Mr Bass scoffs. ‘What? Are you saying Howe won because he captured the grain ships?’
‘Yes!’
Mr Bass finds a long, thick stick to stir the fire with. ‘It was an unnecessary move on Howe’s part,’ he says. ‘I would almost venture dishonourable.’
‘Howe used every tactic he knew in order to win,’ the lieutenant replies. ‘Hunger was one of his weapons and knowing how to employ it, his wisdom.’
There is a conflict that now and then rises between the lieutenant and Mr Bass. Both have had to battle death but their stratagems are different. Mr Bass, being in the healing trade, thinks more on healing or prevention, while Lieutenant Flinders, being in the business of defending, most often has weaponry on his mind. Thus they confront death differently. But it has to be said that when both are hankering for exploring, their stratagems are the same.
The lieutenant squats before the fire, keen for debate.
‘I know the Bellerophon story,’ I say to him. ‘They talk of it on the Reliance.’
The lieutenant looks surprised. ‘Do they?’
‘They do,’ I say, though this is not what I mean. What I mean is that when I was first on the Reliance, some nights I would settle quietly outside the wardroom and listen to the officers talk, and several times I heard the lieutenant tell his story of the Glorious First of June Battle, led by Admiral Howe. He did not tell his version with the verve of my Uncle Hilton, who is fond of telling that same battle at London inns, his way of getting free grog. Yet, when I overheard the lieutenant, he was not without style.
‘What do they say?’ the lieutenant asks.
There is no they, but I cannot say I was listening in. ‘You wish me to tell how they say the story?’
‘Yes, Will, yes,’ the lieutenant says.
I cannot look at him if I am to speak. I stretch out my arms, as I have seen my uncle do before an oration.
‘See, the French are hungry after the Revolution,’ I begin, improvising on my uncle’s version.
‘They start that way?’ the lieutenant asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, remembering I must agree with him always if I am to stay on the right side of his ledger. ‘The French people have the heads of nobles but they do not have a plan for what to do with the heads. Not only that, but the people are helter-skelter with the business of revolution. With a bit of bad weather, the crops fail and in a tick-tock the whole country is desperate for a feed. War is trumpeted between England and France because cantankerous George does not want dirty revolutionaries crossing the seas and messing up what he has nice and orderly. When someone high up hears, by use of a spy or two, that a hundred and twenty Yankee ships are sailing for France, loaded with grain, this makes English legs quake. The French fed are strong. The French hungry are a weaker foe.’
‘Ah,’ says the lieutenant, turning to Mr Bass. ‘The French hungry are a weaker foe, the men tell it this way too.’
Mr Bass flips the fish and pushes it into the fire. He raises his eyebrows at me but keeps his thoughts to himself, so I continue.
‘What happens is George decides he wants to keep the French hungry and so he sends Wrinkly Lord Howe, who is like a wolf when it comes to stratagems and spoils, to capture the grain ships. Lieutenant, you were only two years on my fifteen when you were on the Bellerophon, is that not so?’
‘It is so,’ he says.
‘The fleet sails out of Spithead with twenty-nine warships and fifteen frigates. Hundreds of white sails battling the winds. A glorious sight! Lord Howe has a plan. He knows the French will sail out to meet the Yankee grain ships and guard them into port. Howe wants to get to the Yankees first, take hostage the grain ships and guide them back to England, then turn his cannons on the French. Out on the Atlantic, Howe’s fleet patrols day after day. Despite their constant watch no Yankee ship appears on the watery horizon. Howe gets a craving for battle so he leaves nine warships on guard and, with the remaining fleet, sails to the French coast.’
‘The French are under Admiral Louis-Thomas Villaret de Joyeuse,’ the lieutenant says.
‘Howe’s new plan is to trap the French as they leave Brest. But all goes hubble-bubble when he discovers the French have already left. Howe sails in pursuit. On the twenty-eighth day he sights the enemy. They have twenty-six warships and smaller vessels too. This is a tough match for Howe’s fleet. They are now less nine ships and fewer ships means fewer guns.’
‘Well observed.’ The lieutenant is pleased with my tale.
‘The blustering winds cause sea-swells that tower above the English sails. Raindrops turn to ice and pelt the decks. But still the English chase the enemy. Gun ports are flung open and cannons rumble out.’
As I tell the battle beginning, I make noises in the style of my uncle. There must be theatre in the telling, he has often instructed. His style is what assured him free grog. Sometimes, when we were setting up our theatre in town squares, I would join Uncle Hilton as he rallied the crowd with spine-chilling tales. I learnt from him all the old tricks, yet my telling to Lieutenant Flinders and Mr Bass has something firstborn about it.
‘The sailors are feverish for battle,’ I say. ‘The Bellerophon sees a frigate and fires. Bang, go the cannons and the frigate sails off. The sailors cheer. But now, alongside the Bellerophon comes the great shadow of the Révolutionnaire. Big and black like a killer whale, this ship has a thousand men on board and a hundred and ten guns. Cannons blast back and forth! The roar is deafening. The smoke becomes so black it is hard to make out the figure of a man an arm’s length in front. The maincap of the Bellerophon is hit and the ship lurches to one side, like a wounded walrus. The sailors drag the topsail and soon there is a mess of rigging on deck.’
‘The Bellerophon had to retreat to repair the damage, there was no other option,’ the lieutenant says to me. ‘So too the Révolutionnaire.’
Mr Bass now has his eye on me, as if my telling surprises him.
I continue. ‘The Bellerophon and the Révolutionnaire appear and disappear like giants of the watery deep, but soon lose sight of each other. Night comes. Lanterns flash. The sailors on the Bellerophon work on through until morning. All that can be heard above the sea rush is a hellish hammering.’
The lieutenant picks up a twig and traces the Bellerophon in the sand.
‘At first light,’ I say, ‘Howe orders the fleet to form a battle line. He has a new cunning plan. He wants the English ships to sail straight for the enemy and cut off the rear of the French line to confuse them. This plan is bold and never done before. The English set sail but some cowardly captains do not carry out Howe’s order to the letter.’
‘They think the plan too dangerous,’ the lieutenant explains to Mr Bass.
‘Yet the tactic catches the French on the hop,’ I say. ‘The English have full stomachs but the French do not. There are loud shots – crack, crack! – and thick grey smoke. The Bellerophon aims for …’ And here I hesitate, for in my rush of Uncle Hilton-style theatrics I forget what the Bellerophon did next.
‘The Bellerophon sails straight for the space between the second and third ships,’ the lieutenant prompts.
‘The English sailors fire cannons,’ I say. ‘Boom, boom!’
‘So too the French,’ the lieutenant joins in.
‘Boom, boom! Then comes the loud crack of timber as masts fall. Wails of men. All is desperate. The Bellerophon’s forward rigging is slashed to pieces.’
‘It truly was,’ says the lieutenant, remembering.
‘The French, also, are badly mangled. The Bellerophon limps off to repair. That night, time slows. A fog covers the sea like a dirty old coat. Bloodied men appear and disappear, carrying hammers and bits of timber. The next morning the fog is still there. All day the only sound is the sea and this infernal hammering, on and on. This is a cold misty hell; not a burning hell, but it is a hell.’
‘You tell this tale with style, Will,’ praises the lieutenant.
I feel myself swell.
Mr
Bass has two sticks wedged beneath the cooking fish. As the skin blackens over the flame, the smell rises, and my mouth waters, yet the urgency of my tale narrows my attention.
‘The morning after, fog again,’ I say. ‘Later, it clears. The English eat but do the French? No. They cannot eat. They have little food. The English wait to attack. They hold out another day, in order to make the French tremble, in order to make the French weak. Then they sail. They set a diagonal course and smash through the centre of the enemy, attacking the ships from leeward. The Bellerophon, second in line, opens fire on the French Éole. The two ships are so close that any one of the men could reach out and touch an enemy sailor. Fighting breaks out.’
‘Black smoke. Gunfire,’ says the lieutenant.
‘Screams and clashing iron. Turmoil!’ I say. ‘The Bellerophon receives a heavy pounding from the French Trajan. You were standing where, Lieutenant?’
‘On the quarterdeck.’
‘And you were there when a shot smashed through the barricading and hit your patron, Rear-Admiral Pasley?’
‘I was there. Pasley’s leg was no more than blood and bone.’
‘His blood splattered on the faces of sailors nearby,’ I add.
‘The men say all this?’ the lieutenant asks.
‘They say this and more,’ I reply.
Lieutenant Flinders smiles, pleased his bloody battle is so spoken about.
‘Old Pasley has copped it bad,’ I say. ‘Bleeding, he is carried below. And you, sir, were at the cannons, so fiery was your mood.’
‘It was indeed.’
‘Yet, Howe’s plan has worked,’ I say. ‘The hunger of the French means seven French ships surrender, too weak to continue fighting.’
Lieutenant Flinders claps his hands together triumphantly. ‘And that goes to show that in war there are many ways to defeat a foe and hunger can be used for the good of a nation.’
‘And yet the grain ships got through, did they not?’ Mr Bass says.
I look to the lieutenant. ‘Surely not?’
‘Much delayed,’ the lieutenant says.
‘And strangely, the French claim victory of the exact same battle,’ Mr Bass adds, laughing. He turns to me and bows his head and sweeps out his arm with a theatrical flourish. ‘But that was well told, Mister Martin.’
The lieutenant gazes up to the sandhill behind and gasps. I follow the direction of his stare. Standing on top of the dunes are Dilba and his friend.
‘Are they alone?’ the lieutenant asks.
The two Indians run down the hill, shouting. ‘Raah. Raah!’
‘Have they weapons?’ I ask.
I can see no spears. But do they hide some other weapon?
We rise. There is nowhere to run. I pick up the long stick used for stirring the fire, and hold it before me.
This is what it is to be a man.
A man must fight.
A man must defend, his own life and that of others.
The two Indians are nearly upon us.
Their eyes wide.
They shout and whoop.
Pelicans fly above.
Their huge wings flapping
Hawker
1822
as they land at the creek mouth. The bastard birds stir up my dogs, get them barking. The kangaroo I’m stalking thumps off as I take my shot. I curse at the pelicans. There’s a holler from the native camp. The chief and his retinue come running along the lake shore to see what I’m shooting at. I aim my fowling piece in their direction. They stop their charge, stand and stare like Bow Street Runners refusing to relinquish the chase. ‘No shoot,’ the old chief warned, last time he allowed his nephew to guide me on a forest trek (services purchased for a small piece of tobacco). He is not fond of rifle shooting in his dominion but will allow the odd kangaroo or bird to be taken down. The chief pretends to be in command. Most times I embrace the fiction. I’ve affection for the old coot. Could have shot him dead anytime, never has his guard up. But he’s a man who lacks fear or malice, and that’s rare enough in any place, let alone this matted rough. I lower my gun and raise my hand so the chief knows I mean no harm and soon enough he and his men leave off.
Around the edge of the lake, which spreads like a watery blue moon before it narrows to the sea, campfires are being lit, radiant markers to the thick forest. A weepy magic stirs this place at dusk. Clouds hang low, their double in water that birds glide over, as if traversing mountains deep. Everywhere, the chatter of native families and the howl of wild dogs. Nearby, a group of women are wading in the shallows, fishing. I try to pick her out. My one. A woman wades out to her waist. Is it her?
Before me, a pelican drifts. I could shoot it, use it to bargain. Get her to see my worth. I take aim but hear horses galloping, up near the cornfield. Must be the overseer, Vince Byrne, and his pack of two merry men. I yell for Lambskin. Cannot hear his axe. No telling if he’s in earshot. There’s two of us lifers here to tend Captain Brooks’s thirteen-hundred acres, two in desperate need of freedom (or at the very least a ticket-of-leave), but only one can be relied on. Lambskin is ruining my chances of leaving this place.
‘Lambskin!’ I holler.
Vince Byrne won’t like it if I’m not up at the field protecting Captain Brooks’s corn from cockatoos or native thieves. He won’t like it one bit. As overseer he is rigorous. But if he hasn’t packed the grog this trip I’ll be slowing down my labour till it comes.
I hike away from Mullet Creek, through the trees and up the rise to the big old fig. Stash my firearm in its hidey-hole, continue on through the forest and come in through the back of the cornfield. I see three horses cantering towards the hut. As I expected, the Byrne brothers – Vince on the stallion, his younger brother, Jed, on the brown mare – and the new man, Sam Poole (a pathetic pocket-picker when he went down), riding last.
The corn cracks as I stride the field but underfoot the soil is still damp from rain that came when needed.
‘You’re late,’ I call, when I’m near the boundary.
‘A day or two,’ Vince says.
He caresses the neck of his horse.
‘Trouble?’ I ask.
‘Always trouble.’ Vince smiles.
Keeping a secret from me gives him pleasure. Irks me but I must play the fool. It’s Vince I need to befriend if I’m to leave this hell and work the Appin farm. He’s the man who will petition Captain Brooks. Brooks may own this land he calls Exmouth, but it’s the eldest Byrne who decides its future.
The three dismount. Vince, weather-toughened and alert; Jed, as fair as his brother is dark, with shirtsleeves long enough to shield the sun; and Sam Poole, bent like an old man and still hollowed out from his sea voyage. Poole stares about him like a startled animal, while Vince and Jed make to hitch their horses to the front of the hut.
‘Not there,’ I say and point to the side where I’ve set the new rail.
There’s no malice in my voice but Vince marks me all the same, turns to Poole.
‘Hear that, Mr Poole? Appears that Mr Hawker don’t appreciate walking out of his castle each morning and stepping in horse shit.’
‘Does he not?’ says Poole, joining the lark.
‘Evidently, in Mother England you have horses so clean they don’t defecate. That true?’ Vince asks.
‘In Mother England,’ Poole says, poker-faced, ‘our horses don’t defecate and what is more, they is so intelligent they can talk. Back home a man can have a regular conversation with a horse.’
‘Just as I thought,’ Vince says. ‘Too much inbreeding. Barking mad, the lot of yer.’
The Byrne brothers enjoy the jest but I’m not partial to being put in the same camp as the red-faced Poole. My dogs bark and run at the horses. I quiet them with a word. Rough mutts but they do what I say. Jed Byrne sets free the yapping pup tied to his saddle and it stirs mine up again.
‘There is a trick to training a mutt,’ I say to Vince. ‘You need to think like the pack. Show them you are the one to watch.’
The pup keeps yapping like a whiny brat.
‘Shut that mutt up,’ Vince calls to his brother.
Jed turns, moony-eyed, offended. The pup is a sore point between them. I can use that.
Darkness settles on the forest that runs alongside the field. Cornhusks quiver in the cooling breeze. In this place the heat of the day runs into a noisy night full of jumping beasts with luminous eyes. Here, the night does not entomb the earth, instead it breathes alive ghostly shadows, as if the buried are rising up.
Poole’s gelding bucks and pulls away from the rail. The man has no gift for working horses. He curses and gives it a whack.
‘Hey!’ Jed up and leaves the pup, takes hold of the gelding, settles it down with whispers and pats.
Poole stands back, unashamed. ‘Jed, the horseman,’ he says.
‘A trusting touch,’ I say, but that is not what I think.
When the Byrne brothers first brought Lambskin and me down to set up camp at Exmouth, an even wilder place then without pen or post, Jed spent his time in the forest collecting plants. When we went hunting Jed refused to fire his weapon. Against orders Vince trusted me with his brother’s rifle (Vince does not know about the fowling piece I have since gained from a cedar cutter, traded for turning a blind eye to logging the southernmost portion of Brooks’s jungle) and has done every visit. There’s frailty in Jed and experience has taught me that associating with the feeble-minded is a dangerous occupation. Last month a bonded man, a decrepit fool, on his way to Appin to get medical attention, disappeared. Rumour is a fellow servant followed him up the track and hacked him to death, then threw the bloodied axe in Budjong Creek. All for the sake of a few sovereigns the fool had let know were in his possession. Out here a mind like flint and a gristly intent is needed to see a man through.
‘We are out of everything,’ I say, turning to the elder Byrne.
‘Flour?’
‘Not flour.’
‘Tea?’
‘Not tea.’
Vince claps his forehead. ‘Lord, you mean grog and here is us and we forgot the supply!’
‘Ever the joker,’ I say.
Storyland Page 4