Command

by Julian Stockwin

  “My name is Renzi, and I am to be your master.” There was little reaction and he was uncomfortably aware that they were staring glassily over his shoulder with heavy patience. “Should you perform your tasks to satisfaction there is nothing to fear from me.”

  Flannery swivelled his gaze to him and raised his eyebrows. “An’ nothin’ to fear from us, sorr!” he said slowly, in an Irish brogue.

  “Very well. We shall be started. This very day we shall be on our way to break the earth near Marayong for a new farming estate.”

  “This is t’ be yourn, sorr?” Flannery asked innocently.

  He nodded proudly.

  “Ah, well, then, Mr Rancid, we’ll break our backs f’r ye, so we will.”

  With his convicts aboard in the back of the cart, Renzi whipped the horse into motion and swung it in the direction of his land. Neither the sniggering of bystanders nor the childish waving of his convicts at them was going to affect his enjoyment of the moment.

  As the miles passed and they neared their destination Renzi allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably. Perhaps it was time now to bestow a name on the estate: in this new land so completely free of historical encumbrances he was able to choose anything he liked—Arcadia intra Australis suggested itself, or possibly something with a more subtle classical ring that would impress by its depths and cunning allusion to a hero in an Elysium of his own creation.

  Surprised, he saw they had arrived at the board on the tree. “Er, here is, er, my land,” he said.

  The two convicts dropped to the ground. “Thank ’ee kindly, sorr,” Flannery said, with an exaggerated tug on his forelock and a sly smile at Tranter.

  “Do we unload, Mr Rancy?” Tranter asked, his eye roving disapprovingly over the virgin bush. He was older, his large frame now largely desiccated but for a respectable grog belly.

  “Of course we—” snapped Renzi, then stopped. At the very least the undergrowth had to be cleared first. The tools were all in the ox-wagon, which had set out well before them but they had not passed it on the way. “No—not yet,” he muttered, and tried to think.

  The two grunted and stood back, arms folded, eyes to a glassy stare again.

  “We wait for the wagon—it should be here soon,” he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.

  A flurry of subdued pattering on leaves began, then dripped and took strength from the cold southerly that now blustered about, soaking the ground and their clothes.

  “What now?” said Flannery, in a surly tone.

  Renzi could think of no easy answer. In the ox-wagon there were tents and tarpaulins; here there were books by the caseload and attire suitable for a gentleman of the land. How long would that pox-ridden wagon take to heave itself into sight?

  “I know whut I’m a-goin’ to do,” said Flannery. “Hafter you, Mr Tranter.”

  “No, Mr Flannery, ’pon m’ honour! After y’self.” Then the two dived as one to the only dry spot for miles—underneath the cart, which was still yoked to its patient, dripping horse.

  Obstinately Renzi held out for as long as he could, until the heavy wet cold reached his skin. Then he crawled under with the two convicts, avoiding their eyes.

  “Mr Flannery?” grunted Tranter. “Yez knows what Marayong is famous fer?”

  “What’s that, then, Mr Tranter?”

  “Why, snakes, o’ course! This weather they firkles about, lookin’ for the heat o’ bodies t’ ease the cold. Shouldn’t wonder if’n there’s some roun’ here,” he said, looking about doubtfully.

  “Have a care, then, Mr Tranter—they’s deathly in New South Wales, one nip an’ it’s all over wi’ ye!”

  Renzi ground his teeth—nothing could be done until the ox-wagon came up and the delay would cost him another day’s extortionate hire of the cart and horse. At least, he thought wryly, he had the last word: if he was to lay a complaint of conduct against the convicts they would be incarcerated in cells instead of having the relative freedom of the outside world.

  Later the next morning, with the wagon arrived and the tents finally pitched, tarpaulins over his stores, Renzi felt better. In fact, much better: he had Flannery and Tranter down range hacking trees to form an initial clearing with instructions to preserve the boles for use in constructing living-huts. It was time to step out his floor plan. It was to be a modest three rooms, with perhaps out-houses later—the details could wait.

  With a light heart he went to see how the two labourers were progressing. “What are you fellows up to?” he demanded, seeing one lying at his ease on his back chewing a twig and the other picking morosely at the ground. “You can see how much work we have to do.”

  “Aye, don’t we have a lot o’ work indeed?” Flannery said. “An’ all with this’n.” He held out his mattock. The flat part was a curl of bright steel where it had bent hopelessly.

  Renzi took it: cheap, gimcrack metal. Either the government stores had been cheated or he had. He rounded on the other. “On your feet, sir! If your duties are not to your liking you may certainly take it up with Superintendent Beasley.”

  Tranter did not stir. “I’m wore out,” he said sullenly, flicking away his twig.

  Renzi held his temper. “Get a fire going, then, if you please. You shall be mess skinker for tonight, and we both desire you will have something hot for us at sundown.” Irritably, he brushed away the flies that followed him without rest.

  It was hard, disheartening work, felling the gums and manhandling the trunks up the slope to Renzi’s clearing. By sundown there was nothing but a derisory pile of thin logs and a large, untidy heap of brushwood scraps. But a fire spread an acrid smoke that deterred the flies and in the gathering blue dusk Renzi pulled out his collapsible card table with a chair and collapsed wearily.

  It seemed churlish to sit while others must stand, so he found other “chairs” and the three laid out their meal—flour and water pancakes with boiled pulses. “Lillie-pie an’ pease,” Tranter grunted defensively. Renzi thought longingly of his precious few bottles of Old World claret hidden away—this was the most special of occasions but to sacrifice . . . Later, perhaps, he decided, and helped himself to another scoop of half-cooked pottage.

  That night in his tent, distracted by the wavering drone of a mosquito seeking his flesh and the menace in the unknown scuffles and squeals in the dark bush outside, Renzi nevertheless felt exalted by the experience of finally setting foot in his future. But, he wondered apprehensively, what would the next day bring?

  An hour or so after midnight, as he lay sleepless, it started to rain again.

  It took a week just to clear the lower part of his land. Renzi had decided, with a little advice from Mr Coke, to turn this over to grain as being the more apposite to the soil type as best as he could recognise it.

  The hardest had been the grubbing up of tree-stumps, which fought back with a fiendish tenacity; every single one cost sweat and labour out of all proportion to the tiny area of bare ground won. Aching in every bone, Renzi slaved on, day by back-breaking day.

  His hut was finally built, with not three rooms but one—purely for convenience of time, of course, but even so it could be accounted home. The sides were chinked with mud and the roof of interleaved saplings was spread with the canvas of the tents as a temporary measure. An experiment with a fire at the centre was a disaster: the hut filled immediately with billowing smoke. The related domestics, therefore, would be placed firmly outside.

  Against all the odds a landmark was reached. Renzi had not only constructed his first residence but was now ready to begin crop production. Eagerly he checked Coke again. First he had to plough: he intended to borrow an implement for the first year. Then it would be hoeing or harrowing—or did that come after seeding?

  With rising excitement Renzi reviewed his dispositions: the convicts would continue to advance the clearing up to the land boundary ready for whatever crop he decided should be there. So, meanwhile—first things first: a plough.

  His nea
rest neighbour would be somewhere over to the east. He tidied himself up and, taking his pocket compass, set out from the known position of the board on the tree. There were no tracks but a confusing jumble of simple paths led through the grassy undergrowth. He tried to follow them—but merely flushed out a couple of kangaroos who made off rapidly.

  Striking out by compass was the only reliable method and he set course for the north-east corner of the block. Over a slight rise he could see thin smoke spiralling above the trees. He hurried towards it and a small hut came into view, with a woman in a coarse dress working at a vegetable garden.

  She looked up in dismay and ran inside. A man emerged, cradling a musket. “Stan’ y’r ground, y’ villain!” he roared.

  “Renzi, Nicholas Renzi, and it would appear we are to be neighbours,” he called, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone.

  “Come near, then, an’ let’s see summat of yer,” the man said, still fingering his gun.

  Some little time later Renzi was sitting at a rough table with a mug of tea. “Don’t see nobody one end o’ the month to t’other,” the man said, after admitting to the name of Caley. “So, yer’ve got the north selection,” he ruminated, rubbing his chin.

  Renzi took in the hut; it was well lived-in but Spartan, of wattle daubed with clay and finished with a thin white limewash. The floors consisted of bare, hard-packed earth. There were only two rooms, the other patently a bedroom. “That’s right, Mr Caley. It is my avowed intention to establish a farming estate in these parts and reside here myself.”

  Caley looked archly at his wife. Both were deeply touched by the sun, but she had aged beyond her years. “Ye’d be better throwing y’r money into th’ sea—gets rid of it quicker,” she said bitterly.

  “Now, now, Ethel darlin’, don’t take on so.” He turned to Renzi and explained: “We bin here three year come Michaelmas, an’ things ain’t improvin’ for us. A hard life, Mr Renzi.”

  “What do you grow?”

  “Thought t’ be in turnips—everyone needs ’em if they has horses. But look.” He gestured down the cleared space in front of the hut. The rows were populated only by sorry-looking stringy plants. “Supposed t’ lift ’em in February, but no chance o’ that with ’em lookin’ so mean, like.”

  Should he offer his extensive library on horticulture and agricultural husbandry? Renzi pondered. Coke of Holkham would be sure to have a sturdy view on turnip production. Sensing that possibly they might not welcome advice from a newcomer, he changed tack. “I must say, your convict is not the most obliging of creatures. I’ve seen labourers on my—er, that is to say, some estates in England, who would quite put them to the blush in the article of diligence.”

  Mrs Caley snorted. “As you must expect! These’re felons an’ criminals, Mr Renzi, an’ has no love f’r society. They’re wastrels an’ condemned by their nature, sir.” She smoothed her hair primly. “Not a’tall like we free settlers, who try t’ make something of the land.”

  Caley smiled sadly. “That’s why we got rid o’ ourn—cost thirty shillin’ a month in rum afore they’d pick up a hoe.”

  “Sir, I’d be considerably obliged should you lend me your plough. If any hire is required I would be glad to—”

  “Mr Renzi.” Caley drew in his breath and let it out slowly. “We don’t have ploughs. We uses only th’ harrow an’ a deal o’ sweat,” he said emphatically.

  Renzi hastened to make his little hut before dark. Unseen animals scuttled away at his approach and a sudden clatter in the trees above startled him. When he reached the clearing, he saw that the convicts had allowed the fire in front of the hut to die to embers, and he cast about in the gloom for leaves and kindling, annoyed that they had neglected such an obvious duty before supper. The fire caught sullenly, with much dank smoke and spitting.

  In the gathering dark he trudged down to their tent but as he approached, tripping on jagged stumps and loose branches, he heard loud snoring. He did not have the heart to wake them: clearly they had turned in early, weary after their day. He made his way back to the hut to scrape together some kind of repast.

  Throwing aside the canvas entrance flap he went inside. By the fitful glare of the flames he could see that one neat stack of his possessions had been put to disorder. With a sinking heart he knew what he would find. He was right—every one of his precious half-dozen claret was gone.

  CHAPTER 13

  KYDD WATCHED RENZI DEPART Totnes Castle, then turned back to his ship. The last convicts filed down the gangway to the wharf and away to their final fate. The shouts of overseers and the clinking of fetters faded into the distance, and Kydd was glad. He had done his best: they were unquestionably in better shape than when they had been disgorged by their gaols in England, but their presence had made him feel tainted by the reek of penalty and hopeless misery.

  He looked out over Sydney Cove. A thief-colony, there was no escape from its origins. On the muddy foreshore was a whipping post and beyond the point was Pinchgut Island, a hundred yards or so long with a gibbet in view at one end, the white of a skeleton visible through flapping rags.

  Ironically, the ship now seemed empty and depressing without her human cargo; the stores had been landed and the officers’ ventures spirited away. Now there was little for him to do but complete the paperwork that would mark a successful conclusion to the voyage.

  With what crew were still sober tomorrow, the Totnes Castle would be warped out to lie at anchor. She would remain there until the little shipyard on the west side of the cove could take her in hand to remedy the hundred and one defects that needed attention before her return to England. With only a small number of skilled shipwrights and caulkers, and other vessels ahead of Kydd’s, a time of weeks was being talked of. It was a depressing prospect.

  It had wounded Kydd to see Renzi step over the side to his destiny without so much as a backward glance: they had shared so much. He wondered how his friend was relishing his new life wherever he was in the interior of this strange land. But this was what Renzi had chosen as a course in life, and Kydd would respect it.

  After the long voyage, however, he was curious to experience the untrammelled space and new sights of land. In any case, when the Castle was careened across the harbour she would be uninhabitable: sooner or later he would have to find quarters ashore.

  There was a bridge over the little rivulet at the head of the cove that led into the settlement proper. He stepped out along the wide street past the ship’s chandlers and warehouses, standing back to allow the passage of two carts pulled by yoked convicts, thin and sunburned, their heads down.

  Only one road of significance was evident, leading inland along the banks of the watercourse: in one direction the rocky foreshore of the western side, with its crazy jumble of hovels, more substantial structures and shipyards; in the other, a scatter of cottages, stone buildings, and in the distance over the low hills, a puzzling mass of regularly spaced dwellings.

  Turning up the slope towards them he lost his footing and stumbled; reddish mud-holes were everywhere. Strangely haunting birdsong came from outlandish trees, and here and there a garden with alien plants caught his eye.

  Closer, the dwellings turned out to be a convict barracks, complete with flogging triangle and chapel. Beyond, there were empty fields and the ever-present dark-green woodlands. It was time to return—Sydney had little to offer the weary traveller.

  Trudging back, Kydd passed a neat cottage. His mind was bleak with depressing images and at first he thought he had misheard the greeting. Then a low voice behind him called again, this time more confidently: “Tom Kydd!”

  He swung round to find a young man staring at him from the paling fence of the house. “Sir, ye have the advantage of me,” Kydd said, trying to place him.

  “It has been some years,” admitted the man, with a secret smile. There was something familiar about him; the intensity of his gaze, the slight forward lean as he spoke. “William Redfern,” he said at last, but it did not
bring enlightenment. “A convict I am, on ticket-of-leave,” he went on, then added, with a quizzical uplift of his eyebrows, “and for the nonce, sir, assistant surgeon at His Majesty’s Penal Settlement of Norfolk Island.”

  Kydd looked intently at him. The man continued softly, “And, Tom, your shipmate as was in Sandwich . . .”

  It all came crashing back—the ferocious days of the mutiny at the Nore when Kydd had stood by his shipmates through a whirlpool of terrible events but, for reasons he still did not fully understand, he had escaped the rope at the last minute.

  “You were surgeon of . . .” He found it difficult to go on. Until now he had believed that the sentence of death on the idealistic young Redfern had been carried out—yet here he was. “Aye, I never thought t’ see ye again, William,” he said slowly. Ticketof-leave implied that, while trusted, Redfern was still a convict under sentence—he must have been spared the noose and instead transported to serve out the remainder of his time. Kydd had gone on to quite a different life.

  “And do I see you still topping it the sailor?” Redfern said lightly.

  Not sure how to respond, Kydd muttered a few words of agreement.

  “Do come inside, old fellow,” Redfern suggested. “I’m sure we’ll have a yarn or two to spin.”

  They entered the homely dwelling and Redfern found a comfortable chair for Kydd near the window. He excused himself, then returned with a bottle of rum. “I do sincerely welcome the chance to raise a glass to an old shipmate!” He grinned broadly. “And drink as well to the luck that sees us both here instead of dancing at a yardarm!”

  Kydd found it hard to treat these baneful ghosts from his past lightly but managed a smile.

  Redfern then asked, “How did you . . . ?”