Nanberry (12 page)

More spears fell, and more, but none hit the boat. Warriors like Colbee and Bennelong could hit a small rock accurately from the other end of the beach.

They have speared the Governor, the white men's leader,
thought Nanberry. Just him, and no one else. They chose to spear him in the shoulder, not kill him.

This is revenge for the settlement, for the disease, for the stolen women and canoes, for the humiliations.

Captain Waterhouse and the Governor were nearly at the boat now. Father White waded out onto the beach again. He helped Mr Collins lift the half-conscious Governor onto a seat. The rowers began to heave at the oars.

‘Keep him as steady as possible,' ordered Father White. His hands pressed around the Governor's wound to try to stop the bleeding. ‘I will need help to cut it out.'

The Governor was pale and panting. Blood soaked his shirt. His jacket had vanished. Nanberry knew that Bennelong had taken it. He wondered whether the Governor would die.

He wondered what would happen to the colony then.

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, 7 S
EPTEMBER
1790

Rachel had just had a bath — a long one in the tin bath by the fire in the kitchen. It was her first proper wash in weeks, with no worry about Nanberry or the Master coming back unexpectedly and seeing her.

Now her hair was nearly dry again. Her skin was so fresh she felt like singing.

She hummed an old song from home as she peered into the big pot, its outside blackened now from years of cooking over a fire. The stew was done — a haunch of kangaroo simmered all day to make it tender, flavoured with savory and sage, with carrots and potatoes from their own garden. A plum pudding hung from its cloth in the food safe, boiled early this morning before she'd put on the stew.

She had made cornbread the way Big Maggie said an American sailor had showed her, soaking last summer's ground corn in boiling water till it was soft, then adding butter and an
egg, and then baking it on the hearth. It was good to have eggs again, now the hens had started laying after winter. She fed them every morning, early, for if she fed them late in the afternoon the o'possum might steal their corn and cabbage stalks.

She sighed. The Surgeon was proud of his pet o'possum, but she was the one who had to clean up its droppings and its puddles under her bed. You couldn't house-train an o'possum, it seemed, as you would a dog. It left its smell all over the house, a peculiar o'possum scent that you could catch a whiff of as soon as you came in the front door.

She supposed the Surgeon was used to strange smells from the hospital. But she'd had enough of stinks in her life. It annoyed her that her good clean house should smell like a stable. An o'possum under her bed and a black savage at her table. But it wasn't her place to complain.

She glanced out the door. It was almost dark — far past the supper hour — but there was still no sign of the Surgeon. What could have happened? The colony had few candles and lanterns. No one went out after dark if they could help it, except thieves by moonlight. She pulled the pot off the fire and left it warming at the edge of the hearth, then sat turning the Surgeon's cuffs again.

Rrrrraaaaaarrrk!
The o'possum had scrambled up onto the windowsill. It stared at her impatiently, as though she should know that it always woke up at dusk and needed its breakfast.

Rachel put the shirt down and fetched its tin plate then filled it with cold potatoes. The o'possum foraged outside each night now, but still demanded food from its humans. Half the colony hungry, she thought, and potatoes so precious they hang a man for stealing them, and I'm feeding them to an o'possum.

Where was the Surgeon? And Nanberry, for that matter?

At least
he
didn't act like a savage. In fact it was a wonder how well he spoke English. He did what he was told too, and his manners were fit for a king's table.

Where
were
they?

It was growing darker. She put hot bricks in the Surgeon's bed, hesitated, then put one in Nanberry's bed too. Savage he might be, but he was still only a boy. Wherever they'd been, they'd be cold by the time they got back.

She'd twice put more wood on the fire by the time they arrived. She gasped when she saw the Surgeon's face: grey with worry and tiredness. There was blood on his jacket. For a horrible moment she thought it was his.

Panic bit her. What would she do if anything happened to the Surgeon? Then she saw that he moved easily, with no sign of a wound. Wordlessly, she helped him out of his jacket and gave him a clean one off the peg.

‘Sit,' she ordered, pushing a chair with a cushion nearer the fire and bringing a stool for his feet. Nanberry was clearly almost as exhausted. The boy looked like he had been crying. She pushed him into a chair too, then fetched their food and a small table to put it on.

She sat on a hard, twisted kitchen chair herself. She waited till they had eaten their stew, then refilled their bowls before she asked: ‘What happened?'

‘The Governor was speared this afternoon.' The Surgeon's words were short and clipped.

‘By a native?' Many of the convicts had spears now, mostly stolen from native camps.

‘Yes.'

Rachel felt the world shake around her. The Governor was the rock on which the colony stood. ‘Is he …?'

‘Not dead. The wound is to his shoulder. Balmain and I removed it as soon as we got him back here. He will recover, I think, but he's in great pain.'

The Surgeon shut his eyes for a moment. ‘If only we had some safe way to ease pain like that. I offered him laudanum, but he
wouldn't take it, said that he needs to be alert if there is more trouble.'

‘What sort of trouble? Will the savages attack?'

The Surgeon glanced at Nanberry. ‘Well, lad? What do you think will happen now?'

The boy's face grew strangely blank, as though he was trying not to show what he felt. ‘I … I do not think they will attack.'

‘Did you see who threw the spear? Was it Bennelong?'

‘A man called Willemeeerin.'

‘Maybe the native was frightened,' said the Surgeon.

Nanberry shook his head. ‘A warrior like Willemeeerin wouldn't be frightened.' The boy's voice was soft now. ‘I think it was a punishment for the things the English have done.'

Rachel snorted. ‘What have we done then?'

The boy's voice was even softer. ‘You've taken the land, taken the fish and game. Made the water dirty.'

‘It's called a town, that's what it is. Even if you heathen don't know any better.'

‘I am not a heathen.' The boy looked as though he might cry again. ‘I listen to Reverend Johnson. I dress in trousers. I'm not like Bennelong. I'm not!'

‘No one said you were.' She looked at the boy's face, then patted his hand. It was hard to remember, sometimes, just how young he was. ‘Don't you mind. You're a grand lad and don't you forget it. Now you run up and wash and get into bed.'

She waited till she heard the boy's footsteps overhead, and the crash as the o'possum leapt to another branch outside, before she said, ‘How bad is it really?'

‘As I said.' His voice was infinitely weary. ‘The Governor's in great pain. But with good care he will live.'

‘He'll have the best care in the world,' she said gently. ‘Do
you
think there will be more attacks from the natives?'

He stared into the flames. ‘The Governor has ordered that no native be killed in retaliation.' He shrugged. ‘We couldn't survive an outright war with them. There are too many of them, despite the smallpox, and too few of us. Only one of the muskets even fired today. The natives could kill us all in an hour, if they only knew it.'

He bent his head, looking unutterably weary. ‘I must go back and see how the Governor is faring, then to the hospital. I have been gone from it all day.'

‘You need rest,' she said.

‘How can I rest, Miss Turner? There is work to do.'

‘A few hours' sleep. You'll work better later if you stop now.'

He smiled at her, briefly. ‘Perhaps you are right. Just a few hours' rest.'

‘Why do you do it?' she asked suddenly. ‘Spend so much time, all your strength, caring for others? The other surgeons spend most of their time on their farms. But if you're not at the hospital you're on some expedition for the Governor.'

‘He needs men he can trust,' said the Surgeon. ‘There are few enough of them.'

‘And he can trust you. We all trust you. But why? Why not take time — just a little time — for yourself?'

‘I sketch my birds —'

‘By firelight, for men of science to see. That's not for yourself.'

He was silent. At last he said, ‘It is my duty, I suppose. It gives me pleasure to do my duty. To help my fellow man, to do the best I can. Does that seem so very idiotic?'

‘No,' she said quietly. ‘To me it seems the most admirable of all things. Now you go up to bed too. No writing in your book tonight.'

‘I am not a child,' he said mildly.

‘I know. But sometimes you need care nevertheless.'

He smiled at her, then trudged wearily up the stairs.

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
; C
OCKLE
B
AY
H
OSPITAL
, O
CTOBER
1790

Rachel had sent him to take dinner to the Surgeon at the hospital — a good meat pudding. Now Nanberry dawdled on the way home.

He was bored. It was too cold to swim. He could weed the vegetables with Big Lon, but that was boring too …

The days stretched long sometimes. It was good when Father White had time to fish or look for birds or take him hunting. It was good when someone needed him to translate, or explain native customs. But sometimes the space between meals and sleep seemed to go on forever.

What would he have been doing if the English had never come?

He smiled. Hunting bungu and bandicoots with the other boys, probably; making grass traps, skinning the small creatures and roasting them on their own cook fires before going back to the main camp; pestering the warriors to show them how to
spear fish — not with a big spear, forbidden till you were initiated, but with a small practice spear. He would love to have a friend …

He blinked. A young man stood by the rocks; a young man with dark skin, but wearing trousers, ragged but still proper clothes. He was older than Nanberry — almost an adult. His face was stretched out of shape with pain. One hand was pressed against his arm, trying to stop it bleeding. An axe — an English axe, not a stone one — lay at his feet.

It wasn't a total surprise. There had been more native people about the colony in the past few weeks. For Governor Phillip hadn't died. Father White had made him well — or almost well, for Father White said the wound still hurt. And the Governor now wanted to encourage the native people to get to know the colonists — as friends, not vanquished subjects.

The young man saw Nanberry. At once his face lost its pain. He is trying to be a warrior, thought Nanberry, even though he has no initiation scars, nor a bone through his nose or gap in his teeth.

‘Good afternoon,' said Nanberry. He spoke English automatically.

The young man looked at him with eyes so like his own. ‘Good afternoon.'

‘You speak English!'

The young man blinked. He didn't understand. Nanberry switched to Cadigal. ‘Who are you?'

‘Balloonderry,' said the young man around a mouthful of pain.

Nanberry looked at the wound. ‘That is bad. But my father can make it better.'

‘Your father?'

‘My father is Surgeon White. I'm Nanberry White. Come on.'

He turned back towards the hospital. The young man — Balloonderry — didn't move. ‘Why don't you come?'

Balloonderry nodded towards the hospital huts. ‘There are bad people there. They'll steal my axe. They tried to tie me up before, when I went to comfort my sister.'

‘My father won't let them do that now.'

‘You're sure?'

‘He is my father,' said Nanberry simply. ‘How did you get the axe?' he asked curiously. English axes were prized around the harbour.

‘My sister gave it to me. Booroong.'

So this was Booroong's brother. That explained the trousers and the
good afternoon
. He would be of the Bunamattogul people then, like her, from Parramatta. Booroong still lived with Mrs Johnson but Nanberry thought she wasn't happy there.

‘You are under my protection,' said Nanberry grandly. Then he added cautiously, ‘Brother.' He waited to see how Balloonderry would react. It was a big thing to offer brotherhood. And Balloonderry was older than him too. But he had been without friends so long …

Balloonderry considered, the blood still dripping from his hand onto the tussocks. At last he said, ‘I am Nanberry Balloonderry.'

Nanberry grinned. ‘I am Balloonderry Nanberry. Balloonderry Nanberry White,' he corrected. ‘Come on. I'll look after your axe.'

This time Balloonderry followed him.

‘So,' said the Surgeon. ‘You've found a friend.' He sounded approving. Nanberry hadn't been sure how his father would react to a native friend. Because Balloonderry
was
native, despite the trousers.

‘Let's have a look at that.' The Surgeon stretched out the wounded hand. ‘Axe slipped? I've seen a lot of wounds like this.
You sharpen a bit more than you're used to, then
wham
. Lucky it's a clean cut.' He picked up his needle and thread. Nanberry translated and then murmured reassurance as Balloonderry looked wide-eyed at the needle.

But he bore the stitching without flinching or crying out. Nanberry was proud of his friend. Balloonderry would make a fine warrior … He shut his mind to that.

‘There,' said the Surgeon. He poured alcohol over the wound, then washed the blood off his hands in the bowl. ‘Keep it clean and dry, young man. Come back here if it gets red or puffs up or you start shivering.'

Nanberry translated again.

‘I will do that.' Balloonderry's voice was firm, the colour coming back to his cheeks now the ordeal was over. He stared with interest at the hospital hut, the surgical implements in Father White's brown bag, the bottles of alcohol, lavender oil, rose oil, eucalyptus oil and laudanum, the pliers for pulling out teeth, the tweezers, the irons, the amputation case with its bone saw and short and long knives; he pointed at the jar of leeches.

‘Why? You can't eat leeches.'

Nanberry translated.

Father White beamed. ‘That's my leech kit. There's the salt to make them vomit the blood once they have sucked it out. You need your leeches hungry.'

Once more Nanberry translated. Balloonderry laughed. ‘You roll leeches off. You don't put them on.'

‘You put them on bruises, or to bring fever down,' said Nanberry. He had learnt that much from Father White. ‘And that is the cup and knife set for taking blood. That is good when there is a fever too. The English know many such things.'

‘If they know so much why do so many of them die? You need to learn the proper ways to treat fevers. Our ways.'

But your ways couldn't cure the smallpox, thought Nanberry.

The Surgeon still looked at them indulgently. ‘Off with you now. I have a rotten tooth to extract. Trust me, you don't want to be here for that. And be careful with the axe,' he added.

‘Father White, may I take Balloonderry back to the house to eat corn?' Nanberry wasn't sure what the Surgeon would say. When he was with his first family all visitors were welcomed and fed, as long as they hadn't come to steal women or cause trouble. Yet he had never seen a visitor fed at the Surgeon's house. Perhaps only the Governor allowed people who weren't his family to eat at his house.

But the Surgeon smiled. ‘That's a fine idea. You can teach your friend some more English. The Governor wants more of the natives to be friends of the colony.'

So they don't spear him again, or other English, thought Nanberry. But Balloonderry wouldn't be the colony's friend. He would be mine. ‘Thank you, Father!'

‘Funny lad,' said the Surgeon, ruffling Nanberry's hair and embarrassing him, though Nanberry tried not to show it. ‘Of course you may have friends to tea. Now you'd better let the porter bring the next patient in.'

It was good to be away from the hospital again. Nanberry could see that Balloonderry was glad to leave too. ‘Come on. Our house has …' He paused. There was no word in Cadigal for
sacks
. ‘… lots and lots of corn. Rachel will boil it and put butter and salt on it. Rachel is …' There was no word for
servant
either. Or
prisoner
or
pet
, he thought. ‘Rachel cooks.'

Balloonderry hesitated. ‘If I go with you will they tie me up?'

‘Of course not.' Nanberry thrust away the memory of Bennelong and Colbee in chains. ‘They don't do that now. My father was your friend just now.'

Still Balloonderry hung back. ‘Tomorrow maybe.'

Nanberry grinned. ‘Tomorrow then. I will teach you English,' he added eagerly. ‘I will show you the English manners. You can wear one of my shirts and —'

Balloonderry laughed. ‘Why would I want to learn English?'

‘Because … because the English are important.'

‘The English are gunin bada.' Balloonderry used a rude expression.

‘But Father White stitched up your hand! You use an English axe!'

‘The axe is a good axe. But the English are still gunin bada.' For the first time Balloonderry looked at Nanberry sternly. ‘The English are weak. A storm could blow them away! You should be learning how to be a warrior. Can you use a spear? A fire stick? How can you know what needs to be done if you're not with your people?'

‘These are my people,' said Nanberry quietly.

‘Then how can you be a warrior?'

‘I don't need to be a warrior.'

Balloonderry stared at him. Nanberry thought he saw pity on his new friend's face. At last he said, ‘I won't come to eat corn.' He used the English word. He considered a moment then added, ‘But you are still my brother.' Balloonderry began to walk off, holding the axe in his good hand. As he rounded the rocks he turned. ‘Good afternoon,' he said. Then he was gone.