Command (38 page)

Renzi smiled and bowed again. “Madame, Mr Nicholas Renzi of—of Wiltshire.”

Offering her gloved hand the lady responded, “And I, sir, am Mrs Elizabeth MacArthur. My husband is of the military and we
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have interests on the land. Pray walk with me for a space, sir, we seldom see interesting strangers. The sun is so obliging today, don’t you think?”

“By all means, Mrs MacArthur,” Renzi replied with feeling.

The last time he had held intelligent converse seemed an impossible age ago.

“A strange and beautiful land, Mr Renzi. And so distant from all else in this world. Would it be so impertinent of me to enquire what brought you all this way?”

Renzi hesitated. “I believe I am to establish an estate, of an agrarian nature of some size.”

There was an immediate guardedness in her manner as she shot him a keen look. “Oh, then I find I must pray for your success, Mr Renzi. I do hope you are not constrained in the matter of capital,” she continued carefully, watching him. “This is such an odious country at times.”

“That is of no matter,” Renzi said airily. “It is only by unre-mitting diligence in agricultural husbandry of the first order that will bring forth the fruit of the soil, as the celebrated Coke of Holkham does so truly inform us,” he added.

“Oh,” Mrs MacArthur said faintly, as they moved on. “Tell me, Mr Renzi, how do you mean to conduct the affairs of your estate? There are so few skilled stewards of the land to be had at this remove. Will your holdings be . . . extensive, do you think?”

she added lightly.

“Not at the first, I shouldn’t imagine.”

“Um, a substantial portion, perhaps . . . ten thousand acres?”

“Oh, not quite as much to begin with, I believe,” he answered uncomfortably.

“Then?”

“Perhaps—a hundred acres or so,” he said lamely.

“A hundred! Mr Renzi, what will you do with a hundred acres?”

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“I’m seeding corn at the moment, and I thought later swedes or wurzels would answer.”

“S-swedes and . . .” She stopped and stared at him in amazement. “I thought—dear Mr Renzi, forgive me. Do I understand that you have come all the way from England for a hundred acres of . . . ?” Her look softened and she touched his arm. “I can only admire your faith in our country—but the land here is harsh and barren, the vegetation strange and noxious, the soil thin and parched and the seasons quite topsy-turvy. Men have tried to grow your corn and with so little success, and—and I fear your swedes will not find so ready a market.”

They walked on in a taut silence until she resumed sadly, “One day this will be a fine land—but not for an age. It will be tamed by men of vision such as yourself, but not in grain or any other cropping. Our future will not be in whaling, trading or even coal.

We need a commodity that can be shipped for long months without decay, that is difficult for the world to produce. In short we must have sheep, Mr Renzi. Merino sheep with the finest wool there is, but which demands so much open range. That will be our future.”

Slowly Renzi stripped off his finery and laid it in the chest, fighting the depression that had clamped down on him. He pulled on the threadbare workaday jacket and trousers, their stink of sweat almost unbearable. The canvas roof of the hut was now mil-dewed and in places hung in rotten strips; his treasured books were starting to fox and fade.

He went outside to speak to the convicts. At least within the hut was stored three bags of good seed-corn and he would have it in the ground as soon as he could get the lazy swabs to stir themselves.

Tranter was hacking morosely at the earth with his hoe while Flannery, in neat, economical and perfectly useless movements,
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tickled it. Renzi snapped at the pair with foul sea oaths and was rewarded with dull smiles and a marginal increase in energy.

Damn it, but he was going to win or die for Cecilia. For her sake he would see past the present setbacks, dreariness and hard labour into the time to come when his achievement was secure and he could proudly lay before her—

“Wha–?” There was a tremor of fear in Flannery’s voice as he pointed down to the edge of the land. Renzi followed his direction. An Aborigine had suddenly appeared noiselessly out of the trees, and now stood still as a statue, watching them.

This was not one of the tame black men who hung about the town in rags but a quite different species. Naked, he was daubed with white clay in patterns and adorned with animal’s teeth and a bone through his nose. He clutched a barbed spear near twice as long as himself.

“What’s he want?” Tranter asked loudly, nervously lifting his hoe.

Two more Aborigines appeared silently and stood behind the first. “They’s coming f’r us!” yelled Flannery. “I’m away, begob!”

He dropped his hoe and ran back down the track. Tranter scrambled after him, leaving Renzi to face them alone.

The first Aborigine lifted his spear and shook it, uttering hoarse cries. The others joined in, noisy and menacing, stamping on the ground. Then they dropped to a crouch and began to advance over the clearing in short zig-zag dashes.

Renzi hurried to the hut and rummaged frantically until he found his cheap musket. They were closing with no doubt of their intentions: one threw his spear and it whistled past Renzi’s ear, piercing the side of the hut. He raised the gun in an exaggerated flourish but they came on undeterred.

Renzi tried to think. The musket was supposedly loaded but the priming might have been damped by the rain. And even if it

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was ready with a live charge what should he do? Fire off his only shot to try to frighten them—or shoot into their bodies?

The first Aborigine was now yards away and snarling with the effort of bringing back his spear for a throw. Renzi took aim and fired. The heavy ball flung the man backwards; he flopped several times on the ground, mewling, then lay still. The others vanished as noiselessly as they had come.

Renzi hesitated, but only for a second: it was probable that they would be back. There was no time to be lost. Taking only his musket he ran down the track to the Caley cottage and explained breathlessly what had happened. A makeshift defence was mounted and they waited for an attack.

The hours passed and eventually Caley looked at Renzi and said pointedly, “Don’t hang about after a spearin’, usually.”

“I’ll go back,” Renzi replied. “If they’re still about I’ll fire a shot.”

He tramped along the track to his property—and stopped rigid at the sight that met him. Where the hut had stood was now a ruin. His possessions were strewn about, the chest robbed of the clothing and, most heartbreaking of all, his books were torn and scattered in every direction.

Trembling with emotion, he tried to take in the pitiful scene. A lump in his throat grew until it threatened to choke him.

“So kind of you to come at this notice, Mr Kydd,” Governor King said importantly. “Do sit—I have a matter of some gravity to discuss with you, touching as it does on the security of our colony.”

Kydd was mystified. There had been wild rumours about the French, at the moment lying peacefully across the harbour and about to sail soon, but this would scarcely concern him.

“Do I understand it to be the case that you will be returning to England shortly?” King asked.

“Aye, sir—just one or two matters still in hand that should not delay me long.”

“Then we can count ourselves fortunate, Mr Kydd, for there is a service of some urgency that you, sir, are uniquely suited to perform for us.” King steepled his fingers and held Kydd’s eyes. “The French and we are now at peace. Yet this does not mean there is no danger to be apprehended from that quarter—they are in need of an overseas empire for their trade concerns, and are active in that object.

“And now, sir, that which I expressly warned their lordships about is come to pass. Colonel Paterson informs me that he overheard Commodore Baudin’s officers speaking in warm terms over

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dinner of their intention to effect a plantation of their people in the island of Van Diemen’s Land, 500 miles to our south, now it is proven to be a separate land mass from New Holland.” He paused. “I need not trouble to detail to an officer of the Royal Navy the severe strategical consequences of the French maintaining a species of fortress there!”

Kydd nodded gravely. Van Diemen’s Land had no settlements of any kind by any nation, and therefore stood as an empty wilderness awaiting the first to claim it. To lose the territory would be a catastrophic blow and its consequences could not be greater for this distant outpost of England. “Sir, does not th’ government know of this as a possibility?”

“They have been informed,” King said heavily, “and will, no doubt, respond in time. However, to wait for most of a year for a reply is not a course open to me. I would be judged harshly by the future, sir, were I to sit passively by while the territory is ex-propriated by others. Therefore my duty is clear: I intend to plant a colony of our own in Van Diemen’s Land, with or without instructions and support from England.”

“Sir.” Surely he was not being asked—

“It is essential that we act as speedily as we are able, but even so, to prepare in depth for a descent that is permanent will take time. The French are sailing: we need to act now to forestall them, not wait cravenly. It has always been my conviction that M’sieur Baudin, being a principled gentleman given right of free passage as a scientifical, would not think to violate its terms, but he has a master in Paris who would not hesitate.

“This is at the least a serious reconnaissance for the most pro-pitious place for a first French colony, and at the worst . . .” King paused significantly. “I do believe they intend to move very soon on Van Diemen’s Land and by landing a small party thereby establish a claim.”

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With a growing apprehension Kydd heard King out. His sympathy was all with the man who was making positive, vital decisions in total isolation. The stakes were clear: this was the reality of the clash of empires at first hand, the striving of nations that would end in this vast land speaking one language or quite another, an allegiance to Crown or to revolution. It was a situation in which a false move by either could result in misunderstanding, even war.

“Mr Kydd, I have no vessels of force I can send to persuade the French from their course, not even one King’s ship. Therefore I must proceed by other means.”

He went to his desk and pulled out several large sheets of paper. “These are Commander Flinders’s notes of his recent explorations. You see they are not yet made up into a sea chart but they will be adequate for our purposes.”

“Sir, ye haven’t said—”

“My plan is to dispatch two vessels south—one to the west of Van Diemen’s Land and the other to the east. They are to find the French and by any means dissuade them from their intentions.”

“Er, dissuade, sir?”

King’s eyes went opaque. “You will understand now how pleased I am that at these times there is an officer of renown and discernment at present here in New South Wales. Mr Kydd, it is not within my powers to appoint you to a naval command but as governor I may make you master into a colonial government vessel. Should you accept, you will have my full support in any action you deem necessary upon a meeting with the French. Will you consider serving your country thus?”

“Of course, sir,” Kydd said instantly. How else could he respond?

“Thank you, sir. You have no idea how this eases my mind in these very unusual times. Shall we get down to detail?

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“Lieutenant Robbins will take the westerly search in
Cumberland
and yourself the easterly in
Suffolk.
I apprehend that the most likely places for the French will be Port Dalrymple in the north or somewhere in the Derwent to the south. This is not to discount the possibility that they will consider an initial landing on the large northward islands, therefore I am requiring that Lieutenant Robbins will go to the west, including King Island, while you will take the easterly half. Is this clear?”

“Sir. Th’
Suffolk—
what sort o’ vessel is she?”

King looked apologetic. “The same as
Cumberland,
an armed schooner, country-built here in Sydney Town. Very handy craft, we use ’em for every task. Forty tons, square sail on fore and main, I should think well suited for your use.”

Forty tons! A sixth the size of little
Teazer—
but then he recalled that Flinders’s famous circumnavigation of Van Diemen’s Land had been in a like-sized vessel.

“Well, Mr Boyd, let’s be about th’ storing,” Kydd said briskly to the mate.
Suffolk
was indeed tiny—and so was her crew: just eight seamen and Boyd. Six of the eight were convicts on ticket-of-leave, but to Kydd’s eye they seemed diligent and competent enough.

There was little more to be done than store for a three-week voyage; clearly the schooner was to be employed because she was available. Bobbing to a single buoy off the jumble of structures that was the shipyard, she was heaved in to the little jetty and a chain of men set to loading.

It was a commonplace sight, yet this plain-looking craft was shortly to leave the colony for regions of the south that had been unknown to man just six months previously, and on a mission contending for dominance with a foreign power.

Kydd’s written orders had just arrived, with what could be
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gleaned from the maps and observations of explorers down the years: from the Cook of thirty years ago through to the recent discoveries of Flinders. And it would be Thomas Kydd, former wigmaker of Guildford, who would navigate in those same name-less waters.