Pirate Boy of Sydney Town

by Jackie French

  None of the officers seemed to have sons or daughters Ben’s age; or if they had, they’d been left at school in England. Even Mrs Moore’s son, Andrew, had been sent to England for his education. Ben spent the picnics watching the Indian women (for that was what the officers called the native race here) fishing in their tiny bark canoes. Once he saw a young black-skinned man standing motionless in the water for an hour, about fifty yards away from the picnickers and yet ignored by them, his spear poised. Suddenly it flashed and he hauled up a giant fish, the spear in its side, its scales glinting as it twisted in its death throes. Ben clapped. The young man turned and grinned at him, holding up the fish triumphantly. Ben laughed, and clapped again.

  Mr Huntsmore broke off his conversation. ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Not funny, sir. The Indian man over there just caught a fish.’

  ‘Remarkable achievement,’ said one of the officers dryly, ‘to catch a fish.’

  Laughter rippled around the gathering.

  And yet it had been remarkable, thought Ben as the young man and his fish vanished into the trees’ shadows. To stand still for so long so the fish didn’t suspect your presence; to spear it so fast and accurately before it could speed away. But there was no point trying to defend the young man’s skill to people who hadn’t even seemed to realise he was there.

  The first urchin arrived at the Huntsmores’ rented house during their second week in Sydney Town. Ben opened the door when he heard the knock. It still felt odd to act as butler. But the house had no doorbell, and neither Maggie nor Higgins could hear a knock from out in the kitchen.

  Ben stared at the thin, ragged boy on the doorstep. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You Mr ’iggins’s son?’ the boy demanded.

  ‘No, I’m —’

  ‘Does ’e live ’ere then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The boy held out six buttons in a grimy hand. ‘’E wanted buttons. Said I’d get six baked potatoes for ’em.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ began Ben as Higgins appeared behind him.

  The convict took the buttons, then gave the boy a brief tap on the ear. ‘Deliveries at the back door only. You’ll get your potatoes there too. No, not through the house, boy. Nobs only through the front door.’

  He gave the urchin another cuff, and the boy grinned and ran around the house towards the kitchen door.

  ‘You’re getting beggar boys to do the marketing?’ demanded Ben.

  Higgins looked innocent. ‘Marketing? No. Just gettin’ together a few of the necessities.’

  ‘Those buttons were stolen?’

  Higgins shrugged. ‘Your pa needs new buttons on his coat. No buttons for sale in the markets or at the chandler’s, except for wooden ones, which wouldn’t suit your pa.’

  ‘You asked that boy to steal for you?’

  Higgins looked at Ben levelly. ‘That boy’s been a thief since he was old enough to slip his hand into a pocket. Half the young’uns here don’t know their pa nor ma. You goin’ to tell him to take them buttons back? Snatch his potatoes from him?’

  The boy reappeared munching a baked potato with the speed of someone who knew the only safe place to store food was in his belly. Ben was silent.

  More urchins arrived with various items and left with baked potatoes. Higgins began to sport a red velvet waistcoat for his jaunts beyond the house. The scissors that had been lost on the voyage were replaced. A set of kitchen knives arrived for Maggie. The household had tubs of fresh butter, which almost never appeared in the market, and were used to make the boiled puddings they’d need on the voyage — far superior to those made from the rancid salt butter shipped from England. There was even a pocket-knife for Ben, which looked surprisingly like the one he had lost on the voyage. He wondered now if one of the crew had stolen it while he was sick and it had now been stolen back. Or was this a similar knife taken from its lawful owner?

  Ben looked at Higgins’s smile as he held out the knife, hesitated, then took it.

  ‘Thank you, Higgins,’ he said.

  Higgins winked at him. ‘Told you I looks after me own,’ he said.

  ‘Letter for you, young master,’ said Higgins when he brought in the tea tray late one afternoon. As Ben’s father wasn’t there, his tone was insolent even if the words were respectful.

  ‘For me?’ Ben asked. ‘Has a ship come in?’ Maybe it was a letter from the rector back home.

  ‘Not from a ship,’ said Higgins. ‘One of the stall holders in the market were askin’ about an Ebenezer Huntsmore. He give it to me.’

  Ben took the letter. No envelope, no stamp, and no money to be paid to receive it or Higgins would have asked for it. It was just a sheet of paper — rough paper that might once have been wrapping paper — kept closed with a lump of melted beeswax, but no seal pressed into it. He opened it and saw the name at the bottom — Sally. He smiled, then noticed Higgins was still waiting.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ Higgins asked.

  ‘I thought you’d have opened it,’ said Ben shortly.

  Higgins grinned, showing the gaps in his teeth. ‘Would have if I could’ve read it. Didn’t get no learnin’, or not the kind that taught me me letters.’

  ‘It’s from a friend,’ said Ben.

  ‘What kind of friend? Government House has its own seal, and I reckon the officers do too. And men like your pa.’

  ‘She’s a farmer’s daughter, and the rest is none of your business.’

  Higgins laughed. ‘You’re my business, sonny lad. Young’uns have been my business for the last ten years.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to pickpocket for you,’ said Ben. ‘Go away.’

  He had never been rude to a servant before. But Higgins was . . . Higgins.

  ‘Yes, master. Certainly, young master,’ said Higgins, and he pulled the warped door shut behind him with exaggerated care.

  Ben looked at the letter again. Sally’s writing was neat — neater than his — and tiny, to fit in as many words as possible, though she hadn’t written across the page as well as down it, as so many did to save paper.

  Dear Master Huntsmore,

  I hope this finds you in good health, as it does me. It was good to meet you in Sydney Town. I have been worried about how you are, so Papa said I could write to you and say that if your father agrees, we would be very glad for you to visit us here if there is time before your ship sails.

  I think you would like this farm. Papa says it is not like farms in England, where the houses are made of stone and the fences too, and it is green and wet all the time, and the sheep get footrot and sometimes the wheat rots too and even the potatoes. I do not think I would like an English farm even if the houses are larger.

  Our house gets bigger every year as Papa and the men build new rooms after every harvest. They built new convict quarters this year too as we now have fifteen men working here. The men are clearing more land, ringbarking the trees then burning them, then grubbing up the roots. Some farmers don’t bother with the roots, which Papa says is short-sighted as you cannot plough properly with roots still in the ground.

  I have a pet cow called Betty and my horse is called High Lady. You met her at the market. If you don’t have a horse, I would be happy for you to ride her, but Papa says you could ride his horse too. Frederick said you can’t ride his horse, but I think he will say yes because if he won’t let you ride his horse, I won’t make him any pancakes. He is two years younger than me and should do what I say, but he doesn’t think so!

  There isn’t any other news, except eight of the sheep had twins and we have to bottle-feed two of them, and the young hens have begun to lay and Frederick shot a native cat trying to eat the chickens. The dingoes can be a problem, but now we have enough men to guard the sheep. I also found a wild beehive last week and got lots of honey. Papa says that in England the bees sting. England does not sound a hospitable country, with stinging bees everywhere and footrot as well.

  If you deliver an answer to the Sergeant’s Arms, they
will see it reaches me.

  Your respectful friend,

  Sally Appleby

  PS This is the first letter I have ever written, so I hope I have done it correctly.

  PPS I hope you can visit.

  The house had no study, much less a library. Ben crossed to his father’s room, took a sheet of writing paper from the waterproof compendium and sat at the narrow table, dipping the pen into the inkwell.

  Dear Miss Appleby,

  Thank you for your letter. I wish I could come and visit you, but we are going to sail this week, as soon as Captain Danvers says the winds are right.

  I wish I could show you a farm in England. It is colder and wetter than this colony but beautiful, and the land is neat with lanes and fields. We never got blight on our wheat at Badger’s Hill as we were careful to grow it in the sloping paddocks, not by the river, and we grew a short-stemmed variety that matures even when it is a short summer. It does not crop as well as the long-stemmed varieties, and you cannot use the stems for thatch, but it is more reliable.

  He blotted the words, then hesitated. It hurt too much to write more about Badger’s Hill.

  I am going to send this to the Sergeant’s Arms. I hope they can send it to you as I don’t know the address of your farm.

  I hope this reaches you before our ship has sailed.

  He blotted the paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell again, then added:

  Would you perhaps be coming to the market again soon? I will be there every day till we sail, just in case.

  Please present my best wishes to your family.

  I remain yours respectfully,

  Ebenezer (Ben) Huntsmore

  He folded the letter, wrote Miss Appleby, Hawkesbury River, care of the Sergeant’s Arms on it, automatically looked for the bell pull to call a servant, then took a candle along to the kitchen to light it so he could seal the letter with wax.

  The kitchen was a separate room behind the main house so that stray coals from the kitchen fire couldn’t burn down the entire house. Higgins sat at his ease on a chair near the window, its wooden shutters open to catch the breeze from the harbour, while Maggie chopped cabbage at the table. The kitchen fire was banked, with only a few coals glowing.

  Ben waited for Higgins to stand when he entered the room and ask what was wanted. He didn’t. Ben flushed, then crossed to the fire and lit the candle himself. He held it out so the wax could drip onto the folds of the letter.

  ‘Writin’ a reply, are you? Want me to deliver it?’ Higgins still didn’t get up. Instead he stretched out a hand for the paper.

  Ben hesitated. But he had no wish to face a public house by himself, nor the pickpockets and beggars around it. He pressed the candle wax firmly with his thumb, then passed it to Higgins. ‘You need to take it to an inn called the Sergeant’s Arms.’

  ‘I know that one,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s by the market, not the docks.’ She winked at Higgins. ‘You’re out of luck, matey. Sells more ale than rum, and more steak and kidney pies than either.’

  ‘What do I want with a steak and kidney pie with a good mutton stew waitin’ for me here?’ Higgins replied.

  He rose lazily, stretched and ambled out the door.

  An hour later he scratched on Ben’s door, then opened it. ‘The sergeant cove says your young lady will be at the market day after tomorrer. Meet her at the stall sellin’ apples two down from the water tank. Best be there early, if we ain’t sailed already.’

  ‘So soon!’ Ben hadn’t thought Mr Appleby would have anything more to sell at the market after their last visit to Sydney Town.

  Higgins stared at him. ‘You ain’t figured it out yet?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Higgins sighed. ‘I ain’t as green as I’m cabbage-lookin’, Sneezer. Here’s you, the son of a shipowner, all rich and respectable like, and there’s her, daughter of two ex-cons. Course you’re a bit young, but no pa is goin’ to turn down the chance of a match with a cove like you.’

  Ben flushed. ‘You read my letter!’

  ‘Can’t read, matey. Remember?’

  ‘You gave it to someone else to read then.’

  ‘Course I did. I told you — I keeps an eye on me lads.’

  ‘I am not your lad!’

  ‘But I says you are,’ said Higgins softly. He looked at Ben for a long moment, then added suddenly, ‘Stay here when the ship sails. His Nibs’ll let you, if you ask nice. You could gammon him, tell him you got the fever again. I can smudge a bit of soot about your eyes, make you look as if you’re sweatin’.’

  ‘No!’ said Ben.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it would be cowardly. And cheating.’

  ‘And stealin’ Dutch treasure by sneakin’ up on ’em ain’t cheatin’? It ain’t cowardly to stay safe, boy. Only a bottlehead risks his life when he don’t have to. Let your pa bring home the bacon while you stays safe.’

  ‘The Dutch are our enemies. It’s our duty to fight them.’ Ben tried to convince himself too.

  ‘Good thing they’re rich then, ain’t it?’

  Higgins shut the door. Ben heard his footsteps retreat down the hall. Both the threat and the insight whirled for attention in his mind. How dare Higgins! But what if he was right? Should Ben stay here? No. His honour demanded that he sail with his father. If he was going to share in the treasure, he must share the risk. How could a convict like Higgins understand honour?

  Nor did he think Sally’s letter was part of a plot to have him marry her. Mr Appleby seemed too honest to be involved in trickery despite being an ex-convict. And Sally had wanted to help him before she knew who his father was.

  It would be seven years before Ben could marry anyone without his father’s permission, which Mr Huntsmore certainly wouldn’t give for the daughter of an ex-convict. Ben wouldn’t even be in New South Wales when he was old enough to marry or even have thoughts of marriage.

  But he liked Sally. She obviously liked him too. He hoped the Golden Girl didn’t sail till after he’d met her again.

  CHAPTER 8

  Two days later the hoped-for winds still hadn’t arrived, though Captain Danvers was optimistic there’d be a wind change the next morning. They were to sleep on board that night, to sail beyond the heads with the tide.

  Ben left Higgins to carry his portmanteaux to the ship after he’d dressed carefully in his best breeches and coat. He’d be conspicuous in this land of drabs and rags, but he wouldn’t feel comfortable meeting a young lady — even if she was the daughter of an ex-convict farmer — in more casual clothes.

  Sally hadn’t said what time she would meet him. He suspected that the Applebys might not even own a timepiece. The convict work bell had just sounded as he walked down the lane from their rented house. Men in convict-issue clothes strolled casually to their workplaces, except for the chained work gangs, who limped between their overseers and their whips.

  Dogs scratched, and men milked goats in the nearby gardens, but there were no women to be seen. It seemed that the few women in this colony were soon taken as servants and lived in their masters’ houses rather than the convict barracks.

  Ben wondered what Higgins’s lot would have been if he hadn’t hauled him up from the hold. A work gang? No, Higgins was too sly for that. He’d have ingratiated himself into an easier role somehow.

  The market stalls were already in place, the stall holders folding the tents they’d slept in or unloading the wagons they’d slept beneath. Here at least there were some women: a cheese-seller as fat as her cheeses; and two younger women on a stall selling baskets of eggs, bunches of red radishes and sacks of maize still on the cob.

  Ben tried to work out which apple stall was the second from the water tank. There were many apple stalls. Apples were as plentiful as cabbages and rhubarb at this time of year.

  Nearby, a convict in a sacking apron hauled up a dead sheep slung on a hook. The man slit the skin and began to punch the hide away from the flesh. A pair of yellow-eyed dogs
lay watchful, waiting for scraps.

  Cries began to rise around Ben, familiar from his weeks in London: ‘Pies! Fresh pies!’; ‘Fisho! Fisho!’; ‘Cockles and mussels! All alive-o!’; ‘Lavender! A penny a bunch!’

  Ben wondered who in this colony would buy lavender. Officers’ wives, he supposed. Impulsively he held out a penny. ‘A bunch, please.’

  The wizened convict grinned at him, showing black gums. ‘Make it threepence and I’ll tie it with a ribbon. Pretty ribbon for your pretty lady.’

  Ben had only seen women selling lavender back home, but here he supposed it was a job for any man unable to do heavy work. ‘Yes, please. A ribbon.’

  He took the bunch, and its scent suddenly reminded him of his mother, of the linen chests at Badger’s Hill. Mama had the maids put fresh lavender bags in every linen chest each summer . . .

  ‘Master Huntsmore?’

  He turned. Sally wore a brighter dress today, a new yellow one not faded by the colony’s too-strong sun. Her hair was loose, tied back from her forehead with a matching ribbon.

  She smiled at him tentatively, curtseying as he bowed. ‘I’m so glad to see you. I thought you might have sailed.’

  ‘Please call me Ben. We sail tomorrow with the tide, I think. You . . . you look pretty.’ He held the lavender out to her.

  She blushed. ‘Thank you. You can call me Sally. Mama and Papa are just beyond the market.’

  They must have camped overnight, Ben realised. He followed Sally through the growing market crowd and over a slight rise. The land here was almost park-like, with scattered trees — attractive if you ignored the drab colours — and shaggy tussocks that weren’t grass, the quartz-bright soil gleaming between the clumps. A few tents were still standing, and hobbled horses picked at nosebags or the tussocks. A pen of sheep complained. Ben wondered if they were destined for the butcher’s knife.

  The Applebys were camped under a thin-leafed tree by a water butt made from a half-barrel, evidently put there for the stall holders to water their stock. The three of them stood as he approached: Mr Appleby, in what might be his best coat, and the woman who must be Sally’s mother, as slim and blonde as Sally, with a much younger boy by their side.