He waited for the dutiful merriment to subside and went on, “But as you might remark it, we have advanced a trifle since then. We are all but self-sufficient in basic foodstuffs and I have my hopes for a form of staple that may be exported. Coal, sir. We have made substantial finds on the banks of the Hunter River, and by this we may at last be able to expect a net inflow of specie and thus pay for our imports. And put a stop to this barbarous practice of payments in rum.”
The obvious sincerity in his enthusiasm for the enterprise touched Kydd. “Sir, th’ fine stone buildings I see on every hand are a great credit t’ your colony. Y’ have faith in its future, an’ I hope t’ make my return one day to see it.”
“Thank you, Mr Kydd. I have my faith also—but it shall be so only because the inhabitants themselves will it so. Sir, to be frank, there are those who would see a land with two peoples, the free settlers and the emancipated. They see the one in permanent subjugation to the other. I am not of that kind. I believe that if a convict is offered hope and rehabilitation and accepts, then he is redeemed and may take his place in our society. I will not have it that there are two races apart in the same land.”
“Hear, hear!” A strong-featured man further down the table raised his glass to the governor. Others murmured approbation.
“I dream that this settlement shall mightily increase, shall prosper by the labours and blood of both bound and free and, with our staple now secured and a mighty port at our feet, within a lifetime we shall be a great and wonderous people upon the land.”
A burst of applause broke out. Kydd watched the faces: hard, sun-touched and lean. Some of these were probably the “emancipated” of whom King had spoken, and each had a sturdy, unaffected air of resolution that made the governor’s dream seem so very possible.
“Do tip us the poem of Sydney Cove, Jonathan, if you will,” King directed at the strong-featured man. Then he turned to Kydd and said, “Penned by Erasmus Darwin at our establishing and only now proving true—except for the bit about the fantastical bridge across the harbour, that is.”
There, rayed from cities o’er the cultured land,
Shall bright canals and solid roads expand.
There the proud arch, Colossus-like, bestride
Yon glittering streams, and bound the chafing tide;
Embellished villas crown the landscape scene
Farms wave with gold, and orchards blush between.
It was met with proud cries and hearty table thumps. A realisation dawned on Kydd: beyond the tawdry and makeshift of the raw settlement, beyond the flogging triangles and penal apparatus, there were those who were going to bring a new country to life by their own efforts and vision.
For the first time he understood what was impelling Renzi. What he had seen was beyond the dross of the everyday. He had known that New South Wales had a future, a splendid future, and the country would owe it to Renzi and his kind. Such sacrifice— and so typical of his high-born friend.
His eyes stung as he wondered where Renzi was at that moment.
CHAPTER 14
THE BAD BLOOD between the convicts and the new men was getting worse. Willis, whom Renzi had hired to act as wrangler, was big and swaggering, with a foul mouth. The other was a laconic Portuguese seaman who, for some reason, had put himself out for hire as a farm labourer. Probably it was the money, Renzi mused wryly—it was costing four shillings a day for him and five for Willis, a shocking sum compared to rates in England but it was the only way he could see to get the work done.
Still, they were making progress of a kind. The land to the north had been cleared and hoed a good half-way back. Renzi had watched as the men sowed the seed, scattering the corn grains with wide, sweeping gestures just as he had seen done on the ancient fields of Wiltshire. It was the obvious crop: whatever else, the colony would always need bread.
That had been over a month ago, and now to his intense delight tiny needles of green were emerging. He threw himself into the work with renewed energy: half of the land for corn, half for root vegetables—out of consideration for his neighbour, not turnips.
He laboured on, happy in the knowledge that while he worked his crop was steadily growing, maturing. In effect, this was his future wealth buried until he saw fit to draw upon his account. The metaphor pleased him and he went back to his hut for a mattock to help the others with the clearing.
Angry shouts and barking carried up from the working party. It would be Willis, setting off Tranter again. Flannery would then cleverly needle the big man and the cycle would go on and on. Renzi stumped back down to the group, who continued squabbling as if he was not there.
The dog’s witless barking made him see red: he had been forced to buy the cur when their attempts to fence in the growing shoots against the nightly raids of hungry kangaroos had failed—the animals had simply bounded over the barrier. Now if he wanted to preserve anything of his precious green shoots he had to put up with the dog’s din during the night.
“Shut your cursed noise!” he bawled at the men.
“It’s Flannery agen,” spat Willis, rolling up his sleeves theatrically. “He don’t do as he’s bin told!”
Flannery threw down his hoe in front of Willis. “Orl right, me ol’ bully-cock, what’s it t’ be then?”
Renzi ground his teeth. “If I see you two rogues brawling once more I’ll—I’ll . . .” But what was there to do? He calmed himself. “Now, Flannery, you and Tranter go—”
“Ye’re bein’ robbed,” Flannery interjected, his eyes fixed on Willis.
“What do you mean?” Renzi asked uneasily.
“Willis ’n’ the dago, they’re takin’ y’r silver.”
“Explain!”
Flannery’s cynical smile had the chill of truth about it and Renzi braced himself. “They knows that ain’t corn!” He kicked at the painfully weeded dirt, then yanked out a green tuft. “See? It’s some kinda grass, is all! You’ve been gulled. They knew it weren’t corn all along, jus’ played along t’ take y’r coin!”
Renzi took the straggly tussock; he had no real idea what sprouting corn looked like. “And you knew of this?” he challenged Flannery, as he let it drop to the ground.
“You’re th’ chief, roight enough, Mr Renzi. We does what ye say, an’ wi’ no opinions,” the man said.
Straightening, Renzi stared at the untidy acres of thin green. He had been living in a fool’s paradise but what should he do now? He had to think.
His first reaction of hot anger was overcome with a sharp dose of cold logic. In this situation the obvious course was to bring the malefactors to justice. But would this not expose him to scorn and laughter in the colony where he was seeking acceptance and advance in society?
He got rid of the two hired men but retained the convicts— they were not costing him anything except the inevitable rum. However, his means were being eroded at a startling rate; it was time to take stock. The one thing that he would never contemplate was tamely submitting to fate and quitting. He was still master of his land, he had living quarters, wide acres of cultivated land and, for what it was worth, the two convicts. He would find more corn, and seed it himself, then see this difficult time through to a successful conclusion.
And had it not been the doughty sea hero Sir Francis Drake who had said, so long ago, “There must be a beginning of any great matter but it is the continuing of the same to the end until it be thoroughly finished that yieldeth the true glory”?
Renzi took heart at the strong words and sat down to plan. The first thing was to secure the corn. This was only obtainable in Sydney Town so there was no alternative but to make the journey.
For several months now he had not seen any fellow human being beyond his rough-mouthed workers and the plebeian couple on the next selection, and he found himself looking forward to the trip. He would dress decently, his chest of gentlemanly wear unopened since arrival, and there was a growing list of articles to buy that were trifling in themselves but which would go far i
n easing life on his farm estate.
The Parramatta coach jolted and ground grittily to a stop and Renzi descended thankfully. Stretching after the journey, he surveyed the scene. Merely seeing other people in the road buoyed his spirits and the feel of the fine clothes next to his skin was sensual and uplifting. He strode off down the road.
Renzi slowed his pace as he came to the bridge over the stream: he had been told that there were shopping establishments along the foreshore and he reviewed the list in his mind. Besides the corn, only one thing could be considered necessary—indeed, vi-tal—but he had no idea where he might go for it.
Ahead, he saw a gentlewoman, a handsome female followed by a maid. She glanced his way, her strong features appraising. Renzi lifted his hat and swept down in a bow. “Dear madam, I would be infinitely obliged should you assist me in one particular dear to my heart. Do you know of a library at all, a subscription library, perhaps, for the gentlefolk of this town?”
She paused, her glance flashing to his elegant morning coat that had left a London tailor’s not nine months before. “A library? I fear there is no such in New South Wales. The people are generally of quite another sort.” Looking at him directly, she said, “Sir, you must be a stranger to these parts, but I do confess, I cannot recollect the news of the arrival of someone of quality . . .”
Renzi smiled and bowed again. “Madame, Mr Nicholas Renzi of—of Wiltshire.”
Offering her gloved hand the lady responded, “And I, sir, am Mrs Elizabeth MacArthur. My husband is of the military and we have interests on the land. Pray walk with me for a space, sir, we seldom see interesting strangers. The sun is so obliging today, don’t you think?”
“By all means, Mrs MacArthur,” Renzi replied with feeling. The last time he had held intelligent converse seemed an impossible age ago.
“A strange and beautiful land, Mr Renzi. And so distant from all else in this world. Would it be so impertinent of me to enquire what brought you all this way?”
Renzi hesitated. “I believe I am to establish an estate, of an agrarian nature of some size.”
There was an immediate guardedness in her manner as she shot him a keen look. “Oh, then I find I must pray for your success, Mr Renzi. I do hope you are not constrained in the matter of capital,” she continued carefully, watching him. “This is such an odious country at times.”
“That is of no matter,” Renzi said airily. “It is only by unremitting diligence in agricultural husbandry of the first order that will bring forth the fruit of the soil, as the celebrated Coke of Holkham does so truly inform us,” he added.
“Oh,” Mrs MacArthur said faintly, as they moved on. “Tell me, Mr Renzi, how do you mean to conduct the affairs of your estate? There are so few skilled stewards of the land to be had at this remove. Will your holdings be . . . extensive, do you think?” she added lightly.
“Not at the first, I shouldn’t imagine.”
“Um, a substantial portion, perhaps . . . ten thousand acres?”
“Oh, not quite as much to begin with, I believe,” he answered uncomfortably.
“Then?”
“Perhaps—a hundred acres or so,” he said lamely.
“A hundred! Mr Renzi, what will you do with a hundred acres?”
“I’m seeding corn at the moment, and I thought later swedes or wurzels would answer.”
“S-swedes and . . .” She stopped and stared at him in amazement. “I thought—dear Mr Renzi, forgive me. Do I understand that you have come all the way from England for a hundred acres of . . . ?” Her look softened and she touched his arm. “I can only admire your faith in our country—but the land here is harsh and barren, the vegetation strange and noxious, the soil thin and parched and the seasons quite topsy-turvy. Men have tried to grow your corn and with so little success, and—and I fear your swedes will not find so ready a market.”
They walked on in a taut silence until she resumed sadly, “One day this will be a fine land—but not for an age. It will be tamed by men of vision such as yourself, but not in grain or any other cropping. Our future will not be in whaling, trading or even coal. We need a commodity that can be shipped for long months without decay, that is difficult for the world to produce. In short we must have sheep, Mr Renzi. Merino sheep with the finest wool there is, but which demands so much open range. That will be our future.”
Slowly Renzi stripped off his finery and laid it in the chest, fighting the depression that had clamped down on him. He pulled on the threadbare workaday jacket and trousers, their stink of sweat almost unbearable. The canvas roof of the hut was now mildewed and in places hung in rotten strips; his treasured books were starting to fox and fade.
He went outside to speak to the convicts. At least within the hut was stored three bags of good seed-corn and he would have it in the ground as soon as he could get the lazy swabs to stir themselves.
Tranter was hacking morosely at the earth with his hoe while Flannery, in neat, economical and perfectly useless movements, tickled it. Renzi snapped at the pair with foul sea oaths and was rewarded with dull smiles and a marginal increase in energy.
Damn it, but he was going to win or die for Cecilia. For her sake he would see past the present setbacks, dreariness and hard labour into the time to come when his achievement was secure and he could proudly lay before her—
“Wha–?” There was a tremor of fear in Flannery’s voice as he pointed down to the edge of the land. Renzi followed his direction. An Aborigine had suddenly appeared noiselessly out of the trees, and now stood still as a statue, watching them.
This was not one of the tame black men who hung about the town in rags but a quite different species. Naked, he was daubed with white clay in patterns and adorned with animal’s teeth and a bone through his nose. He clutched a barbed spear near twice as long as himself.
“What’s he want?” Tranter asked loudly, nervously lifting his hoe.
Two more Aborigines appeared silently and stood behind the first. “They’s coming f’r us!” yelled Flannery. “I’m away, begob!” He dropped his hoe and ran back down the track. Tranter scrambled after him, leaving Renzi to face them alone.
The first Aborigine lifted his spear and shook it, uttering hoarse cries. The others joined in, noisy and menacing, stamping on the ground. Then they dropped to a crouch and began to advance over the clearing in short zig-zag dashes.
Renzi hurried to the hut and rummaged frantically until he found his cheap musket. They were closing with no doubt of their intentions: one threw his spear and it whistled past Renzi’s ear, piercing the side of the hut. He raised the gun in an exaggerated flourish but they came on undeterred.
Renzi tried to think. The musket was supposedly loaded but the priming might have been damped by the rain. And even if it was ready with a live charge what should he do? Fire off his only shot to try to frighten them—or shoot into their bodies?
The first Aborigine was now yards away and snarling with the effort of bringing back his spear for a throw. Renzi took aim and fired. The heavy ball flung the man backwards; he flopped several times on the ground, mewling, then lay still. The others vanished as noiselessly as they had come.
Renzi hesitated, but only for a second: it was probable that they would be back. There was no time to be lost. Taking only his musket he ran down the track to the Caley cottage and explained breathlessly what had happened. A makeshift defence was mounted and they waited for an attack.
The hours passed and eventually Caley looked at Renzi and said pointedly, “Don’t hang about after a spearin’, usually.”
“I’ll go back,” Renzi replied. “If they’re still about I’ll fire a shot.”
He tramped along the track to his property—and stopped rigid at the sight that met him. Where the hut had stood was now a ruin. His possessions were strewn about, the chest robbed of the clothing and, most heartbreaking of all, his books were torn and scattered in every direction.
Trembling with emotion, he tried to take in the pit
iful scene. A lump in his throat grew until it threatened to choke him.
CHAPTER 15
“SO KIND OF YOU TO COME at this notice, Mr Kydd,” Governor King said importantly. “Do sit—I have a matter of some gravity to discuss with you, touching as it does on the security of our colony.”
Kydd was mystified. There had been wild rumours about the French, at the moment lying peacefully across the harbour and about to sail soon, but this would scarcely concern him.
“Do I understand it to be the case that you will be returning to England shortly?” King asked.
“Aye, sir—just one or two matters still in hand that should not delay me long.”
“Then we can count ourselves fortunate, Mr Kydd, for there is a service of some urgency that you, sir, are uniquely suited to perform for us.” King steepled his fingers and held Kydd’s eyes. “The French and we are now at peace. Yet this does not mean there is no danger to be apprehended from that quarter—they are in need of an overseas empire for their trade concerns, and are active in that object.
“And now, sir, that which I expressly warned their lordships about is come to pass. Colonel Paterson informs me that he overheard Commodore Baudin’s officers speaking in warm terms over dinner of their intention to effect a plantation of their people in the island of Van Diemen’s Land, 500 miles to our south, now it is proven to be a separate land mass from New Holland.” He paused. “I need not trouble to detail to an officer of the Royal Navy the severe strategical consequences of the French maintaining a species of fortress there!”
Kydd nodded gravely. Van Diemen’s Land had no settlements of any kind by any nation, and therefore stood as an empty wilderness awaiting the first to claim it. To lose the territory would be a catastrophic blow and its consequences could not be greater for this distant outpost of England. “Sir, does not th’ government know of this as a possibility?”
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