‘Is that so?’ Jack smiled and strolled nonchalantly towards the thin Irishman. Duggan began to edge away but Jack was too quick for him. He took him by the nose and twisted it hard. ‘I’ll tell you what you can say to him. You can say no.’ Duggan cried out and tried to twist free but Jack tightened his grip and held him effortlessly while the Irishman struggled vainly to free himself. After a minute Jack opened his hand and Duggan staggered back, eyes streaming, hands to his injured nose.
‘Tell Thornton I am not for sale,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll stand back to back with my brother against him or anyone else. Against the devil, if needs be.’
‘The devil, is it?’ Duggan cried spitefully, voice clogged with snot. ‘You’ll think you’ve raised the devil, all right, when I tell Mr Thornton what’s happened here. You needn’t think he’ll keep your secrets after this.’
Jack stepped forward and smiled grimly as Duggan stumbled away from him.
‘You want me to throw you in the river, my handsome, you’re going the right way about it. Now, get off my land.’
Jack watched the dark-coated figure as it scuttled away along the path. If Thornton wants to talk, he thought, let him talk. Did he really believe I would buy his silence by betraying my own brother?
*
Thomas Birkett had just left Jessie’s and was walking back along the edge of the water when he was startled by the sudden appearance at his elbow of a man of about his own age with a white and bony face and dark eyes.
‘I wonder, sir, would you be able to spare me a moment of your time?’
Birkett took a step back, hand going to the knife that he had been warned to carry whenever he visited this end of the harbour. ‘What do you want with me?’
The man laughed gently beneath his breath. ‘Don’t alarm yourself, sir. And forgive me approaching you like this. But I saw you passing and decided to take the opportunity to speak to you.’
Birkett was still on guard but the initial panic was ebbing. An educated voice, his mind registered. If Irish. Clothing neat but not new. A clerk, he thought. He’d heard there were several educated fellows among the convicts. What was the name of that pickpocket, reputed to have been a gentleman back home? Barrington, that was it. This was probably another of them.
He had no time for clerks.
‘Did you, indeed? Well, let me tell you I am not interested in having a word with you.’ And tried to walk on.
The man, confound his damn nerve, kept pace with him. ‘I hear you’re a gentleman likes a bit of sport from time to time?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘A game of chance, sir?’
Birkett glanced at him. ‘It is most unlikely you would be in a position to interest me in anything like that.’
‘You may be right, sir. But I thought you might like to know what’s available. There’s what you might call a club, sir. Where one or two people like myself – people who used to be calling themselves gentlemen, you understand – get together most nights for a quiet hand or two of cards.’
Thomas sneered. ‘In some dunghill tavern, I suppose.’
‘As I said, sir, more like a private club. Some food, some drink, a friendly game in congenial surroundings. Pleasant ladies to provide company, should you be requiring it. What could be more pleasant? And of course very discreet.’
‘Gentlemen, you say?’ Another sneer. ‘We probably have different definitions of that word.’
‘There’s a Scots gentleman, a lawyer like myself, sent out here for expressing unfashionable political opinions.’
‘A damn Jacobin, you mean?’
‘I believe he may have learned his lesson, Mr Birkett. He never talks politics at table.’
‘I should damn well hope not.’ He looked at the bony Irishman, permitted himself to strut a little. ‘What stakes? Sixpence an evening, I suppose?’
‘As high as you wish, sir.’
‘You mean people can afford to pay when they lose? I warn you, I’m sharp at collecting gaming debts.’
‘You’d be surprised what money there is in the colony, sir. If you know where to look.’
Birkett stopped. ‘Where is this place?’
‘The back room at the Flying Cock tavern.’
‘So I was right. It is in some poxy gin shop.’
‘At the back. A private room. Quite different from the front bar, I can assure you. And there is a side door. No need to go through the front of the building. More discreet, sir.’
Thomas shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m not interested,’ he said. ‘I cannot imagine why you thought I might be.’
‘As you say, sir. We meet most evenings, sir. Should you feel like joining us, you know where we are.’
Thomas walked on, swinging his arms a little, feeling pleasantly tired after his earlier exertions with one of Jessie’s girls and pleased at the way he had sent the Irishman about his business.
Imagining he would be willing to sit down with a bunch of revolutionary ex-lawyers with ideas above their station … Although a worthwhile game would be appealing after the milk and water stuff he’d had to put up with at the Somers’. He was no longer welcome there, in any case, not since that nonsense with the Tremain scoundrel. Disgraceful when a gentleman got saddled with the blame for something caused entirely by someone else, but that was the colony for you. It would be pleasant to find an alternative form of amusement. But with convicts … He smiled, shaking his head. Whatever would they think of next?
*
At ten o’clock the next evening Thomas Birkett walked down the lane skirting the water on the western side of Sydney Cove. The taverns were doing a roaring business, as every night, and there were plenty of people about. The sound of shouting, of laughter, came from open doorways through which he caught glimpses of figures crammed together amid swirling clouds of tobacco smoke.
The Flying Cock tavern was at the end of the row, with a path leading around the side to the door that the Irishman had mentioned.
Birkett hesitated. A game with worthwhile stakes would certainly make a pleasant change. But with convicts …
He thought of the drunken scum he had seen in the taverns as he walked down here. He could not see the Irishman – ex-lawyer, hadn’t he said? – mixing with riffraff like that. And the Scot he’d mentioned was also a lawyer. Deuced starchy, some of these Scotsmen. Couldn’t see someone like that hobnobbing with the roughs, either.
I’ll give it a try, he thought. If it’s no good, I don’t have to go again.
He walked purposefully down the path to the side door and rapped smartly upon it with the knuckles of his gloved hand.
The thin Irishman opened the door.
‘Mr Birkett,’ he said and smiled. ‘Now there’s a pleasure. Please to come in, sir.’
The Irishman had been right in one thing, Thomas thought, the room into which he now beckoned him was a very different proposition from the rough bars he had seen along the wharf. Well-appointed, candles in silver sticks, it stood comparison with a number of gaming rooms that he had patronised in London. The men to whom the Irishman introduced him were no different from a dozen companions with whom he had played cards in his time – soberly dressed, of good manners and decorum. It was easy to forget their backgrounds and the circumstances that had brought them to the colony.
The gaming, too, was up to expectations. Thomas’s enjoyment of the evening was enhanced by the fact that, when he left to walk home some hours later, he was the richer by over three hundred guineas.
‘You must give us a chance for revenge,’ Duggan said, smiling.
‘I shall,’ Thomas assured him, swaying only very slightly. ‘I shall, indeed.’
*
‘We should get some ’ens,’ Cuddy said.
It had been Maud’s suggestion. Cuddy, a London girl, would never have thought of it. Now, however, she liked the idea.
Cash was reading a cargo manifest. He found it hard to credit that a small vessel with a do
zen men, away for not more than ten weeks at most, needed such mountains of stores and gear simply to function and survive in the southern ocean. And everything at such a price. He shook his head and turned a page.
‘Hens?’ he said. ‘What do you want hens for?’ He did not look up.
Tarred calico, he thought. Why did they need tarred calico?
‘For eggs,’ Cuddy said.
‘Eggs?’ He looked up, frowning. ‘Eggs?’
Patiently she said, ‘We ’ave some ’ens, we can ’ave fresh eggs. Meat, too, when we want it.’
‘Won’t they get taken in the night?’
‘Not if we builds ’em an ’ouse to sleep in.’
‘I’ve better things to do than build henhouses.’
They must take more wood, he thought. Some of those southern beaches had nothing on them but scraps of driftwood. If they needed to build huts …
‘Be company, when you’re away,’ Cuddy said.
He gave up and put the papers on his knee as he stared at her. ‘Company? Hens?’
‘Better’n nuffin,’ she said.
*
The setting sun turned the western ramparts of the distant mountains to lilac that deepened rapidly to purple as dusk stole the blue from the sky.
‘I’ve had a note from my brother,’ Jack said. ‘He’s planning to build a henhouse at his cottage and wants me to give him a hand. I shall be going down in the morning and I want you to come with me.’
‘Oright,’ John Warlock said.
‘I shall be leaving on the tide at six o’clock,’ Jack said. ‘Make sure you’re not late.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
John left to go back to the convict shed with its twin lines of rough bunks where he would spend the night with the rest. Jack had long ago given up locking them in. He often saw them sitting outside after dark, enjoying the evening breeze from the river, the murmur of their intermittent conversation coming softly to him on the breeze. They had given him no trouble. No one had tried to escape. Why should they, they had it easy here.
City boys the lot of them, but they were learning something about farming. The best of the bunch was the youngest, John Warlock. Eighteen years old with grey eyes and a well-knit body, he was doing the usual seven years for stealing handkerchiefs, or fogle hunting as he called it. A likeable lad. Not the criminal type at all. Perhaps he was one of the few who would turn into an honest man, if life gave him the chance.
Jack walked slowly across to the bluff, as he did most evenings, and sat watching the river beneath him, the darkness coming up out of the east. He was sweating although the breeze was cool. The spirit was moving in his blood once again. Spirit. No longer demon.
He smiled, remembering the horror he had felt in the old days. He had prayed and prayed, begging God to take the evil from him. God had not listened. Jack had known despair and, yes, a growing rebelliousness that it should be so. Recently, however, he had had another thought. If God had not listened, it was not because he was indifferent to Jack’s suffering. That was unthinkable. God cared for all his creatures. If God had not answered Jack’s prayer, perhaps the prayer was wrong. Perhaps God did not wish Jack to be cured of his affliction. Perhaps it was not an affliction. Perhaps God had chosen him to exercise God’s vengeance on those who broke his covenant. The idolaters. The blasphemers. Those who permitted their bodies to be used contrary to God’s will.
He watched the light die over the river.
A sword, he thought. I am a sword, uplifted to strike down the evildoers.
*
By the time Jack and John Warlock reached his house Cash had already started on the henhouse. Three pairs of hands made light of the work and shortly after midday the job was done.
‘I thank you both for your help,’ Cash said, rolling down his sleeves. They had some buttermilk in the house. He called to Cuddy to bring it out to them and the three men sat companionably on the grass together, drinking and chewing on some barley cakes.
‘How do you like working on a farm, boy?’ Cash asked John.
He grinned and shuffled his feet, self-conscious at being addressed. ‘Dunno nuffin abaht it.’
‘But he is learning,’ Jack said.
‘Where are you from?’
‘London. Wapping. By the river.’
‘My servant is also from London.’ To Jack, Cash said, ‘I’m not trying to get rid of you but if you want to take advantage of the tide …’
‘I have one or two things to do before I go back to the farm,’ Jack said. ‘But we won’t intrude on your hospitality any longer.’
‘Intrude? You did me the favour, man. If you’re in no hurry, you can have something to eat before you go.’
The two brothers chatted, sprawling on the grass, yet there was a tension about Jack that was new.
Cash shot him a glance. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Shouldn’t it be?’
‘I just wondered.’
‘No need.’ His denial twanged like tightened wire in the still air.
John took the empty jug back to the house.
‘Mind your feet,’ Cuddy said sharply. ‘Don’t you go bringin’ ’alf the countryside into my clean ’ouse.’
‘Nice cakes,’ John grinned.
‘Ain’t no more, if that’s what you’re askin’.’
‘Make ’em yourself, did yer?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Just askin’.’
‘Well, don’t.’
He hovered by the door, looking at her through a mop of brown hair.
‘Soft in the ’ead, are you?’
He looked startled. ‘What, me?’
‘Standin’ there, starin’. Sayin’ nuffin. Ain’t you never seen a girl before?’
‘Not one looks like you I ’aven’t,’ he said, suddenly bold.
She sniffed. ‘Nuffin special ’bout me.’ But she was pleased.
‘I ’eard you used to be up at Parramatta.’
She glared at him suspiciously. ‘What abaht it?’
‘Used to work for Jed Smales. That’s what I ’eard.’
Cuddy lost her temper. ‘Never you mind who I used to work for! I works for Mr Tremain now and don’ you forget it.’
‘I never said nuffin,’ he protested.
‘One thing I can’t abide,’ she said. ‘A boy with too big a mouth and not the sense to know when to keep it shut, ’ere,’ she told him, pushing plates at him, ‘if they’re plannin’ to eat, you can put these plates on the table. An’ mind you don’ drop ’em.’
*
Around the gaming table the faces of the players, grave and attentive above the white stocks, the sober black clothes, ebbed and flowed in the flickering light. Alcohol buzzing in his head Thomas thought, at least there’s something sober around here. The idea amused him; he giggled.
He drew another card. A queen. He tried to think, narrowing his eyes as he stared at his hand, willing the cards to stay still. Duggan had the king, he was reasonably sure of that, and he had already played the six. All right, he thought. He slapped down the queen.
The Scotsman on his left smiled and played the king.
Lost again.
By two o’clock Thomas was down over five thousand guineas.
He snapped his fingers for another drink. He couldn’t believe how the cards had gone against him tonight. A few early wins, then a succession of disasters. Even when he had good cards, someone always had better. Well, some evenings were like that.
‘You’ve been having terrible luck,’ Duggan said, concerned. ‘Sure you wouldn’t sooner take a break? See if your luck turns?’
‘Luck?’ Thomas seized the cards. ‘Luck?’ Through his teeth. ‘I’ll show you what luck is, by God!’
He dealt again, feeling the sweat under his arms. He scooped up his hand. He couldn’t help it, he had to laugh. The best hand he’d had all night. He looked out of the corner of his eye at his companions but they were all concentrating on their own hands and had
apparently not heard him.
They played and he won back almost everything he had lost.
‘Now we’re talking,’ he crowed. ‘Now the luck’s turned. You fellows had better watch out.’
The next hand he lost over two thousand guineas. The one following, almost eight.
Ashen-faced, fingers trembling, Thomas stared at the table as the reckoning was worked out.
‘Nine thousand, nine hundred and forty-three,’ Duggan said. He proffered the piece of paper. ‘You want to check it?’
Thomas shook his head mechanically. ‘I’ll have to give you an IOU,’ he said, striving for nonchalance.
‘That’ll be no problem,’ Duggan assured him. ‘We know you’re good for the money.’
Good for the money, he thought later, lurching homewards. Apart from a few meandering drunks and the odd figure curled up in the shadows, the streets were deserted now. I’ve nothing. I daren’t write to the old man. He hears about this, he’ll disinherit me altogether.
They’ll have to wait, that’s all. I’ll pay them when I’ve got it. Can’t say fairer than that.
He stumbled over a loose piece of rock in the roadway and nearly fell. He cursed and carried on his wayward way, eyes blind to the night, to the stars-filled sky. Only one thought occupied his mind.
Ten thousand guineas.
Dear God.
*
That night a girl of sixteen came out of a tavern on the waterfront and walked deliberately along the path leading to the wharf. She was badly dressed but striking-looking, with bold, dark eyes, and before she had gone a hundred yards she was accosted by a tall man who spoke briefly with her before leading her along a narrow lane between two houses until they reached an open patch of ground. There was no one else about. They lay down beneath a tree. They had sex together, then he beat her violently and cut her throat. When she was dead, he dipped his forefinger in her blood and lovingly drew a cross upon her forehead above the blind and staring eyes.
‘I mark thee with the sign of the cross,’ he said.
The sign of Christ’s forgiveness.
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