Nanberry (10 page)

C
OCKLE
B
AY
, 15 J
ULY
1790

Rachel Turner sat on the grass down the hill from the hospital tents. Except it isn't real grass, she thought, but stumpy tufts. And the trees here were too blue and the sky too high and clear.

It had been nearly a year since she'd been out in daylight — and over two and a half years since she'd sat under a blue sky — but she was sure she remembered what trees should look like.

Not like these.

This was a land of forest to the horizon, far too much of it, and only huddles of mud huts and ragged tents for a town. Even the few stone and brick buildings were surrounded by mud. Soldiers went barefoot, dressed in rags; convicts patrolled the streets and assisted in the hospital. Around her a few others who had survived the voyage managed to stumble out of the tents and stare around.

This was a strange world indeed.

But Rachel had been in worse. Prison, with rats and slimy
straw and buckets of filth unemptied for days. The horror of the ship's hold. She wondered if the whole fleet had been as bad as the
Lady Juliana
. A few buckets of stew let down for the lot of them to grab at, three mouthfuls a day if you were lucky. You only got proper food, ship's biscuit and salt beef, if you gave the sailors and marines what they wanted.

She'd said yes to a man once and look where it had got her. She wasn't doing it again. She'd rather starve.

And so she had.

She closed her eyes against the too-bright light. At least she was here, and not bearing a sailor's bastard either, like so many others, some poor scrap that the father wouldn't claim, off with his ship again before the babe was even born.

At least she was alive. Even if the trees
were
strange, she decided to like them. She'd had enough of city streets, the stench of other people.

Twice before she was sure she'd soon be dead — once when the judge condemned her to death for stealing the silk scarf, the petticoat, the apron. That young barrister, Mr Garrow, had got witnesses who swore the Master had given them to her as a present, that they'd seen her and him in the taverns, with him talking all sweet and kind and buying her gin and mutton pies. And all the time his wife lying in her bed, giving birth to his baby …

The Master had lied. Five times, he'd lied: once saying he loved her, that he'd give her nice things. Once, to his wife, saying how Rachel had stolen the clothes. The third time he'd lied had been to tell Rachel that if she confessed she'd stolen the clothes to his angry wife then he'd see she went free and got another job.

The next time he'd lied had been to the Bow Street runner his wife had called, when Rachel had obediently said she'd taken the clothes, sending her to gaol. The last time he'd lied to the judge, calling her a thief.

She was no thief. Mr Garrow believed her. No barrister had ever argued in a court before, bringing witnesses to say someone was innocent. But Mr Garrow had, because he believed her and believed in her.

But the judge hadn't liked Mr Garrow arguing for her. Prisoners were guilty — why else would they be there? The judge had put on his black hat. He said that Rachel must die, hanged by her neck for the crowd to jeer at.

She'd sat on the filthy straw of Newgate, waiting for the gaolers to come to take her to the gallows. Instead she'd heard cheering in the streets outside.

She crowded up to the bars with the other prisoners, till one of the gaolers came in, slurping from a pint of porter. ‘The King is cured!' he yelled. ‘Long live the King!'

‘A pox on the King!' That was Big Maggie. ‘He's mad, ain't he? And he's alive and we is goin' to be dead. Why should we cheer for him?'

The gaoler leered at the ragged women in the cell. ‘Because, fine ladies, King George ain't mad no more. An' to celebrate they says you lot ain't going to be hanged.'

Every woman in Newgate got seven years' transportation to New South Wales instead of death, in honour of the King's cure. Rachel wondered grimly if they'd haul her back across the sea to hang her if the King went mad again.

She took a deep breath. The stink of the
Juliana
was still with her, in her hair; the stench of the clothes burning in piles around the cove hung heavy on the town.

But there was clean air here too. It tasted of winter, despite the sunlight. She shut her eyes again briefly against the glare. She still wasn't used to the light, not after the months of dark in the ship, the shadows of prison. Even when she'd been free in London the sky was always grey with smoke, or yellow fog. She'd hated the smoke and fogs most when she'd first come to London to work
as a servant. She'd been only twelve, an innocent from a tiny village, dreaming of a grand life as a servant in London Town, a housekeeper one day maybe, or even a blacksmith's wife, with a servant of her own.

And this is where her dreams had led her. Ragged and starving in Sydney Town, a prison at the far end of the world.

A shadow bent over her. She opened her eyes again. A man picked up her wrist, and felt her pulse. ‘Symptoms?' he asked briefly.

‘Wh-what?'

He peered down at her over his waistcoat and gold watch chain. A man of importance, she thought, despite his mended coat. ‘What's wrong with you? Fever? Bowels running?'

‘I just shut my eyes, that's all. The light is so bright.'

He let her wrist go. ‘You don't need anything?'

She gave a half-smile. ‘I'd like my life back. Failing that, a bowl of stew.'

For a second she thought she saw sympathy in his eyes, but he spoke almost harshly. ‘We have little enough food,' he said. ‘But what we have, we share.'

And then he was gone, back to the hospital tents to help some other poor wretch, she thought.

How did the King expect them to live, when he sent them to starve in New South Wales?

C
OCKLE
B
AY
H
OSPITAL
, 16 J
ULY
1790

The winter wind still wailed up from the harbour. Surgeon White placed another note against the names on his list. He'd written ‘Died' against too many names, but plenty of others now had ‘Work Detail' next to them. The men who had recovered enough were put to work clearing land at Rose Hill for more maize and potatoes. The women were assigned as ‘housekeepers' to members of the new New South Wales Corps, or crammed into huts together to mind their young, or the babies they were soon to bear.

He looked down at the next convict in line. It was a young woman. She had found some way to wash, for her hair as well as her face looked clean. He'd talked to her before, he realised. She had even made some attempt to put her hair up under a stained but clean cap. Once, perhaps, she might even have been pretty.

‘Name?'

‘Rachel Turner, sir.' He found her name on the list.

‘Are you with child?' he asked abruptly.

She gazed up at him, her voice steady. ‘No, sir.'

‘Are you well enough to work?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Then report to the Work Master down at the stores. We'll find another place for you.'

‘In some man's bed?'

He froze. Had fear made the woman reckless? Why else would a well-spoken servant girl say such a thing to a gentleman? ‘What do you mean?'

‘I see the way the men look at us. You've got a colony of men here. Soon as I get out of hospital I'll be fair game.'

‘We have women.'

‘But not enough, sir. And no one to protect us.'

‘Few of the wretches here seem to want protecting.'

‘Have you asked us?' she said bitterly.

He stared at her. ‘Can you cook, Miss Turner?' The words left his mouth before he realised.

‘Would you believe me if I said yes?'

‘Just answer. Can you cook? And clean and sew?'

‘Yes, sir. And do them well,' she added, ‘though it's been over two and a half years since I had a chance.'

‘I need a servant. My present girl is getting married.'

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is she now?'

He looked down at her sternly. ‘Married by the Reverend Johnson. She goes from my protection to her husband's. The banns have been read. There is no immorality in my house, Miss Turner.'

She said cautiously, ‘You have a real house! How many would I be working for?'

‘There is just me, when Maria goes, and my adopted son, Nanberry. He is a native.'

‘A native!'

‘They're not all naked savages. He wears clothes like any English boy, and he speaks better English than most of the men here. You will treat him with respect, as befits my son.'

‘I can do that. So just the two of you?'

A smile lifted his mouth. He looked different when he smiled. ‘And one other.'

‘Who is that?'

‘An o'possum.'

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, 16 J
ULY
1790

She found her way to the house by asking. Everyone, it seemed, knew Surgeon White.

It was a good-enough house; nowhere near as big as the Master's back home, but solid. The enormous garden behind it held fruit trees and rows of vegetables, and a paved area with a trough out the back for washing vegetables or mucky hands or feet, or plucking feathers.

She had nothing to bring; no change of clothes even. She knocked on the door. A small girl opened it. Rachel looked again and saw it was a young woman, but tiny, her head hardly up to Rachel's shoulders. She wore a respectable servant's apron, but it had a frill around it, and there were frills on her sleeves too. The frills were the first sign of fripperies Rachel had seen since they landed.

‘You're Maria? I'm Rachel Turner.'

The girl looked her up and down — though mostly up — suspiciously. ‘The Master told me to expect you. Come in.'

Rachel followed her down the hallway to the kitchen. The room was warm, wonderfully warm, with a strange woody smell from the fire and an even better smell from the stew bubbling in a giant pot on the hearth. No salt beef or pork in that, she thought. It smelt like fish and potatoes, the best thing she'd smelt in too many years.

She looked back at Maria. It had been years too since she'd seen a girl so healthy, her hair so shining and clean. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I'm only out of hospital this morning.'

‘The Master told me.'

‘That smells good.' She nodded to the pot.

Maria picked up a bowl from the dresser and wordlessly served Rachel a large portion. It was delicious, and not just because the food was fresh.

‘There's thyme and parsley in this?'

Maria gazed at her. ‘You
can
cook then.'

‘Yes.'

‘The Master said you could.' Maria shrugged. ‘You might have been lying.'

‘I don't lie.'

‘Then how did you land up in New South Wales? We're all of us crooks and liars here.'

‘I was innocent.'

Maria's smile had no humour in it. ‘There isn't a convict in the land who doesn't say that.'

‘In my case it's true.' Rachel shook her head. She was too unsteady still to argue with the girl. And there was no point making enemies in a new place. She tried to sound friendly. ‘The Surgeon said you're getting married. Congratulations.'

For a moment Maria's face softened. ‘Jack is a good man. Not like most. The Master saved his life! And his leg too. He's
farming up-river at Rose Hill now, wheat and corn and potatoes. He's got hens and two pigs and everything.' Her face glowed at the idea of the hens and pigs. ‘He says I'll eat like a queen. One day he'll buy me a silk dress too.'

‘A silk dress?'

Maria looked at her levelly. ‘One day we'll have dressmakers here, and silk dresses too. We'll have a proper town at Sydney Cove.'

Rachel stared at her. How could this girl think that this collection of huts and convicts on the edge of the wilderness could ever be a proper town? That it might ever have a shop that sold silk dresses?

Let her have her dream, she thought. And then, what if she's right? All cities had to start somewhere. She'd heard that American cities had been huts once. Who knows what might happen here?

This girl had sense. Both of them were stuck here. Even when they'd served their sentences she doubted that either would have the money to pay for her passage back to England. And what was there for them back there? Best to dream what might be, rather than dread what might never happen.

‘When do you get married?'

‘Tomorrow.' Maria still stared at her. Rachel grew uncomfortable. What was wrong with the girl? She'd done nothing to annoy her, had she?

‘He'll never lay a hand on you, you know,' Maria said suddenly.

Rachel blinked. ‘Who?'

‘The Master. He's a gentleman. Not like most here. He'll treat you proper, but he won't take you to his bed. So you make sure you work hard and do right and don't waste your time making sheep's eyes at him.'

Rachel almost smiled. So the girl was protecting the Master who had looked after her. It said a lot for her — and him.

‘I'll work,' she said.

‘I'll show you your room. You'll have to share the bed with me tonight. After that …' She smiled, as though she couldn't help it.

‘You'll be with your Jack.'

Maria nodded, leading the way up a narrow set of stairs. ‘That's Nanberry's room. He's a good lad, even if he's a native.'

‘Does he have a spear?' asked Rachel nervously.

‘No! The very idea. You'll get no trouble from him. Mad for ships, he is. Just remember that he sits at the table with the Master like a gentleman, and don't expect him to do no servants' work. That is the Master's room. He doesn't like it if you go in when he's in there, nor in his study downstairs neither. He keeps his specimens in there.'

‘Specimens?'

‘Birds in bottles of spirit, leaves and dried flowers and such. Some of them don't half stink. But they make him happy, and it's our job — your job now — to
keep
him happy. He does a lot for people, Surgeon White. Now this is my room, your room from tomorrow.'

She opened a rough plank door into a small room. An open window looked out down to the harbour, its shutter folded back to let in fresh air. But the bed was a proper one, with bedstead and feather mattress and quilt, all smelling clean and fresh. Rachel sniffed in delight: yes, even a scent of lavender. There must be a bush outside.

‘There's water in the basin if you want a wash.' And Maria left, shutting the door behind her.

The water was cold, but welcome — there had been little fresh water for washing down at the hospital. There was no looking glass, but she tidied her hair as best she could. She was just lifting her skirts to go downstairs when something growled at her.

She stopped, and listened. The sound came again, an almost
hoarse laugh, and then another rumbling growl. It was under the bed. Something was under the bed. Not a dog. She knew what a dog's growl sounded like.

She stepped back towards the door and bent down. She could just see a pair of eyes, glaring at her from under the drooping edge of the quilt: big black eyes. The monster growled again.

She screamed as the beast rushed out at her. Its claws dug into her legs and clambered up her dress; it perched on her shoulder, its claws digging into her skin again. Slowly she turned her head to look at it.

No monster, despite the size of its eyes and growl. It was no bigger than a large cat, with claws like a cat's too. It stared at her, and made a chattering sound. It still sounded angry.

She moved slowly to open the door with her other hand, then carefully walked down the stairs, trying not to jolt the creature.

‘Maria …'

The girl looked up from the shirt she'd been ironing. She laughed. ‘You've met the Master's o'possum.'

‘Will it bite?'

‘Yes, and scratch you too, but not as long as you don't startle him. Here.' She handed her a cob of corn. ‘Give him this.'

Rachel held the corn up. The animal took it and jumped down onto the table, glaring at her as though it was her fault it had taken so long to get its treat. It held the corn in its tiny paws, and began to gnaw.

She had never seen anything like it. She stared at it, entranced, as it absent-mindedly scratched an ear then went on munching. ‘It's beautiful.'

‘Aye, well, it can be a nuisance too.' But Maria was smiling. ‘You'll see all sorts of strange beasts here. Animals with long tails that jump instead of run. All manner of birds too. The Master's written a book about them,' she added, as proud as if she had written it herself.

Rachel stroked the creature's head with a finger. The fur was the softest she had ever felt. The creature accepted it for a moment, then threw the corncob down and jumped with surprisingly strong legs onto the floor and out the window.

‘His basket is on the table by the window. You have to keep the shutter open so he can get in and out. And he likes to sleep under the bed sometimes too.' Maria picked up the iron again and spat on it to see how hot it was.

‘Can I do that?'

‘You can iron?'

‘Yes.' Rachel smiled. ‘I'd offer to scrub the floor, but I can't see that it needs it.'

Maria handed her the iron and watched as she pushed it over the cloth then exchanged it for another heating by the fire. For the first time she looked approving. ‘Come upstairs when you've finished the ironing,' she said at last. ‘You'll need another dress, and another petticoat and apron and some cuffs and collars. The Master likes you to look fresh. I've some cloth laid by — old sail cloth, not dress material, but it'll do. If we both get to it, it can all be done by tomorrow.'

Rachel said nothing for a moment, trying not to cry. How long had it been since anyone had done anything for her, without asking for something in return?

‘Thank you,' she said at last.

Maria nodded, satisfied.