Pirate Boy of Sydney Town

by Jackie French

  He put his hand on the man’s thin shoulder. ‘Mr Higgins?’

  ‘I’m not asleep.’

  ‘Could you drink something?’

  Higgins raised his head and drank.

  ‘There are some eggs by the fire,’ Ben said. ‘You don’t need teeth to eat an egg. You’ll feel better after some food.’

  ‘I’d feel better if some Dutchie hadn’t slashed me with his sword.’ But he raised himself up on his elbows and let Ben put another cushion behind him.

  ‘I . . . I don’t want to lose you too,’ said Ben.

  ‘Who? Me?’ said Higgins scornfully. ‘You gimme that egg, Sneezer. Don’t you worry about me.’

  The egg was hard-boiled or, rather, baked. Ben shelled it, sniffed, then tasted it. It was remarkably like a hen’s egg. He broke off the top half of the shell and handed a mix of white and yolk to Higgins.

  When Guwara returned carrying a large fish, the egg was half-eaten and Higgins was steadier than he had been for days.

  ‘Hurts like billy-o,’ he said conversationally. Then added grudgingly, ‘Thank you.’

  Guwara made no reply.

  Guwara replaced the maggots with new ones every day, washing the wound with oil from the murawang. By the third day, it had obviously begun to heal. Higgins could even hobble around on his stick again.

  Five days after that, Guwara lifted his face into the wind. He seemed to smell it, then gazed at the stars.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he said at last. ‘We sail tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER 20

  The wind blew strongly from the west as Guwara and Ben packed the boat the next morning. They had four small and one large hopper hide containers, sealed with sap and tied with twine, holding fresh water; smoked fish and strips of hopper meat wrapped in papery bark; roughly sewn cloaks and blankets of ‘squirrel’ hide; and a murawang egg filled with oil carefully stowed in a nest of dried tussock. They had fishing lines, nets and hooks they’d made, as well as the knives, axe, jug, flint and iron to make fire brought from the Golden Girl. They even had Higgins’s plum pudding, still stored in the sack under the seat.

  They had no map to show the hidden rocks or landmarks along the coast, but each night Ben had forced himself to recall every detail on the piece of paper Mr Appleby had given him. He hoped Guwara remembered their route along the west and southern coasts far better than he did, as well as any reefs the Golden Girl had avoided. But even though Guwara had travelled the Southern Ocean before, he had never hugged the southern coast of the continent. Still, they had no choice about their route. This boat was much too small to survive the gales and the giant, ice-frothed waves further south. Nor, without a compass and sextant or even a ship’s log to follow, would they know when to sail north to find land again.

  There was so much they needed and didn’t have: spare sails, or even canvas to repair the ones they had; hammers, nails or wood to repair the boat. They were just a boy who had managed a sail on the calm lake at home in England, a feeble London convict whose longest voyage had been in the darkness of a hold, and a dark-skinned sailor — the only one of them with any experience of wind and tides and sailing on the ocean.

  Ben looked at Guwara carefully rolling up the lengths of twine that he’d been making, the fishing net he’d fashioned, the two long spears and one short one, the extra spear points. If anyone could do this, it would be Guwara. And Ben and Higgins would survive with him.

  The westerly wind dropped by mid-morning, just as Guwara had predicted. ‘Buruwan,’ he said softly. ‘Wind from the north.’

  ‘Is that your language?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Yes. You must learn it too.’

  ‘To speak to the Indians here?’ They had seen smoke far inland a few times, but no people yet.

  ‘No. We leave before they come.’

  Is that in case the people here attack us? Ben wondered. They would probably be friendly to Guwara, but how would they react to two white-skinned strangers?

  Guwara headed over to the racks that held their dried fish and packed them into a rough bark basket. Then he and Ben helped Higgins into the boat, and pushed it across the mud and into the water. Guwara trimmed the sails and took the rudder. Ben leaned down for a final drink of fresh river water, then scooped more up in his hands for Higgins.

  ‘You know what I’m goin’ to do first thing back at Sydney Town?’ muttered Higgins.

  Ben shook his head.

  ‘Drink me a whole barrel of fresh ale. And then a pint of rum.’ He closed his eyes, leaning back on his rough pillow.

  The river curved, and Ben glanced back as their camp vanished. He’d been happy there, he realised, happier than he had been since leaving Badger’s Hill. But Guwara was right. It was time to leave. Life waited for them. Or death.

  ‘We need to name the boat,’ he said.

  Higgins grinned and muttered a word Ben didn’t recognise. He suspected it was rude.

  ‘Mulgu,’ said Guwara.

  ‘An’ what’s a “mulgu” when it’s at home?’ demanded Higgins.

  Guwara pointed to a pair of black swans paddling serenely in the reedy shallows, as if unaware that the strange object on the river carried humans who might spear them.

  Higgins shrugged. ‘All square with me, Billy-Boy.’

  Ben grinned. ‘I hereby name this craft the Mulgu,’ he said and laughed, because suddenly they seemed invincible, the wind in their sails, their waterbags full, and Guwara guiding them back across to the east coast of New Holland.

  Why had he ever doubted they’d succeed?

  Eight days later the Mulgu tossed in the surges of the westerlies. The northerly had lasted less than a day. Travel south was possible, but only with constant attention to the tiller and sails, tacking, coming about or jibing, and with sharp eyes always searching for any reefs hidden below the swell that might wreck them.

  How far had they come? Ben had no idea. Nor did he know how long it might take to reach the southerly coast, where they could turn east and ride the winds.

  Night was the worst. The surging surf along the glaring white beaches or the crashing waves against rocky cliffs made it too dangerous to go ashore, and they didn’t dare sail on in the dark. They had no anchor to keep them from drifting so they couldn’t just lay up for the night. Guwara kept up only enough sail to keep them upright, but still he or Ben had to peer into the darkness, watching, listening for a change in the crash of waves that might indicate a reef, rocks, cliffs or an island ahead.

  They rigged up a shelter of partly cured hopper skin to keep off the sun. Its top surface collected fresh water too in the brief scatters of rain, which was welcome as they had only one hopper skin of water left. Ben recalled one of the Golden Girl’s sailors saying a man could only survive three days without water.

  They hadn’t tried fishing yet. Simply keeping the Mulgu sailing required all their attention, one at the tiller, the other tending the sail. Even Higgins, pale as he was, worked hard bailing out water from the bottom of the boat as the waves slopped around them, or which seeped in between the planks. The Mulgu hadn’t been built for a long voyage. Higgins hadn’t realised this when he hatched his plan — his role on the Golden Girl had been as a servant not a sailor. But Guwara must have accepted the risk when he made that impulsive dive to join them. He had chosen this, instead of the comparative safety, and possible wealth, of staying with the mutineers.

  Ben looked at him as he adjusted the sail yet again, his eyes sharp and careful as he watched the sky, the waves, the current, and listened to the wind.

  Ben took out a fillet of smoked fish, tore at it, chewed and swallowed, then offered one to Higgins.

  He shook his head. ‘Too tough.’

  ‘There’s not enough fresh water spare to soak it in. How about you eat a piece of that plum pudding instead?’

  The pudding still sat under the seat, wrapped in oilcloth.

  ‘Keep yer dabs off that puddin’,’ Higgins said. ‘We’re keepin’ it for somethin’ special.
Couldn’t eat nothin’ anyway.’

  Ben looked at the shiver of cloud on the horizon. ‘Maybe it’ll rain again.’

  ‘No,’ said Guwara, his hearing keen even over the noise of the wind and water. He dropped to his knees, then thrust his arm, elbow deep, into the water.

  ‘You tryin’ to catch a shark, Billy-Boy?’ demanded Higgins.

  Guwara shook his head, obviously searching for the words. ‘The water is changing.’

  ‘You mean the current?’ asked Ben. ‘You think the coast might be going to turn east?’ Surely we must be nearly there, he thought.

  Guwara didn’t answer, but watched the shore.

  They sailed. They bailed. The sun rose, hot and baking. The sea reflected it back at them, almost as sharp on their eyes and skin as the sun itself. Ben’s clothes, his hair, even his skin, were sticky with salt. His cracked lips tasted of salt. His skin was raw with sunburn, windburn, saltburn. He was scared too, and hungry, and thirst was becoming a source of desperation . . . and yet in a strange way he was happy. For the first time in his life he was with companions who had chosen to be with him, not because he was the son of the mistress or the master.

  Except for Sally . . . He smiled as he composed a letter to her in his mind.

  Dear Sally,

  We are sailing in a small, leaky, open boat with no map, sextant or even a lead line to tell us the depth of water below. My companions are a convict, a member of the crew who mutinied and killed my father, and Guwara, an Indian. They are the best companions I could have.

  I know that I may die, just as the men who fought on the Dutch ship that we attacked died, and many of our crew. Even if we survive, I do not know what will happen when we get back to Sydney Town, if we ever do.

  Our journey is impossible. Yet somehow, deep within me, I am sure I will survive, just as your father told me to. I wish I could thank him for that advice. Maybe one day I will be able to.

  I also wish I could put a letter in a bottle in the hope that one day it might reach you, but we don’t have a bottle, paper or pen. Nor, I fear, would the currents here ever reach Port Jackson or your Hawkesbury River. But I am thinking of you.

  Love,

  Ben

  He smiled again. It was safe to put ‘love’ as she would never see it. And even if she did . . .

  They took it in turns to trim the sails at night and tend the rudder, as well as keeping a lookout and bailing, one sleeping while the other two worked. The breeze still blew from the west the next morning, but by the time the sun was a handspan above the treed horizon, it had swung around and was blowing from the northwest in great heaving gusts, as if a giant had been holding his breath and finally let it out.

  At last the Mulgu’s sails filled. She sped southwards.

  They stayed as far out to sea as they could while still being able to see the coastline. Hills, trees, a white glimpse that must have been a beach, more hills, rising to almost mountains. Every few hours Guwara dipped his arm into the sea, testing the strength and direction of the current. At last he grinned and pointed eastward.

  Now, at last, Ben’s sharp eyes could see what Guwara had worked out from feeling the currents. The land had stopped. There were no headlands interrupting the endless sea to the south or east of them. It was time to head east, across the empty vastness of the sea below the southern coast of New Holland, then up towards Sydney Town.

  But for now, Ben prayed desperately they would soon reach the harbour Mr Flinders had marked on his map, with safe shores and fresh water.

  They sailed on. Days were marked only by the rise and setting of the sun, the endless waves and bailing, nights where the stars rolled in their eternal dance, then sunrise once again. The light glared from the sea and sky, as if trying to drain all life from them. They rarely talked now, grunting instructions to each other, mouths too dry to waste on speech. They had drunk the last of the fresh water, expecting to soon see the entrance to the harbour. Had they missed it? Ben thought of the narrow heads of Port Jackson. Captain Cook had never dreamed a vast harbour lay behind that narrow gap. Was King George the Third’s Sound hidden too?

  Guwara was at the tiller this afternoon, half-dozing, half-alert, his body feeling the wind and currents even with his eyes shut. Higgins lay asleep under the awning, gasping slightly. Ben felt his eyes close too.

  Suddenly the boom swung across wildly as the Mulgu changed course, leaving the sails flapping. Ben rushed to set the sails for their new course.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  Guwara pointed. There, along the seemingly endless coastline, was a blue gap. Now he knew what to look for, Ben could see the way the colour of the water changed around it. King George the Third’s Sound!

  And if Mr Flinders was correct — and of course that master mariner must be right — there would be fresh water and game to catch, and natives who, if not exactly friendly, at least had not attacked Flinders and his crew. And a respite, at last, from the lashing and crashing of the sea, the burning sun and the buffet of the wind.

  King George the Third’s Sound seemed even bigger than Port Jackson but a lot less protected. The wind and swell still tore at them as Ben tended the sail and Guwara steered, swinging the Mulgu sharply away from inlets that showed the teeth of rocks, or the crash of surf, or, even more deadly, the pale green and white of rocks below the surface.

  The sun hovered on the ocean, sending pink rays across the grey blue, as Guwara at last steered the boat to what looked like a safe spot on the shoreline: a narrow stretch of muddy sand in front of dense scrub.

  A thin spire of smoke rose nearby. Indians. Would they help them, wondered Ben, or attack?

  The Mulgu drew closer to shore more slowly now, all of them scanning the inlet for rocks or sandbars. Guwara turned the boat until the wind spilled from her sails, then he and Ben scrambled to lower and furl them. Then they began to row in towards the beach. At last they felt and heard the sand beneath the hull.

  Guwara jumped out into the shallows. Ben took off his boots and followed him; then Higgins, limping and weak but unwilling to be seen as an invalid, also let himself over the side into the shallow water. With all three of them in the water the Mulgu rode a little higher and they were able to haul her up onto the shell-strewn sand. She wasn’t secure yet as she was still below the piles of seaweed that marked high tide, but they were standing on land again.

  Ben looked around as Guwara tethered the boat to a tree. Despite the trails of smoke there was no one on the beach. Two rough bark huts stood a short way from the shoreline, little more than shelters from the rain and wind. A fireplace sat close to them, its coals still red.

  ‘Coo-yah!’ yelled Guwara. The cry echoed along the beach, but nothing moved except the lapping waves and branches in the wind.

  ‘Mebbe they’ll attack at night,’ suggested Higgins. He looked speculatively at Guwara. ‘Better give me one of them spears of yours.’

  Guwara laughed.

  Higgins shrugged. ‘Worth a try.’

  ‘We are safe,’ said Guwara.

  ‘How do you know that then?’

  ‘Why attack?’ replied Guwara simply. ‘If they want us to go, they ask. If they ask, we go.’

  It sounded . . . civilised, thought Ben. Except civilisation didn’t work that way. Civilisation meant that those with the muskets stayed. The ships that had the cannons with the longest range won the battle. The armies with the best generals prevailed . . .

  ‘Wood,’ Guwara ordered, before picking up his spears and the two empty waterbags and heading up the beach.

  ‘Who does he think he is — blinkin’ Napoleon?’ muttered Higgins. ‘Better do what he says though, Sneezer. Goin’ to be cold tonight.’

  It had been cold every night. Even though the days were hot, the wind from the west always seemed to be cold.

  Ben made his way through the brush gathering branches, careful not to reach down to pick up a snake by mistake. By the time he got back, Higgins had added tinder to the
hot coals. The fire flared as Ben threw on more wood.

  ‘Where’s his lordship?’ began Higgins, just as Guwara appeared, a darker shadow in the growing night. He carried a fish almost half as long as he was and one of the waterbags, now bulging.

  ‘You found a stream?’ asked Ben excitedly. It would feel so good to wash off the salt.

  ‘No. Water comes up from the ground.’

  Guwara handed him the waterbag. Ben drank. It tasted a bit like mud, a little like shellfish, but good. And because there was plenty, there was no need to stint. He drank his fill then passed the bag to Higgins.

  ‘Good catch,’ he said to Guwara, nodding to the fish.

  ‘Not me. The people left it for us on the rock.’

  ‘A gift?’

  ‘We must leave a gift too. Your . . .’ He pointed to Ben’s woollen stockings, still in the boat with his boots.

  ‘I can’t wear boots without stockings!’ Ben said.

  Guwara looked at his own bare feet, at Higgins’s, then at Ben’s.

  ‘My feet aren’t as tough as yours.’ Ben considered. ‘How about I cut the stocking tops off. Would that do for a gift?’ He couldn’t think what else they could spare.

  ‘Yes,’ said Guwara. He pushed a stick through the fish to hold it over the fire to roast, then pointed to a basket in one of the shelters that was filled with brown knobbly things, a bit like the roots he’d shown Ben how to dig up at Black Swan River. ‘Cook those too.’

  ‘How?’ They had wrapped the other roots in wet papery bark, but there was none here.

  Guwara gave a short laugh at Ben’s ignorance. He grabbed a nearby stick and dug a long hole in the hot soil next to the fire, shoved in the roots, then covered them with coals.

  Ben flushed, embarrassed. It was so obvious, so easy, once you had been shown how.

  The next morning Ben followed Guwara to the fresh waterhole or, rather, holes — muddy sandy areas where almost white water welled up. He scooped some up to wash the salt from his face, hair and arms, before holding the waterbags down till they slowly filled.

  ‘I hunt,’ said Guwara, and he vanished into the scrubby bushes.