the whisper. He had no strength now. No hope. His body seemed to float away, back to the green of Badger’s Hill.

  ‘Sneezer. Pox on the lad! Sneezer!’

  ‘No,’ he whispered.

  ‘Land,’ croaked Higgins. ‘Sneezer, we’ve reached land.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Ben opened his eyes and saw a small carpet of golden white sand between the teeth of rounded rocks; blue sky and green trees. Birds balanced on the wind above him.

  Water stung his lips. Fresh water that didn’t taste of salt or decayed hopper skin, but of the bark basin they had used for bailing and the faint taste of grass. He drank, then drank some more, and sat up.

  Guwara sat beside him, emaciated and hollow-eyed. He must have navigated here while Ben was unconscious, rowed the heavy boat into the shallows of the cove and tied a rope around a tree to stop her drifting off. Guwara must have carried him here, onto the sand, and maybe Higgins too.

  Higgins lay on Ben’s other side. For a heart-wrenching second Ben thought he was dead. Then he heard him groan.

  Guwara pushed himself to his feet, walked away and returned, the basin full of water again. Ben drank, then watched as Higgins drank as well.

  They were going to live.

  They slept on the beach that night, too exhausted to clamber across the rocks that bordered their small cove, wrapped in the heat the sand had stored during the day.

  The tide was out when the chill of morning woke Ben. Guwara had vanished. Higgins sat above a small pile of dead tussock and driftwood, the axe and tinderbox beside him, trying to light a fire.

  The bailing bucket next to Ben was full of water again. Guwara must have placed it there. Ben drank, then stared at the rocks on either side of the tied-up boat, the sharper-toothed rocks lurking just below the water. It had been a miracle — and Guwara’s superb seamanship — that had brought the Mulgu safely to this beach. The tiny craft had carried them so far, yet from here Ben could see the gaps in her planking, far larger than he’d realised during the last few days of bailing, bailing, bailing.

  If this was Kangaruh Island, the most dangerous part of their journey was done. The southern edge of the continent should be within a few days’ sail. From there they could make their way along the coast, a coast with streams and rivers they could sail into and find fresh water to drink and s
hellfish to eat. It would not be easy — any sea journey could be deadly — but the winds would be more reliable, and there would be harbours to shelter from storms. Ben could even remember most of the landmarks they had passed on the Golden Girl, first on the way to Port Jackson, and then on their route south.

  But could the Mulgu make it? They had been lucky in their voyage across the Bight, he realised wearily. The lack of wind that had almost killed them with thirst had also meant calm seas. One storm, even a high wind dashing waves hard against her sides, and the Mulgu would break up. And only Guwara could swim.

  Was there any way to repair the boat without nails or pitch? Perhaps some of the tree saps here would stick, unlike the ones at King George the Third’s Sound. They had to try. They had no choice if they wanted to get home.

  When had he begun to think of the colony as home?

  He turned to look at the rounded rocks and dapple of green trees behind them. An arrow of black swans flew overhead, their distant honks bitten off by the wind. He looked back at the turquoise water, the pure white sand, the birds soaring, darting. That grey shape must be a seal . . . It was as if someone had suddenly washed the window through which he saw the world. This place was beautiful.

  He should hate this land whose harshness had so nearly killed him, might still kill him. But all at once he knew he didn’t want to exchange the hot harsh blue sky for the softer light of England. He had grown used to distance. To this land that called upon all his strength of mind and body, till he found he had more courage than he’d dreamed of. How could he go back to England and live there tamely, harvest to harvest, among the same faces and the same routines year after year?

  Ben could never be his father, chasing wealth at any cost to others. But he needed challenges too.

  ‘Poxy blaggard of a beggar,’ cursed Higgins nearby.

  The driftwood must be too damp to flare easily, Ben thought. Then suddenly it did; the tinder sparking, the flame rising. Should they eat the plum pudding now, he wondered, to celebrate their arrival? But Mr Flinders had described the island as a paradise where you hardly had to hunt to catch game to eat, he remembered — just as Guwara appeared above the rocks, wearily carrying a hopper carcass.