Command (34 page)

A tiny piece of colour fluttered from the southern headland; as they watched, it dipped and rose again. They shortened sail, then hove to safely offshore. The pilot was not long in slashing out to sea in his cutter.

Renzi watched as he climbed aboard; thin and rangy and with a well-worn coat, he looked around with interest as he talked with Kydd, and soon
Totnes Castle
was under way again for the last miles of her immense voyage.

They passed between the spectacular headlands into a huge expanse of water stretching away miles into the distance. The first captain to see it had sworn that it could take a thousand ships-of-the-line with ease.

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Helm over, they continued to pass bays and promontories, beaches and rearing bluffs. Densely forested, there was no indication of civilisation—this was a raw, new land indeed and Renzi watched their progress sombrely.

Quite suddenly there were signs: an island with plots of green-ery, a clearing ashore, smoke spiralling up beyond a point—and scattered houses, a road, and then, where the sound narrowed, a township. Substantial buildings, one or two small vessels at anchor, a bridge across a small muddy river and evidence of shipbuilding. And, after long months at sea, the reek of land.

Powerful, distinctive and utterly alien, there were scents of live-stock and turned earth overlain by a bitter, resinous fragrance carried on the smoke of innumerable fires.

After a journey of fourteen thousand miles, the torrid heat of the doldrums and the heaving cold wastes of the Southern Ocean, across three oceans and far into the other half of the world,
Totnes Castle
’s anchors plunged down and at last she came to her rest.

“Please y’self then—an’ remember we don’t change after, like.”

“No, no—I understand,” Renzi replied. The boorish Land Registry clerk sat back and waited.

It was unfair. Renzi was being asked to make a decision on the spot affecting the rest of his life: which of the government blocks of land on offer would he accept as his grant? But then he realised that more time to choose would probably not help, because many of the names were meaningless. Illawarra? Prospect Hill?

Toongabbie? He had turned down land along the Hawkesbury river in Broken Bay—it was apparently isolated and miles away up the coast—but he had read that expansion was taking place into the interior beyond the Parramatta River.

“Where might I select that takes me beyond the headwaters of the Parramatta?” he asked.

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The clerk sighed. “There’s a hunnered-acre block goin’ past Marayong,” he said, pushing a surveyor’s plan across.

It was a cadastral outline of ownership without any clue as to the nature of the terrain but, then, what judgement could he bring to bear in any event? The land was adopted on either side so it could be assumed that it was of farming quality. “That seems adequate,” Renzi said smoothly. “I’ll take it up, I believe.”

Within the hour, and for the sum of two shillings and sixpence stamp duty, Renzi found himself owner and settler of one hundred acres of land in His Majesty’s Colony of New South Wales, and thereby entitled to support from the government stores for one year and the exclusive services of two convicts to be assigned to him. The great enterprise was beginning . . .

Naturally it was prudent to view his holdings at the outset, and as soon as he was able he boarded Mr Kable’s coach for the trip to Parramatta. This was his country now and he absorbed every sight with considerable interest.

Sydney Town was growing fast: from the water frontage of Sydney Cove continuous building extended for nearly a mile inland. And not only rickety wooden structures, but substantial stone public buildings. Neat white dwellings with paling fences, gardens and outhouses clustered about and several windmills were prominent on the skyline.

The coach lurched and jolted over the unmade roads, but Renzi had eyes only for the country and the curious sights it was reputed to offer. He heard the harsh cawing of some antipodean magpie and the musical, bell-like fluting of invisible birds in the eucalypts. He was disappointed not to catch sight of at least one of Mr Banks’s kangaroos—perhaps they only came out at certain times of the day.

Parramatta was drab and utilitarian. His books had informed him that this was the second oldest town in the colony, but with

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his land awaiting ahead he could not give it his full attention and hurriedly descended from the coach to look for a horse to hire.

Avoiding curious questions he swung up into the saddle of a sulky Arab cross and, after one more peep at his map, thudded off to the west. The houses dwindled in number as did cultivated fields and then the road became a track, straight as a die into the bush.

Gently undulating cleared land gave way to sporadic paddocks that seemed vast to Renzi’s English eye. Then the pathway pe-tered out into an ill-kept cart-track through untouched wilderness. He knew what he was looking for and after another hour in the same direction he found it, a small board nailed to a tree, its lettering now indecipherable.

He took out his pocket compass, his heart beating fast. This was the finality and consummation of his plans and desires over the thousands of miles: this spot was the south-east corner of his property—his very own land into which he would pour his capital and labour until at last it became the grand Renzi estate.

He beat down the ground foliage, then found a surveyor’s peg and, on a line of bearing nearly a half-mile away through light woods, another. One hundred acres! In a haze of feeling he tramped about; in one place he found a bare stretch on which, to his great joy, a family of big grey kangaroos grazed. They looked up in astonishment at him, then turned and hopped ef-fortlessly away.

Bending down he picked curiously about the ground litter.

Coke had stressed the importance of tilth; this earth appeared coarse and hard-packed under the peculiar scatter of the pungent leaves of eucalypts. Renzi was not sure what this meant but the first ploughing would give an idea of which crop would be best suited. He wandered about happily.

As the sun began to set he had the essence of his holding.

There was no water, but the lie of the land told him there must
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be some not far to the north. For the rest it was light woods of the ubiquitous piebald eucalypt trees and a pretty patch of open grassland, if such was the right description for the harsh bluish-green clumps. With a lifting of his spirits he decided the Renzi residence would be on the slight rise to the south.

Back in Sydney, he tendered his indent at the government stores: tools, grain, tents, provisions, even rough clothing. The obliging storeman seemed to know well the usual supplies asked for and the stack of goods grew. Fortunately he was able to secure the immediate services of a drover with a small team of oxen—for a ruinous price—and set them on their creaking way amid the sound of the ferocious cracking of bull-hide whips and sulphu-rous curses, his year’s supplies piled high in the lurching wagon.

Finally he attended at the office of the principal superintendent of convicts. There was no difficulty with his labour quota: he had but to apply to the convict barracks at Baulkham Hills with his paper.

In a fever of anticipation Renzi arrived at Parramatta with all his worldly possessions, rounded up a cart and horse, and very soon found himself with two blank-faced convicts standing ready; one Patrick Flannery, obtaining goods by deception to the value of seven shillings, respited at the gallows and now two years into his seven-year exile, and Neb Tranter, aggravated common assault and well into his fourteen-year term.

“My name is Renzi, and I am to be your master.” There was little reaction and he was uncomfortably aware that they were staring glassily over his shoulder with heavy patience. “Should you perform your tasks to satisfaction there is nothing to fear from me.”

Flannery swivelled his gaze to him and raised his eyebrows.

“An’ nothin’ to fear from us, sorr!” he said slowly, in an Irish brogue.

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“Very well. We shall be started. This very day we shall be on our way to break the earth near Marayong for a new farming estate.”

“This is t’ be yourn, sorr?” Flannery asked innocently.

He nodded proudly.

“Ah, well, then, Mr Rancid, we’ll break our backs f’r ye, so we will.”

With his convicts aboard in the back of the cart, Renzi whipped the horse into motion and swung it in the direction of his land.

Neither the sniggering of bystanders nor the childish waving of his convicts at them was going to affect his enjoyment of the moment.

As the miles passed and they neared their destination Renzi allowed his thoughts to wander agreeably. Perhaps it was time now to bestow a name on the estate: in this new land so completely free of historical encumbrances he was able to choose anything he liked—
Arcadia intra Australis
suggested itself, or possibly something with a more subtle classical ring that would impress by its depths and cunning allusion to a hero in an Elysium of his own creation.

Surprised, he saw they had arrived at the board on the tree.

“Er, here is, er, my land,” he said.

The two convicts dropped to the ground. “Thank ’ee kindly, sorr,” Flannery said, with an exaggerated tug on his forelock and a sly smile at Tranter.

“Do we unload, Mr Rancy?” Tranter asked, his eye roving dis-approvingly over the virgin bush. He was older, his large frame now largely desiccated but for a respectable grog belly.

“Of course we—” snapped Renzi, then stopped. At the very least the undergrowth had to be cleared first. The tools were all in the ox-wagon, which had set out well before them but they
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had not passed it on the way. “No—not yet,” he muttered, and tried to think.

The two grunted and stood back, arms folded, eyes to a glassy stare again.

“We wait for the wagon—it should be here soon,” he said, with as much conviction as he could muster.

A flurry of subdued pattering on leaves began, then dripped and took strength from the cold southerly that now blustered about, soaking the ground and their clothes.

“What now?” said Flannery, in a surly tone.

Renzi could think of no easy answer. In the ox-wagon there were tents and tarpaulins; here there were books by the caseload and attire suitable for a gentleman of the land. How long would that pox-ridden wagon take to heave itself into sight?

“I know whut I’m a-goin’ to do,” said Flannery. “Hafter you, Mr Tranter.”

“No, Mr Flannery, ’pon m’ honour! After y’self.” Then the two dived as one to the only dry spot for miles—underneath the cart, which was still yoked to its patient, dripping horse.

Obstinately Renzi held out for as long as he could, until the heavy wet cold reached his skin. Then he crawled under with the two convicts, avoiding their eyes.

“Mr Flannery?” grunted Tranter. “Yez knows what Marayong is famous fer?”

“What’s that, then, Mr Tranter?”

“Why, snakes, o’ course! This weather they firkles about, lookin’ for the heat o’ bodies t’ ease the cold. Shouldn’t wonder if’n there’s some roun’ here,” he said, looking about doubtfully.

“Have a care, then, Mr Tranter—they’s deathly in New South Wales, one nip an’ it’s all over wi’ ye!”

Renzi ground his teeth—nothing could be done until the ox-wagon came up and the delay would cost him another day’s ex-tortionate hire of the cart and horse. At least, he thought wryly,

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he had the last word: if he was to lay a complaint of conduct against the convicts they would be incarcerated in cells instead of having the relative freedom of the outside world.

Later the next morning, with the wagon arrived and the tents finally pitched, tarpaulins over his stores, Renzi felt better. In fact, much better: he had Flannery and Tranter down range hacking trees to form an initial clearing with instructions to preserve the boles for use in constructing living-huts. It was time to step out his floor plan. It was to be a modest three rooms, with perhaps out-houses later—the details could wait.

With a light heart he went to see how the two labourers were progressing. “What are you fellows up to?” he demanded, seeing one lying at his ease on his back chewing a twig and the other picking morosely at the ground. “You can see how much work we have to do.”

“Aye, don’t we have a lot o’ work indeed?” Flannery said.

“An’ all with this’n.” He held out his mattock. The flat part was a curl of bright steel where it had bent hopelessly.

Renzi took it: cheap, gimcrack metal. Either the government stores had been cheated or he had. He rounded on the other. “On your feet, sir! If your duties are not to your liking you may certainly take it up with Superintendent Beasley.”

Tranter did not stir. “I’m wore out,” he said sullenly, flicking away his twig.

Renzi held his temper. “Get a fire going, then, if you please.

You shall be mess skinker for tonight, and we both desire you will have something hot for us at sundown.” Irritably, he brushed away the flies that followed him without rest.

It was hard, disheartening work, felling the gums and man-handling the trunks up the slope to Renzi’s clearing. By sundown there was nothing but a derisory pile of thin logs and a large, untidy heap of brushwood scraps. But a fire spread an acrid smoke
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that deterred the flies and in the gathering blue dusk Renzi pulled out his collapsible card table with a chair and collapsed wearily.