Guwara hadn’t skinned or gutted the animal. He just draped it next to the fire and watched the flames eat at the skin while he sat there in exhaustion. His face was gaunt under his beard, but he still had the strength and determination to hunt, thought Ben, and to care for them.
They hacked off pieces of the still half-raw meat with their knives, pulling away the burnt skin. It hurt to eat, their lips chapped bloody by sun and salt and wind. Higgins’s hands trembled too much to mince his meat into pieces, so Ben chopped it for him.
His skin burned, and his hands were almost as weak as the convict’s, but he could think more clearly now his body had water and food. They needed to find shade where they could rest today, then, when their strength had returned a little, they’d build a shelter to live in while they tried to repair the Mulgu and recovered their health. But just now it seemed too far to walk even to the trees behind them.
The smoke rose from their fire. The meat sizzled. They ate more, forcing it down. They drank, then drank again, their bodies slowly learning to absorb water again.
More birds flapped above them: ducks, pelicans, seagulls and others Ben couldn’t recognise, shrieking and colourful against the deep blue sky. He tried to recover his earlier joy in the beauty of the world around him. But all he felt was bone-deep tiredness and a longing to rest, to escape the ever-burning sun and glare of sea, for a bed, and other hands to tend him, spooning up toast soaked in creamy milk, the invalid food Mama had brought him when he was ill . . .
‘Well, what lollpoops are lyin’ on my beach, eh?’
Ben turned. For a moment the light was too bright to see the figure outlined in front of the rising sun. Then he saw it was a man.
A man holding a musket.
The man stepped down across the rocks. He was short, grey-bearded, his hair long and straggly, barefoot and wearing faded convict-issue pants with a seaman’s knitted jersey. He held the musket higher.
‘Any one of youse moves an’ I’ll have your head off. Except for you,’ he added to Guwara. ‘You step away from them spears. Now what you doin’ here?’
Higgins rose shakily to his feet. ‘Sir,’ he said, using the not-quite-right accent of an upper-level servant he’d used to Ben’s father, ‘you are speaking to young Master Ebenezer Huntsmore, only son of shipowner Branwell Huntsmore, of Badger’s Hill estate in England. I am Higgins, his manservant, and this is our trusty companion, Billy-Boy.’
The man looked suspiciously at Ben. ‘This true? You don’t look like a nob to me.’
‘Play the toff,’ muttered Higgins out of the corner of his mouth.
Ben managed to scramble to his feet. He gave a short bow. ‘It is. Please excuse our shabby attire, sir. We have been sailing for months. My father’s ship, the Golden Girl, was sadly attacked by mutineers who stole her,’ which was the truth, he thought, ‘but we managed to escape in the ship’s boat.’ He gestured at the Mulgu.
‘So where’s this rich pa of yours?’
Higgins laid a sympathetic hand on Ben’s shoulder. ‘The young man’s father was foully murdered by the scoundrels who attacked us. But if you can help him reach Port Jackson, his uncle, Sir Thomas Mudskin, will pay you handsomely for restoring him to his family. Master Ebenezer here is his uncle’s heir, as well as inheriting his father’s estate.’
Surely Higgins could have thought of a better name than Mudskin, Ben thought. And his father’s estate amounted to the worn-out planks of the Mulgu, two tattered sails and whatever monies his father had left invested at Sydney Town, which they would need when — and if — they made it back. Exactly how much of a reward would this man expect?
‘This shandygaff, boy?’ demanded the man.
What did ‘shandygaff’ mean? That Higgins was feeding him lies — as indeed he was? Ben tried to look aristocratic. ‘I can promise you a rich reward if you will help us return to Sydney Town, sir. Will you help us?’
‘I might.’
Hope flared. Was there a ship anchored on the other side of the island?
‘You have a ship?’ Ben asked.
The man grinned, showing yellow teeth. ‘I got more’n that. I got a whole kingdom of me own!’
He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a loud whistle.
Two young Indian women appeared over the rocks. They wore hopper skins shaped into an attempt at short dresses that reached below their knees. The first woman’s face was bruised and swollen. And Ben realised with a shock that the second woman must have recently lost an ear, for blood still caked where it had been.
‘I’m Bucky Morris,’ the man said. ‘This is my island, and these are my women. An’ if you are who you say you are, just maybe I can help you. You got summat to say against any o’ that?’
‘No, sir,’ said Ben. ‘We will appreciate any help you can give us.’
‘And Master Huntsmore’s uncle will surely reward you richly,’ added Higgins.
Bucky Morris glanced at the Mulgu. ‘Anythin’ worth bringin’ from that?’
‘No,’ said Higgins quickly. ‘As you can see, it is falling apart. We have only what you see before you.’
Bucky grunted. ‘Fetch me them spears,’ he said to the woman with the swollen face. He gave her a quick shove when she didn’t understand.
Guwara moved to pick them up.
‘Try it, boy, and I shoot,’ said Bucky.
Guwara stayed where he was.
The woman picked up the spears, and Guwara said something to her, speaking quickly. She must have understood for she answered him briefly, darting anxious glances at Bucky.
‘No yabberin’!’ ordered Bucky. ‘You bring them spears to me, Elsie.’
Elsie handed the spears over, then moved quickly away from him.
‘Now bring me them knives and the axe. May as well have that tinderbox too.’
The other woman stepped towards them. Ben held out his knife. She took it without meeting his eyes, then moved to Higgins and then Guwara.
‘Better get you fed and rested if there’s goin’ to be a reward,’ said Bucky to Ben. He nodded to the two women and ordered, ‘Help ’em walk,’ then he strode back across the rocks.
Ben stumbled as he tried to follow. Elsie helped him.
The woman without an ear lent her shoulder to Higgins. Guwara walked alone, his expression impossible to read.
CHAPTER 23
Bucky’s hut sat above a small river winding through the sand to the sea. Ben glimpsed green carpeted headlands and what might be a big lagoon or harbour, and the shapes of swans drifting slowly across the water. Above them ducks and birds he didn’t recognise swept and swooped across the sky, as unconcerned by the humans as the grazing herds of hoppers — he could not think of them as ‘kangaruhs’, as Mr Flinders had called them — that merely lifted their heads and stared at them as they walked among them, or the mobs of vigilant long-legged murawang birds that stalked across their path giving them no more than a few contemptuous glances.
It was the paradise Mr Flinders had described — the tall trees, the grasslands, the low bushes and ground covers, even a mob of pelicans, their beaks drooping full of fish. But Flinders had also said that no one lived on Kangaruh Island, not even the Indians. He certainly hadn’t mentioned anyone like Bucky.
The hut had a framework of freshly hewn logs, the walls filled in with thin branches twisted together and daubed with clay, like so many in the colony. A giant metal pot dangled on a tripod above glowing coals in the campfire outside. Two longer, rougher huts, possibly storerooms, faced the sea further down the hill. Long driftwood fences had reddish-furred sealskins draped over them, flapping in the wind. The wind smelled of smoke and drying sealskin.
To Ben’s surprise, an extensive garden had been roughly fenced off with driftwood. He recognised potato plants, onion tops, Indian corn, still a long way from bearing, turnips and other greens. Six young Indian women worked among the plants, hoeing, digging and picking. Unlike the two women who accompanied Bucky, they were almost naked, wea
ring string belts and animal pelts over a shoulder or around their waist. They glanced up nervously, then quickly bent back to their work.
Elsie helped Ben to the hut door. He was about to enter when he realised Bucky was gesturing with his musket to push Higgins and Guwara towards one of the longer buildings.
Ben stumbled towards them. ‘We stay together.’
Bucky casually aimed his musket at Ben. ‘Them’s the seamen’s quarters. If youse really are a gentleman, you’ll stay with me.’
‘Seamen?’ Ben asked. He longed for the shelter of the hut. To lie down, away from the sun. To rest. But they should not be separated.
‘From the ships I supply,’ said Bucky. ‘Sealers, whalers.’
That explained the vegetable garden, the drying skins.
‘Do what the big huff says,’ Higgins said quietly to Ben. His sunburnt face was swollen and shiny, his eyes shadowed, his body almost skeletal again. ‘We can’t do nothin’ till we’ve recovered. You just keep playin’ the gentry cove, Sneezer lad.’
Ben hesitated. But Guwara and Higgins were already heading for the larger building without protest. He stepped into the hut.
It was finished more comfortably than he’d expected from the outside. Hopper fur lined the walls, blocking off draughts; sealskin blinds were rolled up above three windows, two looking seawards and one towards the garden and hill. A table made from four poles dug into the dirt floor with rough planks on top stood in the middle of the room; rough shelves held tin mugs, pannikins, slushy lamps and piles of what looked like well-cured skins sewn to become blankets, cloaks or clothes. A wide bed with a bulging feather mattress sat at the far end of the hut, with fur rugs rolled up neatly at one end. Three narrower beds with mattresses abutted the walls at the other end.
The two women led Ben to one of them. They looked at his shoes with curiosity as he slowly took them off, then wordlessly fetched pillows — soft skins filled with feathers — and a fur rug to cover him. The fur was soft, the leather perfectly cured, the pillow was soft too, and the bed surprisingly comfortable.
The woman who had lost an ear went outside and came back with a wooden bowl and a spoon. Ben tasted the food. Stew. Meat cooked till soft with potatoes and onions, soft on his raw lips and mouth. Real food, for the first time in months. He finished it all, then another when the bowl was filled again.
His body craved rest. He knew that if he tried to get up now he wouldn’t even be able to walk back to the beach. But he was wary too.
For he had seen something red and shrivelled on the doorjamb. The woman’s ear.
Ben was back on the Mulgu, bailing, watching, the sun’s heat eating him, the planks buffeted by the waves and wind, even as he knew he was lying restless on a feather mattress. Time vanished or shivered about him. Women’s hands held water to his lips and spoonfuls of stew. He drank, he ate.
Badger’s Hill appeared, cold and green, and then became a damp cloth, washing his face. In brief moments he wondered if he had typhoid fever again, then remembered the blazing relentless sun. This illness came from that, from thirst, exhaustion and starvation.
And then he woke. He tried to sit up, but the world quivered. He blinked and it grew steadier.
‘Master Huntsmore?’ The voice was almost respectful. ‘You feelin’ better?’
Ben saw Bucky sitting at the table, cleaning a musket. Two more were propped up by his chair.
‘Yes.’ Ben managed to sit up and swung his legs off the bed. He was still dressed in the salt-encrusted clothes he had worn ever since they’d left the Golden Girl. ‘How long have I been sleeping for?’
‘Five days,’ said Bucky.
‘Five days!’
‘Gave you laudanum to make you sleep,’ said Bucky shortly. ‘That way I didn’t have to keep checkin’ on you.’
So that was why he had slept so long and soundly, and felt so odd.
‘Why would you have to check on me?’
‘Like I said, this is my island. Don’t want no strangers gettin’ their dabs on what’s mine.’ Bucky returned to cleaning his musket. ‘Your servant was worried about you. Told him I’d had Elsie and Mary shove some food down your gob and send you off to nod again.’
Mary must be the woman without an ear. He glanced at the doorjamb. The shrivelled skin was still there, not part of his fevered dreams.
‘You own the whole island?’ Ben asked. Surely the Governor wouldn’t have granted an island to a man like Bucky.
Bucky laughed, showing gaps in his long yellow teeth. ‘This island is Bucky’s kingdom, that’s what it is.’
‘I think Mr Flinders called it Kangaruh Island.’
Bucky shrugged. ‘Who cares what some flash cove called it. I took it and I’m keepin’ it.’
‘How are Higgins and Guwara . . . I mean, Billy-Boy?’
‘What does a nob like you care about coves like them?’
‘A gentleman always cares about his men,’ said Ben. It sounded priggish, but Higgins had told him to behave like a toff. And anyway, it was true. ‘Where are they, if you please, Mr Bucky?’
‘Havin’ a nice kip, that’s what they’re doin’. That man of yours ain’t feelin’ none too flash, but Elsie and Mary have been tendin’ to him. I’ve been thinkin’ he might teach them a bit o’ servantin’.’ Bucky grinned again. He put down his musket and took up another one. ‘A king should have proper servantin’, I reckon.’
‘What do you do here, sir?’
‘Whatever I like. Got the girls to hunt for me, grow the vegetables, scrape the salt for me to sell to the sealin’ crews. Mostly I just sit and watch ’em work for me, just like a proper toff.’
‘Do lots of ships come here?’
‘More every year. Best sealin’ in the world on these islands. I sells the crews meat and vegetables, sells them me skins too.’ Bucky grinned again. ‘And women. They always wants women.’
Ben tried to keep the horror from his face. ‘Women?’ he asked carefully.
‘Every few months I goes over to the mainland to get me some more. I trains ’em up a bit, then sells them to the ships.’ The matter-of-factness in his voice was more frightening than gloating.
‘What if the women don’t want to come?’
Bucky laughed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything, eh?’ He held up one of the muskets. ‘This makes me boss. Look out there.’
Ben gazed out the window. Women hoed between the vegetables, their heads down. A small barrow was loaded with potatoes and cabbages. There was no sign of Higgins or Guwara, but a boat was pulled up on the bank of the river. It was smaller than the Mulgu, but still a good size and looked sturdy.
Bucky inspected his musket more closely. ‘Got two more girls out huntin’. Told ’em to bring back ducks. I’ve had me fill of hopper meat.’
‘Do you give them muskets? Or spears?’
Ben saw that Guwara’s spears hung on the wall above the fireplace.
‘What do you think I am? A sapskull? The girls dig a pit an’ drive the hoppers into it. Sometimes them big birds too, but they’re greasy in a stew an’ too tough roasted. The girls know how to catch ducks and swans by swimmin’ under ’em — they’re good swimmers, them Indians.’ He shook his head. ‘One of ’em tried to swim for the mainland a while ago. Got halfway there afore I caught her.’
‘What happened to her?’ asked Ben without thinking.
Bucky grinned. ‘What do you think, little master? Let’s just say she won’t be swimmin’ no more. Me girls will be back soon, if they knows what’s good for ’em.’ He frowned at Ben. ‘All that guff your servant was sayin’ . . . you really got a lord in your family?’
The title had been extinguished when Mama’s brother had died, but Ben spoke the truth when he answered, ‘Yes.’
‘An’ your father’s a shipowner?’
‘He was,’ said Ben shortly.
‘An’ so everythin’ he had belongs to you now?’
Ben nodded.
Bucky smiled. ‘Then I b
etter see you’re treated right, hadn’t I?’
‘Will you sail us back to Sydney Town?’ The boat by the river was small, but looked sound enough to sail up the coast.
‘I could,’ admitted Bucky. ‘But it might not be a healthy place for me, if you catch me drift.’
Was Bucky an absconded convict? Probably worse, thought Ben. And a second offence meant whipping or, more likely, the gallows.
‘Which makes gettin’ a reward for savin’ your hide a bit difficult,’ Bucky continued. ‘But I got a plan. Now, don’t you worry none — it’ll work out pease pudding for you too. Next ship headin’ north that calls here can take you with ’em. They can pay me a reward for you — not as much as your uncle’ll give ’em, but a guinea in the hand is worth two in the bush. Safer for you on a big ship too — there can be bad storms around here.’
‘I know,’ said Ben briefly. Bucky’s plan didn’t sound like a reward but a ransom. And what would happen when the ship’s captain found there was no rich uncle waiting for Ben in Sydney Town?
‘My servant Higgins will come too, of course, and Guwara,’ he added.
‘You mean Billy-Boy?’ Bucky glanced out the window. ‘Had a bit of trouble with him, but nothin’ a touch o’ the lash didn’t cure. He’s quieted down now. Got to show them Indians who’s boss.’
‘You whipped him?’ It was impossible not to let his anger show.
‘Don’t get in a twist, lad. He’s your property, not mine, and I intends to let you keep him. You might even get a price for him from one of the ships as wants more crew, though I suppose a toff like you don’t need more lolly.’
Ben stared at him. Slavery was illegal in England now, even if it wasn’t in places like America — and on this island. For that was what the women were he realised. Slaves kept in check by this evil man and his muskets.
‘Ah, the girls is back. Roast duck for dinner, lad.’ Bucky got to his feet, stretched, picked up the muskets and strode outside.
Pirate Boy of Sydney Town Page 17