Claim the Kingdom

by John Fletcher

  ‘Just curious.’

  His father watched him. ‘I were you, I’d keep my curiosity to myself. This is a penal colony. Start talking about escape, people get nervous.’ His eyes flashed at Jack. ‘Or about justice. Much better to keep your mouth shut.’

  *

  ‘This place will never amount to anything.’ Henry Bliss, commanding officer of the New South Wales Corps, eased his tunic over his stomach and wiped sweat from his mottled forehead. He was hot and heavy, face as red as his uniform. ‘Never in a thousand years.’

  He was standing on the arcaded verandah of Government House with Jonathan Hagwood, one of his fellow officers. Beneath them, Bellona rode to her anchors on the tranquil waters of Sydney Cove. Further out lay the twenty-gun merchantman Centaur, which had come in a week earlier from the Pacific. Between Bellona and the jetty, small boats scuttled like water beetles, ferrying ashore the supplies she had brought from Europe. Beyond the harbour, low hills rose in a vast semicircle beneath a pale sky.

  ‘They say Bellona brought dispatches.’ Jonathan fidgeted.

  Bliss drank rum. ‘The transports always do.’

  ‘The Home Secretary’s supposed to be sending orders about the colony’s future.’ Jonathan’s tension was palpable in the hot room.

  ‘Or lack of it.’ Bliss was the senior military officer in the colony but he hated it. All he had thought about since arriving with the First Fleet in 1788 was getting home as soon as possible. He was thirty-six but the alcohol that had helped relieve the five years of exile made him look ten years older.

  Down by the jetty, a line of convicts stumbled along under the eyes of their red-jacketed guards. Sunlight glinted on the barrels of the muskets. There was the distant clink of irons and the harsh voice of the corporal came faintly on the breeze. ‘Pick up your soddin’ feet, you bloody cripples …’

  Bliss stared with distaste. ‘Never amount to anything‚’ he repeated. ‘Never in a thousand years.’

  ‘And I’m telling you it will.’ Jonathan Hagwood was twenty-six years old and as rapacious as a shark. He had a thin face, a long nose with nostrils superciliously flared, and suspicious close-set eyes like chips of pale green glass. His rich chestnut hair, well-groomed in the natural style, went well with the civilian clothes he was wearing – peach-coloured waistcoat with high flared collar and snowy cravat beneath a bottle green jacket. ‘We’ve a whole new continent here. Ripe for the taking.’

  ‘Who wants it?’

  Jonathan’s green eyes flared. ‘I do. And so does England.’

  Bliss shrugged and drank again, heavily. ‘Dumping ground for scum. You’re welcome to it.’

  Jonathan leant forward and seized the other man’s forearm. He gestured at the cove. ‘Look at it, for God’s sake!’

  Bliss stared indifferently. ‘What about it?’

  ‘The best harbour you’ve seen in your life.’ Jonathan’s little eyes were sharp as blades. ‘Yes or no?’

  Bliss wanted to shake free from the other man’s grasp but did not. Hagwood was only a lieutenant but his temper was notorious. He had fought two duels in the three years since he arrived and won them both. He was not a man to cross.

  ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But …’

  ‘Good harbour. Good land. Limitless space to expand. A man can grow here.’

  It was too hot for Jonathan’s intensity and Bliss wanted another drink. He tried a small joke. ‘Grow old, more like it.’ He saw a steward and beckoned to him. ‘You talk as though we can just help ourselves.’

  ‘You think the natives’ll stop us?’ Hagwood asked contemptuously.

  ‘They found another convict speared to death, not a month ago,’ Bliss warned. ‘That’s the eighth in less than a year.’

  ‘Unarmed convicts,’ Jonathan said. ‘Settlers armed with muskets will soon take care of the natives.’

  ‘Phillip wanted us to keep on good terms with the blacks.’

  ‘Phillip’s gone.’ Jonathan’s shark’s grin did not reach his eyes. ‘Crabbe’s in charge now. And Crabbe is singing a different tune. As you well know.’

  Jonathan looked around at the other people thronging the verandah, heard the empty clatter of their voices. Most of them would think being here was more of a burden than an opportunity; well, that was fine – the less competition the better.

  He saw Gough Tremain standing in the doorway leading into the main reception room. Their eyes met above the heads of the crowd and Tremain grinned mockingly and winked. Jonathan turned away. If there was anyone in the colony he could not abide it was Gough Tremain – and the Cornishman knew it.

  Tremain was a potential rival, someone else who understood the opportunities of the new continent, but that was not the reason for Jonathan’s enmity. He had loathed him from their first meeting on Neptune coming out from England in 1790. Jonathan had detested Tremain’s easy charm and his eye for the ladies, the way he rode roughshod over everyone. Most of all, he had resented the privilege that had clung to his boot heels like dung.

  The younger son of some damn Cornish squire, Tremain had met George Crabbe during the American war. After he got back to England there had been some to-do over a justice’s wife, accusations of smuggling, an assault … All very likely, knowing the man. And then George Crabbe had come to the rescue with a commission in the New South Wales Corps and converted Tremain overnight from poacher to gamekeeper. All because of the accident of birth and the influence he had because of it.

  The unfairness of the system made Jonathan choke. People like Tremain, born with their feet on the ladder, would never understand how difficult it was for the rest.

  Don’t you get in my way, either, he thought savagely. I don’t give a damn about your bloodlines. I am going to build an empire here. That way we can bury the past.

  Johnny Boots.

  The hated nickname burned like acid.

  Johnny Boots.

  Because his father had been a shoemaker. Wealthy connections had ensured his education, given him a commission in the newly formed Corps, but the stigma of his humble beginnings remained. It stained every day of his life.

  Boots … Make me a good pair, boy.

  One of the duels had been fought over that insult.

  Polish them good.

  That was what the marine ensign had said to him, the full lips arrogant, before Hagwood had put a ball in his arm. That had quietened him, by God it had. Phillip had packed the young fool off to Norfolk Island, the hell-hole a thousand miles out in the Pacific where they buried the roughest and toughest of the convicts, and that had been the end of it. No one would say such a thing to his face again yet he never heard laughter across a room without suspecting it was directed at him.

  Money would put the jeers to rest. He would build a plantation aristocracy in this new land with himself as its head. There would be no talk of bootmakers, then.

  ‘What’s keeping the governor?’ Bliss’s voice was a touch thicker as the rum took hold.

  ‘Still reading the dispatches, I suppose.’

  ‘Are they that important?’

  They had better be, Jonathan thought. Crabbe had made provisional land grants, a hundred acres to each officer who wanted them. He and Tremain had each been allocated land twenty miles up-river from Sydney Cove. The small settlement had originally been called Swan Hill but was now known by its extraordinary native name of Parramatta. It was excellent land, well watered, and looked ideal for the raising of cattle or, possibly, sheep. Sheep would be cheaper to stock, Jonathan thought. Perhaps I should look at sheep. But without Home Office approval the grants wouldn’t be valid. That would mean Bliss was right and there was no future here, after all, and Jonathan refused to believe that.

  Land would always be the source of wealth. Rum by itself would never be enough, although it had given them a good start, all the same.

  In the early days, the colony had nearly starved. Then, a year ago, Virginia, an armed merchantman from the United States, had arrived with foo
d and enough supplies – spades and hoes, leather for harness and shoes, cloth to replace clothes fallen almost into pieces – to replenish the entire colony. She also carried ten thousand gallons of rum.

  That mournful nanny goat Phillip had wanted the supplies but not the rum, but Ezra King, Virginia’s master and as hard-nosed a bastard as ever saw blue water, knew an opportunity when he saw one. He told Phillip he must take the rum first. Then he would see about the rest of the cargo.

  As soon as he had heard about King’s ultimatum, Gough Tremain, long black hair and pirate’s eyes, had swaggered in to see Jonathan. ‘This Ezra King …,’ he’d said, ‘why don’t we buy his cargo ourselves?’

  ‘You and me?’ Jonathan stared sarcastically at his unwelcome visitor.

  ‘Why not? Colony’s got to have the supplies. If Phillip don’t want to dirty his lily-white hands, mixing with rum trading and the like, someone else must handle it.’ He grinned maliciously, Cornish accent well to the fore. ‘Reckon we’ve all done worse in our time, eh?’ He slapped Jonathan on the shoulder, laughing. ‘If we buy, it sorts out a whole heap of problems. King’s happy, Phillip’s happy, the colony’s happy. And you and me,’ he winked, ‘we’ll be the happiest of the lot. If you take my meaning.’

  Jonathan hated Tremain’s coarse familiarity, hated it. He knew Tremain put it on for his benefit, along with the mud-thick accent, but knowing didn’t help.

  ‘You’ve got that sort of money?’

  Tremain cackled and drew the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Well now, my handsome,’ he said, ‘if I had, I would hardly be thinking of cutting you in, would I?’

  ‘Where do you propose we get it then?’

  Tremain touched a finger to the side of his nose. ‘From you, I reckon.’

  Jonathan’s green eyes went cold. ‘Explain.’

  ‘You’re the Corps paymaster, aren’t you?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The Corps’s got plenty of money in London.’

  ‘We can’t touch that!’

  Tremain shook his head. ‘Ah. Pity, then.’

  Jonathan watched him closely. ‘What’s in your mind?’

  ‘I was thinking of a loan, like. Pay her back, soon as we sell. No one any the worse. Still, you say it can’t be done, there’s an end to it.’

  ‘Wait.’ Jonathan’s mind raced with barely-perceived possibilities. ‘Let me think a minute.’

  Tremain grinned. ‘Take your time, my darling.’

  ‘If we buy, are you sure we can get rid of the stuff?’

  ‘Rum?’ Tremain laughed.

  ‘There’s ten thousand gallons,’ Jonathan warned.

  ‘’Twould be no problem, not even if it was a hundred thousand.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The convicts we’re using on the new land allocations … People are complaining they don’t like to work.’

  ‘What about it?’ Impatiently. Everyone agreed the convicts were lazy.

  ‘They’ll work for rum.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Most of them, they’re born to it, like. Weaned on it, you might say. Give them a ration of grog, they’ll clear bush for you till the cows come home.’

  ‘Pay them in rum,’ Jonathan said slowly, thinking about it.

  ‘Which gives you a market with the landowners, straight off. Reckon there’s soldiers wouldn’t mind some of their pay in grog, either,’ he added shrewdly.

  Jonathan liked the idea. All the same, he remained cautious. ‘How would we set about it? Selling to the landowners, I mean? Bearing in mind some of them are – ’

  ‘Some of them being ex-cons, you mean? Wouldn’t worry me. You’re fussy, you can always get someone to distribute it for you.’

  Jonathan thought of another objection. ‘Our colleagues will hardly approve, will they? After all, it’s their money, too.’

  Tremain nodded. ‘We’ll have to cut them in, right enough.’

  Jonathan looked at him. ‘What you’re saying is we should set up a cartel? All the officers in the Corps? In trade?’

  Tremain nodded equably. ‘Any’s too fancy to get involved, we just leave them out.’ He winked. ‘Take my tip, my son. You go and have a word with the governor.’

  ‘Why don’t you speak to him yourself?’ Jonathan asked.

  Tremain grinned, eyes sparkling maliciously. ‘You’re the paymaster, not me. Besides, you’ll say it better. I’m a bit too down to earth for His Excellency, if you take my meaning. Bit too coarse.’ Again the hint of mockery. ‘Of course, we should take the lot, not only the rum,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘Phillip will never agree to that.’

  ‘Put it to him right, I reckon he will. Say it’s consideration for taking the rum off his hands.’

  Jonathan had thought about it. If they bought Virginia’s whole cargo, they’d be able to charge what they liked. The profits would be enormous. Tremain was right. No one would be the worse for it. A straight loan. And the money would be repaid.

  It would solve the only problem he had seen in setting himself up as a landed aristocrat. It would provide the capital he needed to make a start.

  The next day he had gone to the governor.

  *

  Inside the reception room, Gough Tremain heard Bliss shouting for another drink. Be falling down the steps directly, he thought. Not that it’ll matter. All Henry wants is to be off home. He doesn’t give a damn what Home Secretary Dundas has decided about the land allocation. Matters to me, though. By heavens it does. Particularly now the boys are here.

  He thought of the private letter he had received today in the mails. It contained plenty of useful information but nothing about the land grants. In the end, that was the only question that mattered. If his secret correspondent in the Home Office wanted him to go on paying him, he’d have to do a lot better in future.

  He turned to Cash and Jack. They had both been exploring the settlement earlier that evening and it was his first chance to hear their impressions. ‘Well? What do you think of the place?’

  Their eyes answered before their tongues.

  Jack’s had a flicker of unease in them as he looked about the room at the officers in their red tunics, the gaily dressed women. ‘It’s different, that’s certain …’

  The reception room was as well appointed as could be expected in such a new colony. The furniture had been brought especially from England. A fine crystal chandelier hung from the centre of the ceiling. There were two pedestal-legged tables with silver candlesticks standing on them, some side tables and elegant, straight-backed chairs. The floor was covered in Turkey rugs, silk curtains draped the tall windows and a number of paintings in gilt frames graced the walls. Very different, indeed, from what they had grown used to on Bellona. Different from home, come to that.

  Gough turned to Cash. ‘What about you? How do you like it?’

  Cash’s brilliant blue eyes danced. ‘Jack’s right. It is different. It’s exciting.’ He laughed boisterously. ‘First thing Jack said when we arrived. Some strange.’ He mimicked his brother’s accent without malice, and Jack grinned sheepishly.

  Jack has the accent, sure enough, Gough thought. Almost as broad as mine. Of course, he was always around the farm labourers. Cash has hardly got one at all. He scrutinized him thoughtfully, the light of adventure – of life – brilliant in the young face. What’ll I do with them if Dundas turns us down? With myself?

  He glanced across the room to where the scarlet-uniformed guard stood ramrod-stiff before the door to the governor’s inner sanctum.

  Bad sign to keep us hanging in thin air like this. Very bad. If the answer’s no, the colony’s finished. We’re all finished.

  No, he told himself. Pitt will never admit it’s been a mistake. We’re here to stay, although I’ll feel more comfortable when I’ve heard George Crabbe say so. There’s money to be made here, piles of it. I’ve proved that already, by heavens. It’ll be a heap easier, now there’s three of us.

  H
e had been afraid it might be tricky, having the boys here. A man got used to being on his own, besides, it was three years since he’d seen them. Cash had been seventeen, then; now he was a twenty-year-old stranger. On the whole, though, he was happy now he’d seen them again.

  ‘What do you plan to do with yourself?’ he asked Jack, knowing what his answer would be.

  ‘Farm,’ Jack said promptly.

  ‘And you?’ He looked at Cash.

  ‘Make money.’

  Gough laughed. ‘How you going to do that?’

  ‘I’ll find a way. How d’you make yours, Dad?’

  Cheeky young devil. ‘Bit of this, bit of that.’

  Cash’s blue eyes laughed at him. ‘Reckon you’ll have to teach me that.’

  ‘Reckon I shall.’

  Farming will be right for Jack, he thought. Cash is different, though. He’ll never be a farmer, any more than I was. Craves action. I know that feeling, sure enough. Could never abide sitting at home, watching things grow.

  They’ve got some funny ideas, though. Have to sort them out. Pretty damn quick, too.

  He thought how Maud Clark had come to him just before he left the cottage, a folded paper in her hand.

  ‘You’d better see this.’

  He read it quickly, then frowned at her. ‘You’ve seen what it says?’

  Maud had worked in a big house and could read. She nodded.

  ‘Damn young fool.’ He put the note carefully into the pocket of his uniform and placed his heavy hand on her arm. ‘Not a word. You hear me?’

  She stared at him, offended. ‘No need to say that.’

  ‘Of course not.’ But did not move his hand. ‘Thanks, eh?’

  She tossed her head, then smiled back at him and for a second pressed his hand with her own. ‘Get on with you.’

  Gough sipped his drink and watched his sons. The new generation was bound to see things differently from the old. Even so, it was crazy to be so reckless. Not that he was one to talk. Thank God he’d never needed a pardon but it had been pretty close, once or twice.