Claim the Kingdom

by John Fletcher

  ‘You want to go fishing tonight? In the dark?’

  ‘I’ve fished in the dark a hundred times. So have you.’

  Gough drained his glass, topped it up from a decanter standing on a side table. ‘If people stray far from camp here they end up with spears in them.’

  ‘Even on the water?’

  ‘The blacks have boats, too. Canoes and such.’

  ‘They don’t come into the cove, do they?’

  ‘They might. Tes hard to be certain, you understand.’

  ‘You’ve got a boat, I suppose.’

  Gough grinned. ‘Can you imagine a Cornishman without one?’

  ‘May I borrow it?’

  Gough looked at him assessingly. It should be safe enough, provided the boy didn’t stray too far. And a couple of fish for breakfast would make a welcome change from salt beef. ‘You mustn’t go outside the cove …’

  ‘I promise,’ Cash said at once.

  ‘Don’t be so eager!’ he said irritably. ‘I haven’t finished. This is a convict settlement. Don’t go giving lifts to any strangers.’

  Cash laughed. ‘Who’s going to be out on the water?’

  ‘You’d be surprised what these convicts get up to,’ his father told him. ‘Back in ’91, one lot took an open boat and sailed her all the way to Timor. That’s over three thousand miles, mind.’

  Cash grinned at him, blue eyes sparkling. ‘I promise not to talk to strangers,’ he said mockingly. ‘And not to take any convicts to Timor.’

  ‘Tes no joke,’ Gough warned him sharply. ‘You know the penalty for helping a convict escape?’

  ‘Pretty harsh, I dare say.’

  ‘Maybe I should take you to a flogging. Give you an idea just how harsh.’

  ‘Can I borrow the boat, Father?’

  ‘If you tell me the real reason you want her.’

  ‘Can’t you sense it?’ Cash asked. ‘The land? Waiting out there? Watching?’

  Slowly, Gough Tremain nodded his head. ‘You feel it, too, then?’

  ‘The moment we came through the Heads. It’s something old and silent. Like spirits watching us. Or maybe not watching, just there. I knew when I left England I was coming somewhere special. What was special about it I didn’t know. I still don’t. Just that it’s something different and I must be part of it. I want to get out on the water. To feel it. If there are spirits, I want them on my side. I don’t want to fight them.’

  His father studied him thoughtfully, drained his glass again and put it down.

  ‘Oars and rowlocks are all locked up. I’ll give you a key and you can fetch them from the store. You’ll be able to get some bait from the jetty. I’ll give you a note later, for the guard. They won’t let you out on the water until you’ve shown it to them and signed their little book. And make sure you let them know when you come back in.’

  ‘Later? Can’t I go now?’

  ‘The governor hasn’t made his speech yet. You’ll have to wait until he’s left, then you can go.’

  ‘That could be hours,’ Cash objected.

  ‘What’s your hurry? The fish will still be there.’

  *

  In the corner of the room, Governor Crabbe was enjoying himself with the ladies. He finished yet another anecdote of his time in Jamaica and laughed, happy with his own humour.

  Elizabeth Hagwood laughed with him, her hand resting decorously on his sleeve.

  Crabbe wiped his eyes, gasping a little, feeling his weight.

  ‘Speaking to you, ma’am,’ he told Elizabeth gallantly, ‘is like a breath of fresh English air after the heat we’ve been enduring.’ He twinkled at her companions. ‘And what could be more appropriate, seeing I’m surrounded by such beautiful English roses?’

  Vowles leant forward and whispered something in his ear. A look of irritation crossed his face. He turned back to Elizabeth. ‘Vowles tells me I must go and let everyone know what Henry Dundas and the government have decided. I dare say he’s right,’ he chuckled. ‘Kept you waiting long enough, eh?’

  Her eyes smiled serenely at him. ‘I’m sure you’ll have good news for us, Your Excellency.’

  He winked at her, pleased and flattered. ‘We’ll see, my dear. We’ll see.’ He bent over her outstretched hand. ‘Your servant, ma’am. Ladies …’

  He turned, little Vowles dogging his heels as always, and puffed his way off across the room, delighted with himself.

  ‘Phew.’ Elinor Goodall, twenty years old, plump, giggly and stupid. She was dressed in the height of what had been fashion when she left England the previous year, frizzed hair stood out on either side of her moonlike face.

  ‘At least he knows how to laugh,’ Jane Somers said. ‘Which is a pleasant change from what we’ve had to put up with in the past. Governor Phillip was so gloomy, I declare he used to make me feel quite ill.’

  Jane was a fresh-faced girl of eighteen with dark hair and eyes. Her pointed chin was lifted as she surveyed the room, her expression challenging. Elizabeth Hagwood watched her. Jane had a slender nose, creamy complexion and an excellent figure, yet you couldn’t call her beautiful. Her face, like her manner, was too sharp, but she was attractive with the freshness of youth. She had been in New South Wales for a little over a year, having come out with the Third Fleet. Her father was the Judge-Advocate, the chief legal officer and an important man in the colony – or he had been. There was a rumour that he’d recently fallen out with the governor.

  This evening Jane’s parents were in Parramatta on government business. In their absence, the Goodalls were supposed to be looking after her but James Goodall was on duty and his wife had decided she did not wish to attend the function without him. Elizabeth had agreed, somewhat reluctantly, to escort Jane and Elinor to the reception.

  ‘Tell me,’ Jane said now, ‘who are those young men standing with Captain Tremain over there by the door?’

  Elizabeth’s beautiful eyes scanned the crowd. ‘I haven’t seen them before,’ she said. ‘They must have arrived today, on Bellona.’

  ‘Perhaps they are two of the new settlers?’

  ‘I think they must be Captain Tremain’s sons. We heard they were coming out to join him, did we not?’

  ‘It will be pleasant to have some new faces in the colony,’ Jane said, watching them speculatively. She turned to Elizabeth. ‘I think it would be amusing to meet them.’

  In the Somers’ absence, Elizabeth was not prepared to accept responsibility for introducing their daughter to the young and personable-looking sons of a man with the reputation of Gough Tremain.

  ‘You’ll meet them soon enough, I dare say. That’s one of the advantages of a small community. One meets everyone, sooner or later.’

  One of the disadvantages, too. Jonathan’s unreasoning jealousy of Gough Tremain meant that she avoided speaking to the Cornishman whenever possible.

  Jane pouted. ‘I wish to meet them now.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. Her private opinion was that Jane had her own way a good deal too much. She did not intend to give into her. ‘Another day, perhaps.’

  Elizabeth Hagwood was twenty-six years old, the same age as her husband. She had two children who would be educated in England – there were no suitable schools in the colony – but she had already made up her mind that the future of her family was here.

  Jonathan and the other men were concerned about the land allocations but she was unworried. The news is good, she thought. I would have seen it in Crabbe’s eyes otherwise. He’d do anything for the officers of his Corps. She blessed the luck that had made George Crabbe responsible first for forming the Corps and only later for the destinies of the colony. It had established a sense of priority that she knew he would never lose. New South Wales is our destiny, she thought. And the children’s. We shall build a dynasty here.

  Elizabeth was clever, determined and very beautiful. She had black hair, vivid brown eyes and knew without vanity that she was desired by nearly every man in the room.

  ‘I c
annot see there’s anything so wicked in simply meeting someone,’ Jane said crossly.

  Elizabeth smiled at her. ‘I’m sure there will be plenty of other opportunities.’

  A sharp bang drew everyone’s attention as Benjamin Vowles knocked on a side table with the base of one of the governor’s silver candlesticks.

  A hush fell on the room.

  Vowles’s voice was loud in the silence. ‘Pray silence for His Excellency Major George Crabbe, Governor-in-Chief of the colony of New South Wales.’

  Crabbe looked about him and smiled, enjoying the expectancy in the room. Yellow candlelight flickered across the faces of the guests and the air was full of the smell of warm wax.

  ‘I would like to start by welcoming our new arrivals. A very important day in the history of the colony. The first free settlers to come to New South Wales. I am sure they will never regret it. Also welcome to the two sons of my old friend and colleague, Captain Tremain.’ He looked about the room. ‘Where are they hiding?’

  Cash and Jack raised their hands; Jack awkwardly, embarrassed at being singled out in a roomful of strangers, Cash unconcerned, beaming around at the faces turned towards him.

  ‘Welcome to you both,’ Crabbe said. ‘I’m sure you’ll make your mark soon enough, if you’re anything like your father.’

  ‘Anything like their father, they’ll end on the gallows.’ Jonathan Hagwood spoke so softly that only Silas Pike, standing at his side, heard him.

  The governor cleared his throat. ‘Now. The news you’ve all been waiting for. I have today received a dispatch from the Home Secretary. He writes that he is pleased to confirm the approval of the Home Office of land grants made to officers of the New South Wales Corps and other individuals …’

  An instant hubbub of excitement erupted.

  Crabbe raised his voice to shout over them. ‘… and to confirm that all provisional allocations already made are now legalised.’

  There was more but the noise in the room was so great that there was no point in continuing. Faces beamed. Men slapped one another on the back, grinning and shouting.

  On the verandah, Jonathan turned exultantly to Pike. ‘You see? So much for your talk of bad news!’

  It was the most exuberant Pike had ever seen him. ‘He could have told us before, I suppose.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ Jonathan took the seaman’s arm and dropped his voice. ‘Now, about this cargo. I have to clear it with the governor first, of course, but that’ll be a formality. Can I take it that in principle you’ll be interested?’

  A voice from the back of the room sounded above the clamour. Gough Tremain’s rich accent rolled about the room. ‘Three cheers for His Excellency the Governor! Hip hip …’

  The cheers roared deafeningly.

  ‘Three cheers for Henry Dundas!’

  ‘Hip hip …’

  ‘What about the cargo?’ Pike asked through the din.

  Jonathan’s face had gone white. ‘That man …’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Always has to push himself in. Everywhere.’ His hands were trembling.

  Real hatred there, Pike thought. That’s interesting.

  ‘The cargo,’ he said again patiently. ‘What can you tell me about it?’

  *

  Crabbe had expected enthusiasm but this was pandemonium. He beamed at Vowles. ‘Wonderful! Wonderful! Now we’ll see things go ahead, eh?’

  But Gough had not finished. He hammered his empty tankard on the wall. ‘Quiet!’

  Around the room voices echoed him. ‘Quiet! Quiet!’

  Gough came forward into the middle of the floor. ‘Everyone got a drink, have they?’ He waved his empty tankard over his head. ‘I know one who hasn’t.’

  Amid laughter, Crabbe called out, ‘Everyone help themselves. Charge your glasses!’

  Talking at the tops of their voices, they obeyed.

  Gough Tremain raised his tankard high over his head. An expectant stillness fell upon the room. Somewhere Elinor Goodall tittered and was shushed furiously.

  Gough turned slowly, looking at the roomful of people, compelling their silence. ‘Our thanks are due to His Excellency,’ he said quietly. ‘And to the Home Secretary back in London and the members of the government. What has happened here today reinforces the confidence of those of us who have all along believed in the future of this colony. Ladies and gentlemen, I do give ’ee all a toast.’

  Suddenly the broad Cornish accent was back in place. He grinned, laughing at himself, at them too perhaps, but nobody other than Hagwood minded. The candlelight flickered over his satyr’s face and heavy-shouldered body. His lips gleamed. This was the man the ladies loved, that Hagwood hated.

  ‘I give ’ee a toast to the future.’ Gough paused, deliberately drawing the moment out. When at length he spoke into the silence that he had woven about the gathering, his voice was like a trumpet, echoing off the walls. ‘Ladies and gentlemen… New South Wales!’

  He tipped his tankard and poured the rum down his throat.

  A moment’s silence, then a chorus of voices answered him, the acclamation crashing like thunder in the enclosed room.

  ‘New South Wales!’

  FOUR

  Jack got away while the party was at its height. He had seen Cash sneak out twenty minutes earlier, when the guests were still clustered noisily around the long tables.

  As Crabbe had promised, the food was plentiful – pork salted and brought from the islands of the Pacific a thousand miles to the east, chickens, fish baked whole, joints of beef and kangaroo, pies and vegetables and fruit, all washed down with more wine, more spirits.

  Jack had wanted to follow Cash but had been unable to get away, enmeshed as he was in the sticky web of the Reverend Pearse’s monologue. He had found him a poor thing, as his father had warned, plump and uneasy, with nervous, rapidly-blinking eyes. He was garrulous on the subject of the sins and wickedness of the colony but wholly ineffectual, it seemed, in doing anything to combat them – he had even failed, after five years, to persuade either governor to provide the funds or labour needed to build a church.

  He was the last person to provide any real spiritual leadership for the colony. The saving of souls would always take second place to keeping on the right side of the governor. Gough had been right in another particular too – the chaplain was certainly not the man to comment on, never mind approve, such contentious issues as the rights of man. Even his voice was listless and whining, but what his discourse lacked in quality it more than made up for in quantity.

  After half an hour, Jack was at his wits’ end but finally Pearse moved closer to the supper tables and decided yes, he would take a plate of the beef with possibly a little fish and a portion of pie, with a piece of bread on the side … and Jack got away.

  He ran down the steps into the darkness. He paused, taking a deep breath of night air. It was cooler now or perhaps it only seemed so after the heat and crush of the reception. Light from the windows fell upon him as he walked along the path beside the governor’s garden. He opened the wicket gate into the lane. The hinges creaked and the indistinct figure of a sentry, trousers a white blur in the shadows, saluted him as he passed.

  He walked quickly up the dusty lane past a couple of small houses. He came to trees, their leaves forming a block of darkness against the silver rash of stars. The water of the stream chuckled quietly over pebbles on its way to join the sea down at the cove.

  He crossed, using the stepping stones placed there for the purpose, and followed the path until he reached the crest of the rise.

  The moon had not risen above the hills on the far side of the harbour although its unseen presence was already silvering the sky in that direction. Lanterns shone along the jetties. He could see the sentries pacing steadily to and fro beneath them. Out in the cove, a rowing boat moved silently between reflections that streaked the black water in gutters of yellow light.

  Cash, he thought.

  The shacks of the c
onvicts glowed like yellow fireflies across the face of the hill. Presumably the convicts off Bellona would be there somewhere. Their reception would have been very different from his own. He wondered how they must be feeling, facing years of imprisonment in this place so far from home.

  He turned. On the other side of the hill, the darkness and silence stretched away. The contrast between the tiny settlement and the vast and brooding continent frightened him.

  How shall we ever learn to civilise this place, he thought. He remembered the purpose of the settlement and the implements used to maintain order – the irons, the gallows, the whipping triangle. How shall we ever learn to civilise ourselves? There is only one way, by bringing the light of God’s word to this place. His word and his justice.

  He continued purposefully along the path in the direction of the lights. The path curved, following the slope of the hill, and he went with it. A twig snapped suddenly. A soldier stepped from the bushes, face shadowed by the tall shako hat, musket aimed at Jack’s temple.

  *

  At the mouth of the cove, beyond the range of lights shining from the scattered houses of the settlement, Cash drifted silently in his father’s little skiff.

  He had a fishing line over the side. The oars rested motionless in the rowlocks. He had been out for an hour and so far had caught nothing. The night was warm, the air still. He looked back at the cluster of buildings about the head of the cove. The sparse scattering of lights was like a solitary constellation in an immense and empty sky. The vast blackness beyond made the hairs lift along his arms.

  The moon had just broken clear of the hills. Its light lay like the blade of a dagger across the black waters of the harbour. On board Bellona and Centaur, riding lights burned faintly. Everything was still.

  Slowly, the skiff drifted towards the rocks that lined the western side of the cove. He could hear the tiny waves slapping against the shore. Cicadas chirped from the bushes that grew in patches of dark shadow amid the stones. A sickle of beach showed white in the thin moonlight. Behind the beach, the slope of the hill was lost in shadow.