Elsie carried a big bark container of fresh water; Mary’s bark platter held oysters mixed with something green that looked like a sort of seaweed, evidently to be eaten. The other woman carried some kind of vegetable cakes. They must have found their people, Ben thought.
The women put the containers on the ground, hesitated, then moved away.
‘Please, stop!’ called Ben. He couldn’t let them go without something to mark all that they’d been through together. But he had no words, nor any gift to give them.
Except he did.
He bent down and took off his boots, then held them out.
The women didn’t move. Then slowly Mary walked forward and took the boots from him. She spoke softly for a long time, the words guttural and song-like and impossible to understand.
Except he did understand, and so did she.
Guwara had saved them all and he was gone. And all of them were free.
The next day, Ben managed to push the little boat back into the water, row past the shoreline swell and raise the sail again. He even managed to tack into the onshore wind until it changed further out to sea, becoming a westerly that carried them briskly eastward, as if he and Higgins had given orders for exactly the wind they needed.
They didn’t name the boat. The Mulgu and her fellowship was gone; and this would always be Bucky’s boat, a slaver’s boat. It might carry them to safety, but it still felt to Ben as if evil had settled into its timbers. He would be glad to see it gone.
They passed brown hills and thin gold sandy beaches, then green hills of tall trees and black cliffs. The waves looked too high for them to land easily along most of the coast, but even where there were streams or harbours that seemed free of rocks Ben sailed on. He didn’t trust his seamanship to manoeuvre the boat in strong currents or high seas, and with the good wind they should have enough food and, hopefully, enough water to reach Sydney Town without landing.
Each night he lowered the sail, and during the darkness he and Higgins took turns watching and bailing out the spray. Higgins seemed even more feeble now, but he doggedly stood his watch, even managing to hold the tiller, peering for changes in water colour, or a dash of spray that might mean hidden rocks, and as always bailing out the water as the waves slapped spray against their faces.
Islands floated by as they sailed east. Ben was so used to the rocking of waves now that it seemed it was the land that moved, not them. Early one morning he glimpsed the entrance to the big southern harbour called Twofold Bay that Mr Flinders had mapped. There was fresh water there, but Flinders’s boat had gone aground on the way in, and even though it had been easily refloated, Ben couldn’t risk a shipwreck now.
At last, one sea-misted morning, his sharp eyes saw the high hummocky rise that marked the most southern part of the mainland. Vast clouds of gulls and other sea birds rose and balanced on the sky. Ben could just see the fat shapes of seals upon the rocks.
The wind changed. Waves slapped high against the boat, sending so much spray into the craft that both he and Higgins had to bail furiously to keep her afloat. The wind gusted this way and that, and Ben frantically hauled on the sails, swinging the boom and sails across as he tacked repeatedly. At last the wind steadied to a southeasterly gale that spat ice-cold froth onto their faces. Each breath seemed more salt than air.
No sleep that night. Higgins bailed in darkness, while Ben kept up only enough sail to hold the craft steady, desperately wishing for Guwara’s knowledge and experience. Finally day crept in as a grey light over the horizon. As the sky turned blue, the wind dropped to a strong and steady southerly, carrying them north at last.
Higgins lay back under their rough shelter, exhausted, his lips blue against the shiny red of his skin. Both he and Ben were sunburnt again, even though the cooler air from the south, as well as a relative abundance of water, had made this journey far easier than crossing the Bight.
‘Here.’ Ben held out a flask of water.
Higgins gulped some down, then waved the rest away.
‘We’ve still got a few potatoes,’ Ben said, though they were slimy now. He realised the rest should probably be thrown away.
Higgins shook his head.
‘You have to eat,’ said Ben desperately. ‘I could chew some dried fish for you. Or how about the plum pudding?’ He tried to smile. ‘We’re on our way home now. It’s time to eat that pudding.’
‘All I want is sleep,’ said Higgins hoarsely. He gave a grimace that might be a grin. ‘Grand work, Sneezer. You done good.’
Ben looked at the land on their left and at the sky. It was a clear blue, with no looming clouds or sneaking mare’s tails, and he felt the cool wind at their back.
‘A couple more weeks with a good wind and we’ll be in Sydney Town,’ he said.
Higgins nodded, but didn’t answer. A few minutes later Ben heard a snore.
CHAPTER 26
Ben remembered this part of the Golden Girl’s route. If he could keep their boat the same distance from the shore, they should be safe from rocks and reefs. Even the islands they passed were close to the shore. And still the wind bore them steadily northwards, cold and gusty. Then it stopped.
The boat bobbed, her sails flapping only a little in the breeze from the land. Ben lowered them and sat back.
‘The wind should rise again tomorrow,’ he assured Higgins. As far as he remembered, it was a rare day when an afternoon southerly didn’t gust up the coast.
Higgins nodded, gazing at the blue shore where mountains twisted with what might be mist or cloud obscuring their tops. ‘Soon be home,’ he said quietly.
Ben grinned, glad to see him looking hopeful again. ‘We’ll have that tavern yet,’ he promised.
He still didn’t want a tavern himself, but Higgins needed to return to the life he was used to.
Higgins said nothing.
‘What do you think — should we buy one down by the docks or along the river?’
Higgins smiled. ‘Which would you like, Sneezer lad?’
Ben hesitated. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like a farm instead? On the Hawkesbury maybe? I know more about farming than keeping a tavern.’
‘And that girl you liked might be on that farm too?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Ben cautiously.
‘Can’t see me as a farmer,’ said Higgins.
‘You wouldn’t have to farm. You could sit in an armchair and put your feet up.’
Higgins shook his head. ‘You wouldn’t want the likes of me in your parlour, Sneezer.’
‘Yes, I would,’ said Ben softly. ‘You’ve been more of a father to me than anyone in the world. You’ll sit in our parlour and . . .’ He tried to think what else Higgins might do.
‘And be a grandpa one day?’
Ben flushed. ‘Maybe.’
Higgins chuckled. ‘Me, a grandfather. I’d like that, Sneezer. Wouldn’t care if I could call the King me uncle if I could have grandpups playin’ round my feet.’
‘You said you’d look after me,’ said Ben. ‘And you have. And now it’s my turn to look after you. We’ll stay in Sydney Town till you get better. Then I’ll ask Governor Macquarie for a land grant — I’m pretty sure he’ll give me one, even if I am a bit young. You’ll live like a gentleman, Mr Higgins.’
‘An’ the little’uns will call me Grandpa. I can just see it, Sneezer. You and me and yer wife and lots of little’uns. I’ll watch me language too. No bear-garden talk with ’em. I’d make you proud of me, Sneezer.’
‘I am proud of you,’ said Ben.
‘I know, lad. I think this might be the happiest day of me life, hearin’ you say that and knowin’ it’s true.’ Higgins looked at the blue line of the shore again. Or was he looking back to England? ‘It’s been a long way to come to find meself a son,’ he said at last. ‘But I got a good one. We’ll share everythin’, Sneezer, you an’ me.’
‘We’ll soon be at Sydney Town,’ Ben said eagerly. ‘I recognised that river back there. Another few days of sailing. An
d we’ve only used one barrel of water too.’
‘No,’ said Higgins gently. ‘No Sydney Town for me.’
‘But . . .’ Ben stopped and looked at him. How could a man be so pale under his sunburn? Higgins’s eyes were sunk in dark shadows, and every breath seemed torn from him. Ben hadn’t noticed he was so weak, perhaps because Higgins had stayed so still except when bailing and tending the tiller.
‘Is it your leg?’ he asked. ‘We’ll find a surgeon for you at Sydney Town.’
‘No, you won’t,’ said Higgins calmly. ‘I want you to promise me somethin’, Sneezer lad.’
‘Anything,’ said Ben desperately. ‘Higgins, you’re all I have!’
‘No, I ain’t. You got a future. A fine future. You can be anythin’ you want to be.’
‘With you!’
‘You promised you’d do whatever I asked. An’ so I’m askin’ this. Don’t go ashore to bury me. It’s too risky. Any place there’s safe harbour might have whalin’ ships that’ll shanghai you to be their crew, or Indians who’ve met men like Bucky and think every white man is a slaver. When I die, send me down to Davy’s deeps —’
‘No! You’re not going to die. And if you did —’
Higgins gave a chuckle. ‘What, you’d pickle me in rum to get me to Sydney Town? We don’t have rum on board, Sneezer. An’ I don’t want you riskin’ goin’ ashore neither.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ said Ben stubbornly. ‘We’ll find a place where we can land for a few days and you can get better. You can rest in the shade and I’ll hunt fresh food. Remember how much better you were after a few days on the island?’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said Higgins, lying back on his fur pillow. ‘Maybe tomorrow, Sneezer lad. We’ll talk about it then.’
At dawn the next morning, when Ben turned from adjusting the sail, Higgins was gone.
The wind had risen enough for Ben to tack back, to sail in circles, shouting, searching. But no one answered. No body floated on the waves.
Higgins must have slid overboard and let himself sink noiselessly into the sea.
Ben searched all that day, forcing his body from tiller to sail and back again, doing the work of two crew.
He kept searching, even after he knew there was no chance Higgins might be alive. He could not leave his friend’s body drifting below.
And yet he had no choice.
At last, as the wind rose in the late afternoon, he set the sail and headed north.
CHAPTER 27
The shape of the land was familiar to him from those long days when the Golden Girl had swung at anchor outside the heads, waiting for a pilot to bring her in. That was Botany Bay, and those giant cliffs guarded the narrow passage that led to Port Jackson and Sydney Town. He was here at last.
It seemed so long ago that Ben had sailed into the harbour aboard the Golden Girl. He had been so afraid of Higgins then. Yet Higgins had never lied to him, unlike Ben’s father. In his own way, Higgins was the most honest man Ben had ever met.
The boat slid through the heads. She was small enough not to need a pilot and the tide was high. Ben set course not for the wharf but one of the small beaches to the side. After the loneliness of the vast sea, it was strange to see fishing canoes and other boats, even two big ships at anchor.
He jumped out, his bare feet sinking into the mud, and pulled the boat up as high as he could. A few men working in a garden on shore looked at him curiously. Ben knew what they saw. A ragged lad, his breeches far too short for his legs, his shirt no longer able to be buttoned across his chest, barefoot, and in what they probably assumed was a fishing boat. He had nothing of value, yet he had everything he needed: his life, and the skills, loyalty and friendship given to him by two very different men from opposite ends of the world.
Ben looked at the boat. He didn’t want to see it again; whoever found it here could have it. He would take Guwara’s spears with him, as well as the knives, the axe and tinderbox. All but the spears would fit in the sack with Higgins’s plum pudding. He pulled the sack from under the seat. That wretched pudding! Had Higgins kept it as a talisman of the toff’s life he hoped for when they got back to Sydney Town?
Ben stopped, surprised at the bag’s weight. He opened it and saw something gleam in the sunlight.
Gold.
The workmen stared at him as he laughed, and kept on laughing. Higgins — dear, cunning Higgins — hadn’t just planned to save Ben’s life. He had been waiting to take Ben and the gold he’d secreted onto the Golden Girl’s pinnace during the chaos of battle.
‘I’ll take care of you,’ he’d said. ‘Me and you, Sneezer.’
Ben had no doubt that Higgins had planned to share the gold with him, and with Guwara too. He stopped laughing. Sudden tears ran cold down his sunburnt face instead. How Higgins must have loved imagining Ben’s shock when they arrived here. He’d probably planned to run the best tavern Sydney Town had ever seen, with him and Ben presiding over it. And after that, a grand farmhouse, with Higgins at the head of the table while servants served the family meal.
Ben stared at the gold again, then hurriedly shoved a hopper-skin rug on top of it, to hide it from idle glances. What would he do now?
‘You need a hand carryin’ somethin’, mister?’ an urchin asked Ben hopefully, obviously expecting a coin in return, or a few fish.
‘You can show me the way to Government House,’ said Ben, keeping hold of the sack.
He’d have to convince the Governor’s staff that the ragged young man before them was indeed the boy who had left with his father on the Golden Girl. He must report the mutiny too, and the circumstances. Governor Macquarie needed to know that the Prince of Wales was giving permission for privateers to attack enemy ships near New Holland. The Governor also needed to deal with the sealers’ slavery on Kangaruh Island. Bucky might be gone, but others could take his place. And Government House was possibly the only place in Sydney Town where so much gold would be safe.
Ben knew that gold wouldn’t buy land in this colony where the Governor controlled all transactions, but it would buy sheep, horses, tools and whatever else he needed. He would keep only the treasure from his real father, Higgins, and give the Huntsmore money away to those who needed it far more than he did, both here and back at Badger’s Hill. He did not even need the Huntsmore name now.
He hefted the sack and picked up Guwara’s spears in his other hand.
‘My name is Ben Higgins,’ he said to the urchin. ‘What’s yours?’
EPILOGUE
BADGER’S HILL, LIMESTONE PLAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES, MARCH 1838
The land was gold as the autumn grass dried on the hills, but the fields of corn were green. Ben paused in the doorway of the sprawling house on the hill, tray of plates in hand, to watch as dark-and white-skinned workers moved between the rows of corn, picking cobs and throwing them into the sacks on their shoulders. Neighbours had come to help with the harvest: Tugger with his three sons, as well as Ted Filkinghorn, Ben’s son-in-law, married to his oldest daughter, Margaret. Several of Ben’s friends back in England had accepted his invitation, years ago, to join him in the colony, to become landowners, not tenants. Even Filkinghorn had made the journey, though the old man had stayed in a cottage in Sydney, while his nephew crossed the mountains with Ben and Sally.
The dark skins belonged to Annie’s relatives, a Yuin woman who had married Ben’s second oldest, Thomas. Ben was proud of his son’s courage, and loved and admired his daughter-in-law, though he worried about the lives of his grandchildren. But here, in their close-knit community at least, they were accepted.
It was a good harvest, not just of corn but friendship too. Ben smiled and carried the plates out to the trestle tables under the plum trees. Their fruit was all picked now, and bottled or turned into jam; the jars sitting in the big stone storeroom next to the dairy, along with crocks of honey slowly dripping from the comb, sacks of apples, grapes withering into raisins in their tubs of dry sand, and ropes of onions hang
ing from the rafters. There’d be the pumpkins to pick next, along with the quinces and late pears.
This was a rich country. Every day Ben’s eyes saw more beauty in it: the shape of the ancient hills, the twists of gumtree branches, the soft-furred bears that glared down at him as they chewed their gum leaves, the native badgers charging for their holes.
He and Sally had created a hint of England here, since they’d married, crossed the Blue Mountains and settled by the river. Ben had fields marked by hawthorn hedges, like a ghost of home every time they blossomed, and an English orchard. And Sally had planted English roses and wisteria along the veranda of the long low house that had grown year by year as their family had grown too, its terrace looking down upon the river. But the roses bloomed with brighter colours under a sky more vivid blue than any seen in England; and beyond the hedges, the sheep grazed in unfenced pasture, tended by shepherds who had once been thieves.
‘Time to light the fires,’ said Sally, carrying a vast platter of hearth cakes to the tables. Her younger children trailed behind her, Gwyneth, Anne and young Matthew bringing flagons of sarsaparilla tea to refresh those picking the corn.
Tonight the harvesters would feast on boiled maize with butter; mutton roasted on the spit; hearth cakes and apple pies and boiled puddings rich with dried fruit, the kind that Higgins had loved so much. Every ingredient had been grown on Badger’s Hill — this new Badger’s Hill, oceans away from the one where Ben was born.
But this one held his heart now. His home, his land, his friends, his family.
This was his gold now.
AUTHOR’S NOTES
This novel is entirely fiction. It is, however, based on true events. The piratical/privateer venture of the Golden Girl might not have been possible without a combination of circumstances: England was at war with France; Holland had been taken by Napoleon in 1795, and Napoleon put his younger brother, Louis Napoleon, on the throne of the Netherlands in 1806; and King George III had been declared insane, thus giving his son, the corrupt and corpulent Prince of Wales, the ability to grant privateering licences (letters of marque) to his friends and gambling cronies, like Mr Huntsmore in this book. These letters of marque permitted English merchant ships to attack French ships or those from any other country that Napoleon had conquered.
Pirate Boy of Sydney Town Page 19