Command (39 page)

Lost in reverie he did not notice at first the familiar figure on the jetty. “Nicholas! Ahoy there—step aboard. Ye’re very welcome!” Remembering his friend’s vow of separation Kydd wondered what Renzi was doing there, then noticed, with concern, the sun-darkened complexion, the worn clothing, the deep lines in his face.

Renzi made his way up the gangplank. “Mr Kydd—Thomas,”

he said, but did not offer to shake hands. Kydd’s heart tightened.

Something was wrong. He remembered the doctor’s words in Guildford about a tendency to depression after the fever, leading some to suicide.

“Why, Mr Renzi—Nicholas. Is there aught I c’n do for ye?”

He kept his tone as neutral as he could.

“There is, sir. I have a request of you,” Renzi said awkwardly.

“Name it!”

Renzi looked away quickly, and when he turned back, his face was unnaturally set. He fumbled for words. “Er, you will know that the colonial government sets great store by the securing of a staple, a sure source of income for the colony as would allow it to stand alone.”

“Aye, but you would know more o’ this, Nicholas,” Kydd said warmly, trying to encourage his friend to relax a little.

As if following a set speech Renzi continued, in the same tone,

“And being consonant with my diversifying of agrarian interests it occurred to me that an opportunity exists to combine the two with advantage. In fine, it would oblige me exceedingly should I be able to investigate the seal fisheries of Bass Strait at the first hand with a view to an investment.”

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Kydd was taken by surprise. “Er, is it—”

“I will be plain. Do you see your way clear to providing me passage south to learn of the fisheries? You may be assured of any payments involved,” he added, with a trace of pathetic defiance.

There was no room in
Suffolk
for any passenger—and in any case, as far as Kydd knew, he would not be touching at any law-less seal-catching islands. “Dear friend, d’ ye understand that there’s nothing I’d like more, but m’ hands are tied. This is t’

be a government voyage o’ grave importance an’ these concerns must come first.”

“I—have heard. All New South Wales knows of what is being planned. It so happens that yours is the only vessel this six weeks that is venturing south,” Renzie said coldly, then added,

“It might be said, however, that my mission falls not far short of it in importance for the longer term of this colony.”

“Nicholas. If it’s known as I’ve taken advantage o’ my position as master to offer passage to a friend . . .” He stopped. For some reason of his own Renzi needed desperately to reach the sealers; he had to help and he racked his brain for a solution. “Mr Renzi, it gives me th’ greatest pleasure t’ offer ye th’ post of official interpreter to the
Suffolk
mission. The wages are, er, a penny a day an’ all found.” Faultless French would be indispensable when it came to the delicacies of a confrontation—and, damn it, they had to water the vessel, why not at a sealers’ island?

“That will not be necessary,” Renzi said stiffly. “You may rely upon my duty, should it come to a meeting with the French.”

“Ye shall berth in my cabin,” Kydd said. It was all of eight feet long and five broad but they could take turns in dossing down.

“Shall we have y’ baggage?”

Suffolk
left Sydney Cove in a fine north-westerly, the schooner leaning to the wind before rounding Pinchgut Island for the run down to the harbour entrance, careful to leave the ugly boiling of
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white water that was the Sow and Pigs reef well to starboard.

The first deep-sea swell lifted their deck as they shaped course to pass between the Heads, the open ocean spreading in a vast expanse ahead, the vivid blue of the sea and the vaulting white of the cheerful clouds washing away the memory of the dross and dirt of the land.

Safely out to sea the tiller went down and
Suffolk
headed southward. She was plain but sturdily crafted, and took the seas on her bow with a willingness that resulted in a lively pitch and roll. Kydd let Boyd conn the vessel; he guessed that the other man was the usual master of
Suffolk.

He had last crossed these seas in
Totnes Castle
but shortly they would reach Bass Strait. Its very existence had been unknown to him then: he had brought his ship south about Van Diemen’s Land, through the high seas and gales of the Southern Ocean.

Now he was to enter largely uncharted waters; if they were shipwrecked they might lie undiscovered for years—it would be prudent to consult again the notes and charts he had brought.

The tiny cabin was not occupied: Renzi was standing by the foremast looking shoreward. On impulse Kydd came up to him but his light words died before they were spoken: Renzi had shown no sign that he was recognised. Kydd left quietly.

They reached thirty-nine degrees south in a streaming north-easterly and it was time: instead of continuing south past the mass of Van Diemen’s Land
Suffolk
angled south-westerly directly into the strait, heading as fast as she could for a point just half-way along the remote north coast, Port Dalrymple, so recently surveyed by Flinders.

If the French were to be anywhere this was the most likely place. Reputed to be the finest sea sanctuary for five hundred miles, with a capacious river longer and wider by far than the Thames at London, it would make an excellent place for a settlement.

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23

However, a hundred and fifty miles of rock-and-island-strewn sea lay ahead and all that Kydd had was a chart of generalities compounded from those who had hazarded their ships there, and the tracks of the few explorers who had been this way. Anything out of sight of their line of advance would not appear on a chart.

Only the most strict vigilance of the lookouts would preserve
Suffolk.

The north-easterly, however, veered into the east and freshened; the schooner plunged and bucketed in seas that had turned gun-metal grey and Kydd’s anxieties increased. If the winds veered much further towards the south they would be headed, and he had no wish to be tacking about in the darkness of these waters.

Late in the afternoon an irregular stretch of land was sighted: it had to be Van Diemen’s Land. Kydd’s reckoning placed it close to their goal but caution made him order a seaman forward with a lead line. When soundings were fifteen fathoms he let go anchor and waited out the night.

In the morning it was simply a matter of deciding whether their destination was up coast or down but Kydd quickly spotted the bluff and the sandy beach leading along to a low finger of land that Flinders’s notes indicated was the entrance to Port Dalrymple. They passed by slowly offshore and confirmed the broad opening before turning to make their approach.

Baudin’s
Geographe,
or
Naturaliste,
was probably snugly at anchor inside, her company busily occupied in building a fort, perhaps laying out the settlement ready for the settlers to come.

A confrontation would be worse than useless, vastly outnumbered as they would be, and he would be lucky to avoid an international embarrassment.

He was in possession of letters from the governor of the colony of New South Wales indicating that His Majesty considered that the Act of Possession of the First Fleet at Botany Bay in 1788

was binding in the case of Van Diemen’s Land, and that he would
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regard any infringement of sovereignty as an unfriendly act.

It was a thin pretence: the separation of Van Diemen’s Land into a distinct land mass invalidated any claim that included it.

What Kydd planned was a bluff: he would sail in innocently and display much surprise at the French landing. Had they not heard of the British settlement at the other end of the island in the south? That their claim had been preceded by an act of colonisation some time before? With luck, this would buy time.

With the biggest ensign aboard fluttering at the main the Colonial Armed Schooner
Suffolk
bore down on the low rocky point, marked “Low Head” on the chart, the entry point for Port Dalrymple. A sweeping curve of sandy beach came into view but Kydd had eyes only for the wicked reefs that Flinders had been so at pains to fix, especially the dreaded Yellow Rock.

The water was visibly shallowing and the dark writhing of bull kelp below the surface was a menacing token of the under-sea crags to which it clung; the betraying blackness fringed with white of a half-tide jumble of stones was another reef towards mid-channel but the notes sturdily promised safe passage if they kept to the Low Head side of Yellow Rock.

They passed beyond the low finger of land and a vista of the upper reaches of the river opened up—a remarkable view of a broad channel with deep-sea access, flanked by land so different from New South Wales. Kydd’s glass was up instantly, searching for tall masts, sweeping the banks for any sign of habitation, flag poles, huts.

There was nothing, but this was only the start of miles of navigation into the interior at any point of which the French might have decided to make their settlement. Inside Low Head, a shallow but perfectly formed semi-circular beach beckoned and Kydd anchored both bow and stern, then had the boat readied. “Mr Boyd! I’m steppin’ ashore t’ see what I can. Give me a gun should

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ye sight anything.” He went over to Renzi, who was sombrely watching the shoreline. “Nicholas, should y’ desire t’ stretch y’r legs . . .”

“Thank you, I do not,” Renzi said distantly, and resumed his vigil.

Kydd took hold of his feelings. If the next few hours ended in grief it would be his name attached to the failure, his the blame for the consequences. Someone to share this, even just by sympa-thetic understanding . . .

“Shove off,” he growled. There were two seamen at the oars, another in the bows. The boat stroked inshore until it crunched into pale sand in the centre of the beach. Kydd clambered over the thwarts and dropped over the bows. There was a musket in the boat but he was unarmed: he had no plans to stray far.

Bare dunes fringed the beach, behind them the dark green of vegetation. Leaving the men to stay by the boat he puffed to the top of one dune and looked down on a tangle of gnarled, papery-barked white trees and feathery casuarinas around the still, brown depths of an inland lagoon. There was no indication that man had set foot there before, no road, no track or anything other than the whispery quiet of a land as old as time.

He shivered and turned back to face the broad reaches of the river, and from his higher elevation raised his telescope and carefully quartered the scene. The far bank seemed flat and swampy with the blue of distant hills, and everywhere the dark green of continuous verdure right to the water’s edge, so unlike the parched soils and stark landscapes of Port Jackson.

He wandered down and around the lagoon, tramping noisily through the undergrowth as he looked for signs. There might well be black people living near, Kydd reasoned, who could tell him if other Europeans were about. Or be fiercely hostile to any who trespassed on their land.

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Nothing. And all around strange eucalypts, harsh grasses with the occasional ghostly pale dead gum tree and the haunting fragrance of oils released from crushed leaves.

He scrambled back; the tide water had receded but the seamen had kept the boat afloat. Kydd squelched out to it. There was nothing for it but to set out upstream.

In the beguiling peace of the placid waterway
Suffolk
spread topsails and left the entrance astern. There was an ageless som-nolence to the river. From the time of creation until just a year or two ago this land had never seen a white man; now Kydd’s own track would be added to the few on the chart.

A near conical misty blue peak rose above the distant trees.

Mount Direction. It was over twenty miles further on and had been recorded by Flinders as of more value than a compass, given the several local magnetic anomalies that had distracted him. Kydd seized on the sight for its human connection in the unknown wilderness.

The schooner sailed on. For a dozen miles they were able to steer a straight course. Then they followed a lazy bend to bring Mount Direction ahead once more for another eight or nine miles of easy sailing through country that, but for its untouched verdancy, might have been in Oxfordshire.

It was peaceful yet eerie, sailing in such a picturesque landscape—an unseen river shoal might bring their voyage to a lurching end, or the sight of a stockade and fort would herald the presence of the French. For nearly thirty miles they made their way until they reached the limits of Flinders’s exploration: it was far enough. Kydd was not equipped as an explorer and the river had contracted considerably. Wherever else the French had gone, there was no sign of them in Port Dalrymple.

His orders were clear: the next most probable site for a French settlement was in the far south, at the other end of the island. Yet

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27

could they possibly be anywhere else in the north? Somewhere in the fifty-mile sprawl of the Furneaux Islands at the north-east tip of Van Diemen’s Land? Robbins in the
Cumberland
was convinced that they would be found at King Island in the corresponding north-western tip.

Should he not at least take a look first before committing to the voyage south? The Furneaux group, however, made a perilous maze of islets and shoals, and any kind of inspection would take days. There had to be a quicker way of finding Baudin and his ships.

He had it. He would go to Renzi’s sealers and ask them if they had seen the French. And there was a prime place to go—