The survivor’s mouth flew open in outrage, but after glancing at both stony faces he bit back his retort. Instead, he pushed himself into a corner for the trip to shore and sulked.
BLANEY
Blaney counted the men again, but the answer was still the same. Forty-nine, including himself. Almost a hundred crewmen were dead or missing.
He woke after dozing for an hour amid the trees and bushes to find the first rays of the sun filtering through the branches. Most of the men were also awake, gazing silently across the harbour. The indistinct lantern-lit towers of the night became giant glass and stone monoliths, jumbled together untidily like headstones in a graveyard. This is not a dream, Blaney told himself, but I pray to God it were.
The climb up the rocks in the early hours had not proved too difficult, though carting the semi-conscious Captain to the top resulted in bruises and scrapes for half the men and prompted some of the richest language Blaney ever heard. He cursed just as roundly when he received a painful scratch from wrist to elbow.
The summit of the hill had been cleared and a path ran from the point to their right to the built-up streets beyond the trees. Blaney decided they should rest, giving him time to think. It appeared Cross would not be of too much help for a while, so the responsibility for their safety rested squarely, though comfortably, on Blaney’s shoulders. But what to do...
“Mr Blaney!”
Blaney was relieved the Captain was awake and talking. He sat next to Henry Kite, who was taken by surprise when he spoke. Cross had a wild, abandoned look about him, completely at odds with his normally sober disposition. Perhaps he has gone mad, Blaney wondered. But then he realised he himself could hardly have looked any better.
“Have you made plans for us to locate the Governor?” asked Cross conversationally.
Blaney was unsure how to answer the question. Clearly he would have to tread carefully with a man who did not appear to notice anything was amiss. “I was about to discuss the matter with Mr Kite, sir.”
“Very well. Advise me of your recommendation.”
Blaney walked a little way from the group, out of hearing, and waited for Kite to join him. They looked back before speaking. Cross was on his feet, unsteadily walking among the men. In his mind he must think he is reassuring them, thought Blaney. But the expressions on the faces of the crew told of the opposite effect.
“Damn it, Henry! What is wrong with him?”
Kite shrugged. “I fear he was under the water for too long. It may have addled his brain. He’s been babbling about sending marines out to catch Redmond.” Kite shook his head. “Do you think any of the convicts survived?”
“I have little doubt some did,” said Blaney. “The southern shore was closer than this one and any swimmers among them would have had little difficulty.” He gazed to where the Marlin perished after she drifted further up the harbour. Dozens of vessels swarmed the waters, shuttling debris and bodies to the wharves across the water, where the great, grey ships were moored. What on earth were they?
“I’m sorry, Henry. What was that?” Blaney had not taken in what Kite said.
“I said, do you believe this is the colony?”
Without knowing why, Blaney knew it was. They could be nowhere else, though he did not want to reveal his incredible thoughts yet, because they would sound insane. “I don’t know,” he lied.
Kite laughed nervously. “It’s damned impressive!”
Blaney agreed. The view dazzled him. Then, an idea formed. “Didn’t we have a couple of men aboard who sailed out with Phillip?” Captain Phillip had established the colony in 1788 and was Governor until only a few months ago. A few months ago in theory, anyway, mused Blaney.
“Yes, of course!” cried Kite. “Flint and…damnation! What’s the other called?” He turned to look at the men, who stared back at the two officers who would decide their fate. “Morris!” exclaimed Kite. “That’s the fellow!”
Blaney waited while Kite went down to fetch them. He only returned with one, however.
Blaney recognised the man immediately. Godfrey Morris was a thin man in his early forties who, regardless of where on the vessel he was working, whether amidships or way up in the crow’s nest, was always first in line for his rum ration. He stood before the two men eagerly, his clothes stained with the rusty red of another man’s blood.
“Well, Morris,” began Blaney, “what say you? Is this New South Wales?”
The crewman turned back to his shipmates before answering, making sure they witnessed his elevated importance. “Bin askin’ meself the very same thing, sirs,” he said at considerable length.
“And...” prompted Kite impatiently.
“Aye, well, if I does this...” – Morris shaded his eyes, – “an’ block out them buildins, the ’arbour has the uncanny look about it as to when I did come to New South Wales, sirs. So it does.” He was becoming more confident as he talked.
“Shape o’ the land’s the same, sirs, an’ see that fort there...” – he pointed to a tiny, fortified island in mid-channel – “that were no more’n a rock in the water. Cap’n Phillip sent some thievin’ prisoners there to be chained up. Days, he kept ’em there. No food nor drink. Nothin’.” Morris chuckled to himself. “I remembers rowin’ two of ’em back to Camp Cove meself an’ telling the guard they should calls the place pinchgut, on account of the pris’ners’ bony stomachs!” He took a deep breath to continue, but Blaney cut him short.
“Thank you Morris. Most helpful. But what of the Governor’s residence. Where was it situated.”
Morris stroked his stubbly chin and searched the shore seriously, running his tongue over his rum-deprived lips.
“When I left, sirs,” he said, still scanning the southern side of the harbour, “I thinks they was buildin’ ’im a house o’er there on the hill. Not nearly so grand as that, though.”
Blaney and Kite saw the roof of a fine house above the trees, on the eastern side of the cove fronting the giant city buildings. It presented a striking contrast with the strange white building nearby. It looked like a collection of sails filled with wind and frozen in time.
“That’s all, Morris,” said Kite.
Disappointed, the sailor returned to his mates.
“I suppose we are here then,” said Kite.
“It certainly appears that way,” agreed Blaney, hiding his growing excitement. It was clear what he should do. Morris had confirmed his feeling that this was indeed the colony. As it would be, rather than as it should be. He gazed at the majestic skyline across the harbour and wondered what secrets this glorious city held inside its magical towers.
“It’s time we were off, Henry.”
REDMOND
Footsteps crunched through the undergrowth. Redmond’s ears pricked up. It was quite light now, though still early and the only other sounds were of the birds and the passing roarers muffled by the bushes.
After sending Lockwood and Hand to search for food, Redmond could not allow himself to sleep. He could trust no one. Mogley toadied disgustingly as usual, but he was chased away with a threat of violence and Redmond sat alone to think and watch the others. His mind, however, remained blank. Inaction never inspired the big convict. His best decisions occurred to him at the instant of need.
“Who’s there?” he called quietly into the bushes.
The footsteps ceased abruptly, then began, faster, and Hand burst into the clearing with Lockwood. “It’s us!”
Both men were grinning, their arms laden with bread and cakes. Redmond seized a loaf covered in crinkly, see-through paper. Too hungry to question the wrapping, he ripped the package apart, sending slices of bread flying through the air. Scrambling convicts descended on the slices and a wave of starving men washed over Hand and Lockwood, delivering them of their bounty.
“Good job we stuffed oursel’s on the way back,” said Hand, picking himself up off the ground.
Redmond soon tired of the piddling slices and instead grabbed a solid loaf out of
Mogley’s hands, tossing his own bread at the hated convict’s feet. Mogley regarded him with hostility, but he knew better than to voice his protest.
“Go far?” asked Redmond, spraying soggy crumbs over the men.
“No,” answered Hand. “Just to the end o’ the park an’ up the road a ways.”
“Oxford Street,” added Lockwood.
“See anyone?”
“Aye, a few folk,” said Hand. “In the distance mostly. There was a feller sweepin’ the road near where we got the bread. Wore a blue suit, ’ee did, so ’ee could’ve bin a convict. But Noah reckoned not to speak to ’im.”
Redmond munched on his bread and nodded his agreement.
“You should see the shops, Rufus,” said Lockwood, his eyes bright with excitement. “They are unbelievable! We had to smash a window to get at the food, and when we did a bell sounded at the very same moment.”
“Scared the devil out o’ us!” chirped Hand. “Yer can still hears it if you listens.”
The convicts fell silent, straining to hear the distant, yet distinct, ringing.
“What else?” demanded Redmond.
Lockwood stopped Hand from speaking and allowed a little suspense to build up. “We found guns!”
Redmond spat bread over Mogley. “What? Where?”
“On Oxford Street. Not far from where we got the bread.”
Hand jumped in. “Hardly rec’nised ’em as guns at first. But then I sees one o’ them new muskets on the wall. Like them the redbacks ’ad on the ship.”
Redmond was only half listening as his mind raced. Knives and cutlasses were well and good if you were up against the same weapons, but when the troopers found the convicts’ trail they would have firepower for certain. A group of almost sixty convicts carrying muskets would be more than a match for most search parties. They could blast their way to freedom. The tiny bud of optimism inside his head began to flower. “Why didn’t you go in?”
“Too dangerous,” answered Lockwood. “It was still quite dark and the shop front was illuminated by a lantern over the door. And the window’s covered by an iron grille.”
Standing up, Redmond began to pace the small clearing, stepping on the fingers of several convicts too slow or stupid to move out of his way. He felt relieved. The decision was made. They needed the guns, there was no question of that. Getting them was as far ahead as Redmond wanted to think. Armed men had more choices.
He reached the end of the clearing and turned, finding himself face to face with Patrick Mahoney. “If you is thinkin’ o’ goin’ after them guns,” said the big Irishman, “you’d best think again! I admits we was right to kill to escape. But we’s free now an’ there ain’t no need fer muskets, roight lads?”
There was a murmur of support, but much less than Mahoney expected, Redmond was happy to note. Surely there was not a man among them who did not yearn for the comfort of a firearm in his hands. Mahoney must be a bigger fool than he looks.
“You stupid bastard!” spat Redmond. “Look around you. See them buildins? Them infernal roarers? We’s not escaped. We’s trapped! The sun’s comin’ up and soon this place’ll be crawlin’ with troopers, an’ all of ’em lookin’ for us!”
He stepped close to Mahoney, his face filled with disgust. “They’ll have guns wi’ ’em, Mahoney, when they comes for us. They’ll use ’em, too. And what do we have for defence, eh? A handful o’ blades. Useless. Like you!”
Mahoney’s face glowed red with anger. He was clearly out of step with the reality of their predicament, Redmond could see. He knew it was time to push the Irishman over the edge. Either that, or have to look over his shoulder every minute of the day. “You’re more than a fool if you think anyone’ll follow you.”
A look of uncertainty crossed Mahoney’s face. He looked to his men, but none would look him in the eye. But then the shame of backing down renewed his conviction. “They’ll all follow me,” he snarled, his lips curling back to reveal rotting teeth, “when you’re dead!”
Mahoney threw up his right hand, gripping a knife with a vicious curved, six inch blade. Redmond jumped back, nimbly for such a big man, instantly reaching for his own knife, lodged in the slits he had cut into his britches. He was more than ready for a fight to the death. He welcomed it.
The convicts backed away to the edges of the clearing, allowing the two big men enough room to circle each other. Mahoney’s face grew darker as Redmond beckoned him contemptuously. The Irishman spat violently and charged. Redmond took a pace back and caught his opponent’s knife hand with his left and lunged for Mahoney’s throat with his own blade. Moving desperately, Mahoney intercepted the killing stroke, his thick fingers curling round Redmond’s wrist like cables. The two men struggled toe to toe in a deadly embrace.
Redmond judged Mahoney to be about the same weight as himself. Though a good two inches shorter, the Irishman had a stockier frame. If he had been a little less predictable he would have made a worthier opponent, thought Redmond confidently. He allowed Mahoney to push him back, then suddenly stepped forward to hook a foot behind the Irishman’s ankle. Mahoney grunted in surprise and tumbled over, but he did not let go of Redmond. The ground shook with the impact of the two men, causing excitement among the convicts. Redmond could sense them enjoying the fight and knew there would be no tears shed for either of them.
Overconfident, Redmond had allowed his attention to drift. It came back with a vengeance when Mahoney bit into his left hand. Recoiling his hand, he saw Mahoney’s blade flashing toward him and only just succeeded in rolling clear, sending a shaft of agony through his shredded back. The knife swung past his head, nicking his ear, before Mahoney’s forearm, following through, fetched him a stunning blow to the side of the head. Dazed, Redmond fell on his back as Mahoney rolled easily to his feet, crying out in savage triumph. “Die, ya bastard!”
As Mahoney swung his foot to Redmond’s groin as a preliminary to a final lunge, the prone convict kicked out with both feet at Mahoney’s supporting leg. Caught off balance, he toppled, arms flailing directly over Redmond. Rolling quickly away, Redmond left only his knife beneath Mahoney’s falling body, the blade pointing upward, the hilt held hard against the ground by his hand. The knife entered Mahoney’s body beneath his left armpit, piercing his heart, and an inch of bloody blade tore through the back of his shirt. He was dead before he sprawled on the ground.
Redmond got up, exhausted. The knife was caught by a rib, so he left it protruding from the body and pocketed Mahoney’s. He wiped his bloody hand on the dead man’s shirt and then turned to glare at the assembled convicts. There was more fear in their eyes than respect, but that would do for his purposes. “Anyone else want to lead?” he asked.
BLANEY
Captain William Cross straightened his torn jacket and brushed his damp uniform with his hand before addressing the men. It was madness, thought Blaney, but the Captain was keen to advise the men of their plan, such as it was. It would calm them to know what was going on, regardless of the prospects of success or failure.
Blaney stood on the edge of the cliff and gazed down the spectacular harbour. The first rays of sunlight played on the calm waters, the humid air promising a hot day. Only the storm clouds to the south-east spoiled the view, standing beyond the coast like a giant fist. Taunting him. The thought of going back into the storm gave Blaney no comfort.
Yet the storm was the only way back. He was convinced of it. The whirlpool was the gateway to this place. Surely it was also the only way they could return.
But none of this he told Kite, discussing instead their next move. Their orders were clear. Report to the New South Wales Governor upon arrival in Sydney. Blaney and Kite had advised Cross of their thoughts and he quickly agreed. He was more interested in the loss of the Marlin and the escaped convicts than of their future prospects. At least his brain was still operating, after a fashion, something of a miracle after his underwater ordeal.
“Men,” began Cross. Blaney strolled back into the c
learing to hear him. “I am sure I need not tell you our arrival has not been the pleasant experience we all expected.” The attempt at humour failed to make the men laugh, but from behind Blaney could see shoulders and necks relax. However competent Blaney and Kite seemed, it was important to the men that the Captain appeared to be in control.
“Indeed,” continued Cross, “the cowardly attack by the convicts has robbed us of many brave shipmates and a fine vessel. You may rest assured the prisoners will be captured and severely punished.”
Blaney and Kite exchanged a glance.
The speech clearly revived Cross. Still pale and sickly looking, his body seemed to grow in stature and his back straightened. “Our duty is to report to the Governor. Mr Blaney has pointed out his residence across the harbour. It is there we are to go. We will stay close together and march across the great bridge.” He looked at each man in turn. “The natives of this land are noted for their hostility. We must be on our guard, and if we are intercepted, you will disperse and by whatever means rendezvous at Government House.”
The sailors stiffened, but Cross lightened his tone. “Remember, men, you are Englishmen and sailors of His Majesty’s Royal Navy – the inferiors of no man!”
Kite waved his hands to stifle the cheer, but Blaney was heartened by their mood. He saw Cross turn on his heel and set off inland along the path through the trees. Signalling Kite to stick close to the Captain, Blaney lingered for a moment at the rear, taking a last look at the harbour where the few small remains of the Marlin bobbed on the water . All manner of boats patrolled the area, pulling bodies and debris from the harbour. Soon there would be no trace of the ship.
“Mr Travis!” he called, as he caught up with the men.
The young midshipman ran back to him, panting with excitement. The Marlin was forgotten now. “Sir?”
Blaney slowed so the men could not hear. Travis fell in beside him. “I do not think the Captain fully realises what is going on, lad.”
“What is going on, sir?”
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